We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  Gargi thinks of Jivan working from Amritsar. Perhaps helping to get the new Srinagar hotel ready from there. She thinks of herself staying in Delhi, working alone.

  —Can’t we put Ranjit Uncle off a while? she says. I would like, I mean, the Company needs you here.

  —He’s my Dad. Then, this thing with Jeet… He’s actually in deep shit.

  Jeet. It has been almost four weeks since the night Sita left. She has called Jeet – no answer. And texted – no answer. The day of the peacocks, she remembers – since that she has stopped – hurt that he hadn’t called back.

  —I knew something was wrong, she says. Is he OK? If he is back in Delhi, he should be here with us.

  —He’s fine, as far as I know. But Gargi, I think, he’s been… I don’t know how to tell you this. Stealing.

  —What?

  Shock after shock today might turn her hair completely white. Like Nanu. She will be known as the grandmother of all sorrows.

  Jivan’s laced fingers open and shut like some kind of deep-sea creature, mouthing water to breath. His face a mask of concern, he tells her that Jeet has gone. That, according to Kritik Uncle’s files, Jeet has been smuggling artefacts and antiques, without a license, offering far more than the correct level of bribe. He has been using Company channels and Ranjit Uncle’s personal savings. On the night of Sita’s Tuesday Party, Jivan says, Jeet had wanted him to join in – and when he refused, Jeet had taken off.

  Jivan’s dark-lashed, green eyes narrow, his lips tremble as the story spills out.

  Gargi has known Jeet every day of her life. For God’s sake, her own father named him. She has been tying handmade rakhi on him since they were small, binding him to her as her brother – binding him in the promise to protect her from all rakshas – that part of the ceremony always made them laugh. She would wind her threads – No glitter – I hate it, Jeet always said, around his skinny wrist, watched by Nanu, and then they would have to sit through the story of the ritual before she could open Jeet’s gift to her, which was of course – year after year – jewellery – including all she is wearing now, except for her wedding ring. The gold hummingbird pendant. The pearl earrings set in platinum, so unusual, he said. She once even dreamed she might be married to him, even as she knew it couldn’t happen. She is proud that she was among the first to know about his other life. He told her when they were sixteen, in the dark of Priya cinema hall, pushing her off him, wiping his cheek of her saliva. Whispering, fucking stop it, Gargi, have some self-respect. I don’t like you that way. You stupid idiot, don’t you get it? At first she thought he had only said it to make her stop mooning over him. Then he said he would never even practice French-kissing with her, and, tears dripping down both their faces while the bad guy told the good guy (who was about to shoot him) I’ll see you in hell, Jeet spelled out to her why. Yes, that was the Unforgiven day. Jeet’s choice of film.

  Jeet. In trouble. Stealing from the Company. How can she have been so blind all this time? She thinks again of Sita, walking out of the house. Of Bapuji, using a candlestick to beat a man almost dead. Did any of them love anyone at all?

  —You have to go to your father, she says.

  Jivan smiles at her, head on one side.

  You don’t pity me, she thinks. No.

  —You should get to Ranjit Uncle as soon as you can. I’ll send Radha up to Amritsar. She can carry on the prep for Srinagar from there. Talk to Bubu, he’ll work out a strategy. No wonder my Finance guy was looking so shifty all day. He must know Amritsar is bleeding money.

  —What are you going to do? Jivan says.

  —Don’t you concern about it. I’ll have to think about how to handle it. Maybe through the Assistant Secretary for Heritage – I know his daughter. Bubu can put checks on the airports and borders, if Jeet hasn’t gone abroad already. We can’t let this turn official.

  —You guys really are the mafia, he grins. Would you do that to find Sita?

  —Of course not, Gargi says. She hasn’t committed a crime. Radha is in touch with her. She is OK. Probably still in Delhi or Mumbai, hopefully with some school friend. She will return when she is ready. But Jeet – he could have gone anywhere. He’s better travelled than all of us.

  —Thanks, Jivan says.

  —I’m just doing my best to keep my family together. Keep the Company tickety-boo.

  Tickety-boo, she thinks, who says that?

  —Gargi Ma, he says. Come here.

  She lets him pull her up. Put his arm around her shoulders. She feels him pressing her into his side. His ribs through the shirt, his chest. She could turn her face to him, stand on tiptoe, they would be eye to eye.

  —O shit, he says. Look!

  He points behind her.

  On screen Uppal sprawls on the floor. Above him stands an older man in a dirty kurta, a battered topi, his face wrapped in a shawl like a chaukidar in winter. Have the seasons changed while Gargi has been underground with Jivan? Will she walk outside to see her own breath in the air?

  —Who is that? Jivan says. Punj’s old boss?

  —Kashyap? O my God, everything is going to hell, Gargi says. I let him go – he’s come back again. Why don’t these people take me seriously?

  —Stop. Don’t worry about him. He can’t get re-employed without your agreement, or mine. Why is he dressed like that, though?

  —Probably drunk. Who knows?

  Uppal. Get up now. Gargi thinks. They watch Uppal get to his feet. They watch Bapuji shaking with laughter. Kashyap and other men are clearly laughing with him.

  Uppal stumbles out of the room. He pushes past Nanu. Watching, Gargi puts her hand over her mouth. Nanu. But – she reminds herself – her grandmother has a habit of looking as frail or strong as she wishes. Was there ever a time when she did not have white hair? Nanu is one of the last of a species, forever trembling on the brink of extinction. Yet Nanu is more likely to live longer than any of us, Gargi thinks. Even without Bapuji she will endure.

  Gargi cannot look at Jivan. She slides her hand into his. She ignores the rub of her wedding ring. They watch. Nanu is like wire, bending into her seat, helped by one of the boys – Gargi thinks perhaps Ritesh, who likes to bait the younger members of the Hundred, she has heard, with any weak point he can find (a fat sister-in-law, a divorced aunt). Ritesh settles Nanu in an armchair, her white sari so thin against the silk brocade. At least she is up, and that means she might want food. Nanu raises her arms as if to cue an orchestra. Gargi wonders what lesson her grandmother is giving. Maybe one of the boys has come to her with some wedding hope. In such a case, Nanu would speak the words of her favourite warning, which Gargi knows by rote. The dog has a human heart, she must not be allowed to get ideas above her station. The mongoose eats mice, just as the cat eats the mongoose; the dog devours the cat, and wild beasts eat the dog.

  Nanu sits back in the armchair. The boys, about twenty of them sitting around her feet, clap. Nanu smiles and raises her palms, gesturing, Enough, enough.

  —Enough. I can’t watch anymore, Gargi says. I have to get rid of them. She stands up.

  —Do you want me to come?

  She looks down at Jivan. Feels faintly surprised that there were years when she did not have him in front of her. But no, she decides. This she must do herself.

  —I’ve even wondered how much cash it would take she says. To make them stay away. Hundreds times hundreds maybe.

  —You can buy anything can’t you? Jivan says lightly.

  Gargi pulls herself as tall as she can, away from him.

  —Listen to me, Jivan, don’t act surprised now. You were born here, you lived here before. This is your country too. Fast forward every day – and going nowhere. We talk about the government being corrupt here, and we ourselves are forced to bribe each other for everything. To get contracts, we pay. To get paid, we pay. Fake invoices at the bottom, empty companies trading shares in the middle, untouchable at the top. Even in billion-dollar multinationals it happens like this. There isn’t
a VP of finance across the board without dirty hands. You should meet the three fakirs I had to deal with today. You think this is the only secret bunker on the Farm? My God, the whole of the ballroom floor slides back. Built on bricks of gold. You ever need cash quickly, I’ll give you the codes for that. You know we have an entertainment farm right? West Gurgaon? That’s where your dad takes the CEOs to relax. Models, drugs, blue movies on the big screen: whatever they want. Sorry, but it’s true. The pile-ons come here for Tuesday talks and mingling, but they go there, to Gurgaon for ‘elite Company training’. Tax law, industrial statutes, you think that’s what they learn? Not at Devraj’s special school for turning good boys into future leaders. Here we say Ase hi chalta hain! So what? It’s all good! This is India, Jivan, try to understand.

  She crosses her hands over her throat. Rests her chin on them, stopping her own voice.

  —Sorry. I’m very tired. You should go to Amritsar, and sort out the mess with Jeet. He at least needs to answer for what he has done. When Radha reaches there, tell her and Bubu all of it, including what’s going on here. Even better, take digital files, they need to see for themselves.

  She gathers her jacket and bag and tries to smile. It is almost too much to ask of the muscles in her face.

  —What are you going to do? Jivan says.

  —What else? she says. Go make sure dinner is organised. Tend to my father and make sure Nanuji is not getting tired out. It’s Tuesday.

  She laughs.

  —My God, I just want – I just wish he would be a father, for once.

  —Why do you care about his approval so much? Jivan says. Gargi, I bet you know the names of ninety percent of the employees down to middle management across every hotel, parts-factory and shop that you own. That’s more than your father could say. You’re a beautiful, wealthy grown up woman. Not some shit-for-brains, sorry, heiress; a real businesswoman, in charge of something important. You could’ve done anything you want in the world. Shopped at Barney’s. Partied in Dubai. Got a summer tan in the Maldives and a winter one on the slopes. Gone for the culture or the couture in Paris or London or Milan. But you want nothing more than to carry on the family business. In the States, you’d be on the cover of Newsweek by now. Real estate moguls would be kissing your ass.

  Don’t stop, she thinks. Talk more than you should, talk more than is decent, talk and talk until it seems you are talking to tell the world what it should see just by looking.

  —You wanted the Company: you’ve got it. So make the most of it. You don’t need your father, or Nanu’s blessing, he says.

  —They’ve always been like this. Old guard, you know? And they’ve also been through a lot.

  —Don’t make excuses, Jivan says. Not for that.

  He gestures at the screen. Nanu is doing her best impression of Pinku, Sita’s little dog, pretending to pant after Ritesh.

  —I better go, Gargi says.

  She is not like Sita: brave enough or stupid enough to let her heart spill out of her mouth. She is Gargi, and that means she should not say any more.

  —Fine. But don’t let them bully you.

  She went to Mumbai after bombs ripped the Company hotel to lego bricks and dust. When they were rebuilding, she stood on the scaffolding high above the city, like the bad big brother from Slumdog Millionaire. Wind, and the view, and the silence: surely from this height, she’d thought, she could fly.

  —I won’t, she says.

  —I’ll be watching. Go Gargi, Go Gargi Go!

  He pummels the air, an American cheer. One arm around her shoulders, he walks her to the door.

  —I’ll meet you in Amritsar, she says. Give my Hi to your dad.

  The bunker door swings shut between them. Gargi kisses her palm; gently presses it to the frame. As she walks upstairs, the warm night air meets her skin. Outside, a breeze ruffles the prairie grass. She can hear the frogs croaking on their way to the pond.

  *

  Being alone in the quiet dark calms her. When she reaches the house, she calls Uppal. Checks he is not hurt. Tells him not to begin the party set-up, that there will be no party tonight. She follows the corridors to the room where Nanu is singing: an old, old ghazal in a voice smooth and harsh as incense smoke, silvering through the cracks in the door. It catches in Gargi’s throat.

  It is almost at the end. She cannot go in. Hasn’t she sat so often at the close of the evening, caught in her grandmother’s song? Finding it more and more difficult to sit and listen: less and less able to get up and leave with every year Nanu ages. Wanting to print each verse onto a sari – wrap it around her body – never take it off.

  Ye ishq kii kahaaniyaan,

  Ye ras bharii javaaniyaan

  Udhar se meharabaaniyaan,

  Idhar se lantaraaniyaan

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Ye aasmaan ye zamiin,

  Nazzaraahaa-e-dilanashiin

  Une hayaat aafariin,

  Bhalaa main chhod duun yahiin?

  Hai maut is qadar qariin,

  Mujhe na aaegaa yaqiin

  Nahiin-nahiin abhii nahiin,

  Nahiin nahiin abhii nahiin

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Gham kushuud-o-bast kaa,

  Baland kaa na past ka

  Na buud kaa na hast kaa,

  Na vaadaa-e-alast kaa

  Ummiid aur yaas gum,

  Havaas gum qayaas gum

  Nazar se aas-paas gum,

  Hamaan bajuz gilaas gum

  Na may mein kuchh kamii rahe,

  Kadaa se hamadamii rahe

  Nishast ye jamii rahe,

  Yahii hamaan hamiin rahe

  Vo raag chhed mutaribaa,

  Tarab-fizaa, alam-rubaa

  Asar sadaa-e-saaz kaa,

  Jigar men aag de lagaa

  Na haath rok saaqiyaa

  Pilaae jaa pilaae jaa,

  Pilaae jaa pilaae jaa

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  Abhii to main javaan hoon

  These are stories of love,

  Tales of youth, drunk in pleasure,

  Some filled with clemency, endurance.

  Others coloured with vanity, arrogance.

  I am young,

  I am still young.

  These skies, this earth,

  These sights so close to the heart,

  This beautiful life –

  How can I leave behind all this art?

  I shall never believe

  That death can be so near.

  Not now, not so soon,

  Never, not here!

  I am young,

  I am still young,

  I am still young,

  I am still so young.

  I sorrow neither about distance, nor proximity,

  Neither about the nadir, nor the zenith.

  I fret not about my life, its status, or my existence,

  Or even about promises of future creations.

  I neither hope, nor despair.

  I have lost both logic and intuition.

  I see nothing, near nor far – I’m blinded,

  I see nothing save that goblet.

  Let this liquor never fail me,

  Let my bonds with this bar forever remain,

  Let this party never end,

  Let us gather here again and again.

  That song, Madame, sing that song once more,

  Which exhilarates my being,

  Drowns the woes from my core.

  Music and rhythm have always been

  The coal

  That sparks the fire in my soul.

  Do not stop, bar-tender,

  Let the drinks overflow,

  Let me drink some more, oh,

  For, I am young,

  I am young,

 
I am still young,

  I am still so young.

  The song fades. A breath, then the roars begin. Move, Gargi. She pushes the door open, swallowing her memories of sitting at Nanu’s feet learning these precious words, when she had imagined a time when she might sit, her own family around her, and sing them herself. Back then, Bapuji used to call her his Gargi, Precious Canary. No more.

  She pushes open the door.

  Though it is not yet dark outside, the red brocade curtains in the room have been drawn. Lamplight casts gold bangles carelessly around, leaving deep shadows. Diyas burn on the sideboards, the walls flicker with dying flames. Framed in gilt, Gargi’s paternal grandfather glowers above the stone fireplace, dark skin offset by the crown on his head, blue silk robe falling open to show off his tweed three-piece, his Imperial sash, his sword at his belt. His moustache is waxed; the expression on his face just like Bapuji’s after a good dinner. His right foot rests on a dead English bird, like a peacock but red breasted, with red flopping over its eyes. His chocolate spaniel pants at his heels. In one corner stands his inlaid grandfather clock with its Westminster chime, made by mastercraftsmen in England in 1830 to techniques, according to Jeet, borrowed from the Taj Mahal. On a low table his favourite music box; a golden treasure chest with a soldier-monkey perched on the top. Nanu still has the original in her rooms. When wound by a small jewelled key, the little Monkey arms bang cymbals together.

  Men sprawl on the chaise-longues and on the floor cushions, one smoking a shisha, something never before seen in this house. With the sound of each sucking inhalation Gargi feels her rage bubble up. A group of three or four sit at her grandmother’s feet. She looks for Kashyap, but cannot see him. No one notices her with her new short hair. Then Nanu looks up and raises her hands. The men sit alert, alive to new game.

  —Welcome, welcome, look who is here, rasps Nanu. Gargi the Great! Gargi the magnificent has arrived, let us pay our respects!