Hakeem’s office is a tiny, windowless room set off in one distant corner of this floor, but years of loyal service have earned him this small privilege.
From where I sit, I can see the desks of project managers, draftsmen and overseers. The secretaries who type letters for the office sit closer to me. But at lunch, employees either leave the office or sit quietly behind their desks, eating lunch, reading a newspaper or taking a nap.
I let several minutes pass before I make my way to Hakeem’s office door. I was raised on the streets of Jaipur, left to my own devices when I was just two or three years old, which was when Omi gave me a home, even though she had three of her own children to feed. Her husband was absent for long periods, so I helped her out any way I could. I played Parcheesi for food and marbles for money, learned how to cheat well at cards, haggled for things Omi’s children needed.
And I excelled at picking locks.
I am inside Hakeem’s office in three seconds.
The file cabinet marked Support holds the original invoices from suppliers. At the end of every day, when I’ve finished inputting the invoice amounts in the ledger, Hakeem snatches the invoices from the box on my desk, double-checks my work and stashes them in this drawer.
I pull the bills for April, looking for the invoices from Chandigarh Ironworks marked Paid. I find both items: one for concrete, one for bricks. Both amounts match what I recorded in the ledger. Were the bricks purchased for another project and inadvertently billed to the cinema house project? I put the two receipts in my pocket and check my watch. It’s still lunch hour, so there won’t be anyone at the supplier’s office if I call.
Back at my desk, I shoo a fly away from my tea, now cold. The sluggish fan overhead does little to cool the room. I may as well step out for a parantha and a mango lassi before I head over to the offices of Singh-Sharma, just a few streets over, for a chat with Ravi Singh.
“So what’s the problem?” Ravi is gazing at me across his immense desk at Singh-Sharma Construction as I stand with the two receipts in my hand.
“The amounts are the opposite of what they should be.”
“And?” He sounds impatient, eager for me to leave so he can continue inspecting the blueprints in front of him. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up at the cuffs. His elegant linen jacket hangs on a wooden coatrack in the corner.
“The invoices are from Singh-Sharma suppliers. Have they made a mistake? Should I call them or would you like to?”
Ravi narrows his eyes, considering me. He pulls a cigarette from the pack on his desk and offers one to me. He pats his pockets for his gold lighter, the one that’s a duplicate of Samir’s. He frowns, his head tilted. Then his face clears and a smile plays about his lips.
Inwardly, I roll my eyes. Has he left his lighter at the home of his latest conquest? I pick up the matchbox on his desk and light his cigarette first, then mine. I shake the match to extinguish it.
Ravi takes a drag of his cigarette. “Show me.”
I lay the receipts on the desk.
He blows smoke from his nostrils as he examines the invoices. Unscrewing his fountain pen, he crosses out the total at the bottom of the first invoice and writes in the total from the second. Then he does the same to the other invoice. He hands them both back to me with a broad smile. “There. Not so hard, was it?”
For a moment, I say nothing. What kind of strange accounting is this?
Ravi shrugs. “Look, there’s no need to complicate things. Hakeem needs the numbers to match. They’ll match. End of story. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
His habit of abruptly changing subjects always throws me off guard. I’m still trying to make sense of what he’s just done to the invoices.
“Why not come out with us tonight? Sheela and I are leaving the kids at home. We’re dining at the Rambagh Palace. The rogan josh is sublime.” To his credit, he doesn’t boast about the relationship of the Singhs to the Jaipuri royal family. He doesn’t have to; it’s a well-known fact; his father has always been a favorite of the court.
Before I have a chance to say anything, Ravi reaches for his phone. “I’ll tell Sheela you’ll be joining us.”
When I lived in this city as a boy, Rambagh Palace used to be the maharajas’ personal residence. After independence, when the purses of India’s maharajas were dwindling rapidly, His Highness of Jaipur had the bright idea of turning the Rambagh into a hotel to replenish his coffers. It worked. Royalty from around the world, successful businessmen and wealthy globetrotters all frequent the Rambagh.
It’s one of the grandest places I’ve ever been. The waiters are dressed in maroon maharaja coats cinched with orange cummerbunds, orange turbans on their heads. Overhead, multitiered chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their lights bouncing off the gems on the fingers, wrists, necks and ears of diners. I try to store the details in my memory so I can describe them to Nimmi in my next letter.
At dinner, Ravi is the attentive host, ordering for us, making sure our wine glasses are filled, regaling us with amusing stories. He gossips about the polo club (His Highness is bringing the Bombay polo team here for an elephant polo match—that should be charming!), praises Sheela’s progress at tennis (Mark my words—she will be a regional champ next year!), and India’s cricket team (We’re going to show the Australians a thing or two come November!). Sheela is in fine form, too, dazzling in an emerald-green chiffon sheath with spaghetti straps, laughing at her husband’s jokes, teasing him about his cricket obsession and chatting merrily about their friends at the Jaipur Club. I try to picture Nimmi’s granite-dark skin, exposed, glistening, under a dress like Sheela’s and feel a blush creeping from my neck to my ears.
After dinner, as Sheela is getting into their car, Ravi tells her he has promised a potential client a late-night drink. The driver will take Sheela home first, then me. Ravi will take a taxi to his appointment.
Sheela’s face falls. “But it’s almost midnight!”
“And that’s when deals get sealed in Jaipur.”
“Which deal is this?” There’s an edge to Sheela’s voice.
I’m in the passenger’s seat, next to the driver. I can see Sheela and Ravi in the side-view mirror.
“I need one more piece to come together for the grand opening of the Royal Jewel Cinema. That’s the guy I’m meeting.”
Seeing that Sheela is starting to pout, Ravi leans close to her and slips a finger under one of her spaghetti straps, sliding it up and down the delicate fabric, grazing her skin. “He’s the one who’s always ogling you. I can’t have that. That’s why you’re not invited.”
The act is so intimate it makes me blush. Are they always like this? I shift my gaze away from the side-view mirror, wondering what their driver, the ever stoic Mathur, is thinking.
Sheela looks at her husband sideways. And smiles.
After a beat, Sheela reaches up a hand to straighten Ravi’s tie. “Abbas will have a drink with me, won’t you, Abbas? Mathur can take him home afterward.”
I turn around to object. I have a lot of work to do for Hakeem tomorrow and a tutorial with one of Manu’s engineers. It’s late, and I’d rather go to bed.
Ravi’s face has darkened. He’s staring pointedly at Sheela. She returns his stare, coolly.
He pushes his lips out as if considering the idea. “A little Sheela hospitality. Sounds like a plan.” He straightens and pats my shoulder as if the matter is settled.
My acquiescence, it seems, is neither warranted nor necessary.
At Sheela and Ravi’s home, the driver parks, then hops out of the car to open Sheela’s door. I stay where I am, hoping that the invitation for a drink was only a maneuver to make Ravi jealous.