Over dinner, I ask Niki about his school and the classes he’s taking. He says English and history are the classes he likes best, and I fight back a smile. I can imagine a young Radha sitting with us at this table, telling us about her love of Shakespeare and her fascination with the Moghul Empire.
Eventually, our talk turns to the Royal Jewel Cinema project. Manu says, “You know that Maharani Latika is the driving force behind that project?”
I’m holding a piece of chapatti and eggplant subji in my hand. “Yes, I think Samir Uncle told me.”
Manu smiles. “Her Highness took it upon herself to complete the building projects the maharaja had started before he died. We’d just finished His Highness’s hotel remodel and broken ground on the cinema hall when he passed unexpectedly.” Manu sips from his water glass. “So far, things are going smoothly. What did you think of the Royal Jewel Cinema?”
“Brilliant. Really impressive, Uncle.”
Manu looks pleased and helps himself to more subji. “Completed in record time.”
I sip some of Baju’s excellent moong dal. “What’s it like working for her, the maharani?”
“The most beautiful woman in the world.” Niki chuckles. Those words appeared on the most recent cover of Vogue magazine, across a photo of the glamorous Jaipur queen.
Kanta slaps his arm, but she’s grinning.
Manu smiles. “She’s remarkable,” he says. “Quick to catch on, eyes wide-open. Doesn’t miss a thing. And don’t forget she founded the Maharani School for Girls—” He cocks his head. “But of course, you would know all that, Malik. Lakshmi helped Her Highness through that rough period of her life, hahn-nah?”
I nod. That was twelve years ago. Maharani Latika had become despondent after her husband sent their firstborn son—and only child—to boarding school in England at a tender age. All because the maharaja’s astrologer had warned His Highness not to trust his natural heir. So the maharaja adopted a boy from another Rajput family and anointed him crown prince.
I remember how Lakshmi gradually coaxed the young queen out of mourning, using daily applications of henna and the sweets and savories she infused with healing herbs. When, a few months later, Her Highness overcame her depression and resumed her official duties, Maharani Latika was so grateful to Lakshmi that she offered Radha a scholarship at her prestigious school. And Lakshmi’s business started exploding. What a heady time that was! The boom went on and on until the day everything came crashing down.
“Where’s Her Highness’s son now?” I ask.
Manu clears his throat. “He stays away from Jaipur. I imagine it’s hard for him to come face-to-face with his replacement—although the adopted crown prince won’t come of age for another few years.” Manu takes a sip of his buttermilk. “Last I heard, Maharani Latika’s son was living in Paris. At the apartment the dowager maharani keeps there.”
The Dowager Maharani Indira! At eight years old, I was more awed by her talking parakeet than I was by her. At this very moment, Madho Singh is likely grumbling about some grievance or another from his perch in Shimla. Or repeating a proverb Dr. Jay and Auntie-Boss have been tossing around. We are both queens, so who will hang out the laundry?
After dinner, when I say my goodbyes, Kanta takes my arm and walks me to the front gate. “When Niki’s finished with his game, we go to a stall near the cricket field and order chaat.” She lowers her voice and whispers, as if we are conspiring. “Saasuji doesn’t let us give him fried food, so Niki and I cheat when he’s with me.” A mischievous smile plays about her lips. “Sev puri is his favorite. Mine, too.” We laugh.
We’ve reached the end of the long driveway.
Kanta takes a deep breath. “Several times, at Niki’s cricket practice, I’ve seen Samir Singh in a Jeep parked opposite the grounds.”
“You’re sure it’s Samir?”
She makes a face. “Not a hundred percent. The peepal trees on either side of the street shade the cars. And there are always people milling about. Cars going in and out.”
“But if it’s him?”
She lets out a sigh. It’s dusk, and half her face is in shadow. Even so, I see from her expression, and the furrows on her brow, that this is serious. “I’ve never said a word to Manu,” she says, “but I think about it all the time. Sometimes, the strain of keeping Niki separated from...all the vigilance...it’s too much.” Her voice is strained, and if she’s crying, I can’t see her tears because she has turned away from me. “I lie awake at night worrying that Samir will take Nikhil away from us,” she whispers.
An alarm bell goes off in my head. Should I tell Boss about this? If it’s true, Lakshmi would want to know. For now, I have to reassure Kanta. Niki means the world to her and Uncle. After the stillbirth twelve years ago, Kanta can no longer have children.
“Listen to me, Auntie. You and Manu are Niki’s legal, adoptive parents. Samir Sahib can’t touch you.”
“But he might come to Niki and tell him that he was adopted. That his son is Niki’s father. What do we do then?” She’s twirling the end of her georgette sari around her finger as she talks, her voice a hush.
“Before long, Niki will be old enough that you can tell him yourself, if that’s what you and Manu choose to do. But I doubt Samir will talk to Niki if you don’t give him your consent.” I’m speaking with a confidence I don’t entirely feel.
Kanta bites her lip. “You don’t think Samir Sahib would take the opportunity to start a conversation with his grandson on the cricket grounds?”
I’m wondering how Auntie-Boss would answer that, when Kanta says, “It’s why I go to every game. To keep an eye on Niki. And if I can’t be there, Baju knows to bring my son directly home from practice.” She sniffles, presses her sari to her nose.
“Listen to me, Auntie. First, the Singhs would have a lot to lose if word got out that Ravi is the father. Everyone would know Radha was underage when Ravi got her pregnant. Second, they took no responsibility, and hushed the matter up by sending Ravi thousands of miles away. It would be a scandal for them, and I doubt the Singhs would risk it.” Another thought occurs to me, and I tap Auntie’s arm. “By the way, Samir drives a Mercedes, not a Jeep.”
She searches my face, then lets out an embarrassed laugh. “You’re right! The problem might not be Samir—it might be my imagination!”
A new, disturbing, thought occurs to me. “Has Niki ever asked about this? Have any of the kids at school suggested he’s adopted?” It’s never made sense to me that while royal adoptions are public, private adoptions are considered shameful. No couple wants to admit they are sterile; it’s considered a personal failing, a problem best solved by magical gems, amulets and alms to Ganesh.
The worry returns to Kanta’s voice. “I don’t know of any. Niki’s never asked. We try to keep things as normal as possible.” Her gaze drifts behind us, to the house. “I haven’t noticed any changes in him.”
Before she unlatches the gate, she says, “Thank you, Malik. I feel better now.” When she shuts the gate behind me, another thought occurs to her. “You sure you don’t want Baju to drive you home?”
The guesthouse is only twenty minutes on foot. I shake my head and tell her that I need to walk off that superb meal. I thank her for a wonderful time and ask her to give my thanks to Manu, as well. And then I head home, my head now swirling with anxieties about the boy his parents are determined to protect from the clutches of the Singhs.
7
NIMMI
Shimla
At night, after Rekha and Chullu have dropped off to sleep on either side of me, I look through the picture books Lakshmi has lent us. They are children’s books, she said, that she borrows from the Shimla library. I never knew there was a place where you could go look at books, much less borrow them, then return them when you are through looking. Imagine! Something that precious! That’s like borrowing a woman’s bridal jewelry for your marriage and giving it back the next day. No one in their right mind would hand over something that valuable and expect to get it back!