by Preti Taneja
I used to have one companion, he was a strong man! Kashyap was his name, I am surprised I have not forgotten. He was a true man of the people. Sent by old Kritik, to look after me. He was old and stern, nothing like my boys, but so what? He was from a different side of life, but he was a good man. No idea what happened to him, but so they come and go.
The night I left the Farm I took with me only three things: Nanu, Kashyap and my good name. We left Delhi and travelled around the country, checking on our holdings and gathering support. Then we went north to Amritsar. I had deals to make with associates; I had to speak to Ranjit about his bastard’s place in our interests. I wanted Jeet, my Godson to come and take up his role, as long as he could behave himself and get treatment for his illness. I wanted my dear Radha to open her door, welcome me inside, make good on her promise to secure our dynasty, even if her sisters so stubbornly refuse to yield.
Middle child, what are you for? I ask myself. Radha eats too much sweet. She needs to take care not to allow her husband to dominate her. This I have told her so many times. Told and told and told.
Sometimes I look at her, and feel surprised. She is beautiful, in a new sort of way. Skin over bone. She is loyal, for her brain is not first class. She is clever rather than intelligent; this is a strength for her sex. Company shawls are woven for endurance, warmth, finesse and modest beauty. Radha has few of these qualities not all, though she keeps her husband happy and plays her part. This is why I decided I would gift the shawls business to Sita. I knew little Radha would be hurt, but this the only way to keep her in line. O, and one more thing: though Radha makes the most noise of my three little birds, I remember her tweets are empty as air.
III
Radha
i
The blinds are down, the slats half open. The room is a cage of light. She is the bed-cat Radha-baby, purring and kneading her cover. She waits for the happy tinkle-tinkle of silver and china; the butler delivering breakfast to the suite. When the smell of pav bhaji reaches her she can taste the peas and crunchy carrots, the onions and the fluffy potato, the burn of hot spices, the softly fried puri buttered on all sides mmm, too good. She slides out of bed and flexes her toes in the carpet. Good morning, says the suite, reflected in her mirror, it looks so jaunty and bright, all decorated in a blue beachside theme for Goa. Such a lovely suite – concept ‘the beach’, bedroom, living room, the sea view; and the ensuite, so lovely, with a colour wall that she can set to suit her mood: Dawn Rise, Rainforest, Ocean Ridge. There are jet showerheads all at different heights, and a bidet as well. A Company suite, still, it’s trying to be different from the others. Yes, how special it is.
Radha reaches for her mobile – then a whistle comes from the living room. Slide out of bed, Radha, leave the mobile, leave it! Pad to the bedroom doorway in your shorties and vest: lean against the frame.
Bubu stands at the hostess trolley, his paunch nudging through his waffle-cotton robe. Sometimes he pets poor paunchy; today, it has been punished with a morning session in the gym. Bubu does rowing machine, he skippyskips, he lifts weights. Silly Bubu, he is such a cutey-cuddle-bear. He pretends not to notice Radha; he raises his eyebrows, lifting silver domes like a TV chef at the end of the episode. Da – da! There is her pav bhaji! There is her bowl of organic strawberries (grown right here at Company Goa – so she tells the guests who come from outside). Bubu sticks his finger in her green-tea shot, licks and makes a khatta face. He hangs the serving dome over the sofa’s corner gargoyle so it goes bald and one-eyed at her – OMG Bubu is so bad – that is a hand-carved Jaipuri antique – she had it made especially for him.
What is Bubu having? His coffee, black. His turmeric power smoothie with extra amaranth. And there it is: a plate of three perfect suji ki ladoo dipped in dark chocolate and covered in gold leaf. Oh Buji. Mini ladoo. No matter how much her hubby works out, he cannot resist his breakfast indulgence.
—What are you smiling at? Is it my ass? Dirty girl.
—I’m smiling at your breakfast choice.
Bubu walks towards her, holding the plate low in front of him.
—Don’t you want a taste of my golden balls?
The ladoo knock together, alive with the movement in his wrist.
—Filth! I’ll call the concierge, she squeaks.
She skitters back into the bedroom. She launches herself face down over the bed, reaching for the hotel phone.
—If you touch that handset you know what will happen to you, Bubu says.
She rolls over to look at him. Underneath his gown he is wearing his Donald Duck boxers. Quack, quack, quacking – always she has found them just a little unsexy. He chooses a ladoo and drops the plate onto last night’s dirty clothes pile. She spreads her legs: the silk of her shorties slides up.
—What? she says.
Bubu stands at the end of the bed, between her feet. Donald Duck catches on her toes, then drops. Bubu’s crotch is now striped pale, dark, pale. A tiger in the cage of light. Yes. Good. He takes Radha’s ankles; he pushes her up the sheets until her head hangs just over the edge of the bed, her hair sweeps the floor. There is dust under the bedside table, and is that the earring she was wearing last night? Blood fills her throat, her temples. She looks up; the ocean swaps places with the sky: slices of infinity, framed in the window. This is the best view to do it in front of, and this is her favourite suite in her favourite of all the hotels.
—Come on man, don’t make idle threats.
She says her lines with feeling; she raises her leg and sticks her toe in his mouth: so cute and pretty her toenail is, a sweet for him to suck. She thinks the ceiling fan behind Bubu’s head is ornamental. Is it? Bubu presses his thumb into Radha’s instep, spiking her senses to neon. He presses a ladoo to her crotch, he rubs; she feels silk inside. The chocolate shell cracks; he brings his cupped hand to his mouth, swallowing the crumbs with a snap of his head, bending over her to tongue all the sticky-golden-chocolatey grains onto her belly. The mirror says he is ready, yes, ready, yes. She reaches her arms back over her head to stretch her body out.
Her mobile begins to chant—
Like a G6 like a G6 like a like a G6
Like a G6 like a G6 like a like a G6
Like a G6 like a G6 like a like a G6
Bubu pauses, watching her. For a moment she thinks all will be well. Then he backs off the bed, pulls up his boxers, pats his friend inside.
O Shityaar. So, they will have to get dressed and re-begin the whole game. Call the butler to take the trolley away so Bubu can order breakfast again, so he can serve it, again. That is her signal to get up, go over, watch him, tease him. Again. Wake up Radha, smell the pav bhaji, and turn the mobile off.
—Bubu-bear, don’t be like that, she tries.
—Answer it, then. I gotta get on with my day.
He walks away. A chorus of diagonal ducks quacking at her from his butt.
*
She lies in the bed – lovely bed. Lovely bed, you like me. She wants to smoke. She hears the starting of the shower. Then turns onto her stomach, reaches down and cups herself close and cosy between her legs. Sliching begins. Nail pink in pink, feeling so pink, brown ass-cheeks flushing pink, face in the sheets she breaths her own scent: ylang-ylang, bed-sweat, her fingernail catches at her clitchie; it shoots pain, her lungs scream move. She comes up gasping for air. Crumbs of ladoo stick to her thighs. She licks her finger and eats some. Honey and milk. The bed, the dresser, the robe on the floor, wait to see what she will do next.
Press a switch. Open the blinds. Outside only a thin, curved line divides the ocean from the midday haze of sky. It is so calm, so clear. She scrolls her mobile: iMessages first: two cute cat pics from friends in Delhi; a shirt-shot, from Jivan, of a full sleeves Burlington stripe they bought together in the mall. There is the daily message from the Company automated service, Bapuji bol! It comes with a temple-bell chime: Sell your vision, it is the product. Radha commissioned this service; she selected the dictums. It has at le
ast a million subscribers, which is pretty – ha – very pretty, isn’t it?
She listens for a second. Bubu is still in the shower. She has time to open Twitter. Her account, her little secret, @MrGee. He will like today’s Bapuji bol. Will retweet it and comment on it – Just got this – a great message from Devraj Bapuji, to begin your business day.
Now she checks her Whatsapps. Gargi. Oh God. With a message longer than Radha’s birthline. She scrolls through it. Has a vision: a dark wall of angry water rising up, crashing through the windows.
—Buji! she shouts. She kicks herself off the bed, goes to the bathroom.
Bubu is in there drying himself, watching cricket and checking his teeth through a cloud of ylang-scented steam. He always uses her shower pearls; he always has the water too hot.
—Bubu, you have to read this, she says.
He snaps his towel at her thighs.
—Besharram!
He snaps at her again, her skin smarts with it.
Her voice becomes the sticky one she uses for foreign journalists, first time out, wanting to go see the real India and wannanother lychee-vodka-lassi to cheers while they take in the tour.
—Bubu-bear, seriously, you have to read this now.
—You first clean yourself. Then you can tell me what to do.
He turns back to the cricket.
—Shit, he says. You made me miss that six!
She puts the mobile down carefully on the black glass top. She will let her silk vest slither down her body. Nice, the mirror says, but not enough.
Bubu sticks his finger in his ear and shakes his head sideways: his eyes stay on the screen.
Radha steps into the shower. She chooses Rainforest birdsong for background colour and sound, then immerses her head, drowning out the hollow pop of bat hitting ball, men cheering.
Then Bubu opens the cubicle door. He stands fully dressed, staring at her. She turns off the jet. Her arms hang stupidly by her sides, water running off her chin, hair, off her breasts, the bird soundtrack twittering around her,
—Really? Again? she says.
—Don’t be a junglee. Also, you need a wax.
—Wax?
One hand moves to her mouchie, the other to her mound. The water drip-drips down her, welling in her navel, weeping between her legs. The steam from her shower clouds the mirror, escapes out of the door.
—Taange bandh. And your mouth. Get dressed in your travel clothes, pitti-parrotter, says Bubu. We’re going to Amritsar.
From her room to the lift to the hotel lobby to the car. Doors open and shut. Company walls and doors and chandeliers say hello and welcome; here you are again, OK bye. Radha keeps her face turned in, her shoulder to the car window: Bubu loves to describe every dirty bhikshu they pass. —I just saw one crapping on the road! he says, or, —I just saw one skinnier than his own cane! And when he really wants to punish her, it’s —Let’s stop and give that one a ride, don’t you want to do your bit? Sita would be so proud.
She used to roll down the car window and stick her nose right into the city air; she used to beg for street food as they passed every cart. Always she wanted to stop for a bite, the men’s hands so fast on the atta; kneading it, pinching it, moulding the roti, flipping it, slapping it on to the tawa. Roti, puri, dosa, hot-fried gulab jamun: whatever it was, she wanted to taste.
—Have a peanut, Gargi would say. Radha would take a handful and crack the shells with her teeth, then flick them to see what she could hit. Nanu herself used the road as her rubbish heap. Sweet wrappers, orange peel – it all went out of the window – and put Gargi in an executive sulk that made them poke fun at her until she cried. Then Gargi had said — Remember, you are Radha Kumari, the daughter of a Kashmiri Pandit and the Maharaja of Napurthala, you should set an example of cleanliness, always.
Nanu had sniffed at Gargi. —Young girls do not show their faces to the street. She told Radha that if she looked at a beggar in the eyes, she might be cursed; her face would change and she would age overnight, become a white-haired, skin-like-a-peanut-shell budiya and wake up the next day in Dhimbala basti; some other, prettier girl would be in her bed and no one would believe Radha if she told them her name. It was enough. Even now, the story polices her body, it makes her check her compact; it stops her from looking outside. The only thing that helps is Bubu’s game of spot-the-worst.
Radha looks over at Bubu but he does not want to play. He is on his phone, talking about Jeet. Disappeared, money gone, heritage trouble, should have known.
Really, what the big fuss is, Radha cannot say. Jeet the Enigmatic, Jeet the Mysterious, Jeet the Peacemaker, the Yogi, the Great Hope. Actually, it’s Jeet the Selfish: that is his trademark. Jeet – who always pokes fun at her – but then comes to her to beg and borrow her girlfriends for parties. Jeet, who expects everyone to cover for him while he remains Ranjit’s favourite, Nanu’s pet. Even Bapuji considers him a young Birbal, so wise. Because of Jeet the Selfish, Radha and Bubu are going to backwater Amritsar – where Bubu will moan and she will be diligent, kind and solicitous, all the better to comfort Ranjit Uncle. Always this task falls to her.
—Man, he must have gone mad, she says.
She scrolls her phone. @MrGee has thirty-seven new Twitter followers. Most of them young men, hiding behind eggs.
Bubu looks up, catches her staring at her mobile. She flicks to her video newsfeed so he can’t see what she’s doing. He leans over her. A mob is marching in Delhi, the ticker runs: police arrest hundreds in anti-corruption *teargas threatened against action*unions organising across the country*no leader claims mob organisation or message*government buildings attacked*police arrest hundreds in anti-corruption*no leader
She turns it off. Bubu sits back, his humped shoulder saying, why aren’t you working, doing something useful, at least fix your face and your hair.
—Sooner or later, he says, the media is going to find out what is going on around here.
Sooner or later. Thinking of her jobs, she feels so tired: Bubu wants her to call up Barun, her journalist buddy, and all the proprietors who aren’t in Bapuji’s train. To remind the editors and the distributors of Company advertising spend, which will only increase with the launch of the eco-car.
—Nothing should get out about Jeet. Nothing about Sita, Bubu says. And nothing, I mean absolutely, not, about your Dad’s state of mind. When we get to Srinagar, then we will tell the world.
—So what shall I say? she asks.
Now he speaks in his Bubu-bear voice.
—You know what to do, Raddles. Give them some titbit to scoop on. They already have Big Sis. Concentrate on the Srinagar hotel: everyone is bored sick of hearing how bad things are in Kashmir, let’s give them instead our fairytale of opportunity – jobs, tourism – opening up. Give them Jivan. Give your Barun an exclusive intro to the NOW generation. He’ll love it. Jivan Singh: Our new right hand man. No: Our fresh eyes.
—He is not my Barun, she says, but Bubu is no longer listening to her.
Press. Release. Jivan Singh. Ranjitji’s beloved son. The story of his mother, a world-class singer, who gave everything up for love. (It was the 70s – The Beatles – Ravi Shankar – Nora Jones – it was a different time; such things were less fixed.) They can bring in Jivan’s Harvard education, before the real killer: his decision to leave America and return home to India, to be with the family he loves so much. She imagines the cover: Jivan in a dark suit (or maybe a handloom kurta and jeans?). And the headline: Jivan naya jeevan hain.
They have left the hotel for the tatty beach road, lined with foreigner stalls. Here Radha can look out of the window; she is on safari, spotting the white girls in bikini tops and denim hot pants, skin like razor shells discarded on the beach, hair sand-blasted or twisted into long, dead snakes. She watches them bargain for cheap churidar to wear with tube-tops, for chemical incense, for pirate DVDs from the bootleggers who have annexed the old Hindi music stalls Ranjit Uncle used to take her to. How plump they are, these wome
n; even the rich ones, she can never understand them sleeping in shacks like unwashed bums, getting high on home-grown ganja, riding on the backs of motorcycles with shirtless, muscled Goan boys. And why do they wear all those tie-dye sarongs? God, the market stinks. Raw fish and old fruit. Thank God for the highway, the flat blue water stretching out on either side.
MrGee writes a tweet: Goa getting spoiled by white girls with no style. Media calls for appropriate Indian beachwear rules. She posts it, with a picture of Priyanka Chopra in a string bikini. Like like like like like like like: she watches the Twitter feed.
She is so eager to leave the public parts of the city behind that she almost trips as she climbs the plane steps. Company doors shut, seatbelt clips, blinds go down. They race towards the ocean, bank and turn north: at last they are free of the ground.
Up in the clouds, Radha unclips her seatbelt. The interior of the little jet is camel leather. She likes it, so soft: skin on skin. She calls the airhostess, to order their lunch. Cholay-puri and saag-meat for Bubu. He eats like a starving bachcha, using his hand to tear bits of soft puri and scoop cholay into his mouth. He picks a piece of marrowbone from the saag and sucks the inside clean.
—Equal share, family bond, he says through his food. Future proof the trust.
Radha feathers her sprout salad with her fork. She eats a pea shoot. She thinks about pav bhaji. You can’t get street food in the plane. She wants a cold glass of Sancerre, and presses the button to call the hostess.
—All in good time, Bubu says. Your Dad’s favourite pill. In ten years since I married you I have worked like a donkey for the Company. Have I ever asked for anything in return?
He does not wait for Radha to answer.
—When we get to Amritsar, make sure you take care of Ranjit.
Why he has to tell her this, she has no idea.
—We have so much work to do, to get ready for the Srinagar opening, now we are taking time for this.