Moti-Lal observes her movements in the mirror. “You see how it sparkles? I sold a similar necklace just last week, but those diamonds were not as large as these.” He turns down the corners of his mouth and shakes his head, as if he’s embarrassed that another family would have settled for less. “This necklace is one your guests will notice from across the room.”
Now he looks up, as if he has just noticed me, excuses himself and leaves his assistant in charge. With his cup of chai, he joins me at the railing, facing away from the customers he’s just left, as if he is too busy chatting with me to be concerned about their purchase. I’ve seen him do this time and time again. Of course, that’s why there are floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere; he can still keep an eye on them. One of many age-old tactics from his bag of tricks.
He’s smiling at me, his sleepy eyes almost disappearing in his face, his triple chins a sign of his success: a source of pride. When he speaks, his voice is soft and low. “Do you think Mrs. Prasad is already savoring the jealousy her rival will be sure to feel when she sees her new daughter-in-law wearing such a fine piece?”
I grin at Moti-Lal. “I take it that you know her rival.”
“One of my best customers.” Moti-Lal laughs and drinks his chai in a single swallow. “Ake, dho, theen. I’ll be right back.”
As large as he is, the jeweler moves as gracefully as a cheetah stalking fresh game. Like the family doctor, an Indian jeweler stays with a family for a long time, becomes a trusted friend and guide to several generations throughout marriages, births and festivals.
I turn around to watch him again. Moti-Lal shows off a few more features of the bridal set to his clients, reminding them that the stones are set perfectly flush within the kundan setting, just as Shah Jahan demanded carnelian, lapis lazuli, tiger’s-eye and malachite be inlaid in the marble of the Taj Mahal.
The jeweler and his clients exchange a few remarks before it’s time to haggle over price. Moti-Lal punches the numbers into his adding machine with a kind of flair that makes the other customers in the store look his way, curious about who’s buying what.
Once the show is over, I turn my attention to the non-bridal side of the store, letting my eyes wander across the glass case of necklaces. In the cases are elaborate pendants set with rubies and diamonds as well as gold chains of various thicknesses and heft. I’m bending at the waist to take a closer look at one gold chain when I feel a meaty grip on my shoulder. Lal-ji says, “Success, Malik! Look at you, Burra Sahib! You are every father-in-law’s dream. Come, come!”
The door to his private office is hidden on one mirrored wall. Aside from allowing Lal-ji to spy on his customers, the many mirrors invite clients to try on jewelry and admire themselves from every angle. It’s startling to see myself reflected in so many mirrors in this small space.
Inside Moti-Lal’s cozy chamber, the floor is covered with padded cushions and round bolsters upholstered in white cotton, leaving bare a narrow walkway in the middle of the marble floor. Moti-Lal removes his slippers; I remove my shoes.
“Lace-ups, Malik? Like the angrezi?”
“Himalayan winters were brutal on my toes. Had to give up chappals altogether. Now I can’t wear anything but shoes.” I don’t tell him that wearing shoes at Bishop Cotton School wasn’t an option. Nor was wearing dusty ones to school, which would surely earn you a rap on the knuckles from master and matron alike.
He slaps my back. “How proper! I cannot believe you are the same child I used to know,” he says.
The faint fragrance of cherries and sandalwood reminds me of past visits to this room. We sit cross-legged on the cushions, chilled by the air-conditioning. At the center of the room, on the uncovered marble, sits a silver tray with two tall hookahs, a box of matches, a pouch of tobacco, a small statue of Ganesh, an incense cone and a scale for weighing gold. This is where the biggest deals are made. It’s also where Lal-ji meets with friends.
His servant has put stones and one hot coal into each chillum. Moti-Lal pulls strands of tobacco from his pocket pouch, puts them in the bowls and tamps them gently. He moves one hookah closer to me.
“Accha, my young friend, what brings you to Jaipur?” As he’s speaking, he strikes a match and lights the tobacco on his hookah. Taking the pipe in his mouth, he sucks several times on it, his cheeks puffing out comically. Then he releases a cloud of white smoke and the room fills with a sweet, fruity fragrance.
“I want to thank you, Lal-ji, for looking after Omi all these years.”
He waves his fleshy hand as if to wave my gratitude away. “Koi baat nahee hahn. You sent the money. I made sure it got to Omi. Only that. She hasn’t had it easy with that husband.” Moti-Lal, who believes in hard work, shakes his head in disgust. “Runs off to join the circus every year and comes back empty-handed.” He puffs more aggressively on his hookah, as if Omi’s husband has in some way slighted him. “Have you seen her since you’ve been in Jaipur? Omi?”
“Only from a distance. I’ve kept my promise. I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
Moti-Lal makes a face. “A grown man being jealous of a little boy—and that’s exactly what you were—a little boy who provided for Omi in a way her husband couldn’t. And then threatening to kill her if you dared see her again.” He shakes his head again. “What a prince.”
I nod. The memory’s a painful one.
Omi was an ayah of sorts; she looked after the neighborhood children like me, for a small fee. Mothers like my own cleaned houses or swept office floors or washed people’s laundry. One day, my mother didn’t return from work. I waited and waited, but she never came back. Omi took me in without a word. She never treated me any differently than she did her own three children. I was so grateful to her that I did whatever I could to bring something home every day. It might be nothing more than a rotting banana, or a spool of thread I’d pilfered from a shopkeeper, or puri fried in old oil that a vendor was about to throw away.
I made friends with all the shopkeepers of the bazaar. I shined their shoes or told them where they could get a bargain on hairpins or ran errands for them. In return, they gave me castoffs for Omi’s children, shared their chapattis with me, sent me home with a small bag of rice. Moti-Lal was the most generous of all. He would always ask me what I’d learned that day. Could I count to a hundred for him, or name the capital of France? And when I did, he’d pull a rupee coin out of my ear and give it to me.
This last memory leaves me looking fondly at my old friend. I tell him, “Uncle. I would like to buy two gold chains.”
Moti-Lal arches an eyebrow. “You have a woman?”
I smile at him as I pick up the matchbox and light my hookah, then suck on the pipe to draw smoke. The tobacco—so clean and strong—goes immediately to my head, making me a little dizzy.