'But surely if you want to you can quit this profession and get married, can't you?'
She spreads her hands. 'Who will marry a prostitute? We are supposed to work till our bodies start to sag or till we die of disease, whichever is sooner.'
'I know you will find your prince one day,' I declare, with tears in my eyes. She doesn't accept any tip from me that day.
* * *
I reflect later on my conversation with Nita and wonder why I had lied to her. I didn't really want her to find any other prince. Without even realizing it, I had fallen in love with her.
Till now, my conception of love has been based entirely on what I have seen in Hindi films, where the hero and the heroine make eye contact and whoosh, some strange chemistry sets their hearts beating and their vocal chords tingling, and the next you see of them they are off singing songs in Swiss villages and American shopping malls. I thought I had experienced that blinding flash of love when I met the girl in the blue salwar kameez in that train compartment. But real love visited me only that winter in Agra. And I realized again that real life is very different from reel life. Love doesn't happen in an instant. It creeps up on you and then it turns your life upside-down. It colours your waking moments and fills your dreams. You begin to walk on air and see life in brilliant new shades. But it also brings with it a sweet agony, a delicious torture. My life was reduced to feverish meetings with Nita and pining for her in between. She visited me in the oddest places and at the oddest moments. I visualized her beautiful face even when lecturing a haggard, eighty-year-old day-tripper. I smelt the fragrance of her hair even when sitting on my toilet seat. I got goose bumps thinking of our lovemaking even when buying potatoes and tomatoes from the vegetable market. And I knew in my heart of hearts that she was my princess.
The burning ambition of my life was to marry her one day. The consuming worry of my life was whether she would agree.
* * *
A jeep with a flashing red light has come to the outhouse. An inspector and two constables alight from it. My heart lurches. A cold knot of fear forms in the pit of my stomach. My crimes have finally caught up with me. This is the pattern of my life. Just when I begin to feel on top of things, fate yanks the rug from under my feet. So it is to be expected that just when I have discovered true love, I should be taken away to a jail where, like Emperor Shahjahan, I will sit in solitary confinement and pine for Nita, my own Mumtaz Mahal.
The Inspector takes out a megaphone from the jeep to make an announcement. I expect him to say, 'Will Ram Mohammad Thomas, alias Raju Sharma, come out with his hands in the air?' But he says instead, 'Will all the residents of the outhouse come out? There has been a robbery in the Bank of Agra and we have reason to believe that the thief is here. I have to conduct a search of the premises.' When I hear this, I feel a heavy weight lift from my heart. I am so happy, I want to go out and hug the Inspector.
The constables enter each room in turn and conduct a thorough search. They come to my room and ask me for my name, my age, my occupation, whether I have seen any suspicious characters lurking about in the area. I don't tell them that I am an unauthorized guide. I say I am a student at the University and am new to the outhouse. This satisfies them.
They look under my bed. They peer into the kitchen, tap the pots and pans, overturn the mattress and then move on to the next room. The Inspector joins the constables.
They are now in Shankar's room. 'Yes, what is your name?' the Inspector asks Shankar gruffly.
'Hu Ixhz Qo Odxifxn,' Shankar replies, slightly confused.
'What? Can you repeat that?'
'Odxifxn.'
'Bloody bastard, you are making fun of me?' the Inspector says angrily, and raises his baton to hit Shankar. I quickly intervene. 'Inspector Sahib, Shankar has a mental problem. He cannot speak.'
'Then why didn't you say so before?' He turns to his constables. 'Let's go to the next room. We won't get anything out of a lunatic.'
They search all thirty rooms during the next three hours, and eventually unearth a cache of currency in the room belonging to Najmi, the bearded poet, who claimed to be a Bollywood songwriter. We are all astonished to discover that our young poet is a part-time bank robber as well. Just goes to show that appearances can be deceptive. Well, I can hardly complain. The outhouse wallahs would be just as scandalized if they found out about my own chequered past!
* * *
Lajwanti has come to my room to offer some crumbly fresh laddoos from the nearby Durga Temple. She is very excited.
'Arrey, Lajwanti, what are the sweets in aid of? Have you got a raise?' I ask her.
'This is the happiest day of my life. With Goddess Durga's blessings, the Sugarcane Officer has finally agreed to marry Lakshmi. My sister will now live like a queen. I am preparing for a wedding to beat all weddings.'
'But what about dowry? Hasn't the groom's family made any demands?'
'No, not at all. They are a very decent family. They do not want any cash. They have only requested some very small things.'
'Like what?'
'Like a Bajaj scooter, a Sumeet Mixer, five Raymond suits and some gold jewellery. I was, in any case, going to give all this to Lakshmi.'
I am scandalized. 'But Lajwanti, this will cost you a packet – at least a lakh rupees. Where will you get this money from?'
'I have been saving up for Lakshmi's wedding. I have accumulated nearly fifty thousand rupees.
And will borrow another fifty thousand from Rani Sahiba.'
'Are you sure she will give you such a large sum of money?'
'Of course. I am the best maid she has ever had.'
'Well, good luck then.'
* * *
I continue to meet Nita, but the atmosphere inside the brothel stifles me. And I hate dealing with that shifty-eyed pimp Shyam. So on Nita's suggestion we start meeting outside. She goes alone to see films every Friday. I join her. She loves popcorn. I buy her a big packet and we sit in the back row of the dark and dingy Akash Talkies. She eats popcorn and giggles when I slip my hand through her thin muslin dress to feel her soft breasts. At the end of the film, I come out of the hall hot and flushed, not knowing whether I've seen a family drama, a comedy or a thriller.
Because I have eyes only for Nita, and I hope that our own story will turn slowly but surely into an epic romance.
* * *
Shankar enters my room crying.
'What's the matter?' I ask.
He points to his knee. It is cut and bruised. I immediately become concerned. 'How did you get hurt, Shankar? Did you fall down?'
Shankar shakes his head. 'X Akc Wqp Hz,' he says.
For once, I wish he could speak sense. 'I am sorry, I don't understand. Why don't you come outside and show me how you got hurt?'
Shankar takes me out and points to where the cobbled courtyard joins the main road. There is a little parapet in the corner, from which the kids in the outhouse are always jumping up and down.
'Yxi Ukj Ozz Pdxp Akc? Dq Wqp Hz Dznz,' Shankar says and indicates his knee.
I trace the direction of his finger and nod in understanding. I reckon that he must have jumped down from the parapet and grazed himself. 'Come, Lajwanti has a medical kit in her room. I will get her to put a dressing on your wound.'
I fail to see the mangy little street dog with black spots huffing on the cobbled pavement just below the parapet, spit dribbling from its sharp white teeth.
* * *
A new year has dawned, bringing with it new hopes and new dreams. Nita and I have both turned eighteen – the legal age for marriage. For the first time, I begin to think about the future and to believe I might even have one. With Nita by my side. I stop lending money to people in the outhouse. I need every penny now.
Today is a Friday, and also a night of the full moon, a very rare combination indeed. I persuade Nita not to go to the movies, but instead to come with me to the Taj Mahal. We sit on the marble pedestal late in the evening and wait for the moon to appear beyond the jets of fountains and the rows of dark-green cypresses. First comes a glimmer of silver through the tall trees on our right, as the moon struggles to break free of the cluster of low buildings and foliage, and then, suddenly, it rises majestically in the sky. The curtain of the night is pushed aside and the Taj Mahal stands revealed in all its glory. Nita and I are awestruck. The Taj appears like a vision of paradise, a silvery apparition risen from the Yamuna river. We clasp hands, oblivious to the hordes of foreign tourists who have paid fifty dollars each for the privilege of seeing the Taj by the light of the full moon.