“I’m sorry, Ji. I’ve fallen behind in my estimate of the cinema house reconstruction. I found your door unlatched and thought that instead of carrying ledgers back and forth to my desk, I would do the work here. Maaf kar dijiye.” I pull both my earlobes in apology.
He glances at the doorknob—had he not shut the door properly?—and brushes his mustache, frowning.
“Sahib, what are you doing here?” I’d learned this tactic long ago, when I was caught swiping a comb for Omi or candy for one of her kids from a stall at the Pink City bazaar. When under attack, it’s best to counterattack.
“I left my umbrella here, yes? I was just at dinner with a friend who said it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, and I don’t like to catch a chill when it’s wet.”
“Good thinking. Yes.” I pray he doesn’t come any closer to examine the contracts, receipts and ledgers I’ve spread on his desk. I fight the urge to cover the paperwork with my hands.
He gathers his umbrella, which is leaning by the door. “Don’t stay up too late. The work will always be there, young man. Yes?”
He gives me an indulgent smile. For now, at least, I’m his hardworking protégé.
“You’re right, Ji. Zaroor.” I nod reassuringly at him and begin stacking the ledgers and papers.
As soon as I hear the front door click close, I drop my head in my hands. Will Hakeem tell Manu about my being in his office? I doubt it. Hakeem knows I’m at the palace offices as a special favor to Manu Uncle and it might be politically imprudent to call me out. But Hakeem might wonder if I’ve been telling him the truth.
And, if not, why.
I check my watch. Lakshmi’s train should be arriving soon.
19
LAKSHMI
Jaipur
At the Jaipur train station, I look for the Agarwals’ black Ambassador sedan. It’s early evening, and I’ve been traveling for nearly eleven hours. But instead of their driver, Baju, Malik steps out of the driver’s seat. I’m so happy to see him I feel like crying. I’ve missed him. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black trousers.
“I thought Kanta was sending Baju to pick me up,” I say.
Malik offers me a strained smile. “Would I let you ride alone with that lech?” He’s keeping his tone light, but I can sense he’s holding something back. The whole of the Pink City must be buzzing with news of the cinema tragedy. I can only imagine the toll it’s taking on the Agarwal family, the palace, the families of the injured.
Malik lifts my suitcase into the trunk of the stately sedan, which Kanta’s father upgrades every five years on their wedding anniversary. This must be their third Ambassador. Her family has money, whereas Manu comes from humble beginnings. The palace provides Manu a driver and a Jeep for work, so Kanta and her mother-in-law can always have this sedan at their disposal.
After Malik helps me into the passenger’s seat, I say, “Now, before you tell me what’s going on, let me assure you that Nimmi misses you terribly, Rekha asks after you constantly, Chullu has started to speak and Jay is fine. Oh, he asks about you all the time, too.”
He chuckles. That’s better. I’m not going to tell him about Nimmi’s outburst last night. I left the house early enough this morning that I didn’t see her. (Was I trying to avoid her?) Either way, I had time on the train to think about what she said and whether there was any truth in it. Do I feel possessive about Malik? Yes, I do. I feel about him the same way I feel about my sister, Radha. I want both of them to do well, to develop their skills and use those skills in whatever way they wish. How could that be wrong? Why should I feel guilty for helping them along their path?
With Radha, I think I fell short. She met Pierre Fontaine at the Shimla Mall in her last year at Auckland House School. Pierre was twenty-eight—ten years older than Radha—and absolutely smitten with her. He knew nothing about her past, the baby she gave up for adoption at thirteen. He came to ask me for my blessing, which warmed me to him. He was thoughtful, kind. And French, of course.
Radha had studied French at Auckland and fallen in love, first with the language and then with Pierre. I would rather she had enrolled at college in nearby Chandigarh instead of marrying, but by then I knew how headstrong she can be; the more I fight her on an issue, the deeper she digs in. (I’ve often thought she’s like the Himalayan balsam, a deceptively delicate flowering plant that’s hard to tame.)
In the end, I gave Radha and Pierre my blessing. It seems to have worked out well. Radha trained at a fragrance house and became a perfumer. She was always good at mixing my henna paste, and testing the mixture with different oils, lemon juice and sugar to create the right silky consistency. And the scent of it was heavenly.
Radha has what she always wanted: a family. She sends me photos of her two adorable daughters—Asha, now two, and Shanti, four years old.
Malik slides in behind the steering wheel. “Nikhil has a cricket game tonight, so Kanta Auntie asked me to drive you there first. Accha, Boss?”
I tap his arm to reassure myself he’s really here. “Accha.”
Malik eases the Ambassador through the clog of cycle rickshaws, taxis and pedestrians. “Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I called this morning but got no answer.”
“Jay had probably left for work.” I’m looking out the window, enjoying the choreographed chaos of the city: a lipsticked hijra on her way to the market, slim hips swaying; a wagon drawn by a bony laborer carrying old tractor tires; children flicking marbles on a dusty street corner—what Malik liked to do once upon a time in Jaipur.
Malik slows for a family of six balanced precariously on a motor scooter. “I want to thank you for taking Nimmi under your wing.”
“Koi baat nahee. She’s a hard worker. And I’m enjoy teaching Rekha how to read.”
“I bet she learns fast, my little monkey.” There is so much affection in his tone that it makes me smile. “Permission to talk frankly, Auntie-Boss?”
I turn to him and nod.
“I’m trying to piece together what happened at the cinema house the other night, and why. But every time I find something that doesn’t look right to me, I get shut down. Samir, Hakeem and even Manu don’t want me to pry any further.”
“Well, it’s not your job, is it, Malik? To investigate? Shouldn’t you be concentrating on what Manu’s teaching you?” For half a second, I wonder if Malik did something that got Manu in trouble. Not deliberately, but by accident.
“That’s exactly what I am doing.” Malik taps his horn at a woman carrying a basket of beans on her head. She moves to the side of the road. “After the collapse, I found these...chunks of bricks in the debris. Lots of them.”