I expected a man who has four daughters to rent a house, but Hakeem appears to be renting an apartment in a run-down area of Jaipur, near GulabNagar, the Pleasure District. This is surprising. After all his years of service, does he earn so little? I watch him mount the stairs to the first-floor terrace of an apartment building and make a note of the door he enters.
I give him enough time to change out of his work clothes. I want him to be relaxed when I show up at his door.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m knocking at his door. It opens a crack. Hakeem peers out, guarding the entrance in a half-sleeve undershirt and a white dhoti. But his relaxed expression changes to astonishment when he sees me. He rubs the underside of his mustache.
“But...why are you here, Malik? Has something happened?”
I smile and salaam him. “Nothing like that, Uncle. I wanted to talk to you away from the office. May I?” Without waiting for an answer, I push open the door and enter the narrow room.
There’s a cot on one side of the room, with a tiny washbasin in the corner. Someone has left the newspaper folded open to the crossword puzzle on the cot. On the other side of the room is a table with two chairs and a tall bookshelf. Next to that, on a small cabinet sits a two-burner stove, two metal plates, two glasses and two bowls. A frying pan and a stainless steel pan sit on the burners. The bottom portion of the cabinet is covered with a rough striped curtain, no doubt hiding the rice, lentils, tea and other sundries.
Everything in the room is neat, if a little shabby. The two sunken pillows on the cot have a defeated look, as does the cotton quilt, the threads of which are coming loose. There are no photos, no female clothing, jewelry or hair products in sight.
The scent of cardamom, peppercorns and ginger wafts from the pan. Tea, I assume. There is a cauliflower, two potatoes, a tomato and a knife beside a cutting board on the table. Just then, I hear a toilet flush. A door at the far end of the room opens and a thin man in a sleeveless bush-shirt and dhoti emerges from the bathroom.
I don’t know who is more surprised: me or the Royal Jewel Cinema theater manager who still has one hand on the doorknob of the bathroom. He is frozen in place. He glances at Hakeem, whose eyes behind his thick black glasses have grown as big as saucers. The look that passes between them is one of fear—and something akin to guilt? Embarrassment?
I recover more quickly. “Mr. Reddy, isn’t it? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Abbas Malik. I work with Hakeem Sahib.”
Hakeem clears his throat. “Mr. Reddy boards with me, yes? Until—until he can find a place. He is new in Jaipur.”
“But, Sahib. Your wife and daughters. Where are they?” I’m genuinely puzzled.
The accountant looks to his right and left and then at Mr. Reddy, who is still clutching the bathroom doorknob. “My family is in Bombay. My job is here, yes? I send them money every month.”
“I thought you said they were with you on the opening night of the cinema house. You said something about how all of you had to hold hands to get home.”
“They were here for the opening. Then they left.”
I look around the room. It’s plausible. It’s just that this apartment feels like it’s never seen the inside of a woman’s suitcase.
Mr. Reddy is watching our exchange as if he’s watching a tense cricket match. He looks tired and a little sad.
I pull a chair from the table and sit down. “Bombay? Isn’t that where you’re from, Mr. Reddy?”
“Yes.” It comes out as a croak, so he tries again. “Yes.”
“Is that a coincidence or...?”
“No, it is not,” the theater manager says as he lets go of the doorknob and stands with his hands clasped in front of him, like a naughty child.
“I met Mr. Reddy in Bombay at the cinema, yes?” Hakeem says. “I thought he might like to apply for the job of theater manager here for when the new cinema opened. I talked to Ravi Sahib about it. And he put a word in Mr. Agarwal’s ear—”
The tea starts boiling over, and Hakeem rushes to take the pot off the burner. But the metal handle is too hot and he cries out. He drops the saucepan on top of the frying pan. Immediately, Mr. Reddy rushes to examine his hand. He puts an arm around Hakeem and guides him gently to the small washbasin tucked in the corner of the room. Turning on the tap, he moves Hakeem’s hand in a circle so the cold water will soothe the reddened skin. He pulls the threadbare towel off the rack and wraps it around Hakeem’s hand. Then he reaches inside the tiny cabinet above the washbasin and extracts a jar of ointment and a roll of gauze. Mr. Reddy rubs a little ointment tenderly on the burn, then wraps the gauze around Hakeem’s hand.
The theater manager places an arm on Hakeem’s lower back. “I’m always telling you, Hakeem. Leave the cooking to me. You’re too distracted.”
This is not an admonishment. It sounds like a lover’s correction.
I’m embarrassed, witnessing the intimacy between them.
As if Hakeem realizes my discomfort, he pushes away roughly from the other man and turns to me. “Why have you come to invade the privacy of my home? Why can you not just leave things alone? What business is it of yours? What business is it of anybody’s? I take care of my family back home. Isn’t that enough?”
He sounds more broken than angry, more defeated than indignant. It takes only one step for him to drop his sturdy frame on the cot. His head is bent low, playing with the gauze around his hand. He hasn’t noticed that his ample rump is now seated on the Times of India crossword puzzle.
Mr. Reddy, who is still standing at the washbasin, looks at Hakeem and sighs. After a beat, he walks to the table and begins cutting the vegetables with slow, measured movements of the knife. “We met in Bombay when Hakeem was visiting his family one year and took them to the cinema house. We saw each other and just knew. And we found a way to be together in Jaipur when the theater manager job came up.” His eyes are wet when he looks up from the cutting board. “This was the best way of saving his family from the embarrassment and still making sure they’re taken care of. Hakeem’s job at the palace is so good. He’ll never find another like it in Bombay. And we get to be alone. We don’t bother anybody.” He stops to pull a handkerchief from his dhoti and blows his nose.
I’m puzzling it out. I point to Mr. Reddy. “When did you start working for the cinema house?”
“Three months ago. They needed to decide on ticket prices, organize putting up the flyers, coordinate the films to be shown. Oh, and the actors.”
I point to Hakeem, who is studying his bare feet. “The Singhs found out about the two of you?”
“It was Mr. Ravi,” Mr. Reddy says. “He saw us together one day in Central Park. Having lunch. You had a cold that day, Hakeem, remember? I brought you extra chilies for your dal.”