Club You to Death by Anuja Chauhan (books to improve english .TXT) 📕

her life and now that he’s back, he’s casually flicked on a switch – and all the old connections and emotions are flickering back to life. Memories she’d suppressed, jokes she’d forgotten, smells, songs, feelings, sensations, even the noise the rain makes when it comes pelting down on the roof seems hyper-real now!

This is how paralysed people must feel when they start walking again, she thinks. Walking, then running, then dancing, then kissing … No! No kissing. Strictly no kissing. There’s the GF in Kalahandi and Bambi will be a good friend and not intrude on the GFs space … no, kabhi nahi, never.

She raises cool, wet fingers to her hot cheeks, shakes her head at herself sternly in the mirror, then bends down to see if the stain has washed out from her sweater, when a sudden sound makes her whirl around.

This is the small wooden cloakroom next to the Rose Garden, meant mainly for little kids with unpredictable bladders who can’t make it to the main bungalow in time, and it has just one commode and basin. Bambi is quite alone in here.

Silence.

She does a slow three-sixty turn to take in the whole space. Nothing. For some reason – probably the alcohol or all the idiotic obsessing over Kashi – her heart is thudding extra hard and the hair at the back of her neck is standing on end.

She pulls a face at herself in the mirror. ‘Stupid girl!’

Then goes back to scrubbing her jumper with great dedication. It’s a favourite and it goes with everything.

And then, as she’s scrubbing, she sees it in the mirror. Quite clearly.

An eye.

The white of it, slightly veined and bloodshot, the dark brown of the pupil, and a bit of hairy lash.

Looking at her through a small gap in the wooden slats. There is a small knot in the wood, which has created a gap just wide enough for somebody to peer in.

And somebody is peering in at her as she stands there scrubbing her sweater, wearing just a skimpy, lace bra and jeans.

Furious, Bambi whirls around and bangs the wall hard.

‘Fuck off!’ she yells. ‘Fuck off, you fucking pervert!’

The eye vanishes. Breathing hard, Bambi bends to press her eye to the gap, but there is nothing to be seen. Just a dark, empty veranda and a swinging screen door.

10

The Hottie-Culture Committee

Inspector Padam Kumar heads for his boss’s cubicle very cockily on Monday afternoon. He has met a very attractive new candidate for the post of Mrs Padam Kumar over the weekend, an encounter which has quite erased the memory of the embarrassing scene with Ganga. And after a fruitless search of Leo’s spartan bachelor digs that went on for almost two days, his men have, early this morning, finally struck gold with a custom-built, beautifully concealed storage compartment in the dead man’s Hayabusa – recovering a hard drive full of recordings from Shonali’s camera.

They are still sifting through all the footage – but there is one particular recording that he is sure Bhavani sir will be interested in seeing right away.

He enters with a hasty step, his cherubic face glowing.

‘Sir!’ He waves a pen drive at Bhavani excitedly. ‘See this, sir!’

‘Show, PK, show!’ Bhavani greets him, clearing away the remains of his lunch at once. ‘Quite a breakthrough you have had with the motorcycle compartment. Fantastic! Stick that thing in and press play!’

Saying which, he settles down in his chair to watch, his chin in his hands, his fingers still smelling of chhole bhature and his eyes scanning the computer screen with keen anticipation.

Ten seconds of static and then a wiry, ancient man appears on the screen, wizened, whiskered, the colour of dark chocolate, dressed in a bright, oversized, striped T-shirt. He is toying with a glass half full of what appears to be neat whisky. The camera seems to be placed on a dining table and is recording surreptitiously.

‘You’re my type of guy, Lambodar! I like you! You’ve got a big heart, and a pair of big balls! The first keeps you happy, and the second makes you rich!’

The man’s whiskered face splits into a wide, white smile. His teeth are surprisingly good. His fingernails, as he puts his glass down, are filthy with grit. He puts more ice into his drink, stirs it with one dirty finger and knocks it back. Then he slams the glass down and stares almost straight into the lens. His eyes are red-rimmed, slightly glazed and have the milky beginnings of cataract.

‘The things I could tell you!’ he says with a chuckle. ‘Oh, the things I could tell you, Lambodar!!’

‘Tell na, Guppie Ram ji,’ Leo’s deep voice says persuasively. ‘I want to learn from you – you’re such a smart guy. You know I grew up in an orphanage – you’re like a father figure to me.’

The old man chuckles. ‘You’re no West Indees,’ he says knowingly. ‘I’ve heard you gas to the Club ladies that you’re half West Indees but you’re not! Maybe you’ve sailed on many ships and swum in many seas, but I’ve seen your kind of face in my community again and again – you can grow your hair down to your arse, get as many piercings as you like and change your name to Matthew or Thankyou – but I know those features – and those aren’t features that come from abroad. Oh no! They come from right here – they belong to a certain caste, and that certain caste has certain tasks to perform. They’ve been performing them for centuries, and if they stop, evvvverybody will soon be drowning in their own shit!’

He points a peremptory finger at his empty glass. Pour, bitch.

Leo’s hand enters frame and refills it liberally.

‘You’re right, of course.’ Leo admits easily. ‘And I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m proud. But you know what snobs these women are – if they figure out my roots, I’ll end up losing half my clients. But Guppie Ram ji, tell