Strange Obsession , livre ebook
125
pages
English
Ebooks
2005
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125
pages
English
Ebook
2005
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Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
21 septembre 2005
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9788184751031
Langue
English
Publié par
Date de parution
21 septembre 2005
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9788184751031
Langue
English
Strange Obsession
SHOBHAA DÉ
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
STRANGE OBSESSION
Shobhaa Dé’s eighteen books include the bestsellers Socialite Evenings, Starry Nights, Spouse and Superstar India . Her latest book is Sethji . A widely read columnist in leading publications, she is known for her outspoken views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. Dé lives in Mumbai with her family.
Also by the Same Author
Fiction
Sisters
Socialite Evenings
Starry Nights
Strange Obsession
Sultry Days
Snapshots
Non-Fiction
Speedpost
Surviving Men
Selective Memory
Spouse
Superstar India
Amrita Aggarwal, young, gorgeous and sexy, comes to Bombay from Delhi to make her career as a successful supermodel. Within months of her arrival in the glamorous city, she is the envy of its beautiful people. Then, one day, she attracts the attentions of a mysterious woman called Minx, and before she knows it, Amrita is trapped in a relationship that takes over her life in ways too insidious to battle. As the months pass and the demands of her unwelcome suitor grow, Amrita’s life turns nightmarish…
A gripping page-turner from India’s best-selling writer, Strange Obsession is an unforgettable novel of sexual obsession and its calamitous consequences.
Cover photograph by Vishesh Verma
To my husband Dilip—
for all the caring and sharing
One
‘Mrs Aggarwal, you are spoiling your daughter. What nonsense this is! How can you allow such a young girl to go to Bombay all by herself?’
Amrita’s mother smiled indulgently. She told her neighbour politely but firmly that Amrita was no longer a child. She was twenty years old and a very responsible young lady. Besides, what future did she have in Delhi, anyway? The neighbour wasn’t convinced. The two women sat knitting companionably on the small patch of lawn behind the Aggarwal’s Vasant Vihar bungalow. There was a mild sun rising high into the winter sky as the aroma of paranthas soaked in ghee wafted out to where they were seated.
‘It’s not as if there are no models in Delhi,’ Mrs Sethia continued.
Amrita overheard the remark and snapped, ‘Yes there are . . . third-rate models posing for Ludhiana Woollen Mills. That’s not my style.’
Her mother stared with pride at her beautiful daughter and gently silenced the neighbour by placing a finger on her lips. Amrita’s suitcase on the veranda was already crammed to the brim with clothes. Her mother wondered what else she was going to stuff into that bag. Amrita was crazy about clothes and could not have enough of them. But then, thought, Mrs Aggarwal, wasn’t it natural for an attractive, ambitious, glamorous model to want the best? Besides, Amrita had always been touched by good luck. From the day she was born. Everybody said she was blessed, even the pandit who drew up her kundali. When she was born Amrita’s two older brothers had stared at their brand-new baby sister with awe and told their mother, ‘She is so pretty. So perfect. She is going to be the most beautiful woman in the world someday.’ They’d been joined in their admiration by Amrita’s father who had agreed wholeheartedly with them. He had gazed at his little daughter lying contentedly in her mother’s arms and told his wife, ‘This child is special.’
Mr Aggarwal, who had begun his career as a babu in a lowly government office, had quit his job and started a small business on borrowed capital. By the time Amrita was five years old, the family had prospered sufficiently for her father to move them all out of a crowded basti in Old Delhi, to their present home: a neat, well-maintained bungalow in Vasant Vihar. Now he was the hard-working owner of a processed foods factory in Gurgaon with over two hundred people working for him.
Amrita had breezed through school. With two doting brothers to escort her and a beaming father to cater to her every whim, Amrita was certainly someone who aroused envy in her classmates. But, as her mother often reminded her, the envy had more to do with the way she looked—stunning!—at a time when other teenagers were uniformly gawky and awkward.
Even though Amrita was no more than an average student, there was something exceptionally bright and compelling about her. Perhaps it was the golden glints dancing in her tawny eyes or the radiance and freshness she exuded each time she turned her head to face someone. Or, perhaps, it was the litheness of her magnificently structured body, with its long, toast-brown legs, narrow waist, and breasts that stood out—proud, high and firm. If there was one slight imperfection it was a suggestion of a squint in those wide-spaced, feline eyes fringed with unnaturally dark lashes. It was also in the tip-tilted nose that gave her oval face an elfin charm but was a problem to photograph. What attracted most people was the deep cleft in her chin. Without it her face might have been too pretty, too symmetrical, too boring. However, it was when Amrita laughed, throwing back her head and allowing her rich mane of hair to flow around her face like the sea, that she was irresistible. The laugh, open and throaty, would gurgle its way up and emerge in a cascade of uninhibitedly happy sound that would fill the room with infectious joy. Amrita knew the effect it had on people . . . and that always made her laugh some more.
*
‘Time to go,’ said her brother Amrish as he tossed the car-keys at Ashish, the younger one. Mrs Aggarwal couldn’t stop hugging Amrita and crying, as the sound of the Maruti 1000 reversing out of the garage reached them.
Amrita was dressed in her favourite attire—well-worn Guess jeans and a black Gap T-shirt.
Her father looked disapprovingly at her and said, ‘Isn’t this a bit too . . . a bit too . . . .’
Amrita completed his sentence for him by saying brightly,‘Casual? Shabby?’ before rushing into his arms and clinging to him.
‘We trust you, beti,’ her father said. ‘Bombay is different from Delhi. You already know that. Take care of yourself. Don’t go out alone at night. Keep in constant touch. Eat well and sleep well. And, remember, if you are ever in any kind of trouble, no matter how small, call home.’
Amrita was too overcome to respond. She buried her face into her father’s shoulder and was suddenly beset by all sorts of fears. It would’ve been so easy to say, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want to stay.’ But she didn’t. It had to be Bombay. She wanted the big time. And she wanted it bad.
Two
Meenakshi was buying a pack of imported cigarettes from the paan-wallah in Colaba when she spotted her for the first time. Amrita was getting out of a taxi and rushing into a building across the street. She was carrying heaps of clothes on hangers in one hand and an ungainly make-up bag in the other. Meenakshi watched the flustered girl as she made a last minute dash from the road divider. A sharp screech of tyres and she saw Amrita sprawled across the street, her clothes all over the wet, slimy road, as a taxi-driver abused her lustily and the crowds gathered, as if out of nowhere, to watch the impromptu street-show.
Meenakshi put the fiver back into her jeans’ pocket, slipped the pack of Cartiers into her unconstructed linen jacket, and strolled over to see what was going to happen next. Anything could. Bombay was like that. She found Amrita in tears, attempting to pick up her scattered belongings while the people in the crowd heckled, ‘Woh Shampoo walli ladki’ and the taxi-wallah continued to curse, encouraged by the large audience.
The traffic had come to a standstill and there were even people looking out from the windows of the adjoining buildings. Meenakshi’s heart melted. She strode up to Amrita briskly and held out her hand, ‘Here . . . let me help you up.’ Amrita grabbed the proffered hand gratefully and began babbling something incoherent about being late for her assignment. ‘Relax,’ Meenakshi said, as she took charge. She walked determinedly up to the cabbie and fixed him with a steady stare. ‘I am Inspector General V. S. Iyengar’s daughter. You want to act funny with this girl?’ The cabbie looked at her, uncertain whether to believe her or not.
Suddenly, a traffic policeman strolled up, late as usual, and noticing Meenakshi, saluted smartly before asking, ‘Any problem, madam?’ That was the cue for the crowds to disperse. Meenakshi shook her head and waved him off.
Amrita’s face was streaked with smudged eye make-up and her carefully blow-dried hair hung in rat-tails down her back. Meenakshi burst out laughing, ‘You aren’t going to get too many modelling assignments if you go around looking like that,’ she said, taking her by the elbow and escorting her to the entrance of the building which housed a well-known ad agency on the fourth floor.
Amrita, still flustered, stared gratefully at her. ‘You’ve been so sweet. I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m still new to Bombay and I often lose my way going to my photo-sessions.’
Meenakshi stared into the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen and forgot what she wanted to say. Recovering swiftly she held out her hand. ‘Minx Iyengar. Don’t bother to tell me who you are. I know. So do all these thousands
