She says, “How do you do?” Of course she has no reason to remember me, but I remember her as if I’d seen her only yesterday, when, in fact, I last saw her when she was fifteen, dressed in a pretty satin frock, telling Auntie-Boss she didn’t want a Muslim decorating her mandala.
The girl in the tutu must be her daughter, who has now stopped crying and is staring at me. Sheela introduces her as Rita. “For now,” she says, patting the baby’s bottom, “the baby is just Baby.”
Sheela turns to address Samir. I can see the infant now over her shoulder. Her kohl-lined eyes are trying to focus on me.
“Papaji, it is shameful,” Sheela says. “Must I do everything myself? The nanny and housemaid should not have been allowed to take the same day off.”
Whether or not Sheela is stamping her foot, underneath her sari, she might as well be.
Samir Uncle’s eyes are smiling. “I hear you took second in the tennis match at the club today. Shabash!” He toasts her with his glass and smiles at little Rita, who scurries to hide behind her mother.
Sheela’s expression softens slightly. “Let me tell you, it was no easy victory. Jodi Singh thinks that all she’s there for is to stand on the court in a short skirt and smile. As usual, I had to do all the work!”
Now I know the rosy color of Sheela’s cheeks is the result of exercise. She gives off an energy, an aura of vitality that is palpable. In fact, she makes me think of sleek young goats, charging up the Himalayan hills, their exertion producing a steaming heat. The image amuses me.
“Jodi does have nice legs,” muses Uncle.
Sheela slaps him playfully on the shoulder. “Shame on you! Now, I need to put Baby down for a nap. And then feed Rita. When that lazy husband of mine comes home, tell him to come help me.” She turns to me and smiles. “So nice to meet you,” she says, then briskly turns and heads back into the house, followed by her daughter, who is clutching a handful of her mother’s sari.
“E-man-ci-pa-ted,” Samir Uncle whispers. He winks at me. “Modern generation.”
“How long have Sheela and Ravi been married?”
Samir purses his lips. “Six years. They married after Ravi graduated with his architecture degree.”
I nod. I’d been wary the week before, when Manu told me over dinner that Samir Singh wished to invite me for dinner. “Singh-Sharma is close to completing the work on the Royal Jewel Cinema, the palace’s latest project,” Manu said. “It’s the first substantial building Ravi has managed on his own. It would do you well to reacquaint yourself with the Singhs. If you thought they were important all those years ago when you lived here, they’re even more important now. Ten times what they were before.”
Although Lakshmi never told me to stay away from the Singhs, I don’t think she would be pleased that I’m spending the evening with them. The last time I remembered seeing Auntie-Boss and Samir together, in Jaipur, they had seemed tense—painful currents running between them. I don’t think they parted on good terms. But a lot of time had passed since then, and I, for one, am all for letting bygones be bygones, especially where business is concerned. What the two of them once had between them is nothing to do with me now.
And Manu Uncle is like family. If Manu says that I should go somewhere, I go.
* * *
When the Singh’s maid calls us inside for dinner, Samir invites me to join the others in the dining room while he takes a phone call.
Dinner turns out to be a seven-course affair that lasts two hours. Samir’s wife, Parvati, presides. She scolds the servants as they’re serving food. “You call this dal?” she says. “Who ever heard of putting potatoes in dal?” And, later, “Take back these paranthas. They’ve gone cold. Even ghee won’t melt on them.”
In the years since I last saw her, Parvati Singh has put on weight, but it has only added to her beauty. Her cheeks are plump, her bosom larger but still firm, and her full lips are painted with mulberry-colored lipstick. She has lively dark eyes and a lusty laugh. She stands almost as tall as her husband.
From her seat at one end of the long table, she is now overseeing the serving of hot puris, fresh from the stove. “Abbas,” she says, “you are a bilkul mystery to us.” She makes a gesture with her fingers, touching them to her thumbs, then opening her hands again, as if she were sprinkling salt on the table. “Samir told me only that a bright young man would be coming to dine with us. That’s all he said, and nothing more.”
“Yes,” says Ravi, the couple’s older son. “We’ve been wondering just who is this bright young man?” He flashes an engaging smile in my direction. It’s hard not to like Ravi, whom I would have met already if he hadn’t been out of town on business. Like his father, he seems to enjoy everything he does, which, as I’ve learned in the past half hour, includes playing polo, eating and talking.
Now Sheela chimes in. “Satisfy our curiosity,” she says. “We want to know more!” I notice she has applied a coral lipstick since we shook hands on the lawn. The color suits her.
All eyes are now on me. “It’s no use pumping a dry well,” I say. “I am neither mysterious nor very bright, as you will soon find out.” I smile.
“But that can’t be true. Samir said you’d been to boarding school up north? Of course, both my sons attended Mayo College.” Parvati beams proudly at her oldest. “Ravi continued to Eton, then went on to Oxford and Yale. And our younger son, Govind, is now in New York studying at Columbia. And you?”
“Nothing quite so grand,” he says. “Your sons are definitely smarter. I was a Cottonian.”
Parvati’s face is frozen, halfway between a smile and a frown. “You went to Bishop Cotton School? In Shimla?” She pauses, seemingly to search her memory. “But that’s where Samir went!” she says. “He didn’t tell us.”
I keep my expression blank and look at Ravi. “The English winters must be just as cold as those in Shimla. Brrr!” I wrap my arms around myself and mimic shivering to distract Mrs. Singh from whatever thoughts are now whirling in her head.
“Right enough!” says Ravi. “We used to have spitting contests to see whose spit could freeze before it hit the ground.” He laughs.
Across the table, Sheela is giving him a stern look with her wide-set eyes. “Ravi!” she says. “Don’t give the children ideas!” She tilts her head toward little Rita, sitting next to her, quietly eating her rice and dal.
Ignoring his wife, Ravi turns to me again. “No doubt we have stories to share—after dinner.” He raises his eyebrows and wags his head in amusement.
Samir arrives and sits at the head of the table, opposite his wife. “After dinner?” he says. “Does that mean that everyone has gone ahead without me?” He shakes open his napkin, lays it on his lap and smiles. Everyone else around the table seems to breathe a sigh of relief.