by Alka Joshi
I approached Radha, bade her good evening.
She flicked her eyes at me but said nothing. She poured flour from the plate in a pan of melted ghee. The rich smell of warm butter and flour filled the air.
I squatted next to her. For the first time, it occurred to me that she’d never had her earlobes pierced as a baby. Maa and Pitaji probably couldn’t afford gold for the earrings. I would get them pierced with small gold hoops.
“The next time I go to the palace, Radha, I’d like to take you with me.”
My sister blinked in surprise, but continued stirring the flour. I waited for a response. None came.
“You’ve been so diligent with your work. You grind henna finer than I ever could—”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Go to the palace with you.”
“Of course you can. Kanta would excuse you for an afternoon—”
“She’s cooped up in her house all day,” she said flatly. “And her saas is difficult.” She began pouring a sack of sugar into the hot pan. “She needs me.” I heard what she didn’t say: You don’t.
I was stung. How could this girl, who had cried all night two weeks ago when I wouldn’t let her go to the palace with Malik and me, now act as if it made no difference to her? Perhaps I chose the wrong time to tell her? I should have waited until she finished cooking. Since the fire at Mrs. Iyengar’s hearth when she first arrived, she had tried to be especially careful.
I lifted the bowl of crushed cardamom, intending to pour it into the sugar mixture.
Radha grabbed my wrist. “Not yet.”
I set the bowl down, embarrassed. I shouldn’t have interfered. Her laddus turned out far better than mine.
She turned over a spatula-full of flour. It was browning nicely.
The silence between us lengthened.
“I have a surprise for you. The Maharani Latika has offered you a scholarship at her school. Just think, Radha! Instead of a government school, you’ll be going to a private one. Where all the girls from Parvati’s holiday party go. Starting next week.”
She kept stirring the flour.
“Radha?”
“I’ll tell Auntie tomorrow when I see her. She’ll be pleased.”
Perhaps she was too tired to take it in. Had I been working her too hard?
“You’ll have to take an entrance exam, but I know you’ll pass easily. You know so much already about books, Radha, and your English is so good—”
“I’ll go, if that’s what you want.”
“I’d thought you’d be pleased—”
She lifted her eyes and looked at me steadily. “You’d like me to thank you? All right. Thank you. Now I need to finish these treats or you’ll be upset with me for not finishing my chores.”
I blinked. My sister, who had looked up to me, called me “Jiji” for the first time just three months ago, acted as if she no longer cared what I said or did for her. Should I have been glad she was detaching herself from me, becoming independent, making her own decisions? But I wasn’t. I missed the other Radha, the one who had clung to me on our cot, cried helplessly and told me about Maa and Pitaji and her life in Ajar.
I rose carefully to standing and smoothed my sari. I watched her add ground cloves to the mixture. When I could speak without a tremor in my voice, I said, “If you change your mind about coming to the palace—”
“I won’t. Leave the tiffins. I’ll wash them before coming up,” she said, reaching for the cardamom, the clipped edges of her words cutting off any further discussion.
NINE
February 12, 1956
The Maharani School for Girls consisted of three horizontal buildings, each two stories tall. I stood across the street from the school, watching a line of cars go through the gates, down a paved driveway, around the circular courtyard and back out into the street. Drivers in khaki shirts and pleated knickers held back doors open for young MemSahibs who were going home for lunch. A few day scholars were walking to local food stalls for their meal. The boarders ate at the school cafeteria.
The younger girls, eight to twelve years old, wore light blue skirts and half-sleeve shirts with a red sash. Students Radha’s age and older wore a blue kameez, white salwaar and a maroon chunni. Every girl had a maroon cardigan on—Jaipur in February was chilly. I’d heard that the maharani had been involved in every detail of her school—from the uniform, the selection of Miss Genevieve as principal (she’d been Her Highness’s tutor at her Swiss boarding school) to the lunch menu (no fried foods, plenty of vegetables and fruits, no sugar).
It was Radha’s first week at the Maharani School, and I wanted to take her to lunch. With everything going on, I’d barely seen her to ask how she liked it and what her classes were like. My heart grew full as I watched her skip down the front steps of the main building. Her complexion was rosy. Her uniform smart and neat. (This morning when I offered her a lift in the rickshaw with Malik and me, she’d wrinkled her nose. She said she didn’t want to smell the sweat of the rickshaw-walla or wrinkle her clothes.)
As Radha came down the last step, Sheela Sharma cut in front of her, bringing my sister to an abrupt halt. Without apologizing, Sheela dove into the back seat of her family’s sedan. Radha’s mouth tightened.
I held my breath.
To my relief, Radha resumed her walk to the guard’s station to check herself out for lunch. The gateman took his time looking for Radha’s name on his clipboard. She seemed nervous, glancing up the street, chewing on her lip.
I called to her. She turned, startled. She didn’t look pleased to see me, which, by now, I was learning to take in stride. I was carrying no tiffins, no carriers—only a handbag.
She took another look up the street. Her shoulders slumped.
“How smart you look in your uniform!” I said brightly.
She looked down at her clothes, self-conscious, as if I’d spotted a stain on it.
Hooking one of her slim arms in mine, I guided her to the chaat shops at the other end of the street. “I thought I’d take you to lunch.” I stopped to rearrange the long chunni so it fell evenly across her shoulders. “How are you enjoying school?”
“Fine.”
“Come now.” I took her arm again and resumed strolling. “This is your first big-city school—not like Pitaji’s little shack. There must be some surprises? Have you met anyone you’d like to have as a friend?”
She wagged her head from side to side and shrugged. Yes. No. Perhaps.
Two girls in uniforms identical to Radha’s overtook us and turned to smile at my sister, but she was too distracted to return the greeting.
I squeezed her arm. “It must be wonderful. So many new experiences.” With a practiced eye, I judged the wares of each chaat vendor we passed: samosas, choles, pakoras, dal batti.
“How about some sev puri? Puris take so long to make at home, and here we can order them fresh off the stove.” I looked to her for confirmation.
She raised her brows. “You don’t approve of street food.”
She was right, but I said I wanted to make an exception. She managed a slight nod. We sat at a small table in front of the food stand.
“Tell me about your teachers.”
Tracing a finger along a groove in the wooden table, she sighed. “The Hindi teacher is small and thin and has dandruff in her hair. You would not like the way she cleans her neck.”
“Radha! Is that any way to speak about those who teach you reading-writing?”
She met my eye as if to ask, Have you come all this way to scold me?
I put my hand over hers. “Pitaji would be so proud of you.”
“He would have been happy with the government school.”
It was true that our father had supported free education for all castes. But a chance at the Maharani School—
the girls she would get to know, the opportunities! Even he would have been excited.
Our tea arrived in small glass tumblers, the potato-and-chutney puri wrapped in newspaper. She must have been hungry because she took a large bite. Automatically, I laid a hand on her forearm to remind her to eat like a lady. She checked to see if any girls from her class had seen me correcting her, making me wish I hadn’t.
I sipped my tea. “How about your other teachers?”
“For History we have Mrs. Channa. She’s mean. A girl in my class was talking to her friend. Mrs. Channa didn’t like it, so Sonia had to squat with her arms under her knees and pull at her ears. Like a rooster.”
Some school punishments never changed. My lips twitched. “Looks like Mrs. Channa was trying to set an example.”
Radha lifted her shoulders, as if she didn’t care either way. I thought of how happy my sister always seemed around Malik and Kanta. Why couldn’t she be the same way with me?
I pulled a slim kidskin case from my handbag. “Since you like to read so much, I thought you might want to try your hand at writing. This should come in handy.”
She looked at the case for a moment, then at me. It occurred to me that she might never have received a gift before. She pulled out her school handkerchief and wiped the grease from her hands. Slowly, she opened the case and lifted the marbled orange fountain pen carefully from its blue velvet bed, as if she were afraid to break it. She slid her fingers over the smooth barrel and unscrewed the cap. She examined the engraving on the gold nib: Wilson 1st Quality Fine.
Radha’s lips were halfway to a smile. Then, suddenly, she blinked. She slipped the pen back in its case, snapping it shut. “You shouldn’t have.”
Stunned, I said, “Don’t you like it?”
“If I lose it, you’ll be angry.” Another rebuke.
She took another large mouthful of puri and potatoes, defying me to correct her table manners.
I pressed my lips together. I pushed the case closer to her. “It’s yours, choti behen.” The words little sister just slipped out. I hadn’t planned them. I was used to Malik calling her choti behen because he felt protective of her, as if he were the older sibling. This was the first time I’d called her that.
She stopped chewing. With difficulty, she swallowed. “Thank you, Jiji.”
She quickly finished the remainder of her puri and said she had to get back to catch up on her reading before her next class. “I could have finished it this morning but I had to grind the henna for you.”
“Radha, if your schoolwork is suffering, you don’t have to make the henna paste anymore. I can manage.”
“Can we go now?” She sounded impatient and got off her stool.
When we arrived at the school gates, she checked in with the guard and walked across the courtyard and up the steps, disappearing into the main building. She hadn’t even said goodbye.
I crossed the street, lost in thought. She hadn’t wanted to go the Maharani School in the first place, but now she was anxious to return early from lunch so she could do well in her studies. What an unpredictable girl she was.
“I wish I could send my daughter to a school like that.”
I jumped. My builder, Naraya, had come up behind me. He was standing a little too close, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick. He was a hefty man, with a bulging belly, and the kurta he wore was voluminous, making him appear even larger.
I took a step away from him. “You scared me, Mr. Naraya.”
“Did I? Apologies, Mrs. Shastri.” Although he was gazing at me calmly, there was a hint of menace in his voice. “Did you notice that we put in that fancy Western plumbing you like? Unfortunately, we ran out of money for a privy. And the shutters for the windows.” He took a piece of paper from his kurta and moved closer to me to again. “You haven’t paid the invoice.” I smelled the cheap beedis and the curry he’d had for lunch.
I was about to take the sheet from him, but he pulled it back. “Of course, I had to double it.”
What? Samir had secured a two-month extension for me. I snatched the invoice out of his hands and scanned it. “Ten thousand rupees? What about—”
“Your extension? Two months was up—” he scratched his neck “—two days ago. The amount doubles if you miss a payment. It’s in the contract.”
I’d been so preoccupied with the palace and our new bookings, getting Radha ready for school and, of course, working, working, working that I’d forgotten to mark it in my notebook.
“I already gave you two extra months.” He picked his teeth. “If I don’t get the money today, I can take possession. That’s also in the contract. And my daughter and her new husband need a house.”
Hai Ram! I still didn’t have his money. Most of my palace earnings had gone toward a combination of the Maharani Latika’s supplies (Parvati had yet to pay me for the marriage commission), to Radha’s uniform and books, the increased rent Mrs. Iyengar was charging for my sister and, of course, to Hari. Naraya had deliberately held back the installation of the toilet. Without a proper privy, I couldn’t move in.
I attempted a smile, but it came out as a grimace. “I need a little more time.”
His face with its Buddha-cheeks looked pleasant enough, but his voice was grim. “My daughter’s dowry can’t wait. Else she will deliver before the wedding.”
I raised my eyebrows. “She’s pregnant?”
He bared his stained teeth, as if we had just shared a joke. “I kicked her out once. But my sister begged me to take her back. Finally, I found an old fool to take her off my hands. But she’ll start showing soon.”
“The groom doesn’t know?”
Mr. Naraya laughed so hard his belly rippled under the kurta. “Am I crazy?”
I backed away.
“You don’t look well, Mrs. Shastri. Why don’t I drive you to wherever it is you keep your money?”
I clutched my handbag tightly, as if the money were in there. “No. I’ll meet you at 3:00 p.m. Just outside the Jhori Bazaar gate. With your money.”
He pointed his toothpick at me. “See how easy that was?”
* * *
I had no choice but to ask Samir. He had offered me a loan before, and I knew he could spare it, but I hated to ask. As fiercely committed as I was to having a house of my own—my dream of an independent life—debts were abhorrent to me, more so if they came from friends. Especially if they came from Samir. Our arrangement was based strictly on the sachets; after Parvati’s holiday party, I wanted to avoid any other personal entanglements with him.
I checked my pocket watch: 1:30 p.m. At this time of day, unless he was taking a client to lunch, Samir would most likely be at his office.
I hailed a rickshaw.
When I arrived at the office building with the tall white colonnades, I almost lost my nerve. My hands felt clammy. I wanted to turn around. But where else would I get the money? Banks? When had they ever loaned money to a woman without a husband?
Then, a chilling thought: How was I different from Hari, begging for money, begging for time?
I stepped out of the rickshaw before I changed my mind.
* * *
“Well, this is a surprise,” Samir said. He indicated the chair in front of his desk. His office, enclosed in glass, was on one side of a large open space where five draftsmen were busy at their desks. “Tea?”
I shook my head. “It’s urgent. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.” I wet my lips. “The builder’s invoice. I’ve passed the deadline.”
He didn’t hesitate. “How much?”
I handed him the receipt. “I’ll pay you back with interest.”
Samir whistled when he read the receipt, then looked at me. He walked to the office safe behind him, opened it with the combination and took out a bundle of bills. He inserted them in an envelope, handed the envelope to me and sat down agai
n.
I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry, Samir. I thought I could do it on my own. I sat in my chair a moment longer. “Do you want a...receipt?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners and he fought back a smile. He stood.
Time for me to go, I thought. I nodded my thanks, then hurried through the office doors, the fat envelope in my hand. I allowed myself a sigh of relief. Samir had made the asking so easy.
Coming out of the building, I almost crashed into Parvati.
I froze. For once I couldn’t come up with any small talk. Couldn’t think of a lie to explain what I was doing here.
Last December, at the holiday party, she had all but warned me to stay away from her husband. Yet here I was, at his office door. I felt my cheeks redden. It’s not what you think, I wanted to say. It’s not how it looks. Isn’t that what Radha had said when Parvati found blue greasepaint on her skin?
Parvati’s gaze landed on the envelope in my hand. Her eyebrows shot up.
I put my hands together, one still holding the envelope, to greet her. I sputtered, “Samir Sahib...ordered—I delivered...they’re for his clients.”
It was partially true. He did buy my hair tonic for the Maharani Indira once a month. Just not today. In my harried state, I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
I had to meet my builder in half an hour. I couldn’t afford to lose my house! Flustered, I rushed past her to flag down a rickshaw.
* * *
The day after, Parvati sent a note canceling her next appointment.
PART THREE
TEN
Jaipur, State of Rajasthan, India