On the opposite wall, next to the wide staircase fashioned from pink Salumber marble, a large photo shows Nehru, the late prime minister, standing with Samir and Parvati and several others—official-looking men and women—in front of a government building. I know from Auntie-Boss that Parvati Singh is particularly proud of her past association with our government’s effort to strengthen Indo-Soviet relations.
Would I want to live in a house as imposing as this? Dr. Jay and Auntie-Boss’s bungalow in Shimla is comfortable, and welcoming. Walls and floors of wood, not marble. Cozy nooks where Lakshmi writes her letters or reads books that she borrows from the Shimla library. My next thought surprises me: Where would Nimmi and the children and I live?
Would that ever have occured to me before I came to Jaipur? A month of being separated and I’m thinking marriage? I have to shake my head to clear it.
I continue through the foyer, past the open French doors at the back of the house. I see an expansive green lawn and the many wrought-iron chairs and tables, dazzlingly white, placed in various configurations. The chairs are empty, all save one. A man in a fine linen shirt sits facing away from me. The thinning hair, graying now, tells me that the man is Samir Singh, surveying his domain. I call him Uncle, not because we are related, but from custom and respect. His arm is raised, his hand jiggling the half-full glass of ice and amber liquid.
“Welcome,” he says. He doesn’t turn around.
I drop into the chair beside his own and offer him my hand. He grasps it firmly.
“Uncle,” I say.
I have always found his presence reassuring. He is not a handsome man, nor particularly tall, but people feel looked after in his presence, and protected. I would rather be in Shimla, staying close to Nimmi and her children, or reading by the fire with Auntie-Boss and Dr. Jay. But if I have to be in Jaipur, I’d just as soon be with Samir.
He looks tired, the pouches under his eyes more prominent, the creases along his mouth deeper than they were a dozen years ago.
“I trust you had a good trip from Shimla.” He nods at his glass. “Join me?”
I smile. “Sure, why not?”
He calls to a servant in a white uniform and turban, who is watering the petunias and marigolds along the high stone wall at the back of the property. Light from the setting sun makes the shards of glass along the top of the wall sparkle like emeralds. The servant drops his hose and walks into the house.
Samir sips his drink and studies me with those striated brown eyes of his, so much like the marbles we used to play with on the street. “Has that boarding-school education finally turned you into a Pukkah Sahib?”
This is the reason I’ve accepted his invitation to come see him. For twelve years, Samir Singh paid my tuition at the Bishop Cotton School for Boys. My crisp white Oxford shirt, the long sleeves of which I roll upward from my wrists, my slim trousers, cuffed at the ankles, are evidence of that education. Unlike the shapeless half-sleeve shirts and baggy pants that other Indian men my age wear, I’ve adopted the more tailored look of a private-school uniform. I even sport a flat Swiss watch, a gift a wealthy schoolmate gave me in exchange for bourbon I was able to supply him for his birthday party.
Samir’s reaction to me is similar to the one that Kanta Auntie and her husband, Manu Agarwal, had a month ago, upon my arrival from Shimla. When I showed up at their bungalow—far more modest than the Singh estate—Auntie’s eyes went wide with admiration. She quickly brought me inside for a closer look. Manu, quieter and more reserved than Kanta, laughed at her speechlessness—so unlike her—and moved forward to shake my hand. I had not seen either of them in the twelve years since I’d been away. Kanta and Auntie-Boss sent photos and letters to each other every week or so and had long conspired to have Manu take me on as an apprentice before I ever learned of it. Lakshmi had hoped I would live with the Agarwals during my stay in Jaipur. But having boarded at an all-boys school where privacy was a scarce commodity, I wanted my own space. So Manu Uncle had kindly arranged for me to stay at the smaller of two guesthouses, separate buildings on the perimeter of the Rambagh Palace grounds.
Now, surveying Samir’s lawn, I tug at the sharp crease along one of my pants legs and laugh. The grass is cool under my feet, and it feels good to stretch my toes. I notice Samir is also barefoot. The servant returns with a small tray, offering me a cut-glass tumbler of scotch and ice. As I take it, I say, “Think I can pass for an angrezi? With this?” I gesture to my face, the color of my skin not unlike an overcooked chapatti.
Samir chuckles as our glasses clink. His pale wheat complexion could pass for a Brit. He takes a long swallow.
It’s more than the color of my skin that will keep me from the ranks of the privileged. Long used to serving rather than being served, I affect a deference in my bearing that’s hard for me to shed. I suppose the upper classes might suss me out sooner or later, but that doesn’t really bother me.
Samir lowers his voice so the servant in the yard cannot hear us. “I have strict orders to call you Abbas while you’re here in Jaipur.”
The memory of that day makes me smile. Auntie-Boss was filling out my school enrollment form shortly after we’d moved to Shimla. She had marked my age as eight, an age I preferred, though neither of us knew how old I really was. She asked me for my full name to put on the form.
“Malik,” I said.
“First or last name?”
I had to think a moment. If I ever had a naming ceremony as a baby, I didn’t remember it. I shrugged. “Only name.”
She turned down the corners of her mouth as if considering this. “Let’s pick a first name for you, then.” She ran through an impressive list, rattling off the meaning of names like Aalim, Jawad and Rashid. I pretended to be embarrassed, but I was secretly pleased; no one had ever spent this much time thinking about my future. We finally settled on Abbas, which is Urdu for lion. I liked the sound of that: Abbas Malik. For days after, I practiced writing my new name over and over.
Like me, Samir is wearing a custom tailored shirt and raw-silk pants. He has loosened his tie—he must have just come from work—and it sits like the wilted stem of a plant on his chest. “Manu Agarwal told me you’ve come to Jaipur only at Lakshmi’s request, and I think it a wise move. But then, Lakshmi has always been wise.” He sounds wistful, and I wonder if he misses her. She has never talked to me about the two of them, and I have never asked. “The Maharani Latika trusts Manu Agarwal to manage the facilities department. It’s a big job, and he’s been doing it now for fifteen, sixteen years? I’m of course grateful he hires my firm to design and build the larger projects.” Samir is not being entirely truthful; his blood relation to the royal family makes his work for the palace a foregone conclusion. Luckily, he has the talent to justify the nepotism. “You’ll learn a lot about the construction business from Manu. After a time, you can decide whether the work suits you. It’s what I tell my sons. Their career, their choice.”
When Auntie-Boss and I left Jaipur in 1957, Samir had just merged his architectural firm with Sharma Construction, now known as Singh-Sharma. Lakshmi had arranged the marriage of Samir’s son Ravi to Mr. Sharma’s daughter Sheela, so the business merger was inevitable. Ravi Singh, having completed university at Oxford and architecture school at Yale, now works alongside his father as an architect in Singh-Sharma. Samir’s younger son, Govind, is studying civil engineering in the United States. Manu told me Samir is hoping both his sons will eventually take over the family business. Singh-Sharma is now the biggest design-build firm in Rajasthan, constructing projects throughout northern India.