The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(101)
“Yes,” she said quietly, and looked up to watch his eyes fill with emotion, true to his name. Arnav. The ocean.
She would be Noyontara now, like her mother used to call her. His Noyontara. Star of his eyes.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
MUMBAI DRISHTIKON NEWS
Filmi Bytes
A tragic Diwali for the Viranis
10:00 PM IST 1 November, Mumbai.
Diwali is a festival of lights, but recent news from Bollywood has been filled with darkness, especially for the Virani family. Kittu Virani, famous socialite, social media influencer, and designer, died along with her real estate magnate fiancé Rahul Taneja, in a fire at her stepson Karan Virani’s Madh Island farmhouse yesterday, on Choti Diwali night. The police have yet to clarify whether the incident occurred due to arson or by accident. There have also been isolated reports of gunfire at the scene.
Mumbai Police Joint Commissioner of Crime Neelesh Joshi has requested the media to act responsibly, but Kittu Virani’s fans are questioning the police already, following a few leaked papers that seem to show Commissioner Joshi and Home Minister Namit Gokhale himself might have been involved in corruption. The authenticity of these records is yet to be verified.
Meanwhile, film star Rehaan Virani, the deceased Kittu Virani’s son, was questioned by the police regarding the incident, while his older stepbrother, veteran actor Karan Virani, has been taken into custody under IPC section 84, and sent in for psychiatric evaluation. Several television channels are reporting that Karan Virani had been assaulting his stepmother when he escaped arrest. Shocking photographs of a severed foot have been leaked, purportedly from the crime scene at the isolated farmhouse, and are making the rounds on social media.
Maharashtra’s Home Minister has dismissed such claims, calling them a cheap attempt to politicize a tragedy. In support of their allegations, opposition parties have cited police investigations: decomposed bodies of women found at Aksa Beach have been connected to a series of Mumbai’s dance bars. The Leader of the Opposition in Maharashtra’s State Assembly questioned the reopening of dance bars and vowed to close them if they were voted to power.
Kittu Virani’s funeral is expected to be held a week from now after her body is released from postmortem, and is likely to be attended by a majority of the Bollywood fraternity, who have taken to social media to pay tribute to her and express solidarity with her grieving family.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
TARA
One year later
Six months after she was discharged from the hospital, Tara lounged at the Alibaug beach, gazing at her husband with longing, wanting to join him as he zigzagged on the sand, his loose pants rolled up, his T-shirt billowing in the wind, followed by a gaggle of children—Shinde’s son and daughter, Tukaram’s grandsons, Nandini’s niece. And Pia.
Tara still could not feed herself, and on some days she railed at Arnav, asking him why he married her, why not leave her at the hospital where she had languished for six months, with the army of nurses to carry her useless body around. Not today, though.
Today, Arnav had promised Pia a beach picnic, and they’d decided to make a day of it with all the people who kept them going. Nandini and her clearly besotted colleague, who both ferried Pia to school when Arnav was hung up with his new duties as the senior police inspector at Bandra station; Shinde’s wife and children, who entertained Pia when Tara labored through her endless physiotherapy sessions; Mr. and Mrs. Tukaram, who had added Pia as the granddaughter to their roster of three grandsons.
Tara wished Zoya were here, making snide comments about everyone, asking Tara to quit whining—but she was far away. Tara imagined her on another coast in Thailand or the Philippines, sipping a cocktail in the afternoon as she’d dreamed about so often. Zoya was not unloved—for her sake, Rasool had risked his men to help Pia and Tara.
The adults played a musical game around her, each carrying a Bollywood tune with varying degrees of success and a lot of laughter, sharing plates of pao bhaji, handing out ice creams. Tara joined in when it was her turn, singing a tune she used to dance to, one of her beloved Madhuri Dixit numbers. Madhuri, the graceful Bollywood diva. Tara had danced for nineteen out of her own thirty-two years, resenting it most of the time.
Now, she strove each day to get back on her feet. She would return to dancing, if only to show her daughter that in life it does not matter how hard you fall, but how promptly you try to rise again. She’d raised her child alone for thirteen years, protected her when it mattered. She would take a hail of bullets for Pia if she had to do it all over.
Waves danced upon the shore, ceaseless in their steps to and fro. The water must be cool to the touch, but she was too far away. Her sigh of longing ended on a shriek of embarrassed delight as Arnav snatched her up from her wheelchair.
To wolf whistles from the men of their party and clapping from the women, which was taken up by others at the beach unused to such public displays of affection, her husband carried her to the chair he’d already set where the waves could tease her feet, wetting the edges of her skirt.
A while later, they all piled into their vehicles. Tara leaned back in her seat as Arnav drove their spacious new car down the highway to a different beach at Alibaug to watch Ravan Dahan, Pia vibrating with excitement, singing along with Shinde’s children and their mother to a raucous Hindi number more appropriate to a dance bar than a family trip. For once, Tara didn’t care. She lowered the windows, let the sea air in, and, closing her eyes, pictured herself dancing.