Fragments, Fragments.

Firoza Jehangir Bharucha was named after her birthstone, Turquoise. Born into an extremely wealthy legacy, she had scientists and poets and businessmen and fashionistas in her illustrious family. The Jehangir in her name was her father, divorced, when she was barely ten. Jehangir Bharucha is an industrialist and philanthropist, married to one Gloria Lynch, a once-top-model in England. They now live in their sprawling mansion in Edinburgh. The family also owns an entire floor apartment in Cuffe Parade, Mumbai, among other properties. The original Mrs Bharucha went on to marry Jehangir's younger brother, Shiraz, and have a son, Zubin, and a very beautiful daughter, Mehr.

Business was booming, children were growing and in fact, the reverence Shiraz had for his elder brother was sometimes too evident in the manner he treated his wife. As Firoza grew up in the midst of sumptuous luxury and adequate attention, she never quite felt the loss of a family. When she came of age, Jehangir proposed she live in the Cuffe Parade apartment, and should she so choose, by herself. She did.

Firoza, fresh out of London School of Business and Finance, joined Jehangir Constructions. Zubin joined it too, armed with a Yale degree in Law, while Mehr made it to the Royal College of Physicians. At the dirty business of property handling, the half-siblings were cordial, not too friendly. In their new roles they avoided each other in a strange manner. Their childhood summers were erased in an instance of a greater unknowing of the other. The employees could sense the apparent discomfort that traversed between the two.

Last Friday, at the annual board meeting of Jehangir Constructions, Papas Bharucha and Children Bharucha were present in wholesome pomp. The common Mother Bharucha was present too. Profits were soaring with the influx of riskier ideas from Firoza, protected by the cunning guard of Zubin. The family was to celebrate the success with an elaborate dinner in the Cuffe Parade apartment. Vista of Taj Lands End was taking care of the private catering, which left Firoza with all the time to take care of her looks. She had carefully selected the wine and whisky menu.

With equal precision she decked up in an off-shoulder black dress, richer in its self-embossed intricate pattern, reaching up to her knees, with nothing but a diamond belt going through her waist. To the left of it, very subtly sat a sound stone, a turquoise. She wore high Jimmy Choo heels and diamond studs from Tiffany. And a Longines, and a generous swab of Chanel No. 5. The night began early. Future deals were discussed over kingsize lobsters drowned in champagne. The teakwood of the dining table lived up to its capacity of ten and phone photos of Gloria and Jehangir's son, Cyrus, was shared. Zubin's eyes returned to Firoza. She looked out of the world tonight. Appealing was an understatement. Inaccessible, her imploring sensuality.

Papas and Mama Bharucha left. Zubin remained. Firoza and he were both trying to avoid the impossibly persistent attraction. He was dressed in a tailored blue shirt and a Ralph Lauren beige trouser. Two tiny turquoise cufflinks adorned Zubin's wrists beyond Shiraz's Rolex. Firoza called for more wine.

'So?'

'So.' Zubin was nervous. Very nervous. All that was on his mind was to touch her. Kiss her full lips, open that black dress and take her in his arms. No, he wanted to tie her hands behind her and make mad love to her. On the floor, on this couch. Under the shower. 'Dinner was splendid.'

'And?' Firoza sensed his discomfort and wished for it to passionately cut across the relation in which they were tightly tied. She sat in another sofa. 'Albums?'

'Sure.' Why the hell? All I want is to undress you. Kiss you. 

'Alright. Wait then.' After about two minutes which seemed two months long, she came back to the library, armed with three thick albums. Zubin got up to help her and was secretly amused, and relieved, when she took a seat next to him. He came closer as they opened the first.

They flicked through the first few leaves disinterestedly, till they came across a photo in Edinburgh of the entire family in a picnic. Mehr was busy with a ball, Firoza with a sandwich and Zubin with his shoelaces. 'God, Firoza. Look at your teeth! They were ridiculously large.' At the moment when sibling friendship could have taken over, Firoza fingered the sides of the photograph with her nails, and asked, 'And now?'

Done. She had taken the first step.

Zubin took her hand slightly and moved it to close the album. He shifted its weight from her lap to his, looked into her face, shyly, and said, 'You are beautiful.'

The unrest grew. Strategically he shifted his gaze and continued, 'Aren't these Mum's earrings?'

Firoza touched the studs, smiled and replied, 'No. These are mine. But same as Mum's.' She struggled with the lock in an attempt to open it. Zubin grabbed the instant. 'Here, let me help you.'

He came closer, attending to her ears. She smelt of Chanel. And she smelt of nerves that were obviously giving away. 'Firoza.' He whispered in her ears.

She turned her face and froze in that frame. They were too close to move away, thousands of needles pricking each bit of their senses. She moved towards her glass. 'Firoza,' he hopelessly spoke aloud.

This time, she took a swig from the glass and touched his slight stubble. Too close again for comfort. 'Isn't this wrong, Zubin?'

'What?'

'This.' As she touched his lips with hers, softly.

He was breathless. 'Yes. Wrong.'

'Come with me then.' She got up and led him to her bedroom. The walk felt like being on a tightrope. Her waist singing, her hair dancing. As she clasped the doorlock, Zubin grabbed her from the back and entangled her in a kiss. A full, endless kiss. The bodies refused to get away. Hurriedly, he opened his shirt and pulled her towards him. Firoza, though desiring the same, was taken aback. His hands found the dress's opening and swiftly pulled it off. Tumultuosly, the night was spent. The turquoise stone remained testimony to their coming together in a breathtaking fantasy.

As the first rays of sunshine touched Firoza, she looked even prettier. Zubin scooped her nude body into his and this awoke her. 'There is a problem, Firzi.'

'What now, Zubi?'

'I don't know if you will believe me. This is embarassing too. Especially after last night.'

'Oh baby Zubi boy. Come out with it. What happened?'

'Firzi, I love you. I always have.'

The silence was, as they say in novels, defeaning.

'Don't talk to me of age, Firzi, nor of relationships. Mum and Papa. Think. They won't have a problem.'

Firoza released herself out of his grasp and put his shirt vaguely on herself. She looked strangely sexier semi-dressed. 'Zubi. It is just the night which is speaking. The weekend will wash off all the love. Don't complicate things. Get up, get ready and leave.'

Zubin was without a word. He knew Firoza too well. She spoke what she meant. 'I won't leave.'

'Fine. I will then.'

'Firzi, please. I have always loved you. Listen, please.'

She went inside the bathroom. Daringly, he followed. She was brushing. Slowly, he removed the shirt and touched her back, his hot breath on her spine. Quickly, she washed her face and turned to kiss him. 'Firzi, please.'

'I have to take a bath. Leave, Zubi.'

'No.'

She went inside the bath cubicle and opened the shower, wet, all stings of desire awakened in her. Zubin entered too. They kissed again, and made love all over again. 'I love you, Firzi. Firzi.'

At the breakfast table, sipping her orange juice and taking a bite off her omlette, Firoza spoke. 'What will Mehr have to say?'

'Is that a yes, Firzi?' Zubin's eyes glistened.

'No, stupid. I was thinking. What will she think of us when she comes to know of the last night?'

He was silent. Thoughtful.

'What do you want, Firzi?'

Firoza smiled. She put down her fork and looked straight at his face. She looked as if she had memorized this dialogue since childhood, a performance that was waiting to be unfurled. 'I want Chhote Papa's watch.'

Zubin unclasped the Rolex and gave it to her. 'Yours. And?'

She rolled it on her wrist, let it sit clasped and admired it, with all the time in the world. Then, shifting her gaze, 'I want your share of stocks at Bharucha Estates.'

'What? How do you even know?'

'Yes, Zubi. Each one of those.' That Chhote Papa carefully did not give me.

Silence. Zubin knew this was rehearsed and practised. 'And?'

'And. You will touch me every way you have ever made love to any woman. And abstain from them, hereon.'

This was unexpected. 'Will you marry me, Firzi?'

'We will see, Zubi baby.'

'Will you always be like this, Firzi? Conditions and all?'

'Always, baby.'


Amidst celebrities and celebrations, the half siblings became man and wife. Firoza was content. She would now own businesses of the Papas Bharucha. The turquoise shone in her waist out of the onion pink lehenga. A testimony to her character. Colourful. Precious. Eternal.

She had always loved Zubin. Never more than her business acumen though.

That night, under the Cuffe Parade skyline through the window, diffused by wedding flower curtains, as Zubin lay exhausted and tied to Firoza's passion, he wondered if this was love. 'Firzi?'

'Forever, baby.' The turquoise shone.