We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  —What? Why are you not making sure he’s not doing any nautanki?

  —Gargi Ma’am this is not that. There are ladoo all over the lawn, all over the jubilee garden. Stuck on the rose bushes also. You know this time I think he has truly gone mad.

  —Uppal. Since when do you speak like this of Bapuji?

  Silence, weighted and waiting. Uppal came from Kashmir with her mother. He wears his story as a warrior’s shawl. He was a boy then, and a young man when he joined the Company. He was placed in a general assistant manager role, to watch over her mother’s interests, he told her, as a requirement of the marriage bargain. He was old before Gargi married. He was there to guide her from the first day of work. It is thanks to Uppal that Gargi knows the Company from back page to front.

  —Where is my husband? Gargi says.

  Uppal snorts.

  —Call him, she says. Tell him I want him to come to dinner. And tell him what Bapuji is doing, if he has not already noticed for himself.

  —Ma’am I gave Satwant a file for you to look at. Did you see it?

  She raps on the safety glass. Satwant, keeping his eyes on the road, lowers it and hands her a yellow folder full of papers.

  —Satwant next time, papers pehley dena chahiye, she says.

  She ends the call. The traffic lights change, the car horns honk, the traffic does not move. A hawker smacks a picture of Bapuji’s face against her window. TIME: The Kashmir Issue. Gargi stares at the photo. She would never buy the magazine off the street. Does not have to read the article to know it will tell of the suffering in Srinagar under Indian barricades, checkpoints and roadblocks probably cast in Company factories while the Company hotel rises above them. In their decimated city, the girls who were born in the same year as her, as Radha, as Sita are now grown women. The piece will not tell of the Srinagar Gargi loves, where she first learned to disappear, to go through the perforated streets wrapped in layers that hid her, for in Srinagar people can walk (though they cannot stop. To gather.). Past the coffee houses where old boys meet to smoke and write, to remember or try to, at least. Past the long-closed cinemas, showing only sandbags and barbed wire. Through the market, around the lake, to the crumbling museums that Jeet used to take her into, full of found coins and fine swords, guarded by old women younger than her. Their bodies written with the stories that end in fire and tears.

  Satwant edges forward, the hawker moves on. Gargi’s eyes throb. She dredges the Coke. The car seems to rock slightly: thunder, calm, thunder again. Outside is a crush of men, voices are being raised. An accident? There are hundreds of people walking in the road, stopping the traffic. They are all moving in the same direction, the opposite of hers. So many heads, so many eyes, mouths, noses, men and women going together on foot. In Delhi, a city where no one walks.

  —What is it Satwant? she says.

  —Ma’am, anti-corruption protest, I believe.

  Her view is blocked by someone’s back, pressing against the car window. On the other side, there is a crush of college boys and girls, office workers, even domestics on the streets, shoulders against each other, some are protecting fragile flames, some carry printed banners and signboards on sticks. A man in a shirt and chinos is wearing an Indian flag as a superhero cape; another drapes his flag like a chunni over his head. Gargi sees maids carrying ruffled babies, there are even men with tired suits, hair combed over like her three directors, every building in the city seems to have turned itself inside out and onto the street. Her hand goes to the door, then she pulls back. She cannot get out. Sita would. Sita might actually be in this crowd – in a new family of shouting, marching, slogan boards. Allowing bodies to rub against her, hands reaching, salwar-top tearing, what if then – what if – what then?

  Gargi sees a bunch of girls, dark skinned, in bright colours, clips in their hair and adorned with beaded jewellery – walking, draped all over each other as they claim the road. A lighter skinned woman is holding hands with the one of the dark ones, her long hair is loose – she is in jeans and pinstripe shirt. How fierce they look, how free. Is it Sita? Gargi presses her hands against the glass – she wants to order Satwant to press his foot down, to drive away from the crowd and the Farm, on a different direction – say, to the Ridge – from there to the river, to the parts that are clogged with the city’s effluence, disturbing the rats and rag pickers. She cannot imagine what voices she would hear. How those peoples’ eyes might see her.

  Sita has been down there, to the water that can kill. She has tried to describe it to her sisters, begged them at least to sit together and watch Salam Bombay! But she is Gargi Devraj Grover. She has no time.

  Wait, is that Sita? No.

  Gargi sits back. She sees a handpainted sign, red in letters and numbers: SMS NO on 555 to support the movement! She texts her NO to the number, almost hiding the phone from herself.

  The car inches forwards. Gargi sighs, and opens the file Uppal has sent. A few clipped pages, topped with a photograph of a man in a singlet and dhoti, covered in purple and green bruises, all the peacock colours. He is curled up on a split-cane bed. Gargi’s eyes skim the typed note: Night of July 15 Tuesday Party, trying to give daal makhani and chawal to Nanuji when kichdi was ordered. The manservant G.3.5 given name Bilal Kakri was beaten with a gold Napurthala Palace candlestick c. 1925 belonging to Nanu suite. Witnesses: Three (Nanuji, B.1.4 and A.5.2,) who say Devraj Bapuji was not the perpetrator. Injuries: three broken ribs, cheekbone, collarbone. Severe bruising on the back and shoulders and behind the knees.

  Date of injuries: Tuesday 3 July 2012. Compensation finalised: Monday 30 July 2012: agreed one off payment and additional relocation funds. Further actions: none needed, servant has left Company employ for home village (Jharkhand state) as per contract agreement. (Appendix A: signed gagging agreement note marked with G.3.5 fingerprint, left hand third digit ineradicable ink.)

  Outside, the protest has moved on, leaving a broken jigsaw of cars on the road.

  What is the difference between daal-chawal and khichdi? Grain size. Texture. Pressure and steam.

  —Satwant, I’m getting too late now. Use the horn sometimes.

  Satwant steers the car through a tiny gap. He mounts the kerb past a coconut-stand, its round fruits so many severed monkey heads. She sees the seller, caught in mid-action, eyes wide, arm strained, hammer raised above his head.

  So. Bapuji struck one of her men. G.3s are employed directly by Gargi for special tasks: serving Nanu, giving her a bath and so on. Gargi touches the bruises on the photo. Presses 1. She covers the mouthpiece with one hand, speaks into it, low.

  —What should I do? Uppalji, please advise me. I don’t want to see Bapuji right now. Just tell him I’m down. O God. If you don’t want to speak about women’s things that way, just tell him a cow has jumped over the moon.

  —Please don’t take it too hard, Uppal says. So much has gone under your father’s watch. What is one more life, here?

  They turn off the highway. She kicks the front seat. Satwant’s eyes flick up to the rear view mirror; blank as if he is watching TV in a language he does not understand. Gargi forces herself to stop. She gets out her compact and lipsticks a smile firmly back on to her face. Yes it is true. There have been riots against the Company over the years. In Orissa, sorry, Odisha, when the first cement factories were established. Locals against progress, said Bapuji, said Ranjit Uncle. Yes, Gargi thinks. People have died, it is true. Swamps have been drained, rare species lost, children uprooted from their ancestral homes. The Company has done these things – her father always told her to think more of how communities relocate and eventually flourish because of them. But this one man, this Bilal Kakri. He was Gargi’s man.

  They crawl past Dilli Haat: it is Nagaland week for the tourists coming to the village to shop. Her phone in her hand. One last call. It rings, twice, four times, five. Then Radha answers.

  —Hi Big Sis! What’s up?

  —Hey, Gargi says. She sucks in her stomach. Goa-party start
ing or finishing? OK don’t answer that.

  You could have called, Gargi thinks. And then, Go on. Ask me how I am.

  Laughter, the sounds of other people talking: Radha is at the end of a long lunch – or maybe just starting on evening drinks. She sounds breathless.

  —Things are pretty good, she says. I’m working on the guests for the Kashmir opening. We’re using the same gold-edged cards we ordered for Sita’s engagement to invite the A-list.

  —And the gift boxes? Gargi says.

  —Yes, all done. Titanium for the VVIPs getting thankyou suites in Goa, Mumbai and Delhi. That was Dad’s express wish. Whitegold for A list, they’re so cute, Gargi, you should see them. About pinkie size, and set with the semi precious stones. Silver for the B list: Srinagar VIPs and that level. All those joining us by satellite from the Mumbai, Delhi, Goa and Amritsar hotels on opening night get gold or silver-plated, some will get bronze.

  —What about staff?

  —I thought we agreed we would use the ladoo for the staff. They’ll be fresh enough.

  Gargi can hear the sound of a piano down the line, a deep trill of notes, the kind used for the break-ups and make-ups in the boy–girl movies she loves – and she watches – alone, and only on Sundays, when work can be done from home. She imagines her sister at the pool bar, baring her teeth over a cosmopolitan so she does not smudge her lipstick.

  —Radha, she says, we can’t. Daddy’s not coping. He’s batting the ladoo all over the Farm.

  —Batting what? Aw, silly Daddy. Don’t worry, I’ll call him up.

  —I can’t monitor him. And there’s something else – the birds, the tower – do you want to hear this? Because I really can’t tell you how bad I am feeling.

  —Gargi, if you can’t cope, you need to get more staff.

  —It’s not that. You’re not here, you can’t see.

  —I do see, though. You should give him a break. He’s bound to be upset right now. Does he know we haven’t signed the papers yet? Have you even tried to talk to him?

  —Please listen, Rads. I don’t have a lot of time. I’m trying to get to grips with the office. I can’t be at home every day for lunch.

  —And I can? I’m working here too, you know.

  —I didn’t mean that. But Nanu is also not eating, I’m fighting with the board. And I’m worried about Sita.

  —Chill out about Sita, Radha says. Her tone softens. Gargi, I’ve said this to Bubu and I’ll say it to you. She just wants to prove a point. I’ve SMS’d her a bunch of times in the last month, she just texts back —No reception. I’m like, thanks, we already got that message. She is fine.

  —Oh God, Gargi sighs. At least she is answering you. You’re right. She will come back. And Radha – when she does we will sort out Dad’s mess, between us.

  —Yes Ma’am. Whatever you say.

  There is a pause.

  —So, how’s Jivan bhaiyya? Radha says.

  The way her voice sounds on the word brother. Suggestive, sly. Gargi’s hand tightens on her phone. Glad that Radha cannot see her.

  —Also fine, she says. I’ll catch him later.

  —You do, that Big Sis, Radha laughs. Got to go, OK? More soon.

  Gargi sits in the back of the car. Watching the light falter through the plane trees, fracture on the road. As they pass the Qutb complex, she notices that the outer wall is crumbling. She curls her feet under her and leans against the window. Here the city widens into the outer reaches: where there used to be desert, irrigation pipes were laid and houses sprang up. Around the Minar itself was the space where ruler after ruler added his mark. A temple, a pillar. An ornate doorway. To praise God, or to make the commissioner immortal, Gargi cannot tell.

  The car slows as they pass a modest Gurdwara. The women are preparing to pray. They roll up their salwars to wash their feet, then their faces, their movements economical, a dance of bending, slinging water, rubbing down, standing up. How they smile and talk, help each other straighten chunnis and hair. As she is carried past them, Gargi looks back. She sees the evening sun set the golden dome aflame. All around it, the crows stretch their wings. They float slowly downwards, pieces of ash from a pyre.

  When they reach the Farm, Gargi does not go to her rooms. Instead, she walks through the garage. She takes a cart. Drives around the Farm perimeter until she gets to the rose garden. She wants to see the crumbs of ladoo strewn all over the grass, the sweet globes speared on thorns. Here they are. What a mess. She resists picking one up and stuffing it into her mouth. She carries on, past the sundial courtyard, the cart taking her to Jivan.

  In the bunker, Sai Baba has abdicated to a flat screen TV, set to StarSports: tiny figures, padded and caged, run at each other, lobbing a white ball across a pitch. She knows she should stop to see who is winning. She has never cared about fucking cricket. Still, when the crowd cheers, for a moment it feels as if the day is just starting. Nothing has happened: no meetings, no ladoo, no traffic or evidence files. There is nothing coming next. Her smile widens. Like a clown, she thinks. I must look like a clown. On a low table there is a picture of a bloated woman in a polished silver frame. Jivan’s mother – ill, unrecognisable. She picks it up carefully, then puts it back.

  Downstairs she punches in the code for the basement door. The light flashes red: No Entry. She presses 2 on her phone and hears Jivan’s mobile ringing on the other side.

  —Open sesame!

  And there he is.

  —You’ve changed the door code, she says.

  —Haye-haye! You cut your hair! Jivan puts his hands to either side of his face, pretending shock at her audacity.

  Gargi’s hand goes to her nape.

  —It was your idea, she says.

  —OK, peace, peace, you know I like it.

  She follows him inside. At this hour, the bunker is almost empty, the night shift not yet started. Jivan walks between the desks, sleeves rolled up and collar loose, hands in pockets as if they are resting on guns in their holsters. He’s the baddie in that Western, Unforgiven – the last movie she actually went to see in a public cinema hall, when she was about sixteen. She notes the dark hair on Jivan’s chest, on his arms. She forces her eyes back to his face.

  —Come on, spill yaar, she says. What is going on that could be worse than this? She waves Uppal’s file at him.

  —Alright, Jivan says. Let’s work. Come over here, you’re gonna wanna see this.

  They sit in front of the central screen bank. Sita’s room is dark. Radha’s rooms are being cleaned; there is the maid, pulling dirty polka-dot underwear out of the bedsheets. Gargi cannot look at Jivan. In the dining room tables are being set for dinner. She looks at her watch: six o’clock. Dinner is usually served at six thirty sharp for her father. Who gave him lunch? She realises she does not know, or what he had, or how much.

  Jivan turns towards Gargi. The day has left her skin dry, her head paining. Kiss me, she thinks. She crosses her legs. Her eyes fix on a postcard of a snow scene, a Swiss chalet on a mountain tucked in a workstation corner.

  Jivan gestures to the TV on the far right.

  There is Bapuji, made shorter and fatter by the camera angle, marching to and fro across the screen. His shirt hanging from his pants, his chest smeared in a sticky yellow paste that must actually, she realises, be ladoo. He paces up and down the Old Drawing Room spouting some nonsense to twenty of his Tuesday boys. She identifies the worst of them – Kishan, with the heiress wife and seventy branches of the family shoe franchise going bust, who feels he must always act up. Wady, eldest son of Wadra Sahib, CEO of Indiatechnow: when he chews he does a good impression of a sheep eating grass, it always makes Bapuji laugh. She watches one of them, Akash, she thinks – isn’t he a particular friend of Jeet’s? – lean on a seventeenth century Gujarati wood sculpture of a woman hung with necklaces and with wide almond eyes, balancing on one leg while playing a dhol. Akash has his jacket off, his shirt half-open, although the evening is only just beginning. He strokes the round che
ek of the statue and the others, predictably, laugh.

  With a shock Gargi realises. It is Tuesday. Today. They are waiting for the party to begin. No one has given the word for the music, the food, the stage to be set. They are all waiting – for her.

  Her eyes meet Jivan’s; they are flecked with green and fringed with dark lashes. They still have the same naughty twinkle as when he and Radha used to play bat and ball or skip-rope contest, and she would come to umpire. She wants to sink into the stories of those days, the deep end of the pool. Hear how he thought about her then. She wants to grow gills, never have to come up for air.

  —Look at them. She watches Bapuji, his arm deformed by the camera angle into a truncated instrument that shakes as he points. His voice rises as he dispatches one of the boys to hunt for food: the house phone sits on a table next to him, sulking with lack of use.

  —What a cock my Dad can be, she says, and giggles; then she begins to laugh properly at Jivan’s shocked face.

  —What? Good girls can say bad words, you know.

  —When was the last time you laughed? he says.

  —It has been reported to happen, yaar.

  —I’m not your ‘yaar’.

  He pronounces it yare, as if the long ‘ah’ would give too much away.

  —Then what are you? My yeah? It is fun to talk with him like this – to play, almost, at being Radha.

  —I feel like you have never been away, she says. And as if you have been gone forever. Too long, yaar.

  For her, the long ‘a’ is a slow, sliding acquiescence, as the sound of the word ‘ya’.

  —Don’t get all serious. Gargi, come on. You know our Dads are like—

  Jivan puts his palms together like a Christian praying, then laces his fingers into one big fist.

  —I’m just glad you are here, she says.

  He swivels in his chair. Towards her, away. He frowns.

  —My dad wants me to go up to join him. Learn about the Company in the north. Would that be OK with you?