The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

24

MALIK

Jaipur

At lunchtime, I slip out of the office to go see the Agarwals. I want to know what Samir Singh told Auntie-Boss. But when Lakshmi arrives, she tells us that Parvati showed up for the meeting.

Baju brings the tea tray into the drawing room. Kanta tells him to take a cup to Manu, who has sequestered himself in his study; he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to hear our conversation. Niki’s in his room, doing homework; Kanta is still keeping him from school. Saasuji is napping.

Lakshmi says, “Parvati is confident Samir was not involved in this.”

Kanta’s adding sugar to her chai. “Well, of course, she would be. She has generations of a family reputation to protect.” She stirs her tea. “I think she believes the Singhs are indispensable to Jaipur. That their family, alone, is keeping the economy afloat. But how would anything get built without the women and men who work as laborers on their sites?” She shakes her head. “It takes two—or hundreds, really—to tango.”

“Do you know I believe her when she talks about Samir?” Auntie-Boss insists. “Where his work’s concerned, he’s honest. Samir would compromise neither his reputation nor his integrity.” She and I trade a look. “His home life is another matter altogether.”

I don’t like to think about how many mistresses Samir has taken over the years. As a boy, I crisscrossed this city delivering the contraceptive sachets that Auntie-Boss sold to him and his friends for their paramours.

Lakshmi continues, “Ravi, however, is different. You should have seen Parvati’s face when I brought up his name. Bilkul rattled. What if Ravi is the one behind this fiasco? What if he’s the one who’s been cutting corners for reasons of his own? Malik has noticed some interesting discrepancies.”

I shake my head. “I still can’t work out why Ravi would risk it. He’s got everything—a comfortable present and an even better future.” I can’t help thinking about Sheela. I’ve tried, and failed, to wipe the images from my mind: her clingy green dress; dark hair, wet from her bath; her seductive smile; the gold powder glittering on her cleavage.

And suddenly—like a ninety-mile-an-hour cricket ball—an idea hurtles through my brain.

In the inner sanctum of Moti-Lal Jewelers, I set the broken pieces of bricks in front of the big man. He’s seated, cross-legged, on his padded cushion while he smokes his hookah. Auntie-Boss is sitting next to me.

Lal-ji had been so pleased to see her, when we first came in, he had almost tripped when he hurried from behind his desk to greet her. She’d brought a gift for him—the hair oil that his wife used to buy from her. (Lakshmi always carries several bottles with her, just in case.)

Now the jeweler picks up a brick fragment and examines it before he puts it down, and then he does the same with all the others. When he’s set aside the final piece, he drums his fingers on his thigh. Today he’s clad in an expensive linen kurta pyjama. The large emerald ring on his pinkie finger catches, and reflects, the lights from the ceiling. He stops and looks at me—and keeps me in his gaze at least a minute. Then he picks up the receiver of the phone beside him and mumbles a few words—he’s speaking softly and the only words I hear are sona and dibba—then he puts the receiver back in place. Boss and I exchange a look.

His son-in-law, Mohan, comes in carrying two glossy rosewood boxes. He nods and smiles at me, then sits down next to Moti-Lal, who pulls out the long gold chain he wears around his neck. Several small keys are attached to the chain’s end. He uses a key to unlock the first box. Inside are several pristine bars of solid gold. About ten of them. They’re identical, same size, same shape, same markings: weight (one ounce), the manufacturer’s logo and, in the center, the numbers 999.9.

He instructs Mohan to unlock the second box. The gold bars in this box are uneven, unstamped, and slightly different in weight from one another.

In this brightly lit room, where Lal-ji examines jewels and stones, the glow from the gold bars is dazzling.

Moti-Lal points to the first box. “Legal.” Then, to the second. “Not legal.”

He takes a bar from the first box and sets it in the indentation of the broken brick. It’s a little too big to fit in the space. He does the same with the illegal gold, and this time the bar fills the space, not perfectly, but well enough. Next, he puts another fragment of brick on top and leaves it there. The gold is now concealed. He looks at us and grins.

“And that, young Malik, is how some gold is transported.” He guffaws, his balloon belly jiggling.

“But why hide it?” I ask him. “Why not just bring it through proper channels?”

The jeweler and his son-in-law trade a look. “Any jeweler will tell you that he buys very little gold through legitimate sources. Why? Last year’s Gold Act. It limits the amount of gold a jeweler like me can hold in my possession. But Mrs. Patel and Mrs. Chandralal and Mrs. Zameer want a lot more for their daughters’ bridal trousseaus than I’m allowed to carry.” Lal-ji raises his eyebrows at Boss. “Am I right, Mrs. Kumar?”

Lakshmi shuts her eyes for half a second. Yes.

He continues, “Also, the Indo-China War depleted our country’s gold reserves. Mrs. Patel, Mrs. Chandralal and Mrs. Zameer did their bit by donating their gold for the war effort. Well, the war is over and the ladies want their gold back. Only...it’s gone. It was used to purchase munitions from other countries. So where can suppliers replenish the gold customers want? Africa. Brazil. Wherever they can smuggle it from, they’re doing it.”

Moti-Lal rubs the back of his neck with his fleshy palm. “I’m doing the same thing every other jeweler’s doing. If I can buy gold being smuggled into India—gold I won’t declare to the authorities—why wouldn’t I? Otherwise, my shelves would be completely empty! Samaj-jao?”

I nod my understanding. But it still boggles the mind. Here we live in a country where the demand for gold is staggering. Yet, almost none of it is mined here. No wonder the illegal import business is thriving.

“Surely the government must have known what would happen when they passed the Gold Act.”

The jeweler laughs and rubs his hands together. “I’m sure they did. They understand human nature. Squeeze the mango from the bottom and the pulp comes out through the hole you’ve made at the top! No matter what obstacles you set before an Indian, he’ll find a way to get around it. People have to eat. The world keeps turning. But the government has to set limits. Otherwise, who knows how out of control the gold racket would get?”

Moti-Lal has taken up his hookah once again. He observes us through the smoke. That delicious scent of cherries and cloves fills the small room. He sees me looking and hands me the other hookah but not before he asks Lakshmi, “MemSahib is not bothered?”

She shakes her head.

I take a puff of chillum and a feeling of light-headedness comes over me. I start to wonder if I ought to reconsider Moti-Lal’s offer to work in his shop and learn the jewelry trade. What would it be like to sit here with him, scrutinizing gold bullion like that in front of us, the kundan necklaces, uncut rubies and emeralds, and bangles studded with pearls out in the main showroom—all while smoking this exquisite tobacco? To chat up beautiful brides-to-be about their wedding trousseaus? How seductive, tantalizing...dangerous!

Pointing to the bricks, Lal-ji asks, “Want to tell me where you found these?”

I blink, uncertain how much to reveal. I steal a glance at Auntie-Boss. She tilts her head ever so slightly.

Finally, I answer, “A construction site.”

Lal-ji runs his tongue over his large, wolflike teeth and looks at Mohan. The younger man immediately understands this signal. He removes the bar of gold Moti-Lal had placed inside the brick, places it in the second rosewood box and locks both boxes with his own set of keys. I realize that when Lal-ji suggested he would hire me and let Mohan go, he didn’t really mean it. The two men are a team. They work well together, seem to speak a silent language all their own.

Mohan gathers the boxes and stands, but before he leaves the room, Lal-ji calls out to him, “Make sure Mrs. Gupta buys the ruby and diamond kundan set, not the inferior one her cheapskate husband wants to buy.”

His son-in-law wags his head to indicate agreement, nods a respectful farewell to us and leaves the room.

Now that Mohan’s gone, Lali-ji says, “You told me you were working with the palace facilities office. Which means Singh-Sharma was most likely the contractor on the construction site.”

I keep my eyes on his, but don’t respond.

“The project that’s been in the news is the Royal Jewel Cinema.” He stops, inspects the bricks again. “So...you found these bricks after the...” Lal-ji’s brows draw together. “You know my wife and daughter and Mohan went to opening night at the cinema? They could have been killed.” The jeweler’s blood pressure is rising; his cheeks are an irritated red. “Hai Bhagwan! If the Singhs did something that caused that balcony to collapse, I’ll never let Parvati Singh darken my door again. She will buy no more from Moti-Lal Jewelers!”

It’s hot in the room, and not because the air-conditioning has been turned off. Lal-ji’sanger is generating the heat. He wipes his face with his palm. “There have been rumors. I heard one maybe a year ago. Another gold route being created. New supplier. Contraband, of course. The supplier was well financed. They could get gold—lots of it—guaranteed. I didn’t take the bait, though. I have my supplier and I’m happy. But I was curious and looked into it.”

He puffs a few scented clouds into the room. “Now, you must never say this information came from me. It could be false.” He studies Auntie-Boss again, as if he’s weighing whether to proceed.

She understands his hesitation, because, when she speaks to him, she uses her persuasive voice. “Lal-ji, I would never choose to bring you into this. But a dear friend will be blamed for something he didn’t do if we don’t find out more. And this relationship between the gold and these bricks may be at the heart of why he is being framed.”

Lal-ji looks pained. “You already know the players. People involved with the palace.”

Is he talking about Manu? Is Manu guilty after all, of misappropriating funds so he can traffic gold across India? I almost don’t want to know the rest. I feel dizzy and my mouth feels dry. Is it the tobacco or the idea that I’ve misjudged someone I trust?

I set the hookah aside. “Just tell us, Uncle,” I say. “Please.”

“They’re saying it’s Ravi Singh. That he’s set up his own operation, his own route. But that has to be bukwas. Why would a man from one of the wealthiest families in Jaipur want to get into that kind of treacherous business? I’m several steps removed from smugglers, so my involvement is a lot safer. I’m not out there crossing mountains and deserts, hiring goondas to get things done. If I get caught with more gold than I should have, a little baksheesh and a little more tax paid to the city coffers takes care of it. But a transporter—” he shakes his head “—has to take all kinds of risks.”

I pick up my pipe, take a drag and think. Could it be that the Singhs are not as wealthy as everyone assumes? I realize that at the facilities office no one wants to talk badly about the maharani’s favorite contractor, Singh-Sharma. And I’ve been there only a few months, not long enough to know the full scope of the project and its trajectory these last three years. Manu is too much of a professional to share gossip about what, if anything, wasn’t up to snuff on the project.

“What else have you heard?” Auntie-Boss asks Lal-ji quietly.

The jeweler frowns, concentrating. “I remember someone telling me the project was considerably overbudget. Far more money being spent than what the maharani had intended. That same person said that duplicating the design of a fancy cinema in Amreekawas to blame. The construction of the project took far more time than they had bargained for.” He shook his head. “But, again, that’s only rumor. And I don’t know any more than that.” Lal-ji takes a few more puffs of his hookah. “What will happen to the cinema?”

I say, “They plan to reopen it as soon as the damage is repaired. The maharani’s losing money every day it stays closed, and she wants Singh-Sharma to step up the rebuild.”

The big man nods, understanding, as he does, the ways of commerce and the people who must make the hard decisions.

Boss takes an auto rickshaw to see the Maharani Indira at the palace while I go back to my desk at the palace facilities office. When Hakeem quits for the day, I follow him home. I’m convinced he knows more than he lets on.

I expected a man who has four daughters to rent a house, but Hakeem appears to be renting an apartment in a run-down area of Jaipur, near GulabNagar, the Pleasure District. This is surprising. After all his years of service, does he earn so little? I watch him mount the stairs to the first-floor terrace of an apartment building and make a note of the door he enters.

I give him enough time to change out of his work clothes. I want him to be relaxed when I show up at his door.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m knocking at his door. It opens a crack. Hakeem peers out, guarding the entrance in a half-sleeve undershirt and a white dhoti. But his relaxed expression changes to astonishment when he sees me. He rubs the underside of his mustache.

“But...why are you here, Malik? Has something happened?”

I smile and salaam him. “Nothing like that, Uncle. I wanted to talk to you away from the office. May I?” Without waiting for an answer, I push open the door and enter the narrow room.

There’s a cot on one side of the room, with a tiny washbasin in the corner. Someone has left the newspaper folded open to the crossword puzzle on the cot. On the other side of the room is a table with two chairs and a tall bookshelf. Next to that, on a small cabinet sits a two-burner stove, two metal plates, two glasses and two bowls. A frying pan and a stainless steel pan sit on the burners. The bottom portion of the cabinet is covered with a rough striped curtain, no doubt hiding the rice, lentils, tea and other sundries.

Everything in the room is neat, if a little shabby. The two sunken pillows on the cot have a defeated look, as does the cotton quilt, the threads of which are coming loose. There are no photos, no female clothing, jewelry or hair products in sight.

The scent of cardamom, peppercorns and ginger wafts from the pan. Tea, I assume. There is a cauliflower, two potatoes, a tomato and a knife beside a cutting board on the table. Just then, I hear a toilet flush. A door at the far end of the room opens and a thin man in a sleeveless bush-shirt and dhoti emerges from the bathroom.

I don’t know who is more surprised: me or the Royal Jewel Cinema theater manager who still has one hand on the doorknob of the bathroom. He is frozen in place. He glances at Hakeem, whose eyes behind his thick black glasses have grown as big as saucers. The look that passes between them is one of fear—and something akin to guilt? Embarrassment?

I recover more quickly. “Mr. Reddy, isn’t it? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Abbas Malik. I work with Hakeem Sahib.”

Hakeem clears his throat. “Mr. Reddy boards with me, yes? Until—until he can find a place. He is new in Jaipur.”

“But, Sahib. Your wife and daughters. Where are they?” I’m genuinely puzzled.

The accountant looks to his right and left and then at Mr. Reddy, who is still clutching the bathroom doorknob. “My family is in Bombay. My job is here, yes? I send them money every month.”

“I thought you said they were with you on the opening night of the cinema house. You said something about how all of you had to hold hands to get home.”

“They were here for the opening. Then they left.”

I look around the room. It’s plausible. It’s just that this apartment feels like it’s never seen the inside of a woman’s suitcase.

Mr. Reddy is watching our exchange as if he’s watching a tense cricket match. He looks tired and a little sad.

I pull a chair from the table and sit down. “Bombay? Isn’t that where you’re from, Mr. Reddy?”

“Yes.” It comes out as a croak, so he tries again. “Yes.”

“Is that a coincidence or...?”

“No, it is not,” the theater manager says as he lets go of the doorknob and stands with his hands clasped in front of him, like a naughty child.

“I met Mr. Reddy in Bombay at the cinema, yes?” Hakeem says. “I thought he might like to apply for the job of theater manager here for when the new cinema opened. I talked to Ravi Sahib about it. And he put a word in Mr. Agarwal’s ear—”

The tea starts boiling over, and Hakeem rushes to take the pot off the burner. But the metal handle is too hot and he cries out. He drops the saucepan on top of the frying pan. Immediately, Mr. Reddy rushes to examine his hand. He puts an arm around Hakeem and guides him gently to the small washbasin tucked in the corner of the room. Turning on the tap, he moves Hakeem’s hand in a circle so the cold water will soothe the reddened skin. He pulls the threadbare towel off the rack and wraps it around Hakeem’s hand. Then he reaches inside the tiny cabinet above the washbasin and extracts a jar of ointment and a roll of gauze. Mr. Reddy rubs a little ointment tenderly on the burn, then wraps the gauze around Hakeem’s hand.

The theater manager places an arm on Hakeem’s lower back. “I’m always telling you, Hakeem. Leave the cooking to me. You’re too distracted.”

This is not an admonishment. It sounds like a lover’s correction.

I’m embarrassed, witnessing the intimacy between them.

As if Hakeem realizes my discomfort, he pushes away roughly from the other man and turns to me. “Why have you come to invade the privacy of my home? Why can you not just leave things alone? What business is it of yours? What business is it of anybody’s? I take care of my family back home. Isn’t that enough?”

He sounds more broken than angry, more defeated than indignant. It takes only one step for him to drop his sturdy frame on the cot. His head is bent low, playing with the gauze around his hand. He hasn’t noticed that his ample rump is now seated on the Times of India crossword puzzle.

Mr. Reddy, who is still standing at the washbasin, looks at Hakeem and sighs. After a beat, he walks to the table and begins cutting the vegetables with slow, measured movements of the knife. “We met in Bombay when Hakeem was visiting his family one year and took them to the cinema house. We saw each other and just knew. And we found a way to be together in Jaipur when the theater manager job came up.” His eyes are wet when he looks up from the cutting board. “This was the best way of saving his family from the embarrassment and still making sure they’re taken care of. Hakeem’s job at the palace is so good. He’ll never find another like it in Bombay. And we get to be alone. We don’t bother anybody.” He stops to pull a handkerchief from his dhoti and blows his nose.

I’m puzzling it out. I point to Mr. Reddy. “When did you start working for the cinema house?”

“Three months ago. They needed to decide on ticket prices, organize putting up the flyers, coordinate the films to be shown. Oh, and the actors.”

I point to Hakeem, who is studying his bare feet. “The Singhs found out about the two of you?”

“It was Mr. Ravi,” Mr. Reddy says. “He saw us together one day in Central Park. Having lunch. You had a cold that day, Hakeem, remember? I brought you extra chilies for your dal.”

The two men exchange a look. Hakeem is the first to look away.

A memory comes to me. Omi beseeching her husband, home during a hiatus. He was a handler for the mahoots, the men who trained the elephants in a traveling circus. She had fallen at his feet, begging him to divorce her. “Let me marry someone else! Let me lie with a man as other women do.”

I hadn’t understood what I’d heard that day; I was then only a boy. I’ve been in the world many more years since then, and I’ve learned a few things. There were passions beyond our control, beyond what we had been taught to believe were normal.

I rub my eyes with the flat of my hands. “Look, I’m not interested in your private life. My intention is to clear Manu Agarwal’s name. I know those receipts for supplies were doctored, Hakeem Sahib. And there’s only one person who could have manipulated them.”

Hakeem picks at the bandage on his hand. He nods. “I got rid of the original receipts. If you look carefully, you’ll notice the ones I replaced them with are on a different paper. I had no choice.”

He looks at his lover, who comes to sit beside him on the cot.

Mr. Reddy gives me an imploring look. “It didn’t help in the end. They got me to say that I let too many people into the balcony. The palace is firing me.”

He covers Hakeem’s hand with his own. “We will find another way to stay together.”

“But your job is guaranteed, Uncle?”

The accountant nods. “That was the deal.”

“Are you willing to tell your story to the maharani?”

He shakes his head. “No, young Abbas, I will not. I cannot. My family needs to be protected. I cannot let my daughters’ lives be ruined by my failings. If word got out about what I am, they will never be able to marry. No one will have them. I will never confess any of this to Her Highness or to Manu Sahib or I will lose my job. In disgrace. I can’t afford that.” He looks directly into my eyes. “You would have to kill me first.”

His companion gasps and turns to him sharply.

Hakeem turns moist eyes to him. “Not even for you could I do this, BK, I’m sorry to say. My daughters are young. They have their whole lives ahead of them. Lives that won’t survive the scandal of our relationship.” He squeezes Mr. Reddy’s hand.

“What if I can guarantee discretion?” I have no idea if I can, but I have to try.

Hakeem scoffed. “You can’t. No one can.” He shook his head. “No, Abbas Malik. There is no solution here. I’m sorry for the families of the injured, but there is nothing I can do to change the outcome.”

His eyes are hard. I can see his mind is made up. Mr. Reddy looks at me hopefully, as if I had a prepared response that would make all this better. I hadn’t.

Of the three days Maharani Latika gave us to provide evidence of malfeasance, we’ve almost used up two. We have one more day to find enough evidence to clear Manu. I check my watch. It’s nine o’clock in the evening. The Singh family will have had their dinner by now. The chowkidar is used to me (I always share a cigarette with him when I visit), and he lets me in without alerting the family.

The house servant greets me at the front door. I tell her I want to see Samir. She takes me to the library door, then knocks.

“Come in,” I hear Samir say. The servant opens the door for me and leaves.

Samir is seated behind his desk. He’s marking blueprints. When he looks up and sees me, the surprise in his face is evident. “Cinema house again?”

I nod.

“You’re like a bad anna. I thought we were done with that.” He waves at the drawings in front of him. “There’s another project on the horizon. Everyone’s moved on.”

“Manu Agarwal hasn’t. He can’t.”

Samir throws his mechanical pencil across the desk. It bounces off the blueprints and lands at my feet. I pick it up and step up to his desk. I place the pencil on his blueprints, gently. Samir is angry, and I can see why, but I won’t let that deter me.

“When employees make tragic mistakes, they lose their jobs. It happens every day, Malik.”

“You’ve worked with him. He’s hired you for some of the palace’s largest projects. You know he’s above reproach. How can you let him take the fall for this?”

“This has nothing to do with you. Malik, if you keep badgering me, I may have to bar you from this house.” He’s looking at me with a charming smile, but he sounds annoyed.

I take a piece of brick and a chunk of cement out of my coat pockets and set them on the blueprints. I take out the telegram from Chandigarh and set it there also.

Samir looks down at my offering. Without raising his head, he lifts his eyes to mine. “What am I to do with these?”

I put my hands in my pockets. “They’re pieces of a puzzle I’m trying to put together, but I’m missing a piece.” I begin pacing the area in front of his desk.

“On the Royal Jewel Cinema project, decorative bricks like this were substituted for the bricks specified in the original contract. The invoices show that the palace paid for class one bricks, not these less expensive ones. If the palace was charged full price, did Singh-Sharma pocket the difference?

“Now, as for this cement. It’s too porous to be used on the balcony of the cinema house. Wrong ratio of sand to water. That can happen when unskilled labor is used. But I thought Singh-Sharma has a reputation for using only the most qualified labor. The palace certainly pays top rates for your labor costs. So once again, if the palace was charged full price, did Singh-Sharma pocket the difference?”

“Sit, Malik. You’re making me dizzy.”

“You again?”

I turn around. It’s Ravi.

He walks into the room, rolling his eyes at his father as if to say Malik ispagal.

Ravi throws up his hands. “Abbas, is this another flimsy excuse to catch a glimpse of Sheela?”

What?The confusion must show in my face.

“With or without her sari?” He tosses a chin at his father. “Papaji knows all about it.”

I turn to Samir, who has put a hand over his mouth, as if hiding a smile.

“My wife is a stunner, hahn-nah?” Ravi smiles. “She told me how you’d tried to get her clothes off the night of the cinema house collapse.”

The image of Sheela, fresh from the bath, appears unbidden in my mind. I feel my face flush. What did Sheela tell Ravi? Why would she say such a thing?

Now Samir chuckles. “You do look guilty, you know.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I say.

“Let’s ask her, shall we?” He walks to the door and calls her name. She appears with Baby on her shoulder and a cloth diaper.

“Where is Asha when I need her?” Sheela sounds irritated. She stops midstride when she sees me. Ravi places his hands on her shoulders and guides her to stand in front of me.

“Now, priya, did this man not ogle your naked body the night of the collapse?”

Her mouth forms an O and her eyes widen in surprise. “No, not like that. He helped me with my bath. But—not in that way. I... I was drunk—and tired.” She turns to Ravi. “I didn’t say he tried anything, did I?” She pivots to face Samir, waiting behind his desk. “Papaji, I wouldn’t. I love Ravi! I’ve never—”

Samir holds up his hand, nodding his head. “Enough, bheti. Theek hai. Go. Go take care of Baby.”

Stricken, Sheela throws a bewildered look at me, shaking her head. You must believe me, Abbas! I never said that! Ravi escorts her out of the library and returns with a grin on his face. I know that look. When you think you’re about to win the match.

But the game isn’t over yet.

Without a word, I pull the last item from my pants pocket. One of the unmarked gold bars I borrowed from Moti-Lal. I set it on the desk next to the other items.

Samir inches forward in his seat, staring at the bar. The light from his banker’s lamp shines directly on the gold, making it glow. I lift the gold and place it neatly in the recessed area of the brick. It fits.

For a moment no one speaks.

Ravi comes forward. “Party tricks, Abbas? Papaji, he’ll say anything—”

Samir silences him with a warning look.

To me, he says, “What’s your point?”

“I think these bricks are used to smuggle gold into Jaipur. The bullion is removed and the bricks are mixed with all the other class one bricks Singh-Sharma uses in construction.” I point to the brick on Samir’s desk. “These can’t be traced to Chandigarh Ironworks, your supplier, because they don’t have a manufacturer’s stamp on them. They do, however, have an indentation deep enough to hold a gold bullion.”

I turn my gaze on Ravi, who is looking at me with a bemused expression. But I notice the sheen of sweat on his brow. “What could be easier than mixing up the two kinds of bricks during construction and covering them with mortar cement or plaster? I believe the money Sharma-Singh saves by using cheaper, substandard materials is financing the purchase of contraband gold. Which is then sold on the black market, where there’s a demand for it.”

Samir smiles warily and leans back in his chair. “Abbas, you could have picked up these pieces of brick and cement from anywhere. How do I know they’re from the Royal Jewel Cinema?”

He’s got a point. I shrug. “Because I saw you looking at these, too, the night of the collapse. And I have no reason to lie to you.”

Ravi makes a face. “Yes, you do. If Agarwal loses his job, so do you.”

“I don’t need this job, Ravi. I never needed it. I only came because—”

I stop, look at Samir. I was about to say I’m here because of Lakshmi, and I’ve brought this to Samir’s attention because I owe him that much; he paid for my education. There are so many secrets in our world, aren’t there? Ones we keep, ones we reveal, but only at the right moments. I know now that I should not have said yes to Jaipur, yes to Auntie-Boss. I’ve been happy in Shimla. The air is cooler, the breezes cleaner. I can think in the mountains. And Nimmi is there. How could I have left her there when she begged me not to? When I was just getting to know Chullu and Rekha?

“Because why?” Ravi challenges me.

I say nothing.

Ravi turns to his father. “Papaji, who is this boy to you?”

The room is so quiet that I can hear the second hand of the English clock on the mantel advancing. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Ravi is watching his father, who is ignoring him.

Samir picks up the mechanical pencil. He screws and unscrews it so the lead moves in and out of its casing. “You said a part of this puzzle was missing, Abbas. So what part is that?”

I glance at father, then at the son.

“What I don’t know is whether you knew anything about this, Samir Sahib, or if it is a one-man operation. You don’t need a mirror to see the wound on your palm.”

I remembered this saying as one of Samir’s favorites.

It’s obvious who is moving all the parts, isn’t it? I’m looking openly at Ravi. He stands just a few inches from his father’s desk, tall, upright, with his broad chest. He’s flexing his powerful hands.

Samir looks at him, too. His voice is calm; it’s hard for me to know what he’s thinking.

“Ravi, do you have anything to contribute?” Samir says to his son.

“Only that it’s a good story, as stories go. A bit like Scheherazade, our Abbas. Keep spinning the tale every which way so he can keep the king awake. Look, it’s embarrassing to have to admit that I inadvertently accepted a bad shipment of bricks, but that’s all it was. And I—we—our company, Singh-Sharma—is paying the price for the reconstruction. It’s costing us plenty, I can tell you that.”

Ravi takes step toward me. “But why am I having to justify anything to you anyway? Who are you, Abbas? Why do you feel you can just come here anytime you please and make accusations?”

He turns to his father. “Papaji, you and I have talked about his obsession with Sheela. It’s insulting! We should bar him from entering our house ever again.”

“I thought we were all playing Parcheesi after dinner.” It’s Parvati. How long has she been standing at the threshold to the room? Her eyes take in the scene. Me, standing in front of Samir’s desk, frowning at Ravi. The gold bar glowing inside the brick cavity. Her son clenching his jaw, looking as if he’d like to slit my throat. Samir, his mouth in a grim line, sliding the lead up and down his mechanical pencil.

It’s never a good idea to underestimate Parvati. She’s as sharp as the patal Nimmi carries for cutting her flowers and stems. She enters the room.

When she is standing next to Samir, she looks down at the desk, sees the gold, scans the telegram. Samir looks up at her and some sort of understanding passes between them. The clock on the mantel trills: it’s nine thirty.

Finally, she turns to me. Her smile is more of a grimace. “I’ve finally figured out why you look so familiar, Abbas Malik. You’re the runt who used to run after Lakshmi, carrying her supplies like the good little servant you are.”

She scans my clothes, my shoes, my watch. I meet her gaze. “And look at the Pukkah Sahib now. Did Lakshmi buy you those things? Is she still your minder? Looking after her minions?” If I respected her more, her words might have the power to hurt.

She looks sideways at Samir. “One thing’s for sure. She certainly knows how to stir up trouble.”

Parvati smiles at me, sweetly this time, and I almost believe it’s genuine until she says, “You tell Lakshmi that jealousy is not an admirable quality. She shouldn’t send her boy around here to get what she wants. Now, take your toys and go. You are not welcome here. Again. Ever.”

Should I explain my theory of the puzzle and the missing piece to Parvati? I steal a glance at Samir, who appears absorbed in his pencil. He looks—mortified? Embarrassed? It’s hard to say, but he won’t meet my eye.

I scoop up my discoveries, tuck them into my pockets and head out the door.

As I do, I hear Ravi’s voice. “Mummi, this is pure speculation! He’s trying to cause—”

I feel the force of the slap as if it had been directed at my cheek instead of Ravi’s.