The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi
19
LAKSHMI
Jaipur
At the Jaipur train station, I look for the Agarwals’ black Ambassador sedan. It’s early evening, and I’ve been traveling for nearly eleven hours. But instead of their driver, Baju, Malik steps out of the driver’s seat. I’m so happy to see him I feel like crying. I’ve missed him. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black trousers.
“I thought Kanta was sending Baju to pick me up,” I say.
Malik offers me a strained smile. “Would I let you ride alone with that lech?” He’s keeping his tone light, but I can sense he’s holding something back. The whole of the Pink City must be buzzing with news of the cinema tragedy. I can only imagine the toll it’s taking on the Agarwal family, the palace, the families of the injured.
Malik lifts my suitcase into the trunk of the stately sedan, which Kanta’s father upgrades every five years on their wedding anniversary. This must be their third Ambassador. Her family has money, whereas Manu comes from humble beginnings. The palace provides Manu a driver and a Jeep for work, so Kanta and her mother-in-law can always have this sedan at their disposal.
After Malik helps me into the passenger’s seat, I say, “Now, before you tell me what’s going on, let me assure you that Nimmi misses you terribly, Rekha asks after you constantly, Chullu has started to speak and Jay is fine. Oh, he asks about you all the time, too.”
He chuckles. That’s better. I’m not going to tell him about Nimmi’s outburst last night. I left the house early enough this morning that I didn’t see her. (Was I trying to avoid her?) Either way, I had time on the train to think about what she said and whether there was any truth in it. Do I feel possessive about Malik? Yes, I do. I feel about him the same way I feel about my sister, Radha. I want both of them to do well, to develop their skills and use those skills in whatever way they wish. How could that be wrong? Why should I feel guilty for helping them along their path?
With Radha, I think I fell short. She met Pierre Fontaine at the Shimla Mall in her last year at Auckland House School. Pierre was twenty-eight—ten years older than Radha—and absolutely smitten with her. He knew nothing about her past, the baby she gave up for adoption at thirteen. He came to ask me for my blessing, which warmed me to him. He was thoughtful, kind. And French, of course.
Radha had studied French at Auckland and fallen in love, first with the language and then with Pierre. I would rather she had enrolled at college in nearby Chandigarh instead of marrying, but by then I knew how headstrong she can be; the more I fight her on an issue, the deeper she digs in. (I’ve often thought she’s like the Himalayan balsam, a deceptively delicate flowering plant that’s hard to tame.)
In the end, I gave Radha and Pierre my blessing. It seems to have worked out well. Radha trained at a fragrance house and became a perfumer. She was always good at mixing my henna paste, and testing the mixture with different oils, lemon juice and sugar to create the right silky consistency. And the scent of it was heavenly.
Radha has what she always wanted: a family. She sends me photos of her two adorable daughters—Asha, now two, and Shanti, four years old.
Malik slides in behind the steering wheel. “Nikhil has a cricket game tonight, so Kanta Auntie asked me to drive you there first. Accha, Boss?”
I tap his arm to reassure myself he’s really here. “Accha.”
Malik eases the Ambassador through the clog of cycle rickshaws, taxis and pedestrians. “Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I called this morning but got no answer.”
“Jay had probably left for work.” I’m looking out the window, enjoying the choreographed chaos of the city: a lipsticked hijra on her way to the market, slim hips swaying; a wagon drawn by a bony laborer carrying old tractor tires; children flicking marbles on a dusty street corner—what Malik liked to do once upon a time in Jaipur.
Malik slows for a family of six balanced precariously on a motor scooter. “I want to thank you for taking Nimmi under your wing.”
“Koi baat nahee. She’s a hard worker. And I’m enjoy teaching Rekha how to read.”
“I bet she learns fast, my little monkey.” There is so much affection in his tone that it makes me smile. “Permission to talk frankly, Auntie-Boss?”
I turn to him and nod.
“I’m trying to piece together what happened at the cinema house the other night, and why. But every time I find something that doesn’t look right to me, I get shut down. Samir, Hakeem and even Manu don’t want me to pry any further.”
“Well, it’s not your job, is it, Malik? To investigate? Shouldn’t you be concentrating on what Manu’s teaching you?” For half a second, I wonder if Malik did something that got Manu in trouble. Not deliberately, but by accident.
“That’s exactly what I am doing.” Malik taps his horn at a woman carrying a basket of beans on her head. She moves to the side of the road. “After the collapse, I found these...chunks of bricks in the debris. Lots of them.”
My ears perk up. He goes on to describe bricks similar to the ones I saw at Canara Enterprises.
“The project specifies cement mortar—not bricks—for the columns. I’ve examined the contracts. I’m not wrong. But no one wants to listen to me.”
I’m listening. And what Malik’s saying makes my heart race. He describes the ledgers where he enters figures; how the purchase receipts for bricks and cement were altered by Ravi right in front of Malik’s eyes and then replaced in the files; how the numbers in the ledgers have been altered, too.
By the time he finishes, my palms are sweating and ideas are buzzing in my head like bees. I’m trying to connect the threads, but they come and go before I can make sense of them. I moisten my lips, realizing, only then, I’m parched, as if I haven’t had a drink of water in days.
The car comes to a stop, and Malik turns off the ignition. When I look around, I see we’re at the cricket grounds. A group of boys in cricket whites are milling about the field. It’s dusk and the park lights have come on. A man with a whistle stands on the sidelines, refereeing the game. Malik reaches behind the front seat and grabs a thermos. He unscrews the top and fills it with steaming chai; the scent of cardamom, cinnamon and cloves fills the car. He hands me the cup, and I sip from it. The chai’s delicious and sweetened just the way I like.
“May you live a thousand years,” I say, “and may every year have fifty thousand days.” I bless his thoughtfulness by placing my hand on his head.
He grins. “Okay if we just watch from the car? I think it’s not a good idea to have you standing in public next to Niki with fifty of the Agarwals’ closest friends.” Of course, he’s right. Indians with eyes the color of the ocean are unusual, and Niki’s eyes are like mine, and like my sister’s. The gossip-eaters would take notice.
We watch the game for a few minutes while I finish my tea. I’m thinking about what Malik has told me. I don’t want him worrying about Nimmi, but I need to tell him some of what’s been going on in Shimla.
“Baat suno,” I say.
I tell him that two children found a sheep wandering the hills; how Nimmi recognized it as belonging to her brother’s flock; that we found the flock—and her brother—and discovered that the sheep were carrying gold; how we brought Vinay’s body on horseback to be cremated in town; and how we then delivered the gold to the next courier.
At each new piece of information, Malik’s eyes widen and his breathing quickens.
“But... Nimmi’s all right, isn’t she? And Rekha and Chullu?”
Naturally, he’s concerned for his priya. “For the moment, Nimmi and the children are staying with us. They’re sleeping in your room. Jay is making sure they’re safe.”
Malik releases a long breath.
“The bricks you found in the rubble?” I say. “I saw a woman in Shimla making bricks that look like that,” I tell him.
“Where?”
“At a small factory called Canara Private Enterprises—the place where I had to deliver the gold.” I raise my eyebrows as if to ask, Does that fit with what you know?
Malik shakes his head. “Singh-Sharma buys their bricks from Chandigarh.”
“From Chandigarh?” My heartbeat quickens.
“Hahn. Why?”
“The woman making the bricks told me that the truck that comes to pick them up goes to Chandigarh.”
Malik drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “The bricks are made in Shimla, then taken to Chandigarh? That makes no sense,” he says. “Chandigarh Ironworks is a huge company, with at least four brick kilns. They wouldn’t need more bricks from a smaller supplier in Shimla.”
Malik turns to face me. “Something else that I don’t understand, Boss. Why would any large company working with Singh-Sharma sell them inferior materials? Contracts from a construction firm like Singh-Sharma are so lucrative. Any company that tried to skimp on quality would be shooting themselves in the foot.”
Malik’s right; cheating the company that fills your coffers makes no sense. “Is it possible this Canara Enterprises makes a kind of brick that can’t be made in Chandigarh?”
“You mean they’re using a special clay or some other material?”
He shrugs.
A tap on my window makes us both jump, and the tea from the thermos cup spills onto my sari.
“Sorry, sorry!” Kanta says, opening the passenger door. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”
“I have!” I tell her. “You.”
She laughs delightedly. Vivacious Kanta! How I’ve missed her! Aside from Jay, I haven’t grown as close to anybody else in Shimla. But even as she’s laughing, I can see anxiety etched in the wrinkles across her forehead. Her red lipstick contrasts vividly with her anemic complexion.
Malik grabs a towel from the trunk of the car and hands it to me so I can dab the damp spots on my sari. I step out of the car to hug Kanta. Over her shoulder, I see a boy in cricket whites, his cheeks flushed, smiling shyly, looking at me with his green-blue eyes. He is beautiful.
Kanta takes him by the elbow. He’s nearly as tall as she is, and on his way to being taller.
“Lakshmi,” Kanta says, “this is my son, Nikhil. Niki, meet the famous Lakshmi!” She beams at me. “He’s heard so much about you, growing up, and now you get to meet!”
I laugh, approvingly. “Lovely to meet you, Niki. I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing you in photos.”
The boy blushes and bends down to touch my feet. His movements are graceful, almost balletic. Oh, Radha, I think, how you would love to know this boy.
I can’t stop staring at him. When I saw him last, he was an infant, and I couldn’t have envisioned what he’d look like as he aged. The photos of the family that Kanta regularly sends me in no way do him justice. His ink-black hair, which he keeps brushing back, falls over those mesmerizing eyes. In his cricket uniform, standing with his legs apart (knee pads on), and his arms behind his back, he reminds me of the athletes featured in the pages of the Hindustani Times.The polo-playing, tiger-shooting Maharaja of Jaipur used to stand this way.
And just like that, I’ve traveled back to Jaipur, where I’m sitting on a raw-silk sofa in the palace of the dowager maharani, signing an agreement for this baby, Niki, to be adopted by the royal family as the crown prince.
Only it never happened.
When he was born, Radha—then just thirteen—refused to let him go. She’d never meant to give him up.
Soon enough, she realized she couldn’t care for him—she was a child herself—and she asked Kanta and Manu to adopt him. I blink to keep my tears at bay. How close we came to losing Radha’s son to the palace instead of seeing him here, now, basking in the warm embrace of loving parents, dear Kanta and Manu.
Kanta breaks my reverie. “Shall we go home and get you settled in, Lakshmi? Baju has been making lots of treats for you. He’s hoping he can best the ones you used to make for me, the jealous sod!”
I let Kanta sit in the front with Malik so I can sit in the back with Niki and get to know my nephew.
Kanta’s husband, Manu, greets us at the door to their trim, government-issued bungalow. I’m shocked at the change in him. Always a mild-mannered, pleasant fellow, he now looks beleaguered, harried. He has dark pouches under his eyes, which makes me think he hasn’t slept in days. He settles his thick black-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose before he asks after my health.
I drop my chin and assume a serious expression. “I hope Malik hasn’t caused you too much trouble. I know that he can be a handful.”
That, at least, elicits something resembling a smile.
“He’s a joy to have around. He learns quickly. My staff have taken to him, as have I.”
Catching sight of Niki behind us, Manu lights up. He calls his son to him and cups the back of his head. “How was your bowling today, Niki? Did you pitch some zingers to your competition?”
Niki laughs. “Yar. I did what Malik Uncle showed me. Sonny couldn’t bat one of my burners today!”
Kanta tells Niki to take a shower and suggests her husband make Malik comfortable while she shows me to my room. We’ll be having dinner in an hour.
In the guest bedroom, as I’m unpacking, Kanta drops the cheerfulness as quickly as if she were casting off a veil. “Oh, Lakshmi,” she says, “I’m so glad you’ve come. Manu’s worried, and I don’t know how to help him.” She suddenly looks ten years older. “He’s never had a black mark on his work. Now he does, and it’s a big one. I know he’s innocent, but even I’ve wondered how he could have overlooked a detail so important.”
“What exactly are they telling Manu? At the palace?”
She tugs at the fringe on the rajai covering the bed. “The maharani’s lawyers questioned him for hours this afternoon about documents that bear his signature. They told him those documents confirm that he bears full responsibility. That his errors caused the accident, the loss of life. They seem to be insinuating he was cheating the palace by replacing quality materials with lesser ones and pocketing the difference in cost. The maharani has asked him not to return to work until the inquiry is complete.” The rajai is coming undone as Kanta pulls on a thread. “Manu is devastated. Where are they getting all this information? It’s as if someone is sabotaging him.” She smiles sadly. “Saasuji is praying triple-time at her puja for him to be released from all this bad karma.”
I sit on the bed next to her as she describes how quickly the news about Manu’s alleged wrongdoing is spreading. “This evening, at cricket, the mothers I usually talk to didn’t show. They probably thought that was kinder than ignoring me in person.”
She wipes a tear with the end of her sari. “I worry about Niki. Some of the boys on the field tonight were saying things to him. I couldn’t hear them, but I knew by the expression on his face that Niki was angry. I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse. Soon they might start being openly hostile.
“I can’t imagine what’s going to happen at his convent school. He’s been with those same classmates since he was this high.” She holds a hand, palm down, three feet off the ground. “That’s why I’m keeping him home from school. This is a small city with a lot of powerful people. And reputations can be ruined just like that.” She snaps her fingers together.
I reach for her hand to comfort her. On the train, I had hours to think of possible ways to clear Manu’s name, and an idea had occurred to me. “Kanta, do you think the maharani would still remember me?”
She raises her eyebrows. “How could she not remember you? You helped her through the worst depression of her life. She was so grateful she gave Radha that full scholarship to the Maharani School for Girls.”
I make a face. “But we let that opportunity slip through our fingers. My sister only lasted one term. Once she got pregnant, she left. I’ve always felt bad about that.”
“But don’t forget! We got Niki as a result.” She gives my hand a squeeze.
I smile. “And he’s so lovely. You’ve raised him well. Shabash.”
Kanta looks down at our hands, entwined now. “I don’t know what we’d do without him. He’s the light of our lives. Even Baju’s. Remember how Baju and my saas used to make me drink rose milk before I lost my baby? Well, now he has Niki to feed rose milk to! Saasuji swears that’s what gives Niki those rosy cheeks of his!” She laughs softly.
Now she flips my hands over so she can inspect my palms. I applied the henna to my palms a few days ago; the cinnamon color is still vibrant. I show her the monkey frolicking in his apple tree on one palm and the crocodile swimming in the water on the other.
“I’ve been teaching old folk tales to the daughter of a friend of Malik’s. Recognize this one?”
“The monkey and the crocodile!”
“Hahn. I’m also teaching the little girl to write in Hindi. She can almost write bundar but so far she’s helpless with magaramaccha.” I’m picturing her small fingers holding the chalk, trying her hardest to spell crocodile.
“Big word for a little girl!” Kanta grins. “Oh, Lakshmi, I do miss you and your henna! The hours we spent together talking and laughing. The babies you drew on my stomach when I wanted to get pregnant.”
It had finally worked. Perhaps it was the sweet yam laddus I fed her to encourage the production of her eggs. Or maybe it was her belief that the paintings of babies on her belly would encourage a real baby to grow inside her. Sadly, in the end, she lost that baby and was never able to conceive another.
Kanta traces the pattern on my palms. “You will find Maharani Latika changed. You left for Shimla right after the maharaja sent their son to boarding school in England. Well, the boy never forgave his father for taking the title of crown prince away from him. Whenever they fought, Her Highness took her son’s side and relations between the maharani and maharaja were never the same. They grew further and further apart until they were barely talking to each other. When the maharaja died, their son refused to come home for the funeral.”
Kanta releases my hands. “Remember how Her Highness used to drive her Bentley round the city, wearing those fabulous sunglasses, tooting at people? No driver for her, no, thank you.” She smiles at the memory as she pulls at the thread on the quilt again. “She’s nowhere near as carefree as she used to be, Lakshmi. So serious now. No more joie de vivre.” She shakes her head.
We’re quiet for a while.
“Did Malik tell you that the actor Rohit Seth died in the collapse? All India Radio has been covering the tragedy all day long. How many people were injured. How Seth’s fans feel. How Bollywood is reacting. I tried to confiscate the radio, but Manu grabbed it first and took it in his office. Been listening to it all day. Torturing himself.” She tilts her head to one side and lets out a sigh. “I don’t know how we’re going to survive this.”
“I know what the dowager maharani would recommend—stiff G&Ts all round!”
Kanta gives me a half-hearted smile.
“Lakshmi, has Malik told you...about Samir?”
I must look puzzled, because she continues. “I’ve seen Samir at the cricket grounds, watching Nikhil. I think he knows, Lakshmi. I don’t know how, but I’m pretty sure Samir knows we’re raising his grandson.”
Twelve years ago, when Radha first found out she was pregnant by Ravi, she was so in love she was sure he would marry her. My sister believed he loved her as much as she loved him. She had no way of knowing that I had already arranged the marriage between Ravi and Sheela, that I was the matchmaker who facilitated the merging of two prominent Jaipur families—the Singhs and the Sharmas.
Both Samir and Parvati made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with their son’s illegitimate child. After Ravi’s engagement to Sheela, they couldn’t hustle their son to England quickly enough, and Radha’s baby became solely my responsibility. I reasoned that with the Singhs’ relation to the royal family, if the baby were a boy, he could be considered for adoption by the palace as the new crown prince. I worked hard to arrange that adoption only to realize later how determined Radha was to keep her baby. But with the help of Jay—Dr. Kumar, as I knew him then—we changed the paperwork; the baby’s heartbeat became an issue, and the palace adoption became null and void. The Singhs never knew that their grandchild ended up living only a few miles from their house.
As I’m mulling over this uncomfortable history, I feel a headache coming on. It’s been a long day; I’m exhausted from the long train ride. I rub my temple. “But, Kanta,” I say, “you know just as well as I do that the Singhs refused any claim to the baby. Why would Samir have a sudden interest in a child that he’s ignored these past twelve years?”
“I don’t know, but... I worry. Could he take Niki away from us?”
After years of trying for a baby, having several miscarriages and one stillbirth, Kanta had been so excited to become a mother. If I had to fight Shiva to keep Nikhil with the Agarwals, I would. “Bukwas. You adopted that baby legitimately. You have the papers to prove it.”
A tear escapes the corner of Kanta’s eye. “Papers based on false information.”
I place my hands on Kanta’s bony shoulders and turn her toward me, gently. “You mustn’t think that way. Niki has the best parents, and the best home, any child could hope for. He’s had more love from you and Manu than he ever could have had from the nannies and governesses at the palace. I will never let anyone take him away from you.”
Her face crumples. She falls against my shoulder, sobbing.
Once again, I find myself promising something I’m not sure I can deliver.