“I heard Mr. Sharma had a stroke?”
Samir nods. “Five years ago. The good Mrs. Sharma looks after him.” He jiggles his glass and a servant comes forward to pour more scotch into it. “None of his sons or his brothers wanted to take over his part of the firm. Besides, they’re scattered over the globe.”
“So it’s all on your shoulders now?”
“Mine and Ravi’s.”
“Congratulations.” I raise my glass and he taps his drink against mine.
It makes me feel better to hear Samir say that my apprenticeship at the palace is a chance to see if I like the work. I’ve been wondering if I should give this opportunity my all rather than looking at it as a way to appease Auntie-Boss, who I know is only looking out for my future.
Nimmi had a hard time understanding why I would want to go four hundred miles away just when she and I were getting close. I told her: Auntie-Boss made it possible for me to look after Omi and her children. Without her, where would I be? Hustling contraband cigarettes off the back of a truck? Serving time for peddling pornographic films? I knew Nimmi was terribly lonely after the death of her husband, and that I had filled a gap in her life, so the news about my internship in Jaipur came as a blow to her no matter how many times I told her it was temporary. I think what hurt her the most is that my immediate loyalty is to Lakshmi; Boss is my family.
Would it be too much to hope that Nimmi and Auntie-Boss might become friends in my absence? Their relationship is important to me in a way it wasn’t with any of the private-school girls I bedded. First, because Nimmi is older than me by two or three years. (We don’t know for sure how far apart we are in age because she never had a birth certificate either, but we made a guess based on what she could remember about the time when India gained her independence. And the answer was: nothing! So she must still have been a baby.)
Moreover, in Nimmi’s presence, I feel like a grown man—an adult—though I can’t explain why. I do know I want to take care of her, and Rekha and Chullu. But I’m only twenty—too young to have a ready-made family. Here in Jaipur, I know many of the cousin-brothers I grew up with must already be fathers, but I never expected that to be my fate.
These thoughts are interrupted by a woman’s scolding voice, which startles both Samir and me. “Ravi!”
We both turn around to see who is shouting.
There, on the veranda, stands a young woman in a yellow silk sari, a sleepy baby resting on her shoulder. A young girl, maybe five years old, is trying to conceal herself behind her mother. The girl is dressed in a pale pink tutu; she’s crying. It’s hard to understand what she is saying. The woman’s dark curly hair is only long enough to reach her shoulders, as is the way of India’s modern women. Her cheeks are flushed. And at the sight of me, her eyelids flutter. “Oh! I’m sorry. I thought you were my husband.”
Samir Uncle looks amused. “Come and meet our guest, who will be joining us for dinner.”
The woman hesitates, before hoisting the baby higher on her shoulder and coming down the steps. The little girl follows.
“Meet Abbas Malik,” says Samir. “He’s working with Manu Agarwal at the Jaipur Palace, and he’s joining us for dinner tonight.” Now he turns to me. “Abbas, this is my daughter-in-law, Sheela.”
Instead of greeting me with a deferential namaste, Sheela steps forward and offers her hand for me to shake. Her fingers are long and carefully manicured, the nails are polished and catch the sun’s light. She wears a slim gold watch, seed pearls surrounding the face. Her handshake is firm, warm.
She says, “How do you do?” Of course she has no reason to remember me, but I remember her as if I’d seen her only yesterday, when, in fact, I last saw her when she was fifteen, dressed in a pretty satin frock, telling Auntie-Boss she didn’t want a Muslim decorating her mandala.
The girl in the tutu must be her daughter, who has now stopped crying and is staring at me. Sheela introduces her as Rita. “For now,” she says, patting the baby’s bottom, “the baby is just Baby.”
Sheela turns to address Samir. I can see the infant now over her shoulder. Her kohl-lined eyes are trying to focus on me.
“Papaji, it is shameful,” Sheela says. “Must I do everything myself? The nanny and housemaid should not have been allowed to take the same day off.”
Whether or not Sheela is stamping her foot, underneath her sari, she might as well be.
Samir Uncle’s eyes are smiling. “I hear you took second in the tennis match at the club today. Shabash!” He toasts her with his glass and smiles at little Rita, who scurries to hide behind her mother.
Sheela’s expression softens slightly. “Let me tell you, it was no easy victory. Jodi Singh thinks that all she’s there for is to stand on the court in a short skirt and smile. As usual, I had to do all the work!”
Now I know the rosy color of Sheela’s cheeks is the result of exercise. She gives off an energy, an aura of vitality that is palpable. In fact, she makes me think of sleek young goats, charging up the Himalayan hills, their exertion producing a steaming heat. The image amuses me.
“Jodi does have nice legs,” muses Uncle.
Sheela slaps him playfully on the shoulder. “Shame on you! Now, I need to put Baby down for a nap. And then feed Rita. When that lazy husband of mine comes home, tell him to come help me.” She turns to me and smiles. “So nice to meet you,” she says, then briskly turns and heads back into the house, followed by her daughter, who is clutching a handful of her mother’s sari.
“E-man-ci-pa-ted,” Samir Uncle whispers. He winks at me. “Modern generation.”
“How long have Sheela and Ravi been married?”
Samir purses his lips. “Six years. They married after Ravi graduated with his architecture degree.”
I nod. I’d been wary the week before, when Manu told me over dinner that Samir Singh wished to invite me for dinner. “Singh-Sharma is close to completing the work on the Royal Jewel Cinema, the palace’s latest project,” Manu said. “It’s the first substantial building Ravi has managed on his own. It would do you well to reacquaint yourself with the Singhs. If you thought they were important all those years ago when you lived here, they’re even more important now. Ten times what they were before.”
Although Lakshmi never told me to stay away from the Singhs, I don’t think she would be pleased that I’m spending the evening with them. The last time I remembered seeing Auntie-Boss and Samir together, in Jaipur, they had seemed tense—painful currents running between them. I don’t think they parted on good terms. But a lot of time had passed since then, and I, for one, am all for letting bygones be bygones, especially where business is concerned. What the two of them once had between them is nothing to do with me now.
And Manu Uncle is like family. If Manu says that I should go somewhere, I go.
When the Singh’s maid calls us inside for dinner, Samir invites me to join the others in the dining room while he takes a phone call.
Dinner turns out to be a seven-course affair that lasts two hours. Samir’s wife, Parvati, presides. She scolds the servants as they’re serving food. “You call this dal?” she says. “Who ever heard of putting potatoes in dal?” And, later, “Take back these paranthas. They’ve gone cold. Even ghee won’t melt on them.”
In the years since I last saw her, Parvati Singh has put on weight, but it has only added to her beauty. Her cheeks are plump, her bosom larger but still firm, and her full lips are painted with mulberry-colored lipstick. She has lively dark eyes and a lusty laugh. She stands almost as tall as her husband.