“Pick two,” he says, smiling at me, puffing on his chillum.
I pull out the slimmest of the chains, pounded flat so it will sit flush against the skin. I can picture it on Nimmi’s slim neck, how the gold would glow against her dark complexion. Maybe next time, I think. “Uncle, I can afford only half this gold.”
He smiles. “What is this afford, Malik? It is my gift. Haven’t I told you more than once you are the son I never had?” Now he’s frowning, offended that I have mistaken his generosity for a business transaction.
“And what about your son-in-law out there?” I say, to tease him.
He lifts a hand and swats the air. “Mohan is fine. But if you come to work for me, I will die a happy man.” He puts the hand on his chest and tilts his head to the side beseechingly.
“Lal-ji, you are not going anytime soon. And I know nothing about the jewelry business.” I’ve said these very words to him at least a hundred times.
“Listen carefully,” he says, and takes another puff. “Lord Brahma, the creator of our universe, threw a seed from his body into the waters. That seed became a golden egg, an incarnation of the creator himself. This gold, symbol of purity, good fortune and godliness, is what we sell here. Now you know as much as I know.” He blows a large smoke ring at me.
I laugh. “I’m in Jaipur only at Auntie Lakshmi’s request.”
At the mention of my Auntie-Boss, Moti-Lal opens his slit eyes and smiles broadly. “And how is the beautiful Lakshmi Shastri? All of Jaipur misses her. Most of all my wife! Without Lakshmi’s hair oil, she’ll soon be as bald as a baby monkey!” He lets out a tremendous guffaw and slaps his hand on his thigh.
“It’s Mrs. Kumar now. She’s married to a doctor.”
“Bahut accha! I’m happy for her.” He points his hookah pipe at me. “You’re lucky she offered to take you to Shimla when Omi’s husband threw you out.”
“Zaroor.” As I’ve often said to Nimmi: I owe Lakshmi my life. Since moving to Shimla, I’ve sent a portion of my earnings to Lal-ji to pass on to Omi (those I don’t record in my bank book because I know Boss checks it periodically). It’s an arrangement that’s lasted twelve years.
“What does Lakshmi want you to do in Jaipur?”
“Learn the building trade. I’m working at the palace under Manu Agarwal.”
Moti-Lal raises his eyebrows. “Agarwal’s a good man. Honest. That cinema house the palace is building is going to be bloody marvelous! My wife plans to go with our daughter and her husband to the grand opening. I will be here, of course. Although I don’t know why I’m bothering. Everyone who’s anyone will be at the Royal Jewel Cinema that night.”
“Her Highness Latika certainly hopes so.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Moti-Lal’s son-in-law Mohan enters. I stand up to salaam him and he folds his hands in namaste. He is a shy man, quiet, ten years older than me.
“The Guptas have arrived,” he says to Moti-Lal.
“See that they are seated, bheta. I’ll be right there.” Moti-Lal passes an enormous hand over his face, a gesture of frustration. When the door closes, he rolls his eyes. “Ten years and no children.”
When I look questioningly at him, he points to the door, and I understand the comment is directed at his son-in-law. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t have it in him.”
I smile. Parents are always anxious for grandchildren. That won’t be the case with Auntie-Boss, and I’m glad of it. Whether I have none or ten, it’s all the same to her. She likes talking to children; she just never wanted any of her own. I pick up the chain I was admiring earlier and another, heavier gold necklace. Moti-Lal observes me while he smokes. I put both chains aside, open the other box and select a pair of small gold studs that I think little Rekha will like. Her ears were pierced when she was just a few months old; they’re fitted with the thinnest silver hoops. I place both chains and the earrings on the scale.
Moti-Lal frowns again and sighs. “Arré, Malik, leave it alone.”
The scale registers one ounce. The current going price is 321 rupees per ounce, but I ask Moti-Lal if he will take 200 rupees for it.
“I’ll let you have it for free if you’ll take some advice from me.”
I arch an eyebrow, waiting to see what he has to say.
He wags a stubby finger at me. “Never marry a poor widow.”
I shake my head and laugh.
Pocketing the necklace for Nimmi and the studs for Rekha, I lay two one-hundred-rupee bills on the scale next to Omi’s chain.
“I’ll make sure Omi knows, Malik. I’ll go to her tomorrow.”
The heaviness of my guilt—lusting after Sheela, how little I can do for Omi—has lifted a little.
13
NIMMI
Shimla
Rekha watches me as I pace the floor of our room. In her lap is the book about monkeys Lakshmi-ji loaned her. She loves looking at the pictures and sounding out the names of the different kinds of monkeys.
“Do your studies,” I tell her. She’s read the monkey book so often she has memorized it. “Write the words down exactly as you see them in the book.”
“Do it with me, Maa,” she says.
Chullu is sitting with Neela the sheep, who is busy munching on a leaf. Chullu pets her, then rolls over her. The sheep has won them over and my children want her to stay home with us, so I brought her here from the lower pasture. Watching the animal now, I think about the gold hidden under her fleece. What, exactly, does it look like? The women of my tribe wear silver, but I’ve seen gold jewelry on other women. I’ve never seen a solid brick of gold.
I reach for the patal that hangs from my waist belt next to a coil of rope and a goatskin water bag. I test the sharpness of the blade. I use this patal to cut vegetables and fruit, branches, wood—anything and everything. I pick Chullu up and set him next to Rekha on the cot, where he tries to cram her monkey book into his mouth.
I approach Neela, gently. She stops chewing and watches me. She bleats, then stands, now wary. I run my hand over her fleece to find the hard mound opposite her injured flank. Then I find the edges of the wool that have been sewn shut and cut the stitches carefully, keeping Neela in place with an elbow. Two bars of gold, each five inches long, two inches wide and half an inch thick fall to the ground with a thud. The sound scares Neela, and she struggles under my grasp. I let her go.
The gold is a dull color. It isn’t beautiful, as I’d thought it would be. Someone has written numbers on the bars. They’re heavy and surprisingly warm. The silver our tribe wears is cooler to the touch. To think anyone would kill for a lump of dull yellow metal!
A knock on the door startles me. I gather up the gold bars and look for someplace I can hide them. My bedroll is within reach, and I quickly stuff the bars under it before I go to see who’s at the door.
It’s Lakshmi. She’s still in the same clothes she was wearing this morning. She has deep circles under her eyes and her hair is loose around her face; it hasn’t been oiled. She looks exhausted. I tell her to come in and close the door behind her.
“Tomorrow, we will deliver the gold to that place,” she says. She’s speaking in a whisper.
“The place on the matchbox?” I ask.
She nods and rubs her forehead. “But first we must think how to remove the gold from the sheep and carry it from the hospital’s lower pasture to Canara.”
“Where is it? The business?”