“Just imagine.”
“No one is safe.”
At around one o’clock, Lily Arora finally brought the group to order and made various announcements. Next month’s get-together was to be held at Chor Bizarre, which offered a kitty party lunch special for 500 rupees per head. Her son and daughter-in-law, who were members of one of the new ‘couples kitties’, had been there and found it ‘quite satisfactory’.
Next, this month’s guest speaker, a physical exercise trainer called Bappi, entered the room. A diminutive but muscular young man with dyed yellow hair, he took Lily Arora’s place in front of the fireplace with the portrait of Sanjeev Arora’s stern-looking grandfather looming behind him. As the ladies continued to munch on deep-fried chiwda, he asked if any of them had diabetes. Eight hands went up.
How many of them exercised properly?
Again there was a strong show of hands.
“Ladies, casual walking does not count,” admonished Bappi.
Most of the hands went down.
Bappi then turned to a flip chart that he had set up on a stand. The first page depicted a dumpy middle-aged Indian woman. Next to her stood an extremely athletic-looking Western lady in a leotard, GO FROM AUNTIE-JI TO MISS WOW! read a message underneath.
“You, too, can look like this with just thirty minutes’ training every day at Counter Contours,” announced Bappi. “Our training program is tailor-made for all ages.”
He spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating some simple exercises. When he was finished, the ladies gave him a round of applause.
“I’m sure we agree that we can all do more to stay fit and fine and Mr. Bappi has made some wonderful suggestions,” said Lily Arora as the trainer packed up and left.
It was now time for the most eagerly anticipated moment of the party: the kitty draw.
Traditionally, each member of a kitty party brings a fixed sum of cash every month. The total pot is then awarded to the member whose name is drawn from a hat. Each member can only win once, so essentially the kitty is an interest-free loan system.
Lily Arora’s kitty reflected the more modern values of India’s middle classes in that some of the cash was given to charity and some was put aside for group vacations, like the one to Corbett National Park the ladies were planning for later in the year.
This was their fifth draw.
“Ladies, it’s time to get out your cash,” said Mrs. Arora, holding up a plastic bag. “I’m adding my five thousand rupees. Please, ladies, all do the same. Only exception is Mrs. Puri, who is joining us for the first time and is therefore required to add five months’ total amount. Admittedly this is an unusual practice, but we are delighted to have Auntie-ji joining us.”
The ladies all unclasped their handbags and took out wads of notes. These were placed in the bag.
“Today’s kitty is eighty thousand. Of that, ten thousand we are donating to charity. This month Mrs. Azmat has nominated one NGO assisting slum children called Smile Foundation. Twenty goes into the holiday fund. That leaves sixty. All those ladies who have
A ripple of anticipation ran through the room as twelve of the ladies, including both Rumpi and Mummy, wrote their names on little pieces of paper. Once folded, these were dropped into a small plastic bucket.
Lily Arora gave it a good shake, stirred the papers and, with closed eyes, picked a name.
“And the winner is,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect like Shahrukh Khan on
Mrs. Deepak, the one with the abundance of grandchildren, let out a squeal of delight and collected her money.
“Tell us. What all are you going to do with it?” asked the hostess as she handed over the winnings.
“I promised my eldest grandson a new Xbox. His birthday is coming up,” she said.
“Very good,” said Lily Arora, smiling. “So as per the rules you will make your contribution next month but not be eligible for the draw. Also at our next meeting you are the one responsible for providing going-away presents.”
The ladies returned to their tea and gossip as they waited for lunch to be served.
About ten minutes later, Lily Arora’s poodle started barking in one of the back rooms. There came a crash from the kitchen. Raised voices could be heard. Rumpi thought it was likely a servant dispute of some sort. But then two men burst into the living room wearing women’s stockings over their faces.
“This is a robbery!” the taller of the two shouted in Hindi, stating the obvious. He was brandishing a country-made weapon. It looked like a poor imitation of an English highwayman’s pistol. “Everyone stay sitting and do what you’re told and no one will get hurt!”
A few of the women shrieked. Lily Arora stood up and shouted: “How dare you invade my home like this! Who do you think you are? Do you know who my husband is?”
“Shut up, woman!” interrupted the gunman, pointing his weapon at her. “Sit down!”
Lily Arora glared at him contemptuously with her hands on her hips. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”
“Sit down or I’ll shoot!” The gunman cocked his pistol.
The click caused some of the women to scream again and bury their faces in their hands.
“Please sit down,” insisted a frightened-sounding Mrs. Nanda, tugging on Lily Arora’s churidar. “It’s not worth it. Do as he says.”
With an icy glare of contempt, the hostess resumed her place on the sofa.
“That’s better,” said the gunman, standing with his back to the fireplace, the most commanding position in the room, while his accomplice guarded the door. By now, most of the ladies were holding their hands up in the air although they had not been told to do so. “I want the kitty fund. Where is it? Hand it over.”
“It’s here, I have it,” blurted out Mrs. Deepak, who was shaking. “Take it. Just don’t hurt us!”
The gunman grabbed the money and sized it up. The other women exchanged confused looks but kept quiet.
“There’s only fifty or sixty here. Where’s the rest?” he demanded.
A calm, quiet voice spoke up. It was Puri’s mother. “No need to shout, na,” she said. “It’s here with me.”
The gunman crossed the room.
“Where?” he demanded.
“In my purse, only.” By ‘purse’ she meant handbag. He picked it up and started rummaging through the contents. Although of average size, it contained a considerable amount of stuff: her wallet, a mobile phone, a makeup kit, a bulging address book, a little plastic bag of prasad, a miniature copy of the Gita and a small canister of Mace. The gunman dropped half the items on the floor in his search for the cash.
“There’s nothing here!” he exclaimed eventually.
“You’re sure? Strange, na? Let me see.”
As Mummy took her handbag back from him, she scratched his left hand with the fingernail of her right index finger. The gunman yelped.
“Hey, what are you doing, Auntie?” he hollered, nursing his hand.
“So clumsy of me, na,” she said, smiling apologetically. “You’ll be needing one bandage. Mrs. Arora must be having one.”
“Forget that! Just give me the money or I’ll shoot!” He raised his clunky weapon again. This time he pointed it directly at Mummy’s forehead.
“It’s over here! It’s over here!” interrupted Lily Arora urgently. “I’ve got it. Leave her alone!”
The hostess picked the plastic bag up off the floor and threw it to him.
“OK, let’s get out of here,” said the accomplice by the door. He was evidently young; his voice sounded like it was breaking.
“Shut up! Salah! Go start the engine!”
The teenager hesitated and then backed out of the living room.
The gunman started toward the door himself, his weapon still trained on the group.
