I first met Kuku when she was a little girl of about ten. She and her sister Sonu lived next door, in our middle class government colony in South Delhi. Kuku was a lovely girl, who wore frilly frocks, knee length socks and pastel shoes, and always carried a hanky in hand. Even at that age she was most ‘lady like’, with her nose invariably tilted up, and a ‘touch-me-not’ attitude. The older Sonu, in contrast, was tomboyish and always part of our ‘gang’. May be that is why most of us secretly coveted the younger beauty. The little lady had put me in my place in the first encounter itself. Sonu and the rest of us had just finished a game of ‘gilli-danda’, when we saw this ‘little doll’ primly walk up to Sonu and almost admonish her - saying, “Didi, it’s so late, Mummy’s been worried about you, let’s go home.” Sonu laughed and introduced us all. “My kid sister Kuku,” she said. In response to Kuku’s very formal “good evening”, I stepped forward to pat her cheek. Hardly had my hand touched her, when she stepped back, looked at me sternly and said, “You are not supposed to touch girls, you don’t know?”
We went to different colleges. After graduation from IIT, I got a job abroad and my parents decided to settle down in Madras. My brothers too were staying in different parts of India. Only ‘Chhotu’ remained at Delhi. Whenever we got together or met any other childhood friend, the conversation would often veer round to Sonu and Kuku. We got all the details about Sonu – her studies, her crushes, her affairs and finally her marriage to Vicky, one of our own gang. As for Kuku, no one seemed to know much about her. We learnt that she had gone to Sanawar…but that’s about all. Even Sonu didn’t speak much about her lovely younger sister. Vicky had joined the Air Force and in due course got a posting to Bangalore. So, home leave offered me the bonus of a get-together either in Bangalore or Madras. But every time I mentioned Kuku, Sonu and Vicky would just clam up. “She is OK; she has a good job; no, she hasn’t married; she is yet to meet the right person” was all we got from them. Years later, on a business visit to Delhi, an uncle had invited me to some party. Their son was opening a boutique and his partner – a well-known designer – was hosting this binge. It wasn’t really my kind of party – there were mostly younger people, very stylish, very hep, very stuck up. Scotch was flowing like water, hors d’oeuvres had been ordered from a five star hotel and white-gloved waiters were serving imported wine. Feeling quite out of place I had wanted to leave. Just then someone said hi to me from a distance and wove her way through the crowd. Good heavens, it was Kuku! The long-lost charmer hugged me and offered her cheeks for a kiss. “How are you, Krish? Nice to see you after so many years. Here, meet Noni; Noni, this is Krish, Sonu’s friend….” I was dumbstruck. Was it really Kuku? In front of me stood a very mod, very bohemian woman – tight jeans, boots, open collared shirt with two pockets, shoulder epaulettes, studded belt and very short hair; a whisky glass in one hand and Noni on the other arm. Noni was a very pretty young girl, about 19 or 20, with a roses-and-peach complexion, loose hair, and dressed in a very delicate ankle-length skirt and a frilly top…looking very feminine – as I had often pictured a grown-up Kuku. Kuku was playing her role of the ‘man’ to the hilt – escorting ‘his’ young fiancée or wife around this designer bash. I barely heard her invitation to visit them in their ‘cute little flat in GK II’. Perhaps the mystery of Kuku recoiling when I touched her cheeks two decades earlier had become clearer.
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