Dear Mrs. Shastri (or should I say Mrs. Kumar?):
I was so pleased to hear about your marriage to Shimla’s eminent physician, Dr. Jay Kumar. How lovely it must be to enjoy cool breezes while we, in Jaipur, swelter.
Latika told me that you came to see her. Am I not worthy of a visit, too, my dear? I am old and not as agile as I used to be. Truth be told, the Parisian doctors tell me I have cancer of the uterus. (Ironic, isn’t it? Considering my husband wouldn’t allow me to make use of my uterus even once!)
I decided I would rather pass my remaining years in the country of my birth than in a country where the coffee is divine, but where the cheeses offend my sensitive nose.
Do let me know when you might have a moment free to pay a visit to this old woman and offer me the kindness of a chat and news of Malik and that old rascal Madho Singh.
Warmly,
Her Highness Maharani Indira of Jaipur
24
MALIK
Jaipur
At lunchtime, I slip out of the office to go see the Agarwals. I want to know what Samir Singh told Auntie-Boss. But when Lakshmi arrives, she tells us that Parvati showed up for the meeting.
Baju brings the tea tray into the drawing room. Kanta tells him to take a cup to Manu, who has sequestered himself in his study; he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to hear our conversation. Niki’s in his room, doing homework; Kanta is still keeping him from school. Saasuji is napping.
Lakshmi says, “Parvati is confident Samir was not involved in this.”
Kanta’s adding sugar to her chai. “Well, of course, she would be. She has generations of a family reputation to protect.” She stirs her tea. “I think she believes the Singhs are indispensable to Jaipur. That their family, alone, is keeping the economy afloat. But how would anything get built without the women and men who work as laborers on their sites?” She shakes her head. “It takes two—or hundreds, really—to tango.”
“Do you know I believe her when she talks about Samir?” Auntie-Boss insists. “Where his work’s concerned, he’s honest. Samir would compromise neither his reputation nor his integrity.” She and I trade a look. “His home life is another matter altogether.”
I don’t like to think about how many mistresses Samir has taken over the years. As a boy, I crisscrossed this city delivering the contraceptive sachets that Auntie-Boss sold to him and his friends for their paramours.
Lakshmi continues, “Ravi, however, is different. You should have seen Parvati’s face when I brought up his name. Bilkul rattled. What if Ravi is the one behind this fiasco? What if he’s the one who’s been cutting corners for reasons of his own? Malik has noticed some interesting discrepancies.”
I shake my head. “I still can’t work out why Ravi would risk it. He’s got everything—a comfortable present and an even better future.” I can’t help thinking about Sheela. I’ve tried, and failed, to wipe the images from my mind: her clingy green dress; dark hair, wet from her bath; her seductive smile; the gold powder glittering on her cleavage.
And suddenly—like a ninety-mile-an-hour cricket ball—an idea hurtles through my brain.
* * *
In the inner sanctum of Moti-Lal Jewelers, I set the broken pieces of bricks in front of the big man. He’s seated, cross-legged, on his padded cushion while he smokes his hookah. Auntie-Boss is sitting next to me.
Lal-ji had been so pleased to see her, when we first came in, he had almost tripped when he hurried from behind his desk to greet her. She’d brought a gift for him—the hair oil that his wife used to buy from her. (Lakshmi always carries several bottles with her, just in case.)
Now the jeweler picks up a brick fragment and examines it before he puts it down, and then he does the same with all the others. When he’s set aside the final piece, he drums his fingers on his thigh. Today he’s clad in an expensive linen kurta pyjama. The large emerald ring on his pinkie finger catches, and reflects, the lights from the ceiling. He stops and looks at me—and keeps me in his gaze at least a minute. Then he picks up the receiver of the phone beside him and mumbles a few words—he’s speaking softly and the only words I hear are sona and dibba—then he puts the receiver back in place. Boss and I exchange a look.
His son-in-law, Mohan, comes in carrying two glossy rosewood boxes. He nods and smiles at me, then sits down next to Moti-Lal, who pulls out the long gold chain he wears around his neck. Several small keys are attached to the chain’s end. He uses a key to unlock the first box. Inside are several pristine bars of solid gold. About ten of them. They’re identical, same size, same shape, same markings: weight (one ounce), the manufacturer’s logo and, in the center, the numbers 999.9.
He instructs Mohan to unlock the second box. The gold bars in this box are uneven, unstamped, and slightly different in weight from one another.
In this brightly lit room, where Lal-ji examines jewels and stones, the glow from the gold bars is dazzling.
Moti-Lal points to the first box. “Legal.” Then, to the second. “Not legal.”
He takes a bar from the first box and sets it in the indentation of the broken brick. It’s a little too big to fit in the space. He does the same with the illegal gold, and this time the bar fills the space, not perfectly, but well enough. Next, he puts another fragment of brick on top and leaves it there. The gold is now concealed. He looks at us and grins.
“And that, young Malik, is how some gold is transported.” He guffaws, his balloon belly jiggling.
“But why hide it?” I ask him. “Why not just bring it through proper channels?”
The jeweler and his son-in-law trade a look. “Any jeweler will tell you that he buys very little gold through legitimate sources. Why? Last year’s Gold Act. It limits the amount of gold a jeweler like me can hold in my possession. But Mrs. Patel and Mrs. Chandralal and Mrs. Zameer want a lot more for their daughters’ bridal trousseaus than I’m allowed to carry.” Lal-ji raises his eyebrows at Boss. “Am I right, Mrs. Kumar?”
Lakshmi shuts her eyes for half a second. Yes.
He continues, “Also, the Indo-China War depleted our country’s gold reserves. Mrs. Patel, Mrs. Chandralal and Mrs. Zameer did their bit by donating their gold for the war effort. Well, the war is over and the ladies want their gold back. Only...it’s gone. It was used to purchase munitions from other countries. So where can suppliers replenish the gold customers want? Africa. Brazil. Wherever they can smuggle it from, they’re doing it.”
Moti-Lal rubs the back of his neck with his fleshy palm. “I’m doing the same thing every other jeweler’s doing. If I can buy gold being smuggled into India—gold I won’t declare to the authorities—why wouldn’t I? Otherwise, my shelves would be completely empty! Samaj-jao?”