The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

20

MALIK

Jaipur

The next morning the area in front of the Royal Jewel Cinema is crowded. Female laborers in bright cotton saris,their bare feet covered in dust, are emerging from the building. The baskets on their heads are filled with rubble from the collapse. One by one, they dump their loads on the open end of a truck waiting at the front curb, then go back inside the cinema house for more. Men in dhotis are mixing dry cement and water in a wheelbarrow. Others are bringing damaged seats outside to be inspected. Can they be repaired, or do they need to be replaced with new ones? Can the mohair be resewn? Through the open lobby doors, I see a team of laborers erecting bamboo scaffolding so they can start work on the damaged balcony. Plasterers, painters, electricians and plumbers are milling about, their supervisors shouting orders. Women are using jharus to sweep the plaster and dust into containers of all shapes and sizes.

I see Ravi Singh with Mr. Reddy. Ravi, his face pinched, is pointing at the theater manager as Mr. Reddy holds his hands placatingly in a namaste, begging Ravi’s patience or forgiveness. I move out of Ravi’s sight line and quietly approach a woman who’s just coming out of the cinema, balancing a basket filled with cement fragments, plaster, broken chunks of brick on her head.

“Behenji,”I say softly. I call women close to my age “sister.”

The woman slows to look at me, uncertain.

“May I check your basket before you put the rubble on the truck?” I remove a rupee from my pocket and hold it out to her.

She wags her head yes. In the time it takes her to lower the basket to the ground, I put the coin in her hand; it swiftly disappears in her blouse.

Sifting through her basket, I pick a piece of indented brick with no logo that’s three-quarters intact. I also pocket a chunk of cement; it’s also too porous, which suggests the ratio of water to cement powder was incorrect. Manu’s staff has told me more than once that they have to be vigilant with inexperienced laborers who might mix in too much water, which weakens the cement. I put my evidence in the cloth bag I’ve brought with me. Before I left the office, I stuffed the bag with engineering books, a clipboard and a sweater from the office, and use them now to hide the fragments I’m collecting. I help the woman put the basket back on her head, and as I do, I see Ravi coming toward me. I salaam him.

“Don’t do that. You’re interfering with her job and slowing her down.” I can see he’s furious. Is he still sore that I took Sheela home in the early hours of the morning after the collapse? He looks like he wants to punch me in the face.

I smile to show I intend no offense. “Apologies. I thought behenji was about to drop the basket.”

His eyes narrow. “What brings you here?”

“I’m putting estimates together for those theater seats that have to be repaired or replaced.” I casually hang the cloth bag over my right shoulder.

He glances at the bag but makes no comment. “Haven’t the palace engineers given you a list?”

“They have, but I thought it better to come here and see for myself. This is an important project. I want to get it right.” I’m trying to sound earnest, helpful. Otherwise, I won’t get the results I want.

His expression softens, slightly. Now he tries to strike a milder, friendly tone. “Look, old chap, why not come to dinner tonight? It’s been too long. We can talk about this...” He indicates the scene around us. Is he trying not to call it the tragedy and disaster it actually is? “All will be made right in the end. You’ll see. My father knows a lot of people.”

No doubt his father has been busy, on the phone, talking to the palace lawyers, the media and his vendors, doing what he can to mitigate the damage to the reputation of his firm. Now that Samir is picking up the pieces, Ravi can assume a more relaxed attitude.

“What time?” I have no intention of staying for dinner, but at least I’ll have an opportunity to talk to Samir.

“Eight o’clock. Mummi schedules dinner at the same time every night.”

I check my watch; I’ve got time to finish what I need to do.

Back at the palace facilities office, I spend my lunchtime talking to one of Manu’s engineers. He’s single, about ten years older than me, and we often walk to the local street vendors to eat lunch together. After we’ve dug into our palak paneer and chole, I show him the materials I picked up from the Royal Jewel Cinema site.

He looks puzzled. “These are not to the specifications I saw in the documents for the construction of the cinema.” He takes a bite of his aloo parantha and shrugs. “So many of us worked on that project. Maybe the specs changed when I was no longer involved. One of the other engineers may know more.”

But I can’t find one engineer who knows how the specs changed.

At the office, in the final hour of the day, Hakeem keeps me busy. I enter new invoices into the ledgers and reconcile accounts until my head is spinning. By the time the motor rickshaw drops me off at Samir’s house, I barely have the energy to socialize. And there’s every chance I might run into Sheela—something I’d prefer to avoid. (Even though Sheela won her battle for a house of her own upon her marriage, she agreed to the nightly dinner at her in-laws’.)

I’ve no sooner stepped inside the door when Sheela comes out of the drawing room, looking peeved. Her daughter Rita, in a yellow tutu this time, follows her.

“Did Ravi not come home with you?” Sheela makes it sound as if I’m Ravi’s designated minder and have managed to lose him just to spite her. It’s as if the tender moment we shared right after the collapse never happened. The Sheela standing right in front of me, her hand on one hip, is a stranger. Has she forgotten that I helped her take a bath two days ago when she was fragile and alone?

I shake my head in answer to her question.

Tonight, she’s wearing a salwar kameez in a soft moss green that sets off the pink glow in her cheeks. A white chunni, embroidered with tiny green beads, falls gracefully across her shoulders. The fine cotton kameez hugs her breasts and hips and accentuates her flat stomach. The memory of her naked body rising from the bathtub makes me blush. She notices—a smile, or smirk, appears at the corner of her mouth.

I turn my attention to Sheela’s daughter. I squat down until we’re eye to eye. “Who is that, Rita?” I point to the plastic doll she’s holding, upside down, in her fist.

The girl takes cover behind her mother. With some impatience, Sheela tells her to answer when a grown-up is talking to her. Rita sneaks a peek at me from behind her mother and holds her arm out so that I can see her doll—a full-figured woman, about eight inches tall, with blond hair. The doll is naked.

I look up at Sheela, who rolls her eyes. “Ravi’s brother doesn’t have a clue about what to give a little girl. So he sent his niece what he thought was an American Barbie doll. It’s not. It’s a Tessie doll.”

Now Rita grins at me. A dimple appears on her chin. She looks much like her mother, but that chin is Ravi’s. “You push her tummy and her hair gets big. See?” Rita pushes her tiny finger on the doll’s stomach and, sure enough, the blond hair lengthens three inches.

When I hear the front door opening, I stand up and turn around. Samir comes in and hands his suit coat and his briefcase to the servant waiting to receive them. He smiles at his granddaughter.

“Rita,” he says, “your doll is going to need a lot more than hair to cover herself.”

The little girl examines her doll, turns her around and offers her to Samir. He chuckles and picks Rita up to kiss her cheek.

Sheela has both arms crossed against her chest. “Papaji,” she says, “you can’t keep Ravi at the office such long hours. His children hardly ever see him!”

Samir looks vexed, and then, just as quickly, smiles at her. He gives me a knowing look, as if he and I are coconspirators, and says, “But, Sheela, who will pay for tennis lessons and your club membership and Rita’s ballet lessons?” He jiggles Rita, making her laugh. “Hah, bheti?”

Sheela presses her lips together, as if she’s holding back a retort. She takes Rita from Samir, gives us both a look and stomps off to the dining room.

Samir beckons me to follow him. He leads us to his library and shuts the door. I remember being in this room when I was a boy. The built-in bookshelves, crammed with English, Hindi and Latin tomes. Red-leather armchairs. A hearth, always blazing with a fire in winter, is empty on this warm May evening.

I sit down in one of the two armchairs. Samir removes his gold cuff links and rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows. “Ravi told me you’d be coming by. The tragedy at the cinema isn’t quite what Manu had in store for your internship at the palace. A little too much excitement, wouldn’t you say?” He opens a cocktail cabinet, unscrews a bottle of Glenfiddich and pours us each a measure of single-malt scotch.

“As they used to say at Bishop Cotton, there’s nothing quite like baptism by fire.” I take the glass of scotch from him.

“Right-o,” he says, holding up his glass as if to toast my wit, before he takes a healthy sip of scotch. Then he sits in the other armchair and rests his glass decisively on the arm as if he’s come to a decision.

“Before we merged Singh Architects with Sharma Construction, we were a small firm that employed five draftsmen. Ten years later, we have fifteen architects and almost a hundred employees. As you know, when Mr. Sharma had a stroke, I took over all his duties. I do far less design now, and a great deal more management. Which is to say, I’m not so much involved in day-to-day decisions. Of course, I oversee the projects, but the...details...”

The scotch burns my throat but when I swallow it goes down like honey. I can feel my jaw relax, and then the muscles in my neck. In Shimla, Dr. Kumar and I share a glass of scotch from time to time—Laphroaig’s his brand, and I enjoy it—but I always have, and always will, prefer a good, cold beer.

Samir continues. “After Oxford, Ravi graduated from architecture school at Yale. He came back full of new and bold ideas about design. About construction. He’s a natural, and people know it. Clients like him. So do our employees. And he manages his projects well.”

Samir drains his glass and straightens in his chair.

I take another sip of scotch.

He smiles and points a finger at me. “Listening is the most important trait in business. I can tell you’re good at it.”

I’m also good at waiting. At first, I followed Auntie-Boss around the city until she noticed me. Eventually she started paying me to carry her supplies. Then I’d go with her to Jaipur’s grandest houses, sitting on their lawns outside until she finished painting henna on the fancy ladies like Parvati Singh. Later, still, at the prestigious Bishop Cotton School for Boys, I waited patiently for classmates to accept my less desirable pedigree. It was hard at first, the hazing. A school-issued shoe stuffed with a garden snake. A toothbrush filled with sheep’s wool. A school tie wound around my ankles while I slept. I didn’t retaliate. Instead, I made myself useful. I knew Nariman liked American cigarettes; I got him some. Ansari preferred photos of naked women. Modi was into rare stamps. For me, it wasn’t hard to find these items, as I’d once found Jaipur’s best pistachios—the ones the palace chef preferred—all those many years ago. Overnight, I became valuable to the biggest bullies, and they stopped harassing me.

Now I swallow what’s left in my glass and hold it up for Samir to refill. He seems relieved to have a task, something to distract him from his thoughts. He can’t quite bring himself to tell me what he wants to tell me. I can see it’s hard for him.

As he returns my replenished glass, he says, “Did Ravi tell you that he finished his two most recent projects well ahead of time? He did the ballroom and restaurant remodel of the Rambagh Hotel and, after that, developed that old Rajput estate on Civil Lines Road into a world-class boutique hotel.”

I nod.

Samir sits down and takes a deep breath. “All of that is hard to do. So many variables, so many things to track—the weather, or materials that don’t arrive on time. Days when workers don’t show up. All sorts of things.”

He reaches for the pack of Dunhill cigarettes on the table next to him. He shakes one free, then holds out the box for me. I take a cigarette. Back when I lived in Jaipur, he used to smoke Red and Whites, a less expensive brand. I make a note of the upgrade. As I’ve made a note of the nicer cars in his driveway.

He takes a gold lighter from his shirt pocket and lights our cigarettes. Once he’s had his first, deep drag, he starts talking again.

“Accidents can happen,” he says. “It’s the law of nature. What happened at the cinema house is devastating, but...” He lets out a stream of smoke, taps his glass on the chair arm. “It’s my name on the company, Malik.” With his free hand, he points to his chest. “I don’t allow gross errors on my projects. Not in judgment, not in code compliance, never in materials.”

He leans forward now, his elbows on his thighs. “With the cinema project, I gave Ravi freedom to do things his way. Didn’t want him thinking I didn’t trust him to make the right decisions.”

He locks his eyes on mine. “After the accident, I asked him to go through the books, the process, everything we did, what part the palace played. He did exactly that. And, honestly, I can’t find any reason he would be at fault. He did it by the book. Every single thing. And yet...” He leans back against the leather armchair. “From what I hear, you’re doubting him. And me. You’re doubting my professional ability.” Now his voice has taken on an edge. He sucks his cigarette, blows out a steady stream of smoke.

The liquor is worming its way into my brain. I take another look around the room. A rich man’s room. The leather-bound books. The gilded clock. A rich man in a rich suit who wants me to protect his son. Now I understand why Ravi wanted me to come. It wasn’t so we could make peace. It was to warn me.

I set my glass of scotch on his desk. “What is it I’m supposed to have done, Uncle?”

“Hakeem told me he found you in his office yesterday, snooping around. Ravi saw you lurking around the reconstruction site doing Bhagwan knows what. And—” he points his finger at me accusingly “—you’ve been asking questions of the palace engineers. Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’d be a lousy businessman if I didn’t keep my ears to the ground.”

The hair on the back of my neck tingles. All at once, I’m back at Bishop Cotton, at the swimming pool, three upper-form boys forcing my head underwater. How did he find out I’ve been talking to the engineers at the palace facilities office? Has Hakeem been spying on me? Does everyone I’ve talked to go directly to Samir? Are all of them in his pocket?

I’m careful with my words. “All those years ago, you’re the one who helped Lakshmi gain an introduction to the palace. You of all people know how she helped the maharani through a rough patch. Since that time, I’ve always felt a strong connection to the maharanis. I’m honored to be working on their behalf at the facilities office with Mr. Agarwal. I simply want to make sure that we’re putting together a good and thorough estimate for reconstruction. That’s all.” I open my arms wide, palms up.

He taps the ash from his cigarette into the large brass ashtray on his desk, his voice buttery again when he says, “I completely understand. But any questions you may have about what you turn up should come to Ravi or to me. We can clarify important details you’re unsure about. No need to waste your time talking to the palace engineers. They’re too busy with their own construction projects to waste much time on ours.” He shows me his most charming grin. “And besides, you and I, we’re old friends. Surely you don’t doubt me?”

In this rich man’s room, I know only one thing for sure: a father and a son are bound by blood. Samir and Ravi have no kinship to me. I’m the odd man out. Samir would like me to believe he has my back, but I know better.

I return his smile, keeping my gaze steady on his face. “Let me understand something. I’m here tonight because you wanted to remind me of our friendship? The very friendship that forced Lakshmi out of Jaipur?”

Now his face becomes a slab of marble—grayish white. He manages a chuckle, as if I’ve told him an amusing joke. Once again he reverts to being the benevolent, good-humored Samir Uncle. “Nonsense!” he says. “You’re here because I want you to experience the Singh hospitality.”

I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.”

There’s a sharp rap on the door. The knob turns and the door bursts open. Parvati steps inside the room, and I stand politely.

“There you are, Samir!” she says. “I didn’t hear you come in.” When she looks at me, her expression hardens. This is not the friendly face she put on for me when I was here for dinner just a month ago. Have Ravi and Samir told her I’ve been asking questions? She scans the room, taking in the scotch, the cigarettes. “Before dinner?”

She stares at Samir until, reluctantly, he rises from his armchair. Then he goes to her until he stops, just inches from her face. She does not budge. He smiles and lightly gathers the pallu of her sari from behind and drapes it over her shoulder so it covers her like a shawl. It’s a lover’s caress, and I see her face soften.

“Lead on, MemSahib,” he says.

The corners of her mouth turn up, but only slightly. She executes a graceful turn and exits through the open door.

When I turn to leave, Samir takes hold of my right elbow. In a voice I have to strain to hear, he says, “As far as Sheela is concerned, Ravi’s always working late. Accha?”

I give him a cold stare. Like father, like son.