The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi
23
LAKSHMI
Jaipur
I’m standing in front of my old house in Jaipur—the one I built with money I earned from thousands of henna applications, my herbal lotions and healing oils. Parvati Singh bought my house from me when I left Jaipur—an apology of sorts for destroying my livelihood.
The hibiscus bushes that line the edge of the property are neatly trimmed, the grass in the tiny front yard freshly mowed and dewy. The windows sparkle in the evening light as if they’ve recently been washed. Parvati might have let the house to renters, but somehow I think not. It has a cared-for look—like a museum piece, ready to be displayed before admiring eyes.
Earlier today, Samir sent a messenger to the Agarwals asking me to meet him here. He wouldn’t have had time, since then, to make the house presentable, or spruce it, and so I wonder who’s been taking care of it. The tiny, single-story building is nothing special on the outside. It’s what’s inside that matters; that’s what persuaded Parvati to buy the house from me.
“So glad you’ve come.”
I turn at the sound of a woman’s voice.
“I know you planned on meeting Samir, but it’s me you really want to talk to,” Parvati says, brushing past me to the side corridor that leads to the threshold.
I’m so stunned to see her, here, that I can’t move.
Parvati has the front door unlocked now and turns to me. “Come,” she says.
I dumbly follow Samir’s wife inside. She goes around the room, turning on overhead lights and table lamps. I didn’t have the money, when I owned the house, to pay for electricity. To the left of the front door I see the entrance to a privy—the Western bathroom that I’d wanted but couldn’t afford.
Now that the lights are on, my handiwork, my crowning achievement, shines: the mandala on the floor, made of terrazzo, a fusion of Indian, Moroccan, Persian, Afghani and Egyptian henna designs that mean as much to me, today, as they did then. The Ashoka lion, symbol of my ambition—an ambition that led me from the village of my birth to the heights of Jaipur society, where I used my henna reed to help wealthy women realize their desires. And there!—baskets of saffron flowers, a sterile plant and symbol of my choice to remain childless. Jay and I talked about it, well before we married. We both love what we do, and given our long hours at the hospital, the clinic and the Healing Garden, we have little time for our own children. We’ve nurtured them in other ways: tended to their cuts, soothed their hurts, brought them into this world or coaxed them back to health.
Hidden in the mandala among the swirls, and loops, and whorls is also my name. I’m looking at it now. Does Parvati know it’s there?
“I’ve taken good care of your masterpiece,” she says, and gestures to the floor. “I hope you approve.”
I keep my expression blank and brace myself for what’s coming. I’m never sure what Parvati has in store for me.
Since I saw her last, a dozen years ago, she’s put on weight; the sleeves of her coral blouse are tight around her arms and upper back, the flesh squeezed out, like toothpaste coming from a tube. She’ll need to have the seams taken out. Again.
But the elaborate gold pallu of her sari cascades gracefully from her shoulder down her back. She’s still a handsome woman with distinctive features, like her full lips, painted a bright pink to offset her royal blue sari. The kohl around her black eyes makes them appear to be wider, more appealing, more alert. Her cheeks have filled out and there’s the hint of a double chin, but these things are her birthright; symbols of a well-tended Indian woman of a certain age.
“I heard you married Jay Kumar. Quite a catch.” She’s smiling, but she sounds annoyed. “Still, it seems you just can’t stay away from Samir, can you?”
She’s alluding to a single night of passion years ago between Samir and me. Brief enough, but long in coming. Samir and I had danced around our attraction for ten years. I knew it would destroy my reputation if I ever acted on it, but Samir was patient. Eventually a night came when everything around me crumbled, and I needed to be comforted, desired and loved.
Parvati found out soon enough, and then the life I’d built in Jaipur, the financial independence I’d gained, fell apart.
Strange enough, remembering all of this, I find my voice. “You won’t like what I’m about to tell you, Parvati.”
The fact that I’ve dropped the respectful Ji is not lost on her.
She blinks. “Try me.”
“It’s about the Royal Jewel Cinema.”
She waves a hand, dismissive. “An accident. Unfortunate, but unforeseeable.”
Exactly what the newspapers and radio are calling it. It isn’t true, and I’m tired of it. “It could have been avoided.”
Now she rolls her eyes. “Every accident can be avoided, Lakshmi. That’s why we call them accidents. If everything had gone as planned, there would have been no mishap.”
“Except this ‘mishap’ is the consequence of something Samir’s company appears to have set in motion.”
Her mouth is set in a firm line. “What does any of this have to do with you? I understood that you are now a garden tender somewhere up there in the Himalayas. I can only guess that you want to bring our family down. Exactly like your sister.”
The mention of my sister makes me bristle, but I keep myself in check. “It isn’t personal, Parvati. An honest man is being falsely accused for what Singh-Sharma should have known about and could have prevented. I won’t let that happen. Manu Agarwal shouldn’t lose his job and his reputation for something he didn’t do.”
In the center of the terrazzo floor are four comfortable chairs upholstered in cream raw silk. In the middle of the grouping there’s a table set for four. A deck of cards lies on the table.
Parvati pulls one chair out and takes a seat. “My bridge group meets here. Samir never even enters this house.” She shoots a pointed look at me, as if I’m the one to blame for that.
She waves at the chair opposite, an invitation, or command, for me to sit. I go over to the chair and sit in it, wondering if Samir has seen my note asking him to meet me here, or if he knows Parvati has come in his place.
Now she leans forward and picks up the deck of cards. “You mentioned Manu Agarwal. He’s the head of all building projects for the palace, and, as such, he is responsible for anything that happens to the royal properties.” She meets my eyes. “That’s exactly what I told Latika. If Manu isn’t held responsible, she’ll never hear the end of it. The press, the magistrates, the lawyers—they all need someone they can hold accountable. She needs to fire someone or else she’ll be the one skewered.”
I should have known Parvati would have gone to see the Maharani Latika even before I did! She’s distantly related to Jaipur royalty, which gives her access to the palace and allows her to talk to Her Highnesses as a close friend and adviser—even to call them by their first names.
“Parvati, I have proof. Singh-Sharma bought and accepted materials for the cinema project that didn’t meet the engineering specs. How can Mr. Agarwal be held responsible for that? He would have nothing to gain by sabotaging a palace project.”
“How do you know this?”
“Contracts and receipts that were altered.”
“And I suppose you know who did what in all this? You have evidence?”
“Convincing enough to take to the maharani.”
She divides the deck of cards in two and shuffles them, a thing she must have done a thousand times before. “But you don’t have any proof that Samir authorized any of it, do you?”
I hesitate. “The doctored receipts were submitted by Singh-Sharma. Samir is ultimately responsible for the actions of his company.”
She divides the deck in half again and puts them on the table. With a manicured fingernail, she taps one stack. “On the one hand,” she says, “the head of Palace Facilities is responsible for the projects initiated by the palace.” Now she taps the other deck. “On the other hand, the head of the construction company bears full responsibility.”
She stares at me. “Who’s to say Samir can’t prove that Mr. Agarwal made bad decisions? Decisions that resulted in the injuries incurred by all those people? Why would you think you get to decide this matter?”
“Why not let the courts decide? We should ask the maharani to leave the matter to the legal system.”
Her pained expression tells me she thinks I’m a simpleton. One too dull to understand her logic.
“That isn’t how these things are done. The settlement’s been made. Samir’s company will pay for reconstruction, plus materials. The palace has agreed to pay the costs for injuries incurred.” She moves both piles of cards together, shuffling them and merging them into a single deck. “If it’s a good reference Manu is looking for, I’ll talk to Latika. I’m sure she would have no objections. It’s out of your hands.” Her dark eyes regard me. “Your interference is neither needed nor wanted.”
I decide to take a different approach. “Is Ravi happy working for his father?”
The change of subject jars her just enough to still her hands. “What business is that of yours?” She gently sets the deck back on the table.
“It’s what I would have asked Samir if he’d come to this meeting.” Then it hits me: Did Samir send his wife to confront me? Is he that much of a coward?
“Ravi has a great life and a great future,” she says. “Once Samir retires, he’ll take over the company.”
“Samir is healthy. What if he decides not to retire? At least not soon? Would Ravi enjoy working under his father for a few more years? Or decades?”
Parvati crosses her arms over her chest.
I continue. “Ravi’s lived abroad. He’s known a lot of freedom. Now he’s back, virtually living with his family again, working on whatever projects his father gives him. Have you ever asked him if this is the life he wants?”
She looks at me with a grimace. “We aren’t nomads. We don’t wander, looking for a way to make a living, begging help from other people. We’re not at the mercy of any ara-garra-nathu-kara. Not like your lot.” She spits this last bit out; she might as well have called us good-for-nothings.
When I saw her last, she came to this house—my house—to offer me a bribe. I could have taken the money she was offering if I swore to her I’d never sleep with Samir again. I had no intention of repeating that mistake, and I refused the money—money that I needed, money that might have saved my ruined business. Back then, who was begging who, Parvati?
But I say nothing. I know this woman well. Parvati has the right to be high-handed just so long as she hides behind a curtain of wealth and privilege. I’ve seen her as few others have—when she was powerless—confronted with the sad reality of the philanderer she married and the reckless son she bore. She didn’t have the will to criticize me then.
But I’m not here to open old wounds. The only thing I want is that Manu and Kanta survive this scandal unscathed.
Now Parvati leans across the table, close enough for me to smell the betel nut she’s fond of chewing. Her eyes are blazing. “We have important destinies. We are the ones who make or break this country. My family has responsibilities to make sure people like you have food to eat, a roof over your head. Now you’ll leave my family alone, or you’ll have bigger things to deal with—more significant than whether Manu Agarwal is about to lose his job. And you won’t go spreading lies about my son.”
She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up. “Lock the door behind you.”
With a final scowl at me, she leaves. Through the room’s front window, I watch her driver hold the back door of the Bentley open for her, then get behind the wheel and ease the car out onto the street.
As I take a tonga to the Agarwals’, I ponder Parvati’s certainty; the might, and right, to be imperious is hers, and hers alone. An attitude I thought I had become inured to years ago.
Once I’m inside the Agarwals’ house, Kanta hands me a cup of tea and a lavender-scented envelope. She says, “Hand delivered from the palace.”
I recognize the elaborate handwriting and slide the envelope’s flap open.
Dear Mrs. Shastri (or should I say Mrs. Kumar?):
I was so pleased to hear about your marriage to Shimla’s eminent physician, Dr. Jay Kumar. How lovely it must be to enjoy cool breezes while we, in Jaipur, swelter.
Latika told me that you came to see her. Am I not worthy of a visit, too, my dear? I am old and not as agile as I used to be. Truth be told, the Parisian doctors tell me I have cancer of the uterus. (Ironic, isn’t it? Considering my husband wouldn’t allow me to make use of my uterus even once!)
I decided I would rather pass my remaining years in the country of my birth than in a country where the coffee is divine, but where the cheeses offend my sensitive nose.
Do let me know when you might have a moment free to pay a visit to this old woman and offer me the kindness of a chat and news of Malik and that old rascal Madho Singh.
Warmly,
Her Highness Maharani Indira of Jaipur