“I know you think helping Nimmi is best because of Malik’s feelings for her, and you’ve always done what you thought best. But I’m uneasy.”
I stop scrubbing. “Jay, if you could do something to help your family—something that could possibly save their lives—wouldn’t you do it?”
“Yes. Of course, I would. But these are goondas—professional racketeers—you’re dealing with! I think that it’s too great a risk for you to get any more involved. I’ve talked to the local police—”
“Why?” I can feel myself getting angry. Talking to the authorities can be risky; you never know who’s on the take.
He motions with his hands, a gesture meant to calm me down. “I didn’t talk about this instance in particular, but I wanted to know more about the gold running taking place in the Shimla hills.”
“And, what did you learn?”
“They’re aware that there’s activity to the west, around Chandigarh and closer to Pakistan, but they don’t seem to think there’s any in this area.”
“They must have been curious about why you were asking.” Have you tipped them off to what we’re doing?
“Arré. I told them only that I’d read the article about smuggling in the paper and was concerned for the safety of my patients.” He’s jiggling the coins in his pants pocket again, another sign that he’s worried.
I press my lips together, trying not to let my irritation show. I learned early that talking to the police has never been a good idea.
After independence, when the British left and government posts needed to be filled, nepotism reigned. The higher-level posts, like police commissioner, went to friends and family, whether or not they were qualified for the job. The result? Incompetence and corruption. There’s always a chance that the police are colluding with the gold racketeers, pocketing protection money. And if the police commissioner suspects Jay spoke to them because he has information about the smuggling, he can use that to his advantage or, worse, decide he needs to keep Jay from revealing what he knows to anyone else.
Jay has put himself—and us—in danger. If the authorities were to find those half-shorn sheep at the bottom of the lower pasture, we’d all three of us be implicated.
Which means we have to sheer the sheep completely and as soon as possible. Tomorrow night at the latest. Nimmi’s timeline—three days—is now compressed into a single day. And it will take all three of us to make it happen. I’m already so exhausted from riding out to find Nimmi, then spending the evening removing gold from the sheep. I didn’t dare let Jay see how badly my knees were shaking.
I put my head underwater, drowning out Jay’s voice and my body’s protestations.
* * *
Early the next morning, I ride a rested Chandra the four miles outside Shimla to Canara Private Enterprises. Jay and I have put the gold bars in the saddlebags and covered them with a horse blanket. I’ve put on a clean pair of jodhpurs and Jay’s wool coat. I’ve wrapped a brown shawl around my head and shoulders. It’s a hazy morning, the mist curling lazily around the pine and cedar trees, hesitant to move on.
Convincing Jay to let me go alone was a battle. He wanted to go in my place. I refused because I don’t want him more involved than he already is. He has an important position at the hospital. And he has a full load of patients this morning, including two cesareans.
Today, the barbed entrance gate to Canara Enterprises is open. Inside, a lone woman in a sari and sweater blouse squats on the ground, patting clay into a wooden mold and dumping the formed brick onto the ground. She works quickly—probably because she gets paid by the brick—adding another row to a growing layer of bricks drying in the open air.
I dismount and walk Chandra into the clearing, stopping right next to her. She looks up but doesn’t stop her work.
I namaste her. “You’re an expert at this.”
Her overbite makes her self-conscious, so she puts her hand in front of her face as she smiles and wags her head from side to side, pleased to be acknowledged.
I notice all the bricks have rectangular indentations in the center. I wonder why. “Who buys these bricks?”
When she looks confused, I try again. “Who are the customers—”
She waves a hand. “I don’t know, Ji. I see a truck take them away. The driver says he’s taking them to Chandigarh.”
“Arré! What are you doing out here?” It’s the young man from yesterday, the one who sits behind the counter. He casts a dark look at the woman, who hastily returns to her brickmaking. To me, he says, “Go to the office.”
I try to look apologetic, but I can tell he’s suspicious. He watches me until I’ve led Chandra to the office door. The saddlebags filled with gold are heavy, but I’ve practiced lifting them so it looks like I know what I’m doing.
I bring in one saddlebag, and then the other, placing them on the counter. The older man from the back office comes to take the bags. He carries them to his desk and closes the inner office door so I can no longer see him.
“How did you get those blue eyes?” the young man says.
I’d been so focused on the boss that I’d forgotten the younger man guarding me. “What?”
“We see eyes like yours in Kashmir.”
In Jaipur I’d often been asked about my blue eyes. People thought I might be Anglo-Indian (a group that fell out of favor once the British left the country). Or perhaps I wasn’t Indian at all? Might I be Parsi, or Afghani? But I’m not about to get into a conversation with this man about my heritage or tell him that blue eyes have been common in my family for generations. I simply say, “I’m not Kashmiri.”
Now he puts his elbows on the counter, leaning forward with a sly smile on his face. “You shepherds never consider yourselves Kashmiri or Punjabi or Rajasthani, do you? It’s your tribe that matters. But I’ve never seen another tribal member with blue eyes.” He cocks his head, considering me seriously. Then he says something to me in a dialect that I don’t understand.
The fine hairs on my arms rise. He’s trying to suss out where I’m really from. I can’t respond convincingly in dialect. The risk I’m already taking becomes dangerous if I’m exposed. My best bet is to act embarrassed.
I cast my eyes downward, draw my shawl tighter around my neck. “Please,” I say, “I am married.”
He turns playful once again. “And your husband lets you do a man’s job?”
I think about Vinay, his body splayed on the ground. “Only because he’s injured. Badly.”
His smile is coy. “You must be needing comfort in that case. And I—”