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.