I shrug but offer no excuse or explanation. The fact that he was expecting a shepherd means I’ve come to the right place. My palms are moist, and I resist the urge to wipe them on my coat.
“You’re late,” he tells me. “We expected you three days ago.”
I arch a brow. If it’s gold he’s after, what’s the difference if it arrives late? He must know that weather, a sick animal or an injury can always stall a shepherd.
His eyes are narrow as he studies me. “We thought you might have kept it for yourself.”
I frown at him.
He looks around me, through the open entryway, then turns to me again. “Where is it, then?”
My underarms are slick with sweat. I don’t know what to tell him, but I make a calculated guess at his question. “It’s with the sheep.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve told your lot before. No sheep shit in my yard. Bring the cargo, not the shit. You understand?”
“Tomorrow,” I say. Hai Bhagwan! That means we’ll have to remove all that gold from the flock tonight and find a way to bring it here.
I take a risk with my question. “No bricks being made today?” I want to keep him talking. Maybe find out where the gold goes next and how it gets there.
He chews on his cheek, lets his gaze linger on me. He thinks I’m being nosy, which I am. “What’s it to you?” he says.
I shove my hands into my pockets, meet his stare. Then, as coolly as I can, I turn around and leave the office. The big man follows me, watches as I mount my horse and ride away. He might be thinking a shepherd who can afford to own a horse as fine as Chandra might be more experienced at moving stolen goods than he assumed.
Once I’m several miles away, I let my grip on Chandra’s reins relax and slow him to an easy trot. My fingers, stiff from clutching the reins as if my life depended on it, unfurl slowly. Only then do I start breathing normally again.
12
MALIK
Jaipur
On my day off I make a trip to the area of the Pink City bazaar where all the jewelry shops are. Is it because I need to assuage my guilt about lusting after Sheela or because I’ve been wanting to see my old friend Moti-Lal?
Lal-ji is the city’s premier jeweler. When I arrive, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Moti-Lal Jewelers is pulsing with activity. A porter in a white uniform brings me a cup of chai while I wait for the big man.
The plump proprietor is beaming at the middle-aged couple sitting across from him as his assistant sets a stack of squat black velvet boxes on his gleaming mahogany desk. “Today,” Moti-Lal says, “I am almost as excited as I would be if I were the one getting married.” His teeth are very white, very straight and very large. “I’ve put aside something very special for Akshay’s big day,” he says.
The prospect of the jewels about to be displayed draws the wife forward in her seat, her silk sari rustling.
Sipping my chai, I observe Lal-ji, from the railing that separates the more elaborate bridal room from the rest of the store, where minor purchases—birthday bangles or baby’s first earrings—are made. No matter how small, or how large, the occasion, it can always be celebrated with a little gold, the universal panacea for what ails us Indians.
In the bridal area, the whisper-soft carpet allows the delicate tinkling of jhumka earrings and customers’ exclamations of joy to take center stage. The lighting at Moti-Lal Jewelers is brighter than that of the typical shop, the chairs more luxurious, their padded arms inviting shoppers to linger as they ponder the decision of a lifetime. Mothers, grandmothers, aunties, fathers, brides-to-be, sisters and impending grooms sit in front of glass cases in which necklaces, earrings, bangles, anklets and rings glitter and beckon. Customers, carrying purses bulging with cash from the bride’s parents, are buying gold that will protect the bride in case of widowhood, sickness or financial calamity. The gold is what ensures her future.
When I was a boy, little more than five or six years old, I came to this store once a week, and sometimes more, to deliver Auntie-Boss’s scented clove and geranium body oils and her custom bawchi hair oil. Moti-Lal’s wife was one of our first customers in Jaipur. She loved the products, and when she raved about them to her husband, he made a practice of presenting a brass container filled with Lakshmi’s potions to every bridal client. It was that kind of personal touch that drew Moti-Lal’s customers back to him time and time again. It was also a good source of income for Auntie-Boss.
Now a porter steps up onto the dais where Moti-Lal sits and carefully places three steaming porcelain cups on the desk. Moti-Lal’s domain is elevated several feet above the hubbub, in one corner of the store, allowing Lal-ji to keep an eye on every customer going in and out.
To a blushing girl, Lal-ji might say, “I see you have brought your auntie with you today.” Or he might interrupt his inspection of a new shipment of rubies to call out to a matron, “There is nothing that makes me happier than seeing young Seeta with such a good family.”
When I first entered the store today, Lal-ji acknowledged me with a nod and a smile of recognition to let me know he’ll make time for me when he’s finished with his other clients. I’m in no hurry. It’s much more pleasant to bide my time in the air-conditioned store than to linger outside, in the dry, dusty heat. The smells are nicer in here, too. Better than the reek of cabbage and sweat in the bustling street outside. Inside, all is sandalwood incense, rath ki rani perfume and champaca cologne. Most important, I have the privilege of watching Moti-Lal at work. He’s taught me more than a few things about business.
With deliberation, Moti-Lal opens the first of the velvet boxes for his clients. “Not even Shah Jahan’s artisans could surpass this workmanship,” he says. Inside the case, glistening against the black satin lining, is a kundan necklace, a forehead tikka with a gold hook that attaches to the hair, a pair of matching earrings and two bangles.
He points to the necklace, being careful not to smear the gleaming gems with oil from his pinkie finger (something he does on purpose to allow his clients a good look at the four-carat emerald and gold ring he wears on that finger) and says, “Forty-four flat diamonds, twelve good-sized emeralds, twenty-two drops of the whitest pearls from Ceylon.” He intones the words with a sort of reverence, as if he were a priest.
He turns the necklace over gingerly. “Such incredible meena enamel work on the back. I had one of my Delhi men work on this—his family have been meenakaris for generations.”
What follows is a pregnant hush as the soon-to-be mother-in-law examines the jewelry, greed apparent in her eyes. Her husband picks up and inspects a bangle, evaluating its craftsmanship, leaving the heavy necklace for his wife to handle. She does, holding the necklace to her neck and admiring it in the wall mirror opposite the desk. No doubt she’s remembering her own bridal dowry and how it compares to what she’s now selecting for her future daughter-in-law. My guess is her jewelry will still come out the winner. In her mind, she’s thinking, The enamel work was so much better in my day. These stones aren’t cut near as fine as those in my necklace. Whether the balance of the quality is in her favor or not, she will almost certainly walk away from Moti-Lal Jewelers with a pair of gold bangles for herself. After all, It’s only fair.