The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

12

MALIK

Jaipur

On my day off I make a trip to the area of the Pink City bazaar where all the jewelry shops are. Is it because I need to assuage my guilt about lusting after Sheela or because I’ve been wanting to see my old friend Moti-Lal?

Lal-ji is the city’s premier jeweler. When I arrive, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Moti-Lal Jewelers is pulsing with activity. A porter in a white uniform brings me a cup of chai while I wait for the big man.

The plump proprietor is beaming at the middle-aged couple sitting across from him as his assistant sets a stack of squat black velvet boxes on his gleaming mahogany desk. “Today,” Moti-Lal says, “I am almost as excited as I would be if I were the one getting married.” His teeth are very white, very straight and very large. “I’ve put aside something very special for Akshay’s big day,” he says.

The prospect of the jewels about to be displayed draws the wife forward in her seat, her silk sari rustling.

Sipping my chai, I observe Lal-ji, from the railing that separates the more elaborate bridal room from the rest of the store, where minor purchases—birthday bangles or baby’s first earrings—are made. No matter how small, or how large, the occasion, it can always be celebrated with a little gold, the universal panacea for what ails us Indians.

In the bridal area, the whisper-soft carpet allows the delicate tinkling of jhumka earrings and customers’ exclamations of joy to take center stage. The lighting at Moti-Lal Jewelers is brighter than that of the typical shop, the chairs more luxurious, their padded arms inviting shoppers to linger as they ponder the decision of a lifetime. Mothers, grandmothers, aunties, fathers, brides-to-be, sisters and impending grooms sit in front of glass cases in which necklaces, earrings, bangles, anklets and rings glitter and beckon. Customers, carrying purses bulging with cash from the bride’s parents, are buying gold that will protect the bride in case of widowhood, sickness or financial calamity. The gold is what ensures her future.

When I was a boy, little more than five or six years old, I came to this store once a week, and sometimes more, to deliver Auntie-Boss’s scented clove and geranium body oils and her custom bawchi hair oil. Moti-Lal’s wife was one of our first customers in Jaipur. She loved the products, and when she raved about them to her husband, he made a practice of presenting a brass container filled with Lakshmi’s potions to every bridal client. It was that kind of personal touch that drew Moti-Lal’s customers back to him time and time again. It was also a good source of income for Auntie-Boss.

Now a porter steps up onto the dais where Moti-Lal sits and carefully places three steaming porcelain cups on the desk. Moti-Lal’s domain is elevated several feet above the hubbub, in one corner of the store, allowing Lal-ji to keep an eye on every customer going in and out.

To a blushing girl, Lal-ji might say, “I see you have brought your auntie with you today.” Or he might interrupt his inspection of a new shipment of rubies to call out to a matron, “There is nothing that makes me happier than seeing young Seeta with such a good family.”

When I first entered the store today, Lal-ji acknowledged me with a nod and a smile of recognition to let me know he’ll make time for me when he’s finished with his other clients. I’m in no hurry. It’s much more pleasant to bide my time in the air-conditioned store than to linger outside, in the dry, dusty heat. The smells are nicer in here, too. Better than the reek of cabbage and sweat in the bustling street outside. Inside, all is sandalwood incense, rath ki rani perfume and champaca cologne. Most important, I have the privilege of watching Moti-Lal at work. He’s taught me more than a few things about business.

With deliberation, Moti-Lal opens the first of the velvet boxes for his clients. “Not even Shah Jahan’s artisans could surpass this workmanship,” he says. Inside the case, glistening against the black satin lining, is a kundan necklace, a forehead tikka with a gold hook that attaches to the hair, a pair of matching earrings and two bangles.

He points to the necklace, being careful not to smear the gleaming gems with oil from his pinkie finger (something he does on purpose to allow his clients a good look at the four-carat emerald and gold ring he wears on that finger) and says, “Forty-four flat diamonds, twelve good-sized emeralds, twenty-two drops of the whitest pearls from Ceylon.” He intones the words with a sort of reverence, as if he were a priest.

He turns the necklace over gingerly. “Such incredible meena enamel work on the back. I had one of my Delhi men work on this—his family have been meenakaris for generations.”

What follows is a pregnant hush as the soon-to-be mother-in-law examines the jewelry, greed apparent in her eyes. Her husband picks up and inspects a bangle, evaluating its craftsmanship, leaving the heavy necklace for his wife to handle. She does, holding the necklace to her neck and admiring it in the wall mirror opposite the desk. No doubt she’s remembering her own bridal dowry and how it compares to what she’s now selecting for her future daughter-in-law. My guess is her jewelry will still come out the winner. In her mind, she’s thinking, The enamel work was so much better in my day.These stones aren’t cut near as fine as those in my necklace. Whether the balance of the quality is in her favor or not, she will almost certainly walk away from Moti-Lal Jewelers with a pair of gold bangles for herself. After all, It’s only fair.

Moti-Lal observes her movements in the mirror. “You see how it sparkles? I sold a similar necklace just last week, but those diamonds were not as large as these.” He turns down the corners of his mouth and shakes his head, as if he’s embarrassed that another family would have settled for less. “This necklace is one your guests will notice from across the room.”

Now he looks up, as if he has just noticed me, excuses himself and leaves his assistant in charge. With his cup of chai, he joins me at the railing, facing away from the customers he’s just left, as if he is too busy chatting with me to be concerned about their purchase. I’ve seen him do this time and time again. Of course, that’s why there are floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere; he can still keep an eye on them. One of many age-old tactics from his bag of tricks.

He’s smiling at me, his sleepy eyes almost disappearing in his face, his triple chins a sign of his success: a source of pride. When he speaks, his voice is soft and low. “Do you think Mrs. Prasad is already savoring the jealousy her rival will be sure to feel when she sees her new daughter-in-law wearing such a fine piece?”

I grin at Moti-Lal. “I take it that you know her rival.”

“One of my best customers.” Moti-Lal laughs and drinks his chai in a single swallow. “Ake, dho, theen. I’ll be right back.”

As large as he is, the jeweler moves as gracefully as a cheetah stalking fresh game. Like the family doctor, an Indian jeweler stays with a family for a long time, becomes a trusted friend and guide to several generations throughout marriages, births and festivals.

I turn around to watch him again. Moti-Lal shows off a few more features of the bridal set to his clients, reminding them that the stones are set perfectly flush within the kundan setting, just as Shah Jahan demanded carnelian, lapis lazuli, tiger’s-eye and malachite be inlaid in the marble of the Taj Mahal.

The jeweler and his clients exchange a few remarks before it’s time to haggle over price. Moti-Lal punches the numbers into his adding machine with a kind of flair that makes the other customers in the store look his way, curious about who’s buying what.

Once the show is over, I turn my attention to the non-bridal side of the store, letting my eyes wander across the glass case of necklaces. In the cases are elaborate pendants set with rubies and diamonds as well as gold chains of various thicknesses and heft. I’m bending at the waist to take a closer look at one gold chain when I feel a meaty grip on my shoulder. Lal-ji says, “Success, Malik! Look at you, Burra Sahib! You are every father-in-law’s dream. Come, come!”

The door to his private office is hidden on one mirrored wall. Aside from allowing Lal-ji to spy on his customers, the many mirrors invite clients to try on jewelry and admire themselves from every angle. It’s startling to see myself reflected in so many mirrors in this small space.

Inside Moti-Lal’s cozy chamber, the floor is covered with padded cushions and round bolsters upholstered in white cotton, leaving bare a narrow walkway in the middle of the marble floor. Moti-Lal removes his slippers; I remove my shoes.

“Lace-ups, Malik? Like the angrezi?”

“Himalayan winters were brutal on my toes. Had to give up chappals altogether. Now I can’t wear anything but shoes.” I don’t tell him that wearing shoes at Bishop Cotton School wasn’t an option. Nor was wearing dusty ones to school, which would surely earn you a rap on the knuckles from master and matron alike.

He slaps my back. “How proper! I cannot believe you are the same child I used to know,” he says.

The faint fragrance of cherries and sandalwood reminds me of past visits to this room. We sit cross-legged on the cushions, chilled by the air-conditioning. At the center of the room, on the uncovered marble, sits a silver tray with two tall hookahs, a box of matches, a pouch of tobacco, a small statue of Ganesh, an incense cone and a scale for weighing gold. This is where the biggest deals are made. It’s also where Lal-ji meets with friends.

His servant has put stones and one hot coal into each chillum. Moti-Lal pulls strands of tobacco from his pocket pouch, puts them in the bowls and tamps them gently. He moves one hookah closer to me.

“Accha, my young friend, what brings you to Jaipur?” As he’s speaking, he strikes a match and lights the tobacco on his hookah. Taking the pipe in his mouth, he sucks several times on it, his cheeks puffing out comically. Then he releases a cloud of white smoke and the room fills with a sweet, fruity fragrance.

“I want to thank you, Lal-ji, for looking after Omi all these years.”

He waves his fleshy hand as if to wave my gratitude away. “Koi baat nahee hahn. You sent the money. I made sure it got to Omi. Only that. She hasn’t had it easy with that husband.” Moti-Lal, who believes in hard work, shakes his head in disgust. “Runs off to join the circus every year and comes back empty-handed.” He puffs more aggressively on his hookah, as if Omi’s husband has in some way slighted him. “Have you seen her since you’ve been in Jaipur? Omi?”

“Only from a distance. I’ve kept my promise. I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

Moti-Lal makes a face. “A grown man being jealous of a little boy—and that’s exactly what you were—a little boy who provided for Omi in a way her husband couldn’t. And then threatening to kill her if you dared see her again.” He shakes his head again. “What a prince.”

I nod. The memory’s a painful one.

Omi was an ayah of sorts; she looked after the neighborhood children like me, for a small fee. Mothers like my own cleaned houses or swept office floors or washed people’s laundry. One day, my mother didn’t return from work. I waited and waited, but she never came back. Omi took me in without a word. She never treated me any differently than she did her own three children. I was so grateful to her that I did whatever I could to bring something home every day. It might be nothing more than a rotting banana, or a spool of thread I’d pilfered from a shopkeeper, or puri fried in old oil that a vendor was about to throw away.

I made friends with all the shopkeepers of the bazaar. I shined their shoes or told them where they could get a bargain on hairpins or ran errands for them. In return, they gave me castoffs for Omi’s children, shared their chapattis with me, sent me home with a small bag of rice. Moti-Lal was the most generous of all. He would always ask me what I’d learned that day. Could I count to a hundred for him, or name the capital of France? And when I did, he’d pull a rupee coin out of my ear and give it to me.

This last memory leaves me looking fondly at my old friend. I tell him, “Uncle. I would like to buy two gold chains.”

Moti-Lal arches an eyebrow. “You have a woman?”

I smile at him as I pick up the matchbox and light my hookah, then suck on the pipe to draw smoke. The tobacco—so clean and strong—goes immediately to my head, making me a little dizzy.

He thrusts his chin upward and nods sagely. “Ah,” he says. “I see. Two women?”

Now I laugh, blowing out smoke. “One of the chains is for Omi.”

He tucks his chin into the folds of his neck. “You know her husband will just sell it.”

“I don’t expect her to wear it—her husband would just rip it off her neck. But I want her to have something for security, for an emergency. I was hoping you would tell her it’s here, waiting for her—if and when she needs it.”

Lal-ji considers this as he smokes his pipe. He nods. “I will let her know.”

“I also want to buy a pair of earrings,” I add.

Moti-Lal blows on his chillum until the orange glow turns into gray ash. “Also for your woman?”

“No. They’re for a little girl.”

Moti-Lal stops puffing for an instant and his mouth goes slack. “You have a daughter?”

I laugh, pleased to be able to surprise him. “No. It’s not like that.”

His shrewd eyes narrow as he takes the pipe again. He blows out more smoke and looks into my eyes. “Then you have a woman with a child.”

“Two children. A boy and a girl.”

“Widow?”

“Yes.”

I should have known that Moti-Lal would figure it out. More than once, he’s told me selling gold requires an insight into human nature. He says you must be able to discern the intensity of a customer’s desire by looking into their eyes. That will tell you what to show, what to hold back, and how much the customer is willing to part with.

“I saw something out there that I liked.” I point to the main room on the other side of the door.

He blows a stream of smoke out of his mouth. “Bukwas,” he says. “Tourist stuff.” He hoists his large frame upright and goes to the door. He calls out to someone, waits a moment, then returns with two large velvet boxes, which he hands to me. Once he is again settled on his cushion, I open the first box. I see three gold chains inside.

“Pick two,” he says, smiling at me, puffing on his chillum.

I pull out the slimmest of the chains, pounded flat so it will sit flush against the skin. I can picture it on Nimmi’s slim neck, how the gold would glow against her dark complexion. Maybe next time, I think. “Uncle, I can afford only half this gold.”

He smiles. “What is this afford, Malik? It is my gift. Haven’t I told you more than once you are the son I never had?” Now he’s frowning, offended that I have mistaken his generosity for a business transaction.

“And what about your son-in-law out there?” I say, to tease him.

He lifts a hand and swats the air. “Mohan is fine. But if you come to work for me, I will die a happy man.” He puts the hand on his chest and tilts his head to the side beseechingly.

“Lal-ji, you are not going anytime soon. And I know nothing about the jewelry business.” I’ve said these very words to him at least a hundred times.

“Listen carefully,” he says, and takes another puff. “Lord Brahma, the creator of our universe, threw a seed from his body into the waters. That seed became a golden egg, an incarnation of the creator himself. This gold, symbol of purity, good fortune and godliness, is what we sell here. Now you know as much as I know.” He blows a large smoke ring at me.

I laugh. “I’m in Jaipur only at Auntie Lakshmi’s request.”

At the mention of my Auntie-Boss, Moti-Lal opens his slit eyes and smiles broadly. “And how is the beautiful Lakshmi Shastri? All of Jaipur misses her. Most of all my wife! Without Lakshmi’s hair oil, she’ll soon be as bald as a baby monkey!” He lets out a tremendous guffaw and slaps his hand on his thigh.

“It’s Mrs. Kumar now. She’s married to a doctor.”

“Bahut accha! I’m happy for her.” He points his hookah pipe at me. “You’re lucky she offered to take you to Shimla when Omi’s husband threw you out.”

“Zaroor.”As I’ve often said to Nimmi: I owe Lakshmi my life. Since moving to Shimla, I’ve sent a portion of my earnings to Lal-ji to pass on to Omi (those I don’t record in my bank book because I know Boss checks it periodically). It’s an arrangement that’s lasted twelve years.

“What does Lakshmi want you to do in Jaipur?”

“Learn the building trade. I’m working at the palace under Manu Agarwal.”

Moti-Lal raises his eyebrows. “Agarwal’s a good man. Honest. That cinema house the palace is building is going to be bloody marvelous! My wife plans to go with our daughter and her husband to the grand opening. I will be here, of course. Although I don’t know why I’m bothering. Everyone who’s anyone will be at the Royal Jewel Cinema that night.”

“Her Highness Latika certainly hopes so.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Moti-Lal’s son-in-law Mohan enters. I stand up to salaam him and he folds his hands in namaste. He is a shy man, quiet, ten years older than me.

“The Guptas have arrived,” he says to Moti-Lal.

“See that they are seated, bheta. I’ll be right there.” Moti-Lal passes an enormous hand over his face, a gesture of frustration. When the door closes, he rolls his eyes. “Ten years and no children.”

When I look questioningly at him, he points to the door, and I understand the comment is directed at his son-in-law. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t have it in him.”

I smile. Parents are always anxious for grandchildren. That won’t be the case with Auntie-Boss, and I’m glad of it. Whether I have none or ten, it’s all the same to her. She likes talking to children; she just never wanted any of her own. I pick up the chain I was admiring earlier and another, heavier gold necklace. Moti-Lal observes me while he smokes. I put both chains aside, open the other box and select a pair of small gold studs that I think little Rekha will like. Her ears were pierced when she was just a few months old; they’re fitted with the thinnest silver hoops. I place both chains and the earrings on the scale.

Moti-Lal frowns again and sighs. “Arré, Malik, leave it alone.”

The scale registers one ounce. The current going price is 321 rupees per ounce, but I ask Moti-Lal if he will take 200 rupees for it.

“I’ll let you have it for free if you’ll take some advice from me.”

I arch an eyebrow, waiting to see what he has to say.

He wags a stubby finger at me. “Never marry a poor widow.”

I shake my head and laugh.

Pocketing the necklace for Nimmi and the studs for Rekha, I lay two one-hundred-rupee bills on the scale next to Omi’s chain.

“I’ll make sure Omi knows, Malik. I’ll go to her tomorrow.”

The heaviness of my guilt—lusting after Sheela, how little I can do for Omi—has lifted a little.