When he excuses himself to talk to the construction supervisor, I return to the grand lobby, imagining Nimmi and her two children here with me, marveling at how many people it takes to build something so monumental.
Then we head out for lunch at a nearby restaurant, where Ravi orders platters of fragrant lamb and chicken curry, steaming basmati rice with cashews, a bowl of matar paneer, and a stack of hot aloo paranthas with a dollop of ghee. Everyone at this restaurant seems to know Ravi. The proprietor greets us when we arrive, unfolds our napkins and places them on our laps. Two waiters help move our chairs closer toward the table and a third fills our water glasses.
Now a very pretty waitress in a white blouse and a slim black skirt arrives with tall glasses of Kingfisher beer. The proprietor beams at her and glances at Ravi to gauge his reaction. Ravi is watching the young woman with a bemused smile, his eyes roving the length of her figure. The restaurant owner smiles at Ravi, gives a slight bow and moves discreetly away.
“So what do you think of my house, the one my father designed?” Ravi asks.
Following that dinner at the Singhs’ almost a month ago, Samir had taken me around the corner of his property to show me the house he’d built for Ravi and Sheela, his daughter-in-law, as a wedding gift. Thirteen years ago, when Auntie-Boss first proposed the marriage arrangement between the Singhs and the Sharmas, Sheela agreed only on the condition that she would not have to live in a joint family household where the eldest son and his wife live with his parents. So Lakshmi suggested that Samir build a separate house for Ravi and Sheela on the vast Singh property. Sheela didn’t get exactly what she wanted, but Boss’s creative solution sealed the deal.
I reach for a parantha. “Impressive,” I say. “So modern inside. All that light.” It reminds me of Kanta and Manu’s house. Raised in a westernized family in Bengal, Kanta favors the modern design: clean lines, large plate-glass windows and minimal decoration. “What does Sheela think?”
Ravi chuckles. “Her majesty decided she liked it only after she realized how much bigger it is than her friends’ houses.”
I smile, remembering how difficult Sheela could be when she was a young girl.
Ravi continues. “Papaji did a good job with our house, mind you. But there’s so much more we could be doing at the firm. Look at what Le Corbusier has done in Chandigarh.” He fixes his dark eyes on mine, suddenly enthused. “Chandigarh inspired me. I wanted the Royal Jewel Cinema to stand out, to be different from any other building in Jaipur. This is how I’ll make my mark—use it as a stepping stone to bigger and better things.”
I take a sip from my beer glass. “Bigger and better things?” I help myself to another piece of lamb, so tender it falls off the bone. I suck on the marrow—the best part.
Ravi’s grin is wolfish. “Bigger than Papaji has ever dreamed of.” He spoons some chicken curry onto his plate. “My father believes in doing everything just as it’s always been done. But now there are newer, better techniques, materials, processes.” He raises one eyebrow. “For the time being, though, What can’t be cured must be endured.”
I laugh. “Your father doesn’t agree with you? About your modern ideas?”
Ravi’s face clouds for a fraction of a second. “I’m still working on him. We don’t quite see eye to eye on some things.”
The pretty waitress approaches with a basket of bread and a pair of tongs. “More paranthas, Sahib?”
Ravi turns to her, allows his gaze to linger. When she blushes and smiles at him, he nods. He watches her until she finishes serving both of us. When she walks away, he keeps his eyes on her, the movement of her buttocks.
Again, he turns to me, his gaze intense again. “Do you bat or bowl?”
This change of subject is so abrupt I look up from my lamb and stare at him. I’ve always loved cricket. Back when I lived in the bowels of the Pink City, I was always organizing games with the neighborhood boys, and we played hard and rough. At Bishop Cotton, where we played with official bats and wore spotless uniforms, I learned a more formal, refined version of the game.
Suddenly I’m wary, though I can’t say why. “Both. Depending.”
“On what?”
“On what’s needed.”
Ravi shows me a generous smile, and the dimple on his chin deepens. He picks up his beer glass and clinks it against mine. “Abbas Malik, allow me to welcome you to the All-Rounders Club. We will definitely have you out for a game, sometime soon.”
While the busboys clear the dishes, Ravi excuses himself, stands and walks over to the far side of the room, where the young waitress is wiping wine glasses with a white cloth. He leans close and whispers something in her ear. She giggles and shrugs. Ravi looks at the proprietor, standing near the door, who nods. Ravi returns to the table and taps two fingers on its surface. “Listen here, old chap, I have to run an errand. My driver will take you back to your office.”
He flashes one of his brilliant smiles at me, then grabs some sugared fennel seeds from a bowl on the table. He puts them in his mouth, to sweeten his breath, then winks at me and walks back to the waitress.
So far, Manu has rotated me through the engineering, design, and construction departments. Now he’s assigned me to accounting so I can learn the financial side of the business.
Hakeem is the accountant for the palace facilities department. His domain is a stuffy, windowless office shoved into one corner of Manu’s operation. At the far end of the floor are Manu’s and the chief engineer’s offices as well as a glass conference room. In between sit the secretaries, estimators, draftsmen, junior engineers.
I could have drawn a picture of Hakeem before I ever met him: a rotund man sitting behind his desk, wearing a neat black skullcap, white kurta and black vest. His glasses have thick black frames. I could have predicted that he would run a finger under his trim mustache when he’s agitated, which is what he does the moment I step into his office.
“Uncle,” I say, “I’m Abbas Malik. Mr. Manu asked me to avail myself of your good teaching.” I smile humbly. “Thank you for taking me on.”
Hakeem sits, a small Buddha, within the circle of his table lamp. He studies me through those thick glasses, his eyes as large as an owl’s, and strokes his mustache. I look for a chair, but there is only one—Hakeem’s—and he is sitting in it. The shelves lining the walls are filled with large cloth-covered ledgers, each neatly labeled along its spine. The shelves take up most of the space in the room and fill it with the smell of dust, musty fabric and old glue. On one spine I read “1924,” which, given Hakeem’s age—he must be in his sixties—might be the year he started working here. The old man makes a noncommittal noise and adjusts his glasses on his nose. “You will not eat in here. Yes?”
I fight the urge to smile. “Of course, Uncle.”
“Or drink. Yes?” Was ending every sentence with yes another of his tics? I decided to follow suit.
“Yes.”
“These books are important. They must be kept spotless. Yes?”
“Yes.”
He scoots his chair to one side so the ledgers in the bookcase behind him become visible. “These are the most important ones. Yes? In this one,” he says, pointing, “we keep records of the supplies we buy to remodel or construct a new project. And in this one,” he says, pointing to an adjacent ledger, “we record all the monies we owe to suppliers and contractors. Accounts payable. The next one is a list of money owed to the palace. Say reimbursement for returned materials. Or rental of palace facilities by others. That’s accounts receivable. The fourth is the account of what and how much we have already paid for the project. There are four ledgers per year.”