He thrusts his chin upward and nods sagely. “Ah,” he says. “I see. Two women?”
Now I laugh, blowing out smoke. “One of the chains is for Omi.”
He tucks his chin into the folds of his neck. “You know her husband will just sell it.”
“I don’t expect her to wear it—her husband would just rip it off her neck. But I want her to have something for security, for an emergency. I was hoping you would tell her it’s here, waiting for her—if and when she needs it.”
Lal-ji considers this as he smokes his pipe. He nods. “I will let her know.”
“I also want to buy a pair of earrings,” I add.
Moti-Lal blows on his chillum until the orange glow turns into gray ash. “Also for your woman?”
“No. They’re for a little girl.”
Moti-Lal stops puffing for an instant and his mouth goes slack. “You have a daughter?”
I laugh, pleased to be able to surprise him. “No. It’s not like that.”
His shrewd eyes narrow as he takes the pipe again. He blows out more smoke and looks into my eyes. “Then you have a woman with a child.”
“Two children. A boy and a girl.”
“Widow?”
“Yes.”
I should have known that Moti-Lal would figure it out. More than once, he’s told me selling gold requires an insight into human nature. He says you must be able to discern the intensity of a customer’s desire by looking into their eyes. That will tell you what to show, what to hold back, and how much the customer is willing to part with.
“I saw something out there that I liked.” I point to the main room on the other side of the door.
He blows a stream of smoke out of his mouth. “Bukwas,” he says. “Tourist stuff.” He hoists his large frame upright and goes to the door. He calls out to someone, waits a moment, then returns with two large velvet boxes, which he hands to me. Once he is again settled on his cushion, I open the first box. I see three gold chains inside.
“Pick two,” he says, smiling at me, puffing on his chillum.
I pull out the slimmest of the chains, pounded flat so it will sit flush against the skin. I can picture it on Nimmi’s slim neck, how the gold would glow against her dark complexion. Maybe next time, I think. “Uncle, I can afford only half this gold.”
He smiles. “What is this afford, Malik? It is my gift. Haven’t I told you more than once you are the son I never had?” Now he’s frowning, offended that I have mistaken his generosity for a business transaction.
“And what about your son-in-law out there?” I say, to tease him.
He lifts a hand and swats the air. “Mohan is fine. But if you come to work for me, I will die a happy man.” He puts the hand on his chest and tilts his head to the side beseechingly.
“Lal-ji, you are not going anytime soon. And I know nothing about the jewelry business.” I’ve said these very words to him at least a hundred times.
“Listen carefully,” he says, and takes another puff. “Lord Brahma, the creator of our universe, threw a seed from his body into the waters. That seed became a golden egg, an incarnation of the creator himself. This gold, symbol of purity, good fortune and godliness, is what we sell here. Now you know as much as I know.” He blows a large smoke ring at me.
I laugh. “I’m in Jaipur only at Auntie Lakshmi’s request.”
At the mention of my Auntie-Boss, Moti-Lal opens his slit eyes and smiles broadly. “And how is the beautiful Lakshmi Shastri? All of Jaipur misses her. Most of all my wife! Without Lakshmi’s hair oil, she’ll soon be as bald as a baby monkey!” He lets out a tremendous guffaw and slaps his hand on his thigh.
“It’s Mrs. Kumar now. She’s married to a doctor.”
“Bahut accha! I’m happy for her.” He points his hookah pipe at me. “You’re lucky she offered to take you to Shimla when Omi’s husband threw you out.”
“Zaroor.” As I’ve often said to Nimmi: I owe Lakshmi my life. Since moving to Shimla, I’ve sent a portion of my earnings to Lal-ji to pass on to Omi (those I don’t record in my bank book because I know Boss checks it periodically). It’s an arrangement that’s lasted twelve years.
“What does Lakshmi want you to do in Jaipur?”
“Learn the building trade. I’m working at the palace under Manu Agarwal.”
Moti-Lal raises his eyebrows. “Agarwal’s a good man. Honest. That cinema house the palace is building is going to be bloody marvelous! My wife plans to go with our daughter and her husband to the grand opening. I will be here, of course. Although I don’t know why I’m bothering. Everyone who’s anyone will be at the Royal Jewel Cinema that night.”
“Her Highness Latika certainly hopes so.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Moti-Lal’s son-in-law Mohan enters. I stand up to salaam him and he folds his hands in namaste. He is a shy man, quiet, ten years older than me.
“The Guptas have arrived,” he says to Moti-Lal.
“See that they are seated, bheta. I’ll be right there.” Moti-Lal passes an enormous hand over his face, a gesture of frustration. When the door closes, he rolls his eyes. “Ten years and no children.”
When I look questioningly at him, he points to the door, and I understand the comment is directed at his son-in-law. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t have it in him.”
I smile. Parents are always anxious for grandchildren. That won’t be the case with Auntie-Boss, and I’m glad of it. Whether I have none or ten, it’s all the same to her. She likes talking to children; she just never wanted any of her own. I pick up the chain I was admiring earlier and another, heavier gold necklace. Moti-Lal observes me while he smokes. I put both chains aside, open the other box and select a pair of small gold studs that I think little Rekha will like. Her ears were pierced when she was just a few months old; they’re fitted with the thinnest silver hoops. I place both chains and the earrings on the scale.
Moti-Lal frowns again and sighs. “Arré, Malik, leave it alone.”
The scale registers one ounce. The current going price is 321 rupees per ounce, but I ask Moti-Lal if he will take 200 rupees for it.
“I’ll let you have it for free if you’ll take some advice from me.”
I arch an eyebrow, waiting to see what he has to say.
He wags a stubby finger at me. “Never marry a poor widow.”
I shake my head and laugh.
Pocketing the necklace for Nimmi and the studs for Rekha, I lay two one-hundred-rupee bills on the scale next to Omi’s chain.