The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi
21
LAKSHMI
Jaipur
Back when I used to tend to the Maharani Latika’s depression, my appointments at the palace were set by the older maharani’s secretary. Malik and I would check in at the guard station at the entrance to the Maharanis’ Palace before we were allowed inside. It was Samir Singh who helped secure my first audience with the Dowager Maharani Indira; she found my subsequent visits to the younger queen to be critical to Latika’s recuperation.
But it’s no longer possible for me to ask Samir to help me gain admittance to the palace. We’ve neither seen each other nor spoken in twelve years. Not to mention that the thing I’ve come to talk about with the Maharani Latika involves his firm.
This morning, I’m dressed in an ivory silk sari edged in a wide emerald-green border and threaded with gold. My hair is perfumed with jasmine flowers and arranged in a low chignon at my neck. Other than my dark red lipstick, I have no makeup on. My jewelry is simple: a double-strand pearl necklace at my throat. My lobes are bare. I wear a watch with a black braided rope bracelet and no other jewelry on my arms or fingers. Long ago, I learned it’s better, when you’re sharing space with royalty, to affect a simple elegance, and never to upstage them.
The gray-mustachioed guard at the station might be the same one who was here a dozen years ago. It’s hard to tell. All the palace guards, and all of the attendants, look alike: they wear the same red turbans, their white jackets tied at the waist with red cummerbunds, and white leggings. The younger guards are clean-shaven. All the older, seasoned ones have beards and mustaches.
This guard recognizes me. “Good morning, Ji,” he says. “It has been a while. You are here to see the elder or younger maharani?”
I didn’t know the dowager queen was back in Jaipur. The last I heard, she had taken up residence in Paris once Maharani Latika was well again and able to resume her official duties. It’s not proper for me to ask the guard why the elder Maharani Indira has returned, so I hold my tongue. I’m sure to find out soon enough.
“Maharani Latika,” I say, speaking confidently, as if she is expecting me. With no invitation, I can only fool the guard this once; the next time I come without an appointment, the guard will recognize me and refuse me entry.
Through the high iron gates, I see the younger maharani’s Bentley. As usual for this time of day, it’s parked in the circular driveway, its polished body gleaming in the sun, ready to be taken out for the day.
The guard looks at my hands, then cocks his head to look behind me, probably expecting Malik to be carrying the tiffins that contained my supplies: my henna paste, treats for the maharani, and a variety of lotions meant to soothe and calm. Seeing none, he looks at me as if about to ask a question, then, instead, he waves his arm, and a young attendant steps forward to accompany me. I know my way around this palace from my frequent visits here twelve years ago. Even so, protocol dictates that an attendant lead me in and out of it.
This bearer takes me through the once familiar hallways decorated with mosaic floors, Victorian mirrors, and paintings of past and present maharajas and maharanis on tiger hunts, seated on their thrones or surrounded by their families. It feels like a lifetime ago that I used to attend to the maharani here. I was a different person then, more focused on what I could earn from my henna applications than on whether I was doing my life’s work—healing others—as my saas had taught me.
The black-and-white photographs on the walls show maharanis with dignitaries like Jacqueline Kennedy, Queen Elizabeth and Helen Keller. The most striking are moody compositions of the Maharani Latika, taken in her drawing room as she gazes out a window or on her terrace, the wind gracefully ruffling her georgette sari.
I would have thought that each successive maharani would leave her aesthetic fingerprints on the decor. Yet, along the hallways I see the same mahogany tables inlaid with ivory. Each table holds a cut glass vase with mounds of pink roses, blue hyacinths and purple foxglove, freshly cut from the palace garden. I wonder if the queens are allowed to put their touch only on their personal living quarters.
Finally, I see the tall brass doors of the drawing room where I used to meet the dowager Maharani Indira. The attendant politely asks me to wait on the chaise longue beside the door while he goes in and introduces me. I notice that the chaise has been reupholstered in crimson satin since I was last here. Maharani Latika’s choice, perhaps? The wait is longer than it used to be, and I fear the maharani has refused to see me, but eventually the bearer reappears and invites me to enter.
I drape my pallu over my hair, respectfully, before entering, smiling at how often Malik needed to remind me that this necessary courtesy was critical in the beginning of my service to the maharanis; I was usually so nervous I’d forget. Now I’m surprised that my heart no longer flutters with anticipation at the prospect of being in the presence of royalty.
I can see the three Victorian sofas in this elegant room have been reupholstered, too. The silk damask’s a different color—a rich, deep rose—but other than the couches, the room looks just the same. The sofas flank an enormous mahogany coffee table. The elaborately painted ceiling, high above us, depicts the courtship of Lord Ram and his consort Sita from the epic Ramayana.
In one corner of the room, Maharani Latika sits behind a desk of ebony with ivory and pearl inlay. She looks up and smiles when I come in. “Lakshmi!” she says. “How lovely to see you. I understand you’re living, now, in Shimla. Please.” She gestures to the sitting area. “I’m in the middle of a correspondence, so I’ll be just a minute.”
Aside from the trilling of the English clock on the marble mantel, the room’s so quiet I can hear Her Highness’s pen scratching the surface of the paper. I remember the first time I entered this room and met Madho Singh. He was shouting Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome! from the safety of his cage. His constant muttering and squawking made this room so lively when the dowager queen occupied it.
“There.” The maharani holds out her envelopes and an attendant suddenly appears, as if by magic. The bearers stand so still I never even notice that they’re in the room until they spring to action. This one will now be replaced by another; the maharani is never without service.
I stand up to touch her feet as she walks to me and settles on a sofa. “Now then,” she says. “Tea?”
She is as beautiful as I remembered. Older, yes. I think she must be in her late forties now. A little older than me. Her eyes are the color and size of areca nuts, long lashed. The wrinkles at the corners weren’t there the last time I saw her. There’s a shrewdness in those brown eyes now that seems to assess, calculate, evaluate. Her brows are tweezed into an arch that makes her appear more commanding than ever (she is!).
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
“On second thought, I think a glass of nimbu pani might be more refreshing.”
She looks up and the second attendant comes forward, bows and leaves the room.
“So tell me about Shimla. It’s so lovely there this time of year when the heat is upon us in Jaipur like a winter cloak.” She wears a cool georgette sari printed in blue hydrangeas. Her blouse matches the blue of the flowers perfectly. Large diamond drops grace her earlobes, a heavy gold chain her neck, and diamond and sapphire rings on her fingers complete the ensemble.
“Coming back to Jaipur—and its heat—was something of a shock after living in the mountains all these years,” I laugh.
“You’re married now, I hear. It must suit you. You look well.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. You look the picture of health.”
She waves her fingers as if to dismiss my compliment. “I have too much work to do. I’m not getting the sleep I need. And I have less time to spend with the girls at the school.”
She’s referring to the classes in etiquette, tennis and Western dance she teaches at the Maharani School for Girls she established decades ago and which Radha attended for one term.
“And your son, Your Highness. How does he fare?”
There is a pause. When she speaks, her voice is hard. “He fares in Paris. I believe he’s well-known at all the drinking establishments. But you will have heard that already.”
I’m surprised by the news, and it must show in my face. From Kanta I know that her son hasn’t set foot in India recently, not even for his father’s funeral. But I thought he might come once in a while to visit his own mother.
She gives me an ironic smile. “So they don’t know all our business in Shimla...yet?”
The attendant has returned with our glasses of sugared lime water. Unlike the nimbu pani the street vendors serve, this batch has had all the pulp removed so that the brilliance of the yellow-green liquid is on display inside the crystal tumblers. I wait until she picks up her glass to lift mine. The taste is sublime. A little tart, a little sweet, a little salty, a burst of coolness all the way down my throat.
There is something more formal than I remember about the woman sitting across from me, something cold. She used to be light as a breeze, swirling in and out of activity. I know the forced separation from her son when he was eight was devastating, but his response to it has been far more catastrophic. From what Kanta tells me and what I’m also inferring in her presence, her son must blame his mother for not fighting harder on his behalf. He must feel that if she had, he would now be the maharaja of Jaipur. Perhaps he doesn’t visit Jaipur because he doesn’t want to come face-to-face with his replacement, the adopted crown prince. Niki could have had that title, too, if we’d allowed his palace adoption to go forward.
I clear my throat. “Do you have much to do with the current crown prince, Your Highness?”
She takes another sip of her drink. “He’s only twelve. A little young for anything but waving to the crowds. Luckily, I’m not expected to act as his mother, only as his guardian. Much the same way the dowager was guardian to my husband when he was waiting to come of age and assume the duties of the maharaja of Jaipur.” She levels a steely gaze at me. “But you haven’t come to chitchat.”
I set my glass on the silver tray and clasp my hands together. “No, Your Highness. I come firstly to express my sorrow over the cinema accident. I understand a few moviegoers lost their lives and many more were injured?”
She squints, takes a deep breath. “It is a most unfortunate event. No one can have foreseen it. My heart goes out to those who suffered harm. At this point, the best we can do for them is to pay for and treat their injuries.” She drops her gaze to the coffee table. “Words cannot express how terrible I feel about Rohit Seth—a dear old friend—and the young woman, both of whom had their lives cut short.” She takes another sip of her drink. “But commiseration is also not the reason you’ve come to me today.”
I rub the back of one hand with the palm of the other and study my trimmed nails. “It has come to my attention, Your Highness, that Mr. Manu Agarwal may be suspended from employment at the facilities office.”
She arches one fine eyebrow. And?
“Mr. Agarwal and his wife Kanta are good friends of mine. I do not wish to deceive you on that point. But I have information that exonerates Mr. Agarwal. He was not made aware of certain material inconsistencies during construction. If Your Highness will allow, may I introduce the deception of which he has become the target?”
“Why is Manu not presenting this information to me himself?”
“He is not yet aware of it.”
She ducks her chin. “And you are?” She sounds incredulous.
“Forgive my impertinence, Your Highness. May I speak plainly?”
“Always, Lakshmi.”
“I don’t know if you remember my young helper from my time in Jaipur. His name is Malik. Through a fortunate circumstance, he was able to come with me to Shimla and attend the Bishop Cotton School for Boys. Malik is now twenty, and as a favor to me, Mr. Agarwal agreed to take him on as a student-apprentice on his facilities staff. Malik has been helping out on the Royal Jewel Cinema project, mostly in accounting.”
I’ve got her full attention now. Her gaze is penetrating.
“During the performance of his duties, Malik has inadvertently come across receipts for substandard materials being applied to the cinema project.”
“May I see these receipts?”
I close my eyes in frustration and shake my head. “That’s just it, Your Highness. He didn’t realize what he’d seen at first. When he went back to retrieve the receipts, they’d been replaced with...different documents.”
She regards me for a long moment. “I see.”
She twirls the drink in her glass and takes a sip. “From the palace’s position, the development of the Royal Jewel Cinema was under Mr. Agarwal’s purview, and his alone. If these receipts cannot be found to prove his innocence, how am I to absolve him of responsibility? If the inquiry finds him culpable, he will be terminated.”
I see now that in the interest of settling this matter to the public’s satisfaction, a scapegoat must be sacrificed. Manu is that scapegoat. And he has not one shred of evidence in his possession to prove he shouldn’t be.
“If Mr. Agarwal is accused of something he didn’t do, it would ruin a good man’s reputation forever,” I say. “He has served this palace for fifteen years honorably. He has devoted his life to making sure the royal family’s name remains above reproach.” I tap a finger on my lips. “If I—if we could bring proof of actual culpability to you, would you be willing to consider it? Might you put Mr. Agarwal’s future on hold until then?”
She runs a hand through her hair. “Mr. Seth’s fan club and the movie industry are putting a lot of pressure on us, Lakshmi. This may be a private palace project, but we are always beholden to the public for our reputation. We have to take swift action.”
“Your Highness, please. I hope you remember me as someone who keeps my word.” Obviously, she trusts me or I would not have been allowed in her private quarters without an appointment. “If I promise to bring you something credible, posthaste, will that satisfy you?”
“How much time do you need?”
“A few weeks?”
“You have three days. I’m sorry. After that, I will have to announce his suspension and possible termination.” It’s worse than I thought! And her tone tells me that she does not hold out much hope for my success.
She sets her glass on the tray and stands. It’s my signal to leave.
I reach for her feet again. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
As I turn toward the door, she says, “How’s your sister, my former student, doing? Radha, I believe her name is? She showed promise if I remember correctly.”
I laugh lightly. “She came to that promise late, I’m afraid. She now lives in Paris with her French husband, who is an architect. They have two daughters. She works with perfumes.”
Maharani Latika seems pleasantly surprised. “But that’s marvelous! I may drop in and see her the next time I’m in Paris. You’ll have to tell me where I can find her.”
“The House of Chanel. She started at another fragrance house and found not only did she enjoy mixing elements—she has a nose for scents.”
“Well, well. Give her my regards, will you?”
I namaste her and leave.
Malik and I have just three days to save Manu Agarwal. Three days to make sure neither Niki’s life nor his father’s is destroyed by this calamity.
Back at the Agarwals’, I call Jay in Shimla. It’s late morning. He must be at the hospital.
He answers on the first ring.
“Miss me yet?”
He laughs lightly. “You may lock up a cock, but the sun will still rise. You’re not in Shimla, but that doesn’t mean I don’t imagine you doing the crossword in the drawing room or coming out of your bath smelling of lavender or giving the nurses hell at the clinic.”
I laugh. “I do no such thing!” I tell him about my day so far, what the maharani said, how I’ve never seen Manu so depressed and how it’s affecting the family. “Malik has some things he’s following up on.” I pause. “How are Nimmi and the children?”
“Lakshmi, you must know she didn’t mean the things she said to you. She’s scared right now. She has no idea what Vinay has gotten us all into.”
It’s hard to be understanding when Nimmi’s rage was so palpable. In a few minutes, she dispelled the goodwill we’d built between us. I murmur something noncommittal.
He can hear my reluctance. He sighs.
“What about the sheep?”
“Nimmi’s paid the local shepherd to continue moving the flock every few days. He’s happy to do it because he has to move his own flock, and he herds them both together.”
“What about the wool we sheared?”
“Still in the pantry. Making it impossible to access Madho Singh’s food.”
“That’s why I hired that woman to cook for you.”
“Hahn. And now the bird has developed a taste for chapattis! Don’t be surprised if Madho refuses to eat seeds anymore.” He chuckles. “How long will you stay in Jaipur?”
“Maharani Latika has given us three days from today to provide evidence that Manu is innocent of wrongdoing. If we don’t produce it, Manu will be fired for the good of the palace’s public image.”
We’re both quiet for a moment.
Then Jay says, “The thief that is not caught is a king. You’re going to find the evidence, Lakshmi. Don’t let my old friend Samir get away with being the king here.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”