Raju Guide was no better than a parrot who faithfully recited what he heard, without really understanding a word.
* * *
Over time, I learnt to say 'Konichiwa' to Japanese tourists and 'Dasvedanya' to Russians, 'Muchas gracias' to Hispanic tippers and 'Howdy' to American rednecks. But, to my everlasting regret, I never had an Australian client whom I could slap on the back and say, 'G'day mate, I'm gonna give you the good oil about this rip-snorter of a tomb!'
I also started earning good money from the tourists. Not a fortune, but certainly enough to pay my rent, eat in McDonald's or Pizza Hut once in a while, and still manage to save up for a rainy day. Except that a rainy day ceases to have meaning for a person who has lived in the open under a monsoon cloud most of his life. I had experienced too many misfortunes, and with the constant fear at the back of my mind that a jeep with a flashing red light could come any day to arrest me for the murder of a nameless dacoit or Shantaram or even Neelima Kumari, it felt pointless to make long-term plans for the future. I treated money, therefore, like I treated my life – as an expendable commodity. Easy come, easy go. Not surprisingly, very soon I became famous in the outhouse as a soft touch.
* * *
The residents of the outhouse were a motley collection: poor college students from far-off villages, government clerks who were illegally renting out their official accommodation at exorbitant rates, train drivers, laundry workers, gardeners, cooks, cleaners, plumbers, carpenters, and even a poet with the mandatory beard. Many of them became my friends. Living in their midst, I came to realize that Emperor Shahjahan and Mumtaz Mahal's story was not the only one in this sleepy little town.
Lajwanti was the official 'news supplier' of the outhouse. She had an ear to the ground and knew exactly what was going on in the neighbourhood. She knew the wife-beaters and the adulterers, the drunkards and the misers, the rent-evaders and the bribe-takers. Despite her obvious loyalty to her employer, she was also not averse to sharing some titbits about the palace. It was from her that I heard the gossip about Swapna Devi's colourful past. It was rumoured that she had had a torrid affair with her late husband's brother, Kunwar Mahendra Singh, but eventually fell out with him and poisoned him to death. It was also said that her liaison had resulted in an illegitimate daughter in Benares. What happened to the daughter nobody knew, and nobody seemed to care.
* * *
Shakil, one of the poor students living in the outhouse, approaches me one evening.
'Raju bhai, if you don't mind, can I ask you a favour?' he asks diffidently.
'Yes, Shakil, what is it?' I reply, sensing the purpose of his visit.
'Actually, my father has been unable to send me the money order this month because of the drought in the village, and unless I pay the university fees by Monday I will be rusticated. Can you please lend me one hundred and fifty rupees? I promise to repay you as soon as I receive the money order next month.'
'Of course, Shakil. I have already lent fifty to our great poet Najmi and a hundred to Gopal, and I had been keeping a hundred to buy a new shirt. But your requirement is greater than mine, so take it all.'
* * *
Shankar and I have been invited by Lajwanti to her room for dinner. She is unmarried and lives alone in the outhouse, but has a younger sister who lives in a village approximately thirty kilometres from Agra. The first thing I notice about Lajwanti's room is its obsessive tidiness. It is the cleanest room I have ever seen. The stone floor has been polished to a sparkle. There is not a speck of dust. The bed is very neatly made, with not even a crease on the cotton bedspread.
There are little decorative objects displayed on a mantel with geometric precision. Everything is painfully neat. Even the kitchen looks so sanitized that I can almost imagine the soot from her chulha being white rather than black. Shankar and I sit on chairs; Lajwanti sits on the bed, wearing a pink sari. She seems very excited and tells us that she has started searching for a suitable bridegroom for her sister, Lakshmi, who is now nineteen years old.
'But what about you?' I ask her. 'Shouldn't the elder sister get married first?'
'Yes, she should,' she replies. 'But I am not just a sister to Lakshmi, I have been her father and mother ever since our parents died five years ago. That is why I cannot act selfishly and think only about myself. Once I have married off my sister, my responsibilities will be over and I can then look for my own prince.'
'So how are you going about searching for suitable grooms?'
'I placed an ad in Dainik Ujala, the Hindi newspaper, two months ago, and due to the blessings of Goddess Durga the response has been very good. See how many letters have come.' She holds out a bundle of letters and envelopes. From these she extracts six photographs and shows them to us. 'Tell me, which one of these boys will be suitable for Lakshmi?'
Shankar and I examine the prospective grooms. We find fault with almost all of them. This one looks too old. This one has a wicked smile. This one is ugly. This one has a scar. This one picture looks like a prisoner's mugshot. That leaves only one photo. It shows the face of a handsome young man with stylish hair and a thick moustache. 'Yes, this boy looks to be the best of the lot,' I tell Lajwanti. Shankar also nods his head in fervent approval. 'Q Gqfz Pdz Wku,' he says.
Lajwanti is delighted with our selection. 'He is my choice too. Apart from being the best looking, he is also the most qualified and comes from a very respectable family. Do you know that he is a very high-ranking government officer?'
'Really? What does he do?'
'He is the Assistant Sugarcane Officer in the District. Lakshmi will live like a queen with him. So should I commence negotiations with his family? Take Goddess Durga's blessings to move the process forward?'
'Of course, without any delay.'
Lajwanti serves us an excellent meal that evening, of puris, kachoris, potatoes, lentils and muttar paneer, on steel plates so clean they could double up as mirrors. I feel almost guilty eating off her spotless crockery, worried that it might get scratched. I cannot resist asking her, 'Lajwanti, how come your house is so neat and clean? Do you keep a maid?'
She appreciates my noticing. 'Don't joke with me. How can a maid employ a maid? I am the one who keeps this house in tip-top order. This has been my habit since childhood. I cannot live in an unclean house. My fingers start itching the moment I see a speck of dirt on the floor, a piece of food sticking to the dining table or a crease on the bed cover. My mother used to say, "Lajwanti cannot tolerate even a leaf sticking out wrongly from a tree." That is why Rani Sahiba is so happy with me. I overheard her telling Commissioner Sahib's wife the other day that Lajwanti is the best maid she has ever had and she will never let me go.' She beams with pride.
'Yes, I agree, you must be the most efficient maid in the whole world. But you'd better not visit my room, otherwise you will get sick.'
Shankar also agrees that Lajwanti is the greatest. 'Q Gkrz Gxesxipq,' he says with a wide happy grin.
* * *
My last patrons today are a group of four rich college students from Delhi. They are a young, boisterous lot in designer jeans and imported sunglasses who make flippant remarks about the Taj Mahal, rib each other incessantly and crack vulgar jokes. At the end of the guided tour they not only give me my fee but a fat tip as well. They then invite me to join them on a night out in their chauffeur-driven minivan. 'Raju Guide, come with us, we will give you the time of your life,' they implore. I decline at first, but they are insistent and I am so beholden to them for their generous baksheesh that I cannot say no. I hop into the vehicle.