We’re quiet for a while.
“Did Malik tell you that the actor Rohit Seth died in the collapse? All India Radio has been covering the tragedy all day long. How many people were injured. How Seth’s fans feel. How Bollywood is reacting. I tried to confiscate the radio, but Manu grabbed it first and took it in his office. Been listening to it all day. Torturing himself.” She tilts her head to one side and lets out a sigh. “I don’t know how we’re going to survive this.”
“I know what the dowager maharani would recommend—stiff G&Ts all round!”
Kanta gives me a half-hearted smile.
“Lakshmi, has Malik told you...about Samir?”
I must look puzzled, because she continues. “I’ve seen Samir at the cricket grounds, watching Nikhil. I think he knows, Lakshmi. I don’t know how, but I’m pretty sure Samir knows we’re raising his grandson.”
Twelve years ago, when Radha first found out she was pregnant by Ravi, she was so in love she was sure he would marry her. My sister believed he loved her as much as she loved him. She had no way of knowing that I had already arranged the marriage between Ravi and Sheela, that I was the matchmaker who facilitated the merging of two prominent Jaipur families—the Singhs and the Sharmas.
Both Samir and Parvati made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with their son’s illegitimate child. After Ravi’s engagement to Sheela, they couldn’t hustle their son to England quickly enough, and Radha’s baby became solely my responsibility. I reasoned that with the Singhs’ relation to the royal family, if the baby were a boy, he could be considered for adoption by the palace as the new crown prince. I worked hard to arrange that adoption only to realize later how determined Radha was to keep her baby. But with the help of Jay—Dr. Kumar, as I knew him then—we changed the paperwork; the baby’s heartbeat became an issue, and the palace adoption became null and void. The Singhs never knew that their grandchild ended up living only a few miles from their house.
As I’m mulling over this uncomfortable history, I feel a headache coming on. It’s been a long day; I’m exhausted from the long train ride. I rub my temple. “But, Kanta,” I say, “you know just as well as I do that the Singhs refused any claim to the baby. Why would Samir have a sudden interest in a child that he’s ignored these past twelve years?”
“I don’t know, but... I worry. Could he take Niki away from us?”
After years of trying for a baby, having several miscarriages and one stillbirth, Kanta had been so excited to become a mother. If I had to fight Shiva to keep Nikhil with the Agarwals, I would. “Bukwas. You adopted that baby legitimately. You have the papers to prove it.”
A tear escapes the corner of Kanta’s eye. “Papers based on false information.”
I place my hands on Kanta’s bony shoulders and turn her toward me, gently. “You mustn’t think that way. Niki has the best parents, and the best home, any child could hope for. He’s had more love from you and Manu than he ever could have had from the nannies and governesses at the palace. I will never let anyone take him away from you.”
Her face crumples. She falls against my shoulder, sobbing.
Once again, I find myself promising something I’m not sure I can deliver.
20
MALIK
Jaipur
The next morning the area in front of the Royal Jewel Cinema is crowded. Female laborers in bright cotton saris, their bare feet covered in dust, are emerging from the building. The baskets on their heads are filled with rubble from the collapse. One by one, they dump their loads on the open end of a truck waiting at the front curb, then go back inside the cinema house for more. Men in dhotis are mixing dry cement and water in a wheelbarrow. Others are bringing damaged seats outside to be inspected. Can they be repaired, or do they need to be replaced with new ones? Can the mohair be resewn? Through the open lobby doors, I see a team of laborers erecting bamboo scaffolding so they can start work on the damaged balcony. Plasterers, painters, electricians and plumbers are milling about, their supervisors shouting orders. Women are using jharus to sweep the plaster and dust into containers of all shapes and sizes.
I see Ravi Singh with Mr. Reddy. Ravi, his face pinched, is pointing at the theater manager as Mr. Reddy holds his hands placatingly in a namaste, begging Ravi’s patience or forgiveness. I move out of Ravi’s sight line and quietly approach a woman who’s just coming out of the cinema, balancing a basket filled with cement fragments, plaster, broken chunks of brick on her head.
“Behenji,” I say softly. I call women close to my age “sister.”
The woman slows to look at me, uncertain.
“May I check your basket before you put the rubble on the truck?” I remove a rupee from my pocket and hold it out to her.
She wags her head yes. In the time it takes her to lower the basket to the ground, I put the coin in her hand; it swiftly disappears in her blouse.
Sifting through her basket, I pick a piece of indented brick with no logo that’s three-quarters intact. I also pocket a chunk of cement; it’s also too porous, which suggests the ratio of water to cement powder was incorrect. Manu’s staff has told me more than once that they have to be vigilant with inexperienced laborers who might mix in too much water, which weakens the cement. I put my evidence in the cloth bag I’ve brought with me. Before I left the office, I stuffed the bag with engineering books, a clipboard and a sweater from the office, and use them now to hide the fragments I’m collecting. I help the woman put the basket back on her head, and as I do, I see Ravi coming toward me. I salaam him.
“Don’t do that. You’re interfering with her job and slowing her down.” I can see he’s furious. Is he still sore that I took Sheela home in the early hours of the morning after the collapse? He looks like he wants to punch me in the face.
I smile to show I intend no offense. “Apologies. I thought behenji was about to drop the basket.”
His eyes narrow. “What brings you here?”
“I’m putting estimates together for those theater seats that have to be repaired or replaced.” I casually hang the cloth bag over my right shoulder.
He glances at the bag but makes no comment. “Haven’t the palace engineers given you a list?”
“They have, but I thought it better to come here and see for myself. This is an important project. I want to get it right.” I’m trying to sound earnest, helpful. Otherwise, I won’t get the results I want.
His expression softens, slightly. Now he tries to strike a milder, friendly tone. “Look, old chap, why not come to dinner tonight? It’s been too long. We can talk about this...” He indicates the scene around us. Is he trying not to call it the tragedy and disaster it actually is? “All will be made right in the end. You’ll see. My father knows a lot of people.”