‘I don’t think so,’ she says shortly. ‘She said he was a ball of atta.’ ‘Hai. But he was an engineer, na? From IIT! And tall also.’ ‘This girl won’t be getting married anytime soon, Bhudevi.’ Mrs Mamta sips her tea. ‘Which is good, I suppose – how could we have a wedding with so much construction going on next door?’ The noise from the construction site at Number 13 is certainly deafening. Cement mixers spin busily all day. Brick-red bajri lies about in huge mounds, like burst pimples upon the road. Dust sits thickly on the leaves of the amaltas trees. The ranks of snot-nosed urchins in the back lane have swelled exponentially, as have the number of Modernites who squat in the sand every day to teach the children their ka-kha-ga as part of their SUPW curriculum. And at the crossroad of Hailey and Barakhamba roads, a giant, red-faced Raavan in a stiff, multi-coloured anarkali kurta stands glowering at passers-by; a grim, dependable promise of more cacophony to come.
What do You think about Those Pricey Thakur Girls?
