The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

18

MALIK

Jaipur

It’s the morning after the Royal Jewel Cinema tragedy; the street sweepers have not yet started swiping at the dust with their long-whiskered jharus. After only a half hour of exhausted, numbing sleep, I wake with a start, the images of horror that I’d witnessed coming back to me: a man’s leg bent in an unnatural angle; the fleshy arm of a matron pierced with rebar, gushing blood; a gaping wound on a child’s forehead. In the night, I got up several times to pace my room, drink another glass of water, look out the window at the street—deserted but for stray dogs settling to sleep in the cool night dust.

Then the images of Sheela Singh’s naked hip, her brown nipple, float through my mind. What will Ravi say the next time he sees me? Will he tell Manu I was trying to seduce his wife? It isn’t true, but Ravi wouldn’t hesitate to stir up trouble—for Manu or for me—if it took the heat off him. Another thought: Does she know something about Ravi’s role in the construction? Is that why she was defending him to me? Or was she pardoning him for something he’d done?

It’s six o’clock, but what’s the use of trying to sleep in when sleep won’t come? I’ve been home three hours. I meant to call Auntie-Boss to tell her I’m all right, but the guesthouse has no phone. I’m sure Kanta would have called Lakshmi the moment she got home last night. I worry about Nimmi. She can’t read the Hindustani Times, but she’ll surely hear about what happened from the Aroras or from vendors at Shimla Mall, or from Lakshmi the moment Auntie-Boss finds out.

I bathe, then head off to the office just before eight. Employees usually traipse in between nine and nine thirty, but today, almost all of them are at their desks when I arrive.

Last night was a big occasion for the palace, and most of the facilities staff were present at the event. As I pass through, I nod to colleagues here and there. Engineers and secretaries huddle in clusters, talking quietly among themselves. The mood is somber, thick with uncertainty. Like me, they’re probably assuming Manu will call for an all-hands meeting about last night’s events to find out what went so wrong that the balcony could fail. Will there be an investigation, or an inquiry? Who pays for the injuries? Who among us is responsible in some way or another for the accident?

I settle at my desk and ask the operator to dial Auntie-Boss. It’s long-distance, but I don’t think Hakeem or Manu would object. I let the phone ring several times, but no one answers. So I call Kanta Auntie, who picks up at the first ring. She sounds drained, as if she, too, has not slept well, but she’s relieved to hear from me. She tells me that she spoke to Lakshmi last night, who promised to take the first train out from Shimla. I’m to pick her up at the train station this evening.

The news that Auntie-Boss is coming down floods me with relief. She’s someone I can always count on to keep a level head during a crisis.

As Kanta chatters on, I see the Maharani Latika leaving the conference room on the far side of the floor. Her eyebrows are drawn in a frown. On either side of her are gentlemen in suits. My guess is they’re her lawyers. Her Highness’s face is slightly flushed, as if she’s angry. Samir Singh and Ravi, shoulders slumped, follow her out of the conference room, and after them come Manu and two of his engineers. I interrupt Kanta to tell her I’ll stop by later and hang up.

Neither of the Singhs looks my way, which is just as well; I’m still irritated by Ravi’s late appearance last night and his callous disregard of Sheela’s feelings. He must have known she’d figure out where he’d been. Did he even bother to make up some excuse or just ask for her forgiveness?

At the front doors of the facilities offices, Her Highness stops and turns to shake the hand of everybody behind her. She’s as tall as every man, and her presence is commanding. A turbaned attendant dressed in white holds open the double doors while she goes through; he must be from the palace. Manu and his engineers watch everybody leave, then Manu says a few words to them before releasing them to return to their desks. When he catches my eye, he gestures with a pointed finger toward his office.

I step outside the office to buy two small glasses of tea from the chai-walla across the street. Then I bring the tea to Manu’s office as he’s draping his suit on a coatrack in the corner.

“Close the door,” he says.

I set the chai on his desk and do as he says.

It’s eighty-five degrees outside, but Manu is warming his hands on the steaming glass when I sit down opposite him. His skin is sallow. There’s a fresh cut on his cheek where he must have nicked himself shaving. He looks like a man being sent to his funeral pyre before his time. Does he think what happened yesterday is his fault?

He is staring at his tea as he says, “Last night was a tragedy no one could have anticipated. Kanta called Lakshmi to let her know what happened and that you were okay.”

I nod.

“Mr. Reddy confessed to selling far more tickets than the balcony could support. He’d been instructed to limit the number, but so many people wanted a glimpse of the actors onstage that he...” Manu throws up his hands as if he were the theater manager giving up on the situation. “Singh-Sharma will pay for a new balcony—time and materials—and replace anything else that was damaged, and the palace will pay the medical bills for the injured. They’ll also look at compensation for families of the deceased.Nevertheless...”

He downs his tea in one gulp, then sets his glass carefully on his desk as if he doesn’t want to mar the mahogany finish. Finally, he meets my eyes. “Everything is settled. We will make a formal announcement about who will pay for what. Reporters called my house last night for comment, but I had to clear what we’d say publicly with Her Highness.” He attempts a smile.

I can tell he feels enormous guilt. “It wasn’t your fault, Uncle. It sounds like the theater manager is to blame.”

Manu clears his throat and fiddles with the pens on his desk. He doesn’t look at me. “Well, the maharani is beside herself. And with good reason.” He scratches the top of his head delicately, with one finger, where a bald spot is growing. “Two casualties. One woman. And Rohit Seth—the actor. His fans are in an uproar. Can’t blame them. This shouldn’t have happened, Malik.”

Manu picks up the glass again, realizes it’s empty and sets it down. I haven’t taken a sip from mine, so I push it toward him. He clutches it as if it’s a lifeline.

“Uncle...” I pause delicately. “Wasn’t Mr. Reddy recommended by Singh-Sharma? If he let more people into the theater than was safe, why aren’t they paying the medical costs, as well?”

He shrugs. “We share the burden—that’s business.” He finishes the second cup of chai and pushes himself away from his desk, as if we’re finished. “Now go help Hakeem. He has work for you.”

“But...what about the bricks?”

He blinks and rubs his chin roughly. “What about them?”

“I noticed all these bricks in the debris after the collapse. What happened to the cement that was invoiced? And the bricks—they’re different than the ones your engineers recommended on the specs. The bricks I saw last night were lighter weight—more porous. With no logos stamped on them. Could the supplier be held accountable for delivering the wrong material?”

Manu frowns, waves his hand as if what I’ve said is of no consequence. “They are a small player in all of this. Even if we hold their feet to the fire, they won’t be able to compensate us for so much damage and injury.” He straightens some papers on his desk. “There will be an official inquiry, which could answer some questions. But nothing for you to worry about. Go work with Hakeem now.” He stands up.

As I turn to leave, he says, his voice shaky, “I hate what this is going to do to Kanta. To Niki. They’ve been so proud of me. Now...everywhere they go...people will ask them about what happened. The shame... I don’t want them to have to explain or apologize.” He wipes his forehead, sweaty from the tea, with the flat of his hand.

I want to comfort this gentle man who has always been kind to me, to Auntie-Boss and to Radha. But I’m twenty to his forty. It would be unseemly for me to pat his shoulder or tell him everything will be all right when I know so little about this business. Still, I’m touched that he’s treating me like a member of the family, entrusting me with his deepest fears.

“Kanta Auntie will manage. And given your son’s batting, I’d say Niki can more than take care of himself. Besides, you’ve got me on your team—don’t forget!” I chuckle lightly.

His smile is faint, but it’s there.

I pick up the tea glasses to return them to the chai-walla. My heart is heavy with Manu’s burden—the pain of the injured, the disappointment of the maharani.

I also realize I’m angry at the injustice of it all. Manu’s signature is on everything. He’ll be held responsible for the greatest calamity Jaipur has known in decades. The Singhs will walk away with only a portion of the blame. And Manu is right: Kanta and Niki will pay the price, too. Auntie-Boss always says gossip-eaters have sharp teeth. They will chew on this tragedy for years to come.

Manu has the air of a defeated man; he’s already given up. It doesn’t seem fair. Surely there’s something I can do to help.

Thank Bhagwan Auntie-Boss will be here tonight. I can talk all this over with her.

On the way to my desk, I knock on Hakeem’s office door.

“Uncle,” I say, “you’re in early.”

The accountant looks up from his ledger, the overhead light glinting off his eyeglasses. “Mr. Agarwal asked me to come in before regular hours. After last night, we have much to do.” He takes off his glasses to polish them with his spotless white handkerchief. “Such a tragedy! My daughters had nightmares last night.”

I hadn’t remembered seeing Hakeem with anyone but Mr. Reddy.

“Everyone got home safely, I trust?”

“Barely. Every rickshaw, motor, tonga—all were taken. So many people trying to escape! Fights were breaking out. I was afraid I’d lose one of my girls. We held hands and had to muscle our way through the crowds. It took us the better part of three hours.”

I lean against the door frame. “What do you think caused it?”

Hakeem runs a finger under his mustache. “Mr. Agarwal tells me there were too many people on the balcony. Yes?”

Now I come into the room, stand in front of his desk. “But how could such a collapse happen because of the weight of a few extra people, Hakeem Sahib?”

“I’m told it was more than a few. More like a hundred extra.”

I take a moment to digest this. “Still, don’t the engineers overbuild...just in case? To compensate for human folly? Aren’t there standards that have to be met for the overbuild?”

Hakeem shrugs his rounded shoulders. “Who knows? We are accountants, not detectives. We need to put together a report on the building expenses associated with the damage, posthaste. Yes? We are to make a list of all the materials used and the suppliers we paid and how much we spent. You’ll work on the seats, carpets, decorative materials that will have to be replaced. Singh Sahib asked me to work on the cost of the construction materials for the repair and rebuild.”

“You mean Manu Sahib?”

“No, young Abbas. Ravi Sahib gave the order. Mr. Agarwal is in charge of all palace facilities, but since the larger building projects are often contracted out to Singh-Sharma, it feels like we work for them, too.”

Does Manu know Ravi gives orders to his staff? Isn’t that a conflict of interest? If Mr. Sharma hadn’t had a stroke and both Singhs weren’t in charge, I wonder if protocols would have been different. “So we’ll be estimating all the materials costs for replacement purposes?”

He shoots a glance at me as if I’m simple. “Yes.”

I clear my throat. “You’re so busy, Uncle,” I say. “I can help you with your estimates if you’d like.”

“Mr. Ravi asked me especially, yes? And you, Abbas, have your own assignment. Go.” He waves his hand at me, as if he is shooing a fly.

“But...couldn’t the collapse have been caused by something other than overcapacity? Substandard materials, for instance? A compromised structure?”

Hakeem frowns at me, sets down his fountain pen and leans forward on his elbows. “Think about what you’re saying, Abbas. Singh-Sharma is a very trusted contractor. The palace has been working with them for decades. And they’ve used the same materials suppliers for years. Trusted companies, reliable companies. There is no need to cast aspersions on them.”

“Surely there have been some changes in suppliers over the years?”

He sighs. “Abbas, did I mention I have four daughters? The oldest will be ready for marriage soon. The rest will follow. Yes? How will I be able to afford their dowries unless I’m sitting behind this desk, adding up the numbers Mr. Singh wants me to?”

I ignore his frustration. I know what I saw, and none of it makes sense. I need to tread carefully in case Hakeem thinks I’m blaming him for sloppy paperwork or casting doubt on Manu’s ability to manage the project. “Maybe Singh-Sharma used a new supplier, and they delivered materials different from the design specs—by accident. Have we added or changed any suppliers in the last year?”

Hakeem glares at me over his glasses. “You have much to learn, young man.”

I give him my most charming smile. “What if I agree to marry your eldest without asking for a dowry?”

His lips twitch. I’ve made the little accountant almost smile! He narrows his eyes, shakes his head. He reaches for his Rolodex and flips through the cards. He stops at one. “Let’s see...this one’s new. Yes. We added Chandigarh Ironworks thirteen months ago. They beat out our former supplier by twenty percent.”

I whistle. “Twenty percent is a steep discount.”

He raises his brows, taps the card. “Hmm. It is.”

“They supply iron rebar?”

He shakes his head. “Used to. These days they supply us with bricks and cement.”

I don’t ask to see the contract with Chandigarh Ironworks. Hakeem wouldn’t show them to me; he’s already wary of my questions. Naturally, I wait until he leaves for the day and then I slip inside his office. I don’t have to collect Auntie-Boss from the train station for another hour and a half.

It’s fortunate for me that Hakeem is an organized accountant: everything is neatly labeled, all receipts are kept. I find the contracts cabinet and open the top drawer. Each contract is filed under the vendor name, which is listed in alphabetical order. I find the folder labeled Chandigarh Ironworks and pull it out. Inside I find an invoice that indicates they are indeed located in Chandigarh, in the state directly north of Rajasthan.

Hakeem told me this was a new contract, so I want to compare the terms with the previous supplier, but I don’t know the name of the previous supplier. One way to find the company name is to look at paid invoices from thirteen months ago or beyond. But invoices don’t always list the name of the project, and there are so many overlapping projects in which the palace is involved. Until I started working for Manu, I didn’t know about the various renovations to the Rambagh Hotel, the Jaipur Palace and the Maharanis’ Palace or that the royal family was buying smaller estates (from Rajputs who could no longer afford to keep up their properties) and turning them into boutique hotels. And, of course, the design and build of the Royal Jewel Cinema was an extensive construction project three years in the making.

The better option, I decide, is to look through the individual folders of suppliers. I sigh and get busy. I start by looking for suppliers whose names indicate they might sell bricks instead of electrical or plumbing or interior furnishings. There are many names ending in “building supply” or “materials,” so I review the contracts in each folder to see whether they’re still an active source for one of the palace’s projects.

An hour later, I run across the folder for Shree Building Materials in Jaipur. The contract, which was for supplying class 1 bricks, ended the day the Chandigarh Ironworks contract went into effect. I understand why the palace would insist on top-of-the-line materials free from cracks, chips, stones and other flaws. The Chandigarh Ironworks contract likewise promised to supply class 1 bricks.

I lean back in Hakeem’s chair and think about this. I don’t understand how Chandigarh Ironworks could deliver the same quality as the previous supplier for less cost when they would have to add in transportation fees. Chandigarh is, after all, five hundred miles away!

And something else that’s puzzling: the bricks from the cinema house—the ones I picked up and examined—weren’t construction quality. They can’t support load-bearing structures like the balcony. So who authorized their use?

I examine the signatures on both contracts—Shree Building, and Chandigarh. Manu Agarwal and Samir Singh on the previous contract; Manu Agarwal and Ravi Singh on the current contract. It is palace policy to sign off on all contracts for their building projects and keep the original for auditing purposes. Singh-Sharma would have a copy in their files also.

But the bigger question is why brick was even being used. From the palace engineers I’d learned that cement concrete reinforced with rebar—a far stronger material—is preferred for load-bearing columns. Bricks are used only in conjunction with cement concrete. Was inferior cement the problem? If I asked Ravi, would he just manufacture false invoices—like he did before? I dare not ask Samir, who would be quick to cover Ravi’s tracks if he thought his son had done anything untoward. Now I remember that Samir made no comment about the bricks when he and I talked at the cinema house last night.

I realize I need to find and take another look at those receipts for the bricks and cement—the ones Hakeem thought I’d entered incorrectly earlier. The same ones I’d then taken to Ravi, who merely crossed out one figure and inserted another. I get up from the desk and go to the ledger where I recorded the invoices weeks ago. Then I look around for the cabinet where paid invoices are kept in chronological order. I spot it and search by date, grateful for once to Hakeem for his annoying meticulousness. For there, attached to the invoice for that time period, are the receipts in question, the ones I need. Here is the receipt from Chandigarh Ironworks for the purchase of bricks and cement. Except...these receipts are clean, unmarked. These aren’t the ones on which Ravi had transposed the quantities with his fountain pen.

Quantities... I double-check them. They’ve been switched! These receipts show more cement being purchased than bricks, the opposite of what I’d noted previously. That should mean the ledger won’t agree. But am I right? I run to Hakeem’s desk and check the open ledger. The amounts there match those on the receipts in my hand. How could that be?

I lower Hakeem’s gooseneck desk lamp to take a closer look at the ledger. Hakeem’s penmanship is so precise the numbers look like they were typewritten instead of formed in ink (Hakeem, of course, has a special fountain pen specifically for this purpose, which he forbids anyone else to use—yes!). Someone has carefully scraped off the old entry with a fine razor blade and inserted the new figures. I recognize this old trick from my time at Bishop Cotton. It’s how certain boys changed their test scores when the masters weren’t looking.

But why in the world have the entries and the receipts been changed? And who changed them?

I can think of only two explanations: the original receipts were incorrect and had to be updated. Or—and this one makes the hair on my arm stand up—someone has doctored the information to match what should have happened—that more cement concrete should have been used to shore up the balcony. If the right amount had been used, there would have been no collapse.

I drum my fingers on Hakeem’s desk. Manu said Mr. Reddy had admitted that he sold too many tickets, and the balcony was overcapacity. There had been more weight on the balcony than it could support.

So, was the theater manager telling the truth or had the receipts been in error?

I’m so lost in thought I don’t hear his footsteps.

“Abbas?”

I look up, startled, from the ledger. Hakeem is standing in the open doorway to his office.

“Yes, Sahib?” I keep my voice calm, as if what I’m doing is entirely normal.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Ji. I’ve fallen behind in my estimate of the cinema house reconstruction. I found your door unlatched and thought that instead of carrying ledgers back and forth to my desk, I would do the work here. Maaf kar dijiye.” I pull both my earlobes in apology.

He glances at the doorknob—had he not shut the door properly?—and brushes his mustache, frowning.

“Sahib, what are you doing here?” I’d learned this tactic long ago, when I was caught swiping a comb for Omi or candy for one of her kids from a stall at the Pink City bazaar. When under attack, it’s best to counterattack.

“I left my umbrella here, yes? I was just at dinner with a friend who said it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, and I don’t like to catch a chill when it’s wet.”

“Good thinking. Yes.” I pray he doesn’t come any closer to examine the contracts, receipts and ledgers I’ve spread on his desk. I fight the urge to cover the paperwork with my hands.

He gathers his umbrella, which is leaning by the door. “Don’t stay up too late. The work will always be there, young man. Yes?”

He gives me an indulgent smile. For now, at least, I’m his hardworking protégé.

“You’re right, Ji. Zaroor.” I nod reassuringly at him and begin stacking the ledgers and papers.

As soon as I hear the front door click close, I drop my head in my hands. Will Hakeem tell Manu about my being in his office? I doubt it. Hakeem knows I’m at the palace offices as a special favor to Manu Uncle and it might be politically imprudent to call me out. But Hakeem might wonder if I’ve been telling him the truth.

And, if not, why.

I check my watch. Lakshmi’s train should be arriving soon.