The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

6

MALIK

Jaipur

As part of my training, Manu asked some of the larger contractors of the Jaipur Palace to show me around their construction sites. It was Singh-Sharma’s turn today. At the behest of his father, Ravi Singh is showing me around the Royal Jewel Cinema.

The building is splendid, indeed an amazing accomplishment, and I tell Ravi so. Drapes the color of the red hibiscus Nimmi loves are being hoisted on both sides of the screen. Workmen are bolting red mohair seats to the floor of the final row. Electricians are testing the recessed lights along the perimeter, which turn the walls from yellow to green to orange periodically.

I whistle. “How long did it take to build all this?”

“Not as long as you would think. Would you believe that what was supposed to take us five years only took us three?”

“How did you manage that?”

He smiles at me. “Ah, old chap, that’s the advantage Singh-Sharma Construction has over every other builder. It’s why Manu keeps hiring us for these showcase projects.” He taps his index finger against the side of his nose, meaning, It’s a secret.

When he excuses himself to talk to the construction supervisor, I return to the grand lobby, imagining Nimmi and her two children here with me, marveling at how many people it takes to build something so monumental.

Then we head out for lunch at a nearby restaurant, where Ravi orders platters of fragrant lamb and chicken curry, steaming basmati rice with cashews, a bowl of matar paneer, and a stack of hot aloo paranthas with a dollop of ghee. Everyone at this restaurant seems to know Ravi. The proprietor greets us when we arrive, unfolds our napkins and places them on our laps. Two waiters help move our chairs closer toward the table and a third fills our water glasses.

Now a very pretty waitress in a white blouse and a slim black skirt arrives with tall glasses of Kingfisher beer. The proprietor beams at her and glances at Ravi to gauge his reaction. Ravi is watching the young woman with a bemused smile, his eyes roving the length of her figure. The restaurant owner smiles at Ravi, gives a slight bow and moves discreetly away.

“So what do you think of my house, the one my father designed?” Ravi asks.

Following that dinner at the Singhs’ almost a month ago, Samir had taken me around the corner of his property to show me the house he’d built for Ravi and Sheela, his daughter-in-law, as a wedding gift. Thirteen years ago, when Auntie-Boss first proposed the marriage arrangement between the Singhs and the Sharmas, Sheela agreed only on the condition that she would not have to live in a joint family household where the eldest son and his wife live with his parents. So Lakshmi suggested that Samir build a separate house for Ravi and Sheela on the vast Singh property. Sheela didn’t get exactly what she wanted, but Boss’s creative solution sealed the deal.

I reach for a parantha. “Impressive,” I say. “So modern inside. All that light.” It reminds me of Kanta and Manu’s house. Raised in a westernized family in Bengal, Kanta favors the modern design: clean lines, large plate-glass windows and minimal decoration. “What does Sheela think?”

Ravi chuckles. “Her majesty decided she liked it only after she realized how much bigger it is than her friends’ houses.”

I smile, remembering how difficult Sheela could be when she was a young girl.

Ravi continues. “Papaji did a good job with our house, mind you. But there’s so much more we could be doing at the firm. Look at what Le Corbusier has done in Chandigarh.” He fixes his dark eyes on mine, suddenly enthused. “Chandigarh inspired me. I wanted the Royal Jewel Cinema to stand out, to be different from any other building in Jaipur. This is how I’ll make my mark—use it as a stepping stone to bigger and better things.”

I take a sip from my beer glass. “Bigger and better things?” I help myself to another piece of lamb, so tender it falls off the bone. I suck on the marrow—the best part.

Ravi’s grin is wolfish. “Bigger than Papaji has ever dreamed of.” He spoons some chicken curry onto his plate. “My father believes in doing everything just as it’s always been done. But now there are newer, better techniques, materials, processes.” He raises one eyebrow. “For the time being, though, What can’t be cured must be endured.”

I laugh. “Your father doesn’t agree with you? About your modern ideas?”

Ravi’s face clouds for a fraction of a second. “I’m still working on him. We don’t quite see eye to eye on some things.”

The pretty waitress approaches with a basket of bread and a pair of tongs. “More paranthas, Sahib?”

Ravi turns to her, allows his gaze to linger. When she blushes and smiles at him, he nods. He watches her until she finishes serving both of us. When she walks away, he keeps his eyes on her, the movement of her buttocks.

Again, he turns to me, his gaze intense again. “Do you bat or bowl?”

This change of subject is so abrupt I look up from my lamb and stare at him. I’ve always loved cricket. Back when I lived in the bowels of the Pink City, I was always organizing games with the neighborhood boys, and we played hard and rough. At Bishop Cotton, where we played with official bats and wore spotless uniforms, I learned a more formal, refined version of the game.

Suddenly I’m wary, though I can’t say why. “Both. Depending.”

“On what?”

“On what’s needed.”

Ravi shows me a generous smile, and the dimple on his chin deepens. He picks up his beer glass and clinks it against mine. “Abbas Malik, allow me to welcome you to the All-Rounders Club. We will definitely have you out for a game, sometime soon.”

While the busboys clear the dishes, Ravi excuses himself, stands and walks over to the far side of the room, where the young waitress is wiping wine glasses with a white cloth. He leans close and whispers something in her ear. She giggles and shrugs. Ravi looks at the proprietor, standing near the door, who nods. Ravi returns to the table and taps two fingers on its surface. “Listen here, old chap, I have to run an errand. My driver will take you back to your office.”

He flashes one of his brilliant smiles at me, then grabs some sugared fennel seeds from a bowl on the table. He puts them in his mouth, to sweeten his breath, then winks at me and walks back to the waitress.

So far, Manu has rotated me through the engineering, design, and construction departments. Now he’s assigned me to accounting so I can learn the financial side of the business.

Hakeem is the accountant for the palace facilities department. His domain is a stuffy, windowless office shoved into one corner of Manu’s operation. At the far end of the floor are Manu’s and the chief engineer’s offices as well as a glass conference room. In between sit the secretaries, estimators, draftsmen, junior engineers.

I could have drawn a picture of Hakeem before I ever met him: a rotund man sitting behind his desk, wearing a neat black skullcap, white kurta and black vest. His glasses have thick black frames. I could have predicted that he would run a finger under his trim mustache when he’s agitated, which is what he does the moment I step into his office.

“Uncle,” I say, “I’m Abbas Malik. Mr. Manu asked me to avail myself of your good teaching.” I smile humbly. “Thank you for taking me on.”

Hakeem sits, a small Buddha, within the circle of his table lamp. He studies me through those thick glasses, his eyes as large as an owl’s, and strokes his mustache. I look for a chair, but there is only one—Hakeem’s—and he is sitting in it. The shelves lining the walls are filled with large cloth-covered ledgers, each neatly labeled along its spine. The shelves take up most of the space in the room and fill it with the smell of dust, musty fabric and old glue. On one spine I read “1924,” which, given Hakeem’s age—he must be in his sixties—might be the year he started working here. The old man makes a noncommittal noise and adjusts his glasses on his nose. “You will not eat in here. Yes?”

I fight the urge to smile. “Of course, Uncle.”

“Or drink. Yes?” Was ending every sentence with yes another of his tics? I decided to follow suit.

“Yes.”

“These books are important. They must be kept spotless. Yes?”

“Yes.”

He scoots his chair to one side so the ledgers in the bookcase behind him become visible. “These are the most important ones. Yes? In this one,” he says, pointing, “we keep records of the supplies we buy to remodel or construct a new project. And in this one,” he says, pointing to an adjacent ledger, “we record all the monies we owe to suppliers and contractors. Accounts payable. The next one is a list of money owed to the palace. Say reimbursement for returned materials. Or rental of palace facilities by others. That’s accounts receivable. The fourth is the account of what and how much we have already paid for the project. There are four ledgers per year.”

I can’t help myself. “Yes,” I say.

He lowers his chin and looks at me over the top of his glasses. He strokes his mustache. Finally, he says, “Yes.”

Hakeem has to stand to pull a hefty book off one shelf. He opens it and turns it so that I can read the entries. Pointing to one column of text written in Hindi, and another that contains only letters of the English alphabet, he says, “See this?” Pointing to the English column, he says “W-T S-N-D. Stands for white sand. Yes? A kind of shorthand for the item, which saves time. I created these abbreviations. If I had to write the full name of every shipment ordered or received, I would be doing nothing else, and I have many other responsibilities. Yes?” Again, he adjusts his glasses and looks at me as if I might be about to challenge him.

I nod. This is a man who takes pride in his work. I try to look impressed—I am impressed—and I decide, for now, it’s better if I keep my mouth shut.

Hakeem tells me to spend the afternoon memorizing the abbreviations because I’ll need them when I’m recording purchases.

Every time I go to dinner at Kanta and Manu’s house, it’s hard to believe that the twelve-year-old boy bending down to touch my feet is the same Nikhil I used to carry in my arms and whose tummy I used to tickle when he was a baby, back when I lived in Jaipur. When he straightens, I’m surprised that Niki is now only a few inches shorter than me and that he’s going to be taller than either of his parents, who are standing behind him in the open doorway to their home. Kanta puts an arm around her son, smiling proudly, welcoming me to another dinner at their home, chatting happily about the latest test Niki has aced. Manu Uncle is more reserved. He waits until his wife has finished talking to acknowledge me and return my namaste. Out of respect for them and because they are like family to Auntie-Boss, I address them as Auntie and Uncle.

Their old servant Baju brings the tea tray. He and I trade a look; I know sharp-eyed Baju recognizes me from my days as Lakshmi’s little helper, someone who could never hope to be invited to sit at the family dinner table. And that’s how it would have been if not for my Bishop Cotton education.

Baju is followed by Manu Uncle’s mother, waddling from side to side in her widow’s starched white sari, sandalwood rosary beads dangling from one wrist. She’s frowning at me, probably wondering how it is that Auntie and Uncle seem so happy to see me when she doesn’t remember me at all. It’s no wonder. Not many people recognize the scruffy boy behind my polished exterior.

With Kanta’s mother-in-law in the room, we stay on safe subjects, chatting about Shimla’s weather, how fresh the air is there, compared to here. Kanta’s saas says she regrets not being able to get to the foothills of the Himalayas as often as they used to. Kanta and I exchange looks. I know the real reason she and Manu haven’t visited Shimla in years: the stillborn baby boy she delivered at Lady Bradley Hospital. Not even their adoption of Radha’s baby, whom they named Nikhil, could erase that painful memory.

Kanta talks about people we both know in Shimla—like the steadfast tandoori roti makers on the pedestrian mall—and one of Radha and Boss’s favorite places, the Shimla library, an old haunt of Rudyard Kipling’s.

Later, after Manu’s mother leaves the room to do her evening puja, Kanta and I stand on the front veranda. Niki is practicing bowling for his cricket game in the yard. Manu is giving him pointers.

Kanta Auntie says, “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”

Niki looks over at us to make sure we’re watching him. I wave and smile. I’m among the few who know that when he was a day old, she and Manu secretly adopted him. Even Kanta’s saas doesn’t know. She thinks Niki is the son Kanta delivered twelve years ago in Shimla. “Yes,” I say. “He is.”

Kanta lets a moment pass, then says, “Does Radha ever look at the photos of Niki I send to Lakshmi?”

I hesitate. “Auntie-Boss forwards your letters to Radha in France.”

This is true, but Radha has never acknowledged receiving photos of Niki or the letters telling her what the boy is doing, how he’s faring at school or at cricket. Even before she left for France, Radha never looked at Niki’s photos, the ones Lakshmi would leave lying about on the dining room table. Radha told me that her baby ceased to exist the day she decided to leave him in Kanta’s care. It had been so traumatic leaving him like that; she wanted no reminders of that time of her life. I often wonder if marrying Pierre and moving to France was a way of creating even more distance between herself, her son and her former friend Kanta. If so, I understood. Radha was fourteen when she had Niki—an unmarried girl on the cusp of becoming a woman. Parting with her baby was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do in her life. She’d also had to part with Ravi, whom she’d loved but who had hurt her deeply.

Kanta decides not to pursue the matter. “I miss Lakshmi, Malik. I wish she still lived here. I talk to her in my head all the time but, of course, it’s not the same.” She glances at me, her eyes crinkling. “Even if it’s only in my head, I make sure it’s a two-way conversation. She always has the best advice for me!” Kanta laughs.

Lakshmi doesn’t talk about it often, but I know that she misses Kanta, too. They were easy with each other; I haven’t seen Boss be that way with another female friend in Shimla.

We watch Niki wind up the ball and throw it to his father. I think it’s clear to all of us that keeping the Agarwals and Lakshmi apart is best for everyone. Anyone who saw Niki with Lakshmi or Radha would almost certainly suspect Niki and the sisters were related. With his fair skin, and peacock-green eyes, so much like Radha’s, he looks nothing like his adoptive parents.

Luckily, he’s usurped the mannerisms of the mother and father who’ve raised him. He shrugs his shoulders up and down when he laughs, just like Kanta does. When listening intently, he stands with his head tilted to one side, his hands behind his back, a perfect copy of Manu.

I watch him pitch a ball, so gracefully for a boy so young. He’s a natural athlete, like his birth father. I often wonder if Ravi Singh knows that the son he had by Radha lives only a few miles from him. Would he want to know? When his parents learned about Radha’s pregnancy, they hustled Ravi to England and kept him there for the remainder of his schooling. He was only seventeen at the time.

Kanta turns to me now. “I’ve seen him watching.”

“Who?”

“Samir Singh.”

“Samir is watching who?”

“Niki.”

Well, of course, Samir would have occasion to run across Niki. For sangeets at the homes of mutual friends and community festivals—unless Kanta and Manu have deliberately stayed away from such events. Because it would make them so uncomfortable—all the questions they’d have to answer. The silent judgment. All at once, I realize what a burden it is for this family to keep Niki hidden, as it were. Does he realize the measures his parents have taken to keep the gossip-eaters at bay? But what choice do they have? Bastard.Illegitimate. They don’t want his life to be tainted by labels. A wave of sadness passes over me.

Kanta sees the look on my face. “What I mean is—”

Just then, Niki calls to me. “Uncle, look!”

I turn to watch him pitch a perfect burner. Manu strokes his bat and misses.

Kanta claps and Niki raises both arms, declaring victory. He calls to me. “Now you try, Abbas Uncle!”

I look at Kanta. She presses her lips together and nods. “Go on,” she says. “We’ll talk later.”

I head off across the manicured lawn to take the ball from Manu. For the next hour, Niki, Manu and I improvise a makeshift game. Of course, Niki is the winner.

Over dinner, I ask Niki about his school and the classes he’s taking. He says English and history are the classes he likes best, and I fight back a smile. I can imagine a young Radha sitting with us at this table, telling us about her love of Shakespeare and her fascination with the Moghul Empire.

Eventually, our talk turns to the Royal Jewel Cinema project. Manu says, “You know that Maharani Latika is the driving force behind that project?”

I’m holding a piece of chapatti and eggplant subji in my hand. “Yes, I think Samir Uncle told me.”

Manu smiles. “Her Highness took it upon herself to complete the building projects the maharaja had started before he died. We’d just finished His Highness’s hotel remodel and broken ground on the cinema hall when he passed unexpectedly.” Manu sips from his water glass. “So far, things are going smoothly. What did you think of the Royal Jewel Cinema?”

“Brilliant. Really impressive, Uncle.”

Manu looks pleased and helps himself to more subji. “Completed in record time.”

I sip some of Baju’s excellent moong dal. “What’s it like working for her, the maharani?”

“The most beautiful woman in the world.”Niki chuckles. Those words appeared on the most recent cover of Vogue magazine, across a photo of the glamorous Jaipur queen.

Kanta slaps his arm, but she’s grinning.

Manu smiles. “She’s remarkable,” he says. “Quick to catch on, eyes wide-open. Doesn’t miss a thing. And don’t forget she founded the Maharani School for Girls—” He cocks his head. “But of course, you would know all that, Malik. Lakshmi helped Her Highness through that rough period of her life, hahn-nah?”

I nod. That was twelve years ago. Maharani Latika had become despondent after her husband sent their firstborn son—and only child—to boarding school in England at a tender age. All because the maharaja’s astrologer had warned His Highness not to trust his natural heir. So the maharaja adopted a boy from another Rajput family and anointed him crown prince.

I remember how Lakshmi gradually coaxed the young queen out of mourning, using daily applications of henna and the sweets and savories she infused with healing herbs. When, a few months later, Her Highness overcame her depression and resumed her official duties, Maharani Latika was so grateful to Lakshmi that she offered Radha a scholarship at her prestigious school. And Lakshmi’s business started exploding. What a heady time that was! The boom went on and on until the day everything came crashing down.

“Where’s Her Highness’s son now?” I ask.

Manu clears his throat. “He stays away from Jaipur. I imagine it’s hard for him to come face-to-face with his replacement—although the adopted crown prince won’t come of age for another few years.” Manu takes a sip of his buttermilk. “Last I heard, Maharani Latika’s son was living in Paris. At the apartment the dowager maharani keeps there.”

The Dowager Maharani Indira! At eight years old, I was more awed by her talking parakeet than I was by her. At this very moment, Madho Singh is likely grumbling about some grievance or another from his perch in Shimla. Or repeating a proverb Dr. Jay and Auntie-Boss have been tossing around. We are both queens, so who will hang out the laundry?

After dinner, when I say my goodbyes, Kanta takes my arm and walks me to the front gate. “When Niki’s finished with his game, we go to a stall near the cricket field and order chaat.” She lowers her voice and whispers, as if we are conspiring. “Saasuji doesn’t let us give him fried food, so Niki and I cheat when he’s with me.” A mischievous smile plays about her lips. “Sev puri is his favorite. Mine, too.” We laugh.

We’ve reached the end of the long driveway.

Kanta takes a deep breath. “Several times, at Niki’s cricket practice, I’ve seen Samir Singh in a Jeep parked opposite the grounds.”

“You’re sure it’s Samir?”

She makes a face. “Not a hundred percent. The peepal trees on either side of the street shade the cars. And there are always people milling about. Cars going in and out.”

“But if it’s him?”

She lets out a sigh. It’s dusk, and half her face is in shadow. Even so, I see from her expression, and the furrows on her brow, that this is serious. “I’ve never said a word to Manu,” she says, “but I think about it all the time. Sometimes, the strain of keeping Niki separated from...all the vigilance...it’s too much.” Her voice is strained, and if she’s crying, I can’t see her tears because she has turned away from me. “I lie awake at night worrying that Samir will take Nikhil away from us,” she whispers.

An alarm bell goes off in my head. Should I tell Boss about this? If it’s true, Lakshmi would want to know. For now, I have to reassure Kanta. Niki means the world to her and Uncle. After the stillbirth twelve years ago, Kanta can no longer have children.

“Listen to me, Auntie. You and Manu are Niki’s legal, adoptive parents. Samir Sahib can’t touch you.”

“But he might come to Niki and tell him that he was adopted. That his son is Niki’s father. What do we do then?” She’s twirling the end of her georgette sari around her finger as she talks, her voice a hush.

“Before long, Niki will be old enough that you can tell him yourself, if that’s what you and Manu choose to do. But I doubt Samir will talk to Niki if you don’t give him your consent.” I’m speaking with a confidence I don’t entirely feel.

Kanta bites her lip. “You don’t think Samir Sahib would take the opportunity to start a conversation with his grandson on the cricket grounds?”

I’m wondering how Auntie-Boss would answer that, when Kanta says, “It’s why I go to every game. To keep an eye on Niki. And if I can’t be there, Baju knows to bring my son directly home from practice.” She sniffles, presses her sari to her nose.

“Listen to me, Auntie. First, the Singhs would havea lot to lose if word got out that Ravi is the father. Everyone would know Radha was underage when Ravi got her pregnant. Second, they took no responsibility, and hushed the matter up by sending Ravi thousands of miles away. It would be a scandal for them, and I doubt the Singhs would risk it.” Another thought occurs to me, and I tap Auntie’s arm. “By the way, Samir drives a Mercedes, not a Jeep.”

She searches my face, then lets out an embarrassed laugh. “You’re right! The problem might not be Samir—it might be my imagination!”

A new, disturbing, thought occurs to me. “Has Niki ever asked about this? Have any of the kids at school suggested he’s adopted?” It’s never made sense to me that while royal adoptions are public, private adoptions are considered shameful. No couple wants to admit they are sterile; it’s considered a personal failing, a problem best solved by magical gems, amulets and alms to Ganesh.

The worry returns to Kanta’s voice. “I don’t know of any. Niki’s never asked. We try to keep things as normal as possible.” Her gaze drifts behind us, to the house. “I haven’t noticed any changes in him.”

Before she unlatches the gate, she says, “Thank you, Malik. I feel better now.” When she shuts the gate behind me, another thought occurs to her. “You sure you don’t want Baju to drive you home?”

The guesthouse is only twenty minutes on foot. I shake my head and tell her that I need to walk off that superb meal. I thank her for a wonderful time and ask her to give my thanks to Manu, as well. And then I head home, my head now swirling with anxieties about the boy his parents are determined to protect from the clutches of the Singhs.