“My,” she says, turning her head from side to side.
I step back.
“Thank you, Anu,” she says, looking briefly at me.
“I help you dress?” I ask her. She is wearing one of her salwar-kameezes. Mrs. Darnsley gave up fighting so long as Margaret promised not to wear them outside the house. But it is wrinkled where she’s been sitting at the harmonium, and damp at her back with sweat.
“Actually,” she says, rising, going to the wardrobe, and opening the door, “yes.” She pulls out the purple sari. I gasp at the sight of it. It is so beautiful, and Margaret will only make it even prettier. Somehow, if she wears it, it feels as if things will be all right between us again.
I shake out the blouse, the silk fine and perfect in my fingers. I hold it open to her as she sheds her shirt and underthings. She slips into the choli and buttons up the front. It doesn’t pull or gap across her chest, the sleeves just right on her upper arms, the length hitting just so at her ribs, leaving the flat of her belly and navel exposed.
“Oh bugger, I’d forgotten how short the tops are meant to be,” she says, spreading her hands wide across her bare stomach, trying to cover it up. “Mother’s going to have a bloody stroke.”
I stifle a giggle. Mrs. Darnsley might, but I suspect Mr. Darnsley will be pleased. He, at least, seems to like India. He relishes the curries we serve. He has encouraged Margaret’s playing at the harmonium. I find myself hoping the sight of his daughter in so beautiful a sari will make him proud.
“Nice,” I say, reaching for the petticoat. Margaret hesitates, mutters something about “Romans” that I do not understand, and drops her salwar to the floor, stepping into the petticoat. It too fits perfectly. Then I reach for the sari. I gently unfold it on the bedspread so as not to trail it on the floor, removing it from its tissue wrap. I’ve only worn a sari a few times, for special occasions, but I’ve known how to drape one from the time I was small. When we were very little girls, Vineeta and Neera and I would turn even a tablecloth into a sari, dressing up and pretending to be glamorous ladies. I wrap the fabric once around her, tucking it into the waist of the petticoat, making sure that it falls all the way down to the floor.
Margaret watches me closely as I turn her back around to face me, adjust the fabric in the front, and begin pleating. I make six perfect pleats, each the depth of my hand, falling in easy drapes to the floor. The silk is even better than I realized, holding the shapes I coax it into. Margaret keeps her arms lifted over her head, but she stares at my hands as they fly across the fabric.
“I’ll never be able to do this myself,” she says.
I smile but think that anyone who can play the harmonium as she does can surely make a few pleats. I will teach her next time. But now I’m too eager to see her finished in the sari to wait. I tuck the pleats carefully into her waistband, just to the left of her belly button.
“Almost done,” I say. I take the rest of the length of the sari and wrap her once more, bringing it back around to her front and then lifting it across her chest, letting the pallu fall over her shoulder to the floor, where its end lies perfectly flush with the bottom edge.
I stand back, smile, and nod. “Now you are cooking with gas,” I say, borrowing one of Margaret’s odd phrases.
She laughs, rolls her eyes at me, and crosses to the mirror. But when she sees herself, I can tell she is surprised. She grows still, her shoulders straighten, and she lifts her chin.
“Oh,” she says, reaching up to pat her hair, as if to make sure the girl in the mirror is her. The pallu slips from her shoulder; she lifts it back up, but the silk slides down again. “This thing is worse than the dupatta,” she grumbles. I cross to her dressing table, find a pin, and solve her problem.
The gate creaks at the street as the sound of a car draws closer.
Margaret turns from the mirror, glances toward the sound. “They’re back!” She says it urgently, and I think how she does love her father. She’s watched the windows in anticipation of his return. And why shouldn’t she? I can’t imagine coming so far from home and then being left with just her mother in this giant house, in a place where she cannot even go out. Not when she’s come from London and worlds I can’t imagine, glamour and faces as beautiful as hers, where apparently her hair behaves all by itself.
Yes, I think, she loves her father, as I love my papaji. I used to wait for Papaji to return from the shop, hiding in the low branches of the mango tree. I used to love to call out to him like a bird when he reached the door, or drop down on him like a leopard. I was just like Margaret, so excited her father was coming home, even if it was only after a day of missing him.
But then she leans into the mirror, rubbing a bit of something pink across her lips, pinching at her cheeks with both hands before standing back to survey the front of her sari.
That, I think, was not for her father. And I realize that was for him.
Tariq.
“You’re a dear, Anu,” she says, winking at me as she walks carefully to the hall, pouring down the stairs in ripples of purple silk. I cross the room to watch from her window as she steps into the gravel, as her father emerges from the car.
Mr. Darnsley shouts in surprise and delight at Margaret’s sari, lifting her arm and twirling her around once, twice, before bowing low to kiss her hand, both of them laughing. She swats at his shoulder and steps in to kiss his cheek. I watch her hug him, but I see something else, too. I see the way she looks over her shoulder at Tariq. He’s tugging long leather cases from the rear of the car, unstrapping a trunk from the top. He doesn’t seem to notice Margaret’s eyes on him. Doesn’t seem to notice anything but the work he has in front of him. He begins to carry the cases inside, without even looking up at Margaret. Her father has released her and is speaking with the driver now.
Margaret is still standing in the drive, still at her father’s side, but her eyes keep flitting from the tire of the car to the door Tariq slipped through. I hear him on the stairs now, the cases thumping against the wall every few steps.
Then her mother appears and shrieks in a way that’s nothing like her husband’s happy cries of a moment before. She stomps to her daughter like an angry elephant, grabs her hand, and nearly pulls her off her feet as she hurries her back into the house.
I pull away from the window before I am seen and grab the pot of coconut oil. I steal down the stairs and back into the kitchen, replacing the pot before Shibani has a chance to see it missing.
Margaret and her mother are arguing quietly in the sitting room. I hear her father join them, trying to soothe Mrs. Darnsley’s fury.
Shibani is still not in the kitchen. I open the wooden door to the cooler and pull out the clay pitcher of lemon water she made this morning. Three cups wait on a tray above the basin, clean. I fill them from the pitcher, the cool liquid already sweating against the sides of the glass.
Mrs. Darnsley may not like the sari, but I think I’ll be safe in bringing them all something cold to drink. I lift the tray and turn to make for the hall but find Tariq blocking the doorway, watching me.
“Oh,” I say.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile, or speak.
He just stares.
I gesture with the tray toward the hall and the Darnsleys beyond.
Tariq keeps looking.
I remember Manvir’s warning, how I’d just thought he was being overprotective, like always.
But what if he wasn’t?
Because Tariq was looking at me now, in a way Manvir wouldn’t like. In a way I don’t like.
The glasses on the tray shimmer a little.
“Sat sri akal,” I whisper, ducking my head and moving for the gap between his left side and the door.
“I’m thirsty,” he says in Punjabi. I rarely hear him speak anything but English, as most of his talking is with Mr. Darnsley. Now his voice sounds different. Insistent. Almost angry.
He looks at me, his eyes drifting over the kitchen behind me, perhaps search
ing for a reason to stay where he is, blocking my way. But those eyes always find their way back to me, and it begins to make me nervous, his looking. The kitchen suddenly feels small. I have to get by, to take the water to the Darnsleys, to Margaret.
Margaret. An odd pang of guilt stabs at me.
Tariq’s eyes travel down from my face to the tray in my hands. He reaches out and takes a glass. Lifts it to his lips and drinks deeply, his eyes on me all the while.
And for some reason I feel something strange. The way he looks at me, the way he sees me, maybe. There is a flare of something that calls back being in that shop, with that shard pushed up against my cheek, another man’s eyes staring wild at me.
Another Muslim.
I feel the panic rustling inside me.
He starts to put the glass back on my tray, but I shake my head. Move again toward the door.
He does not budge.
Already I’m wondering how I will avoid telling Papaji of this, whatever this is, when he comes for me this Sunday. Wondering what I will say.
Tariq edges forward. “How old are you?”
But another voice breaks over him from behind.
“Anu?” Margaret barks. She is standing in the shadow of the hall behind him.
Tariq straightens, bows his head, and bolts out the back door, cup still in hand.
Margaret takes another step, the silk of the sari swishing the only sound. “Anu?”
I hold the tray out to her; she looks at the cups as if they might be poisoned. I catch her staring, look down and see what she must be seeing. Two cups, and the bright wet ring remaining from the one Tariq took.
She draws herself up, eyes looking down on the top of my head, and steps aside.
“Father is parched,” she says. “They’ve gone out to walk the garden. Go.”
And I’m too relieved to have escaped the kitchen to worry about what she might think of me now.
CHAPTER 16
* * *
MARGARET
I stand in the shadow of the doorway, watching Anu serve Mummy and Daddy the drinks. She seems calmer now than when I found her with Tariq. But she won’t look up at my parents, only bowing humbly, taking the glasses back from them, waiting there, staring at the the tray. My parents don’t seem to notice her as they walk the long way through the garden to the little patio off the downstairs parlor, disappearing inside, Father remarking how nice it feels to stretch his legs after all those hours in the car.
But Anu remains glued to the spot, fixated on those cups on the tray. She is breathing too quickly, swallowing hard, and she stays that way until the old housekeeper appears, chattering at her in Punjabi, and shoos her back into the kitchen.
“Anu?” I call out. My voice sounds sharp, sharper than I mean it to.
Her head jerks up, eyes wide, like she’s just woken up from a bad dream.
“Are you all right?” I ask. I’m not sure if I’m jealous or annoyed or worried or what for her now.
It’s terrible, this feeling. Of liking Anu but at the same time sort of resenting her. It makes me feel small and mean inside, but I can’t help it. I can’t stop myself from looking for flaws or vanity or meanness, like what’s inside me, though I’ve never seen it. I can’t help it though.
But I know others simply can’t help watching her, period.
Then again, it’s not like I caught her snogging Tariq in the kitchen or anything.
But then I think of the way he was looking at her.
A way he’s never looked at me.
Ever.
Suddenly I feel like a trussed up cow in the sari, almost as embarrassed by it as Mummy was. What could I have been thinking? He didn’t even seem to notice. What a yuck I am.
Anu’s standing beside me now, staring at her feet, holding out the tray with the two empty glasses and the one remaining for me.
“Are you all right, Anu?” I repeat.
She nods, keeping her eyes down. I can almost see my reflection in the shine of her hair, and I wonder if someone oils it for her as she did for me. I take the glass from the tray.
“Thank you,” I say, sipping small before putting it back.
She disappears into the kitchen. I feel a little badly for how meekly she’s carrying on now, but fine, then, here it is: Part of me feels justified. I’ve eyed a fella before only to have him fall for one of my friends. Alec was the only one who seemed to see me and only me. Nadine was there that first day at the hospital when I met him, and all the GIs were forever chasing her, but Alec set his cap for me. And sweet Saint Peter, it was wonderful.
Then again, it’s not Anu’s fault she’s pretty any more than it was Nadine’s, but still . . . it stings. And makes me in this getup even more silly. I am a ridiculous thing, wearing ridiculous clothing, in a place where I’ve nothing at all important to do. Ridiculous.
And the feeling is so overwhelming, like a sudden downpour, that I make a decision. I follow Anu into the kitchen where she’s washing the glasses at the basin. She looks up like a kicked dog, so I force a smile at her, grab one of the clean kitchen towels from the stack in the corner, lay it out flat on the counter, and look around. I grab a couple of the bananas, fetch out three of the hard-boiled eggs from the icebox that Mother asks Shibani to keep on hand for her breakfasts, nick a handful of the parathas left over from lunch, and then dump the whole show onto the towel. It doesn’t look like much, so I dash up to my room, snatch a few of the paisa coins from the little bowl on my dresser, and skip back down the steps. Anu is drying the glasses now, slowly. I can feel her watching me. The coins clink merrily as they settle in with the bundle of food. I draw the corners up, tie them across the middle and lift the makeshift picnic.
Anu clutches the dish towel, her mouth set. She knows what I’m up to. I raise a finger to my lips and sneak out the back door.
The sun is high overhead, baking the gravel hot enough to fry bacon if you could find it here. I fiddle with the latch on the door leading to the alley, have to lay down the cloth bundle to work the bolt free with both hands. Once outside, the rubbish heap is just there to the left of the door. It smells a bit whiffy, and I reckon from the scraps of bread near the edges that the boy hasn’t been here yet today. I look about, realize with a delicious sense of freedom that I’m outside. By myself, and without permission. I’m also doing something other than whingeing about having nothing to do, so I’m feeling aces all around.
I place the bundle carefully on top of the pile. My little friend in the green top is nowhere to be seen, but I feel confident he’ll find it, and even more confident he’ll know who put it there. I duck back inside the door, throw the bolt, and turn to find Anu, arms crossed.
“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” I say, knowing she won’t understand the idiom. But I don’t care. And I’m not worried. We’ll keep each other’s secrets, she and I. That’s what friends do, after all. I squeeze past, sail through the kitchen, and float up the steps. I start for my room, but Mother’s voice from Father’s office catches my ear.
“But a dinner party is—”
“Out of the question!” Father says back. “Besides? Who could we possibly invite?”
“Perhaps some of the other men working on the boundary award,” Mother suggests.
I watch from the crack in the door, see Father shaking his head. “Half of them are in Delhi, and the other half are scattered across the Punjab and Bengal. The nearest other man is in Amritsar—”
“The Mountbattens, then,” Mother says, spine stiffening.
Father laughs. “I don’t think we’ll entice Dickie all this way for supper. Invite the Lady and Pamela next time they’re on one of their relief errands, but I’ll thank you not to embarrass yourself by asking the viceroy to stop for tea in the middle of breaking the subcontinent in two.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” he says, stalking from the veranda and into the parlor, straight to the cigarette box. “To say nothing of the risk of it all. Half a
dozen British surveyors in one place would make a lovely target.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mother waves her hand as she follows him inside, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
He struggles with the lighter. “The only reason they don’t come after us is because we’re scattered. If we look like a tribe, if we assemble together, then . . . ”
Mother is quiet, filling in the blank for herself before she dares speak again. “You’re being dramatic. What would they want with a few surveyors and cartographers?”
He eyes her, inhales the smoke. “You know Radcliffe?”
Mother nods. “By name only, of course. If we had a party—”
Daddy cuts her off. “He never leaves his compound in Delhi. Our communications are given to guards at the gates who then carry them to him. Only rarely does he even permit an audience—”
“He’s a barrister from London, for God’s sake. The king is less anxious—”
“But he’s the closest thing to a face this whole mess has. The lightning rod for all the anxiety and fear about how this world might be cleft in pieces. There are death threats every other week, already a couple of crude bombs heaved over his walls. Somebody boxed up a snake the other day and had it sent to his house! Can you imagine? Assassination by snakebite?”
Mother sounds annoyed. “Why are they troubling that man while the viceroy sails around the countryside like a movie star?”
“Mountbatten is the man who’s giving India back to India,” Father explains. “He’s the smiling face of the British Raj backing slowly out the door.”
Mother settles back into her chair, defeated. And looking at her there, I almost feel badly for her.
I push open the door and edge into the room. “Mother?”
She turns, rolls her eyes to find me still in the sari. “Please go and change,” she begs. “I’ve conceded to the pantsuits but can’t allow all this bare skin at your belly.” She looks up, surveys my curls. “Your hair looks divine, though.”
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