The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

26

LAKSHMI

Jaipur

This morning marks the third day I’ve been away from Jay. Malik comes to the Agarwals’ early to tell me about his visit to the Singhs. Kanta and Niki have already gone out for a walk with Saasuji. Manu has barricaded himself in his study, far from the drawing room where we’re sitting.

Malik says Samir seemed genuinely shocked when he showed him how the gold bar fits into the brick. We agree it’s unlikely that Samir would put his firm in jeopardy for the promise of more money. What he really wants, we decide, is to believe his son has made the honest mistake of accepting damaged goods. But neither Malik nor I believe that Ravi’s error is an innocent one. Based on how smoothly he seduced my sister twelve years ago and shrugged off the consequences, we know how disingenuous Ravi can be.

Malik also summarizes his visit to Hakeem, the facilities accountant.

That puzzles me. “And Hakeem won’t come forward to say that he switched the receipts? Why? Who is he protecting?”

Malik hesitates. He never lies to me, but I know he won’t share things that might hurt me or hurt others. I wait.

“Hakeem...lives with Mr. Reddy.”

“The theater manager?”

Malik nods. “They share lodgings here in Jaipur. And Hakeem has a wife and four daughters in Bombay. He doesn’t want them to know about Mr. Reddy. It would destroy their lives.”

I’m trying to put the pieces together when it comes to me. “Accha.” Who am I to judge the accountant? I’m a woman who deserted a marriage and slept with another woman’s husband. People find love where they find it. “And the Singhs know...about the relationship?”

“Ravi Singh found out. Mr. Reddy will sacrifice his job. Hakeem will keep his. He has a large family to support.”

“So Reddy agreed to say he let more people onto the balcony than he was supposed to. Even though that’s a lie?”

“Right.”

Samir certainly won’t turn his own son in for fraud and misappropriation. Parvati will keep pressing Maharani Latika to fire Manu. And, as appalling as it is to me, Maharani Latika isn’t interested in an investigation; she wants the problem to go away and for the cinema to open again as quickly as possible. I understand. The tarnish on the royal reputation increases every day the situation is in limbo.

I’d promised Kanta that the maharanis were fair, but now I’m realizing how foolhardy that was of me. We have just one day to convince Her Highness not to let Manu go.

The pressure of being labeled a thief is getting to Manu. Instead of returning to work, he stays locked in his study, listening to the radio or reading poetry. At mealtimes, Kanta brings him his food on a tray instead of having Baju deliver it so she can sit with her husband while Niki, Saasuji and I eat in the dining room. Kanta says he takes only a few bites, claims to be full and asks her to leave. He hasn’t shaved in days, so when he does make a rare appearance to walk from the study to the bathroom, he looks more and more like the holy men of the Ganges. His unwashed hair hangs over his brow. He’s been sleeping in the same shirt and trousers for three days.

Niki is also reacting to this shift in his father. Even if Kanta allowed him to go back to school, her son wouldn’t go. Bad news travels even faster than good news, it seems. Niki’s friends have called to tell him some of his fellow students are calling his father a cheat and an embezzler. Niki knows his father isn’t capable of such deception, but neither is he capable of defending a father who isn’t even trying to defend himself.

Kanta spends time with Niki going over the lessons his teacher drops off. Reading novels, which they both love to do, keeps them busy, too. I stop by Niki’s door sometimes, listening to them discuss Slaughterhouse-Five and Travels with My Aunt. It reminds me of the way Radha used to lose herself in her Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights.

Manu’s despair is affecting Saasuji and Baju, as well. Manu’s mother finds fault with everything the old servant does (he didn’t salt the dal or he let the parantha burn or he didn’t roast the cumin long enough), and Baju is grumpy as a result, clanging pots and pans in the kitchen and grumbling to himself. It almost makes me wish Madho Singh were here.

What a relief it is to leave the Agarwal house for my next appointment.

This time when I arrive at the Maharanis’ Palace, the guard gives me a warm smile. “Elder or younger?” he asks.

“Elder,” I reply.

He tilts his head ever so slightly to show his surprise. But he nods and beckons an attendant forward. The immaculately uniformed bearer leads me up a set of marble stairs, the centers of which are grooved from the weight of thousands of feet over two centuries. The stairs lead to a terrace overlooking the lush garden in the center of the palace. I’ve never been to the upper terrace of the palace before. I stop to admire the scene below; it’s like the fairy tale of The Three Princes I was reading to Rekha the other day. Bushes trimmed to look like giraffes or hippopotami or elephants (Rekha would love those!). Waterfalls and fountains. Pink-faced monkeys, often seen around the Pink City and royal buildings, hop from guava to pomegranate to banana trees, taking their meal where they find it. Live peacocks cry out in full display. Sunbirds flit from one flower to another, gorging themselves on nectar.

Finally, I’m shown into a large bedroom off the terrace. White gauze curtains are drawn across the latticed windows, leaving the room in shadows. Two attendants stand at the doorway, beyond which is a large four-poster bed. I assume the doors are left open so the maharani can enjoy the watching the macaques scurrying across the high walls of the palace from her bed.

Several ladies-in-waiting are sitting on settees or armchairs. One is embroidering, one is fanning the maharani with a large sandalwood fan and the third is reading.

I find the Maharani Indira much changed. Her hair, without my signature bawchi oil, has thinned. It’s more salt than pepper now. I used to meet her in the drawing room—the same place I met with Maharani Latika only two days ago. Now the dowager maharani lies in the mahogany bed amid satin pillows stuffed with goose feathers. The table next to her bed contains many jars of ointment and bottles of pills. Vases of sea hibiscus, magenta roses and sunset champak do little to disguise the medicinal odor.

The old queen is smaller, shrunken, her cheeks are hollow. Before, she seemed to fill the room with her bawdy jokes and gin-infused laughter. Now she lies quietly with her eyes closed.

“Wait a little while and she will wake up,” the nearest lady-in-waiting says to me. I study the dowager’s face. The skin around her mouth and cheeks, so used to stretching into a smile or a laugh, has gathered into folds, making her appear older than her seventy years.

One thing that has stayed constant is her love of jewelry. Her neckline is adorned with a kundan choker, its teardrop-shaped diamonds and cabochon rubies reflecting the light from the open doorway. Her matching earrings also feature teardrop diamonds surrounding a center ruby. Pearl and ruby bangles, now too large for her thin arms, threaten to slide off her wrists.

Another noblewoman indicates an armchair by the maharani’s bedside, and so I sit, setting my carrier on the floor beside me. I think back to the day Her Highness first received me and changed my life forever.

Twelve years ago, after the dowager hired me to cure the Maharani Latika of her depression, rumors spread—as rapidly as the macaques jumping from tree to tree—of my incredible powers to heal royalty. Everyone wanted a piece of me then. My business grew to the point Malik and I worked from dawn till sundown to fill orders for henna applications, custom oils and healing lotions. If not for the generosity of this woman, all of that may never have happened.

The maharani opens her eyes, still sharp and filled with mischief as they once were. “Lakshmi, you’re thinking so loudly, my dear. You woke me up.”

Her face is gaunt, but her smile is radiant.

She offers me her hands and I take them. The many ruby, emerald and pearl rings are loose on her fingers.

“Your Highness, I am surprised to learn you’ve returned to Jaipur. The charms of Paris aren’t enough for you?” I tease.

“The men certainly are.” She releases one of her spicy laughs. “And the food is divine. But after a while, I missed our turmeric, coriander and cumin. I longed for the scents of ripe mangos. Those whitest of white rath ki rani.”

She rubs her thumbs over the henna design on my hands. “And this.” She pulls my hands closer to her nose and inhales the plant’s lasting aroma as well as the geranium oil I use to moisten my skin.

“The scents of my India.” She closes her eyes.

Has she drifted off to sleep? Slowly, I start to remove my hands from hers. Then her eyes pop open. “Tell me, my dear, what have you been up to since we last met? And catch me up on news of my young friend Malik.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she interrupts me by lifting her hand. She twirls her gnarled index finger in a circle. “Let me see.”

Her eccentricities make me smile. I lift the pallu, whichI had respectfully covered my hair with, and let it fall over my shoulder. Then I turn my head in one direction and then the other.

“Excellent, my dear. Still a well-shaped head. The mark of a good entrance into the world. Excellent.”

From my previous dealings with her, I know the Maharani Indira feels that if a person’s birth had been easy, if they’ve left the birth canal unscathed, their karma is good and that karma will follow them into their present life. Whether or not this is true doesn’t matter. She is headstrong in her beliefs and contradicting her is futile.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ve brought my henna supplies with me. If you will permit me, I would like to decorate your hands while we talk.”

She raises her splendid brows in surprise. “Well, now.” She glances at the nearest lady-in-waiting. “I think that can be accommodated.” The other woman gestures to an attendant, who brings a table for me to set my supplies.

I remove her rings and hand them to the nearest noblewoman. Then I open a bottle of clove oil from my carrier to warm her hands and massage them. My fingers, of course, are naked. My hands are too often immersed in soil or applying poultices to wounds to warrant decoration.

Her skin is like a peepal-leaf skeleton: dry but pliable. She watches as I pull her fingers one by one, smoothing the crevices between them. I roll my thumb over the fleshy part of her palm. When was the last time anyone touched her in this way? I wonder. As a royal, she has the power to allow intimacies; but no one may take that liberty without permission.

“Any special requests?” I ask.

“I trust you to do what you think best, my dear.”

She closes her eyes as I start drawing with the henna paste I brought with me from Shimla. I tell her about my work at the Healing Garden in Shimla, my marriage to Jay—

“Ah, that explains the lovely red bindi on your forehead. So you married that doctor, the one we appointed as royal physician in Shimla for the adoption that never was? My dear, you do astound me!”

My heart flutters in my chest. The dowager is a clever woman. Did she ever consider that we deliberately sabotaged Niki’s adoption? All these years we’ve let her think he was born unhealthy and, therefore, unfit to be adopted as the Crown Prince of Jaipur. If only she could see the robust cricket-obsessed boy Niki is now.

Some lies are best kept secret.

I tell her how Jay offered me the opportunity to work at the Community Clinic he founded; how he’s worked hard to treat the local people in the holistic manner that’s most comfortable for them.

“He sounds like an honorable man,” she says. Her voice is fainter now. She is beginning to sound drowsy.

I finish the palm of one hand and nod to the lady-in-waiting to hold it open so the damp henna paste will not smear before it has a chance to dry.

I keep talking. I believe it’s the rhythm of my voice along with my continual, consistent touch that is lulling her to sleep. I tell her about Malik and his schooling. No use conning her into believing he did well there, when he didn’t. But he did graduate with a degree and his natural intelligence. She has a soft spot for Malik, whom she found immensely charming as a boy. I think I see the ghost of a smile on her lips, but perhaps I’m imagining things.

“He’s now, what? Twenty?”

Once again, she’s surprised me with her memory. “Hahn-ji.”

“And what of his love life? Surely he has one?”

She lifts her lids, glancing at me slyly from the corners of her eyes.

I’m making a design on her palm when she asks this. My hand stops moving.

She moves her head slightly so she can look directly at me. “You don’t approve?”

Despite her illness, her intuition is as sharp as ever. Nimmi had also accused me of not approving of her.

I resume painting the henna on her fragile skin.

“It’s not that. I want Malik to see more of the world before he settles down. The young woman he is fond of has two children from her first marriage. She’s a widow. It’s a lot for a twenty-year-old to handle when he hasn’t a proper way to earn a living.”

She is thoughtful. “Yes...I imagine. Though he is a resourceful young man.” She grins. “I have the feeling that he could’ve taken on the whole Indian army even at the age of eight.” She chuckles.

She holds her palms up to inspect them. The skin on her forearms is loose on her bones. “Saffron flowers? Lions? Whatever have you painted, Lakshmi?”

“I seek your forgiveness if I’ve been too bold. However, I know you to be a woman who has far more ambition than it was seemly for you to display. The lion is a symbol of that ambition. A long time ago, you told me your late husband prevented you from experiencing motherhood. I drew the saffron plant because it’s unable to reproduce without human assistance.”

What I’d actually painted on the Maharani Indira’s palms is a copy of the terrazzo mandala I’d designed for my Jaipur house. Until I started drawing on her hands, I hadn’t realized how much she and I actually had in common. “And here, Your Highness—” I point with my henna reed to a spot on her upper palm “—is your name hidden in the design.”

“Too clever.” Her voice is full of wonder. “Thank you, Lakshmi. They must give me a shot now and heaven knows what else to make me more comfortable. Will you please join me in my greenhouse in a half hour?”

I walk around the hothouse where Her Highness tends to her orchids. It’s off the terrace, a few doors down from her bedroom. Fortunately, the attendant who brought me to this nursery with its glass roof and glass walls also supplied me with a tall aam panna to cool me down. Still, tiny beads of perspiration line my brow and dampen my underarms.

The room is cheerful. Full of light and packed with well-tended plants. Some of the names I forget since I’m not an expert on these varieties, but I recognize a few of her favorites: the lost lady’s slipper with an unusual yellow flower that resembles a butterfly, and clusters of blue vanda, which strike me as more purple than blue. I remember this nursery to be Maharani Indira’s shelter, the place where she loves and nurtures freely. It smells of life and rich soil and damp and heat.

I’ve almost finished my cool mango drink when one of her attendants wheels the dowager maharani into the hothouse and stops in the center of the room where there is a metal settee. Her Highness is holding her hands aloft, careful not to smear the henna paste. I sit on the settee and test the henna paste; it’s mostly dry. I warm my hands with geranium oil from my carrier before I rub her hands, until the dried paste has completely flaked off onto the towel I placed on my lap.

She praises the finished design, admiring the renewed silkiness of her skin.

With the barest turn of her wrist, the Maharani Indira instructs the attendant to leave us alone. He exits and stands just outside the closed hothouse door as he awaits her next command.

She curls her index finger, now bright red with henna, and flicks it behind her. I suppose this is my signal to wheel her around. I station myself behind her chair and we begin moving. She inspects a few plants, exclaiming satisfaction or disapproval at the state of their health.

“Now, what’s this I hear about the Royal Jewel Cinema, hmm?”

I’ve been wondering how to bring up the subject, so I’m a little taken aback by her forthrightness.

“Some sort of shenanigans about building materials and whatnot?” She’s making it sound as if she’s only slightly familiar with the cinema fiasco, but I get the feeling that she’s well-informed.

“Your Highness, I’m sure you’ll recall Mr. Agarwal, the palace’s director of facilities. He is being accused of having authorized poor quality construction materials that may have caused the accident at the cinema house.”

“But you think otherwise, I take it?”

“The Maharani Latika has talked to you?”

“We keep a joint counsel.”

We come to the end of one row of plants. There is a low cabinet in front of us.

“Open that cabinet if you would,” she says.

I do. It’s an icebox. Inside is a covered glass pitcher of clear liquid and two glasses.

“Pour us each a glass, my dear.”

Now I remember. The gin and tonic the maharani is so fond of—and which she firmly believes is the secret to orchid health. After I hand her a glass, she toasts mine. “To everlasting health.” She laughs at her own joke and takes a sip. “Aah. So cool and crisp. Let’s keep moving, shall we?”

I wheel her down another row.

“I believe the reason for the cheap materials has nothing to do with Mr. Agarwal,” I say.

“I understand Manu Agarwal lives beyond his means,” she says. “The palace does not pay him enough for that expensive sedan and the silks his wife wears.”

I try not to show my surprise at how much she knows. “His wife comes from money, Your Highness. Kanta Agarwal is related to the writer-poet Rabindranath Tagore. She’s originally from Calcutta.”

“Ah. Well, that does explain things.” She dribbles a little of her drink on the base of a droopy orchid. She looks at my glass, which I’ve barely touched. “Drink up, my dear.”

I take a sip. It’s refreshing. Lighter and sweeter than the Laphroaig that Jay and I drink in the evenings.

Her smile is ironic. “You never used to touch the stuff.”

“Times change, Your Highness. My husband favors scotch and I find I like the smoky flavor.”

“Next time we’ll be sure to accommodate you.”

She’s speaking as if she’ll live forever, and what good would it do to refuse her? I smile back.

“Your Highness, Mr. Agarwal’s integrity has never been in question.”

“So let’s hear your theory.”

I hesitate, look into my glass. “You won’t like it.”

I’ve irritated her. “Do not presume to know what I think, my dear.”

“Gold is being concealed within building materials and couriered to construction sites here in Jaipur, specifically in bricks designed for that purpose. The gold is then sold to jewelers and the bricks are used in construction. Only problem is that those bricks aren’t strong enough for load impact—forgive me for the technical explanation. Malik has been teaching me a lot of engineering terms over the last few days.”

At the mention of Malik’s name, the Maharani Indira breaks into a smile. “Malik is an engineer now?”

“He’s recently graduated from private school in Shimla and is here in Jaipur spending some time learning from Mr. Agarwal and the palace facilities engineers. At my request.”

“Yes, it’s hard to turn you down, Lakshmi. I’ve noticed that.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Go on.”

“Those bricks are substandard. They don’t meet current building codes. Couple that with inexperienced laborers mixing the cement mortar that covers the bricks, and you have the makings of a disaster.”

She holds up a hand to stop me moving her wheelchair. Then she crooks her index finger for me to come around and face her. I look around for another chair so I won’t be peering down at her. There’s a bamboo one at the end of the row. I bring it over and place it in front of her wheelchair.

Her Highness waves a gnarled hand as if she’s wiping a window. “In your scenario, who is doing what?”

I swallow. This will be tricky because Samir Singh is a favorite of hers. She adores him. “I think Samir Singh’s son Ravi has become involved in the couriering of gold from the Himalayas.”

As I anticipated, she appears shocked and distressed. “What on earth does Samir’s son have to gain from couriering gold? He already comes from one of the wealthiest families in Jaipur—and probably the whole of Rajasthan.”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question, Your Highness. But the evidence clearly points to Singh-Sharma. I can’t imagine Samir would risk his reputation and that of his company for money. All I can gather is that Ravi wants to strike out on his own. As you said, he comes from a wealthy family, but none of the wealth belongs to him, per se. Perhaps he wants something all his own. A separate income? Something only he has control over.”

I search her face to see if any of this has sunk in or if I’ve managed to alienate her. If I were her, I might think I’ve lost my hold on sanity to accuse such prominent members of society. The hothouse feels very warm now. I can feel a trickle of sweat running down my temple.

She’s thinking. She sips more of her drink. “What proof have you of any of this?”

“We have extracted sample materials from the disaster site. And we have evidence of falsified receipts.”

“Who is we, my dear?”

“Malik and I.”

“Ah, so we come to Malik again. Cheeky little devil.”

“Mr. Agarwal had assigned Malik to work with the facilities accountant. It was Malik who first noticed the discrepancies.”

“He would. That boy has the eyes of a goat!” She cackles. “Is there anyone who will attest to their part in this—scheme?”

I let out a slow exhale. “No, Your Highness. They are too frightened of repercussions.”

Finally, she wags her command finger. I push the chair out of the way and we continue our perambulation. She sprinkles a little more G&T on the plants.

“Tell me, Lakshmi. Why are you so wedded to the idea that Mr. Agarwal bears no responsibility in this scheme? Could he not be the one who is pocketing the extra monies?”

“I don’t believe so. I know Mr. Agarwal well. He is totally and utterly devastated by the accusation. He comes from humble stock, and he’s devoted to his wife and son. He takes his position at the Palace Facilities very seriously and feels enormously blessed to have it. He would never do something to jeopardize how far he’s come. It would be tantamount to chopping off his own arm.”

This might be the last time I am allowed an audience with Her Highness. I come around and kneel in front of her.

“He has a son—Nikhil—who is just turning twelve. A lovely boy. Such a disgrace upon the father would ruin that boy’s life forever. You know it as well as I do. On the other hand, if Ravi Singh is found to be guilty of this scheme—and I’m sure he’s culpable—he can survive the scandal unscathed. His life will continue as before elsewhere—England, Australia or the States. Samir and Parvati can and will ensure that for him and his family.”

I look into her eyes—alarmed, bewildered—a little while longer.Have I completely destroyed any credibility I’d built up over the years with her?

Then I rise and begin pushing the wheelchair again.

“Lakshmi, what’s your solution to all this? How do we prove the guilt or innocence of the parties involved?”

Malik and I had talked about what our next step should be. “We go to the scene of the accident. The Royal Jewel Cinema,” I say. “We see what materials were used where. Much of the debris has already been removed, but we can test other areas that weren’t destroyed in the collapse. Ask questions of all the parties present.”

She sighs. She looks worn out. I experience a pang of guilt to be the cause of it.

“Leave me be, Lakshmi. I will think on this.” She takes the last sip of her gin and tonic. “I can think better alone in the heat.”

She raises her glass at me in farewell.

I take my glass and set it on the icebox cabinet. Then I pick up my carrier.

What a relief to step out of the orchid nursery! My blouse is soaked through. Under my sari, perspiration is running down my legs. I swallow large gulps of air. Fight the urge to run. It’s as if I’ve narrowly escaped being buried alive.

Back at the Agarwals’, I’m sitting down with Kanta at teatime when Jay calls.

“Now, I don’t want you or Malik to worry, but I’ve moved Nimmi and the children.”

I hear the effort Jay is making to break the news to me calmly over the phone. I take a deep breath. “What’s happened?”

Across the drawing room table, Kanta looks up at me sharply.

“It’s too easy for people to find our house, Lakshmi, and especially with you gone, she and the children are vulnerable when I’m not here. Last night I was called back to the hospital...”

He’s distracted. I can picture him looking around the room, his cautious gaze alighting on the windows, the door, back to the windows, ears sensitive to foreign noises. Did he remember to lock up?

“Are you all right, Jay?”

“I’m fine. I keep hearing noises. The old shepherd—the one she hired to look after the flock—came to the door. She’d never told him where we live. If he can find her so easily...”

“Of course. Where did you take them?”

“My aunt, the one who raised me, used to spend a month every year at a nearby convent. She wasn’t religious, she just found comfort in their silent ways. She’d help them with gardening and cooking, mending. Always came back refreshed. I talked to their mother superior and she agreed to house Nimmi and the children for a week until the heat dies down.”

He pauses.

“And the police?”

“So far, nothing. But I imagine Canara will shut down their operation for a while.”

I think of the brickmaker in her sari, slapping the mud mixture into the wooden forms. How will she earn her living now?

“Can you give Malik the phone number of the convent, Lakshmi? I think Nimmi would like to hear from him.”