We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  Who is he actually talking to? She counts her finished olive stones. One (for sorrow), two (for joy), three (for a girl), four (for a boy), five (for a King). She scrapes her teeth over one more.

  —When we get the Srinagar hotel open, you’ll see what we can really do. I mean, giving our business to Sita? Hotel and shawls? What was your Dad thinking? All I can say is, thank God she left. The whole Northern network is dependent on that trade.

  Yes, Bubu, yes it is. The little plane dips and rises. The Kashmir Corridor. Radha taps her nails on her knee. A dark place, a thin place, a no place to the map. Here come the arms and there go the drugs, liquid, solid, gas. Through hallways and in corners, through doors into rooms, light weapons, they call them, though they are heavy and hard. All wrapped in high class and soft fabric. Hush–hush – the move of things – slipping through men’s hands like a beautiful shawl over skin. In a blessed communal of Allah and Shiv. A deep state. Of grace. No crack down. Consignments are increasing. Nothing so romantic. The store must be ready before winter comes, deep in the cellars of the new Company Kashmir hotel.

  Bapuji has named Bubu for this business. Outright. The shawls, made from the tums of protected little chiru are a different matter. They happen, despite the wild-lifers, the media, and Gargi’s legal objections. But still, all because of Bubu. He says he keeps the bribes down to workable strata right from the guys who pick the fluff off the tum of the damn hoofy goat, up to the stores on Sansad Marg. And the Kashmir Corridor stays open. In all weathers, it is open for free trade.

  Bubu takes another puri and scrapes it around his bowl, chasing the last shreds of meat in the sauce.

  —I cannot wait until we get the Kashmir hotel done, he says. If your sister doesn’t sabotage it somehow. Why do you both have to be so sentimental?

  Srinagar, Srinagar, late summer on the lake. Lying in a hammock in a garden in the hills, looking up through the branches of some wide, spreading tree. Her slim waist. Her long legs. The responsibility of her own beauty against violence in the streets. Fourteen mosquito-bite marks on her ankles, one for each year of life. Sita and Big Sis somewhere around. Radha had felt so aloof and lovely up there. Lonely, in the singular way of mountain flowers. Even though there was table tennis. She was the red paddle and Ranjit Uncle was the blue. And of course, there was the petting farm, with real live chickens and goats.

  Now Bubu points his food covered fingers in a gun at her. He shoots at her face then licks them.

  —When we get into the new hotel, Gargi Madam will know for sure that she cannot strut around pretending she’s the boss.

  —Gargi just wants whatever is right.

  —You need to stop defending her. Radha you are 28-years-old. You need to start thinking for yourself. Stop worrying about what Big Sis will say. Don’t ever forget – you’re my wife. And head of Company PR.

  Perfect Radha, Pretty Radha, Pukka Radha. Bubu is stuck on his favourite topic now: How Gargi Thinks She’s God. Radha does not want to listen to this again. Yet she chose Bubu, she knows that – it wasn’t as if she had been wrapped in a bow and just gifted away. Bubu’s gotra was excellent, a Rajput pedigree going back in the male line right to the source. His parents were in town planning, his wider family in politics. They were new money, but it was the late 1990s, the country was opening up. Though Radha had to have it coaxed from her by Ranjit Uncle one night, she finally confessed that out of all the guys who offered for her, she was crushing on Bubu. Cosmological charts were made. Their stars matched and the family Swamiji was consulted about the date. Radha thought Gargi might disapprove, but she had only said —Don’t you think he’s a bit fast?

  —I’m going to use this time in Amritsar to head up to Srinagar once or twice, Bubu says. Contractors need to know I am there. You come, be the good cop. OK? Or I’ll take Jivan, not a bad idea. Yes, Jivan with the Amer-i-can accent. Do you dig his accent, Raddles? Lick-lick-like it?

  Has Radha ever been glad Bubu talks so much? The little plane shudders around her. On early dates, she had thought it was sweet, that Bubu wanted her to understand him. He took her to the Habitat Centre because she liked its fortress style, and he liked the English pub there – they served these salty-spicy nuts with the drinks – he could not find them anywhere else in Delhi, he said, not even in her Daddy’s hotel. She sat and listened as he told her of his childhood, Dad and Mom building the business together; going to office then coming home for lunch; taking keep-fit strolls in the evening around the colony square while Bubu learned fractional math with a tutor. Two Mercs in the driveway and ten-plus help: driver and chaukidar, cook, maid, safai wale. And so on. Happy little Bubu had been sent to St Columba’s with the sons of his parents’ friends; he had sat with his family over dinner each night being fed, and fed, and fed at his Mom’s own direction. Uncles in the police and in the civil service, rising like English bread. Lunch on Sundays at the Lodhi restaurant, parties at the Gymkhana club, an MBA from Princeton, a year or so working for Pierce & Pierce in London. He came home, he said, after 9/11 shut down the office. Anyway the job didn’t like him; and it is true, Radha thinks, he is better, in charge of his own thing. At eighteen she had been desperate to get married. Bubu was The One: she had decided when, for their fourth or fifth date, he made Bapuji laugh with his impressions of London, then got his permission to take Radha out to dinner alone. He chose biryani at Delhi O’ Delhi, though she wanted shakes and burgers in the American Diner. It was too full of kids, he had said, and bad lighting (and if she thought the place was damn cool then – well she was only eighteen).

  A jolt of turbulence – Bubu puts his arms out – then stretches his hands behind his head.

  —For now, all conditions of our cooperation will be based on Gargi’s behaviour, he says. Let’s see if she can hack it at the top.

  As a bride, Radha had no bargaining chips. But she would not go and live with Bubu’s parents in his parents’ new-build city. Even though Bubu told her that Paradise Park was the place of the future, even though he promised he would build her a mall there. So she could go from bedroom, to car, to covered shopping. Buy her favourite brands without even feeling she had left the house.

  —I don’t want to, she had said. I like going to London; they have the best clubs, and street food you can eat until three in the morning.

  She wondered that he had never been to that road near Selfridges, near Marble Arch, so like a miniature India Gate? Such succulent shawarma they have there, and fresh-fresh juice. On her first trip to London when she was seventeen, she ate there every night after dancing at Opium: she and her school friends, allowed to go to UK together since the other girls had brothers to come too. It felt wild to go with bare legs in the street, high heels and tight dresses, sleeping on the floor all jumbled up close, fingers and hair, and hot breath, kissing cousins and what-all else in the night. Not rising each day until noon.

  Bubu hadn’t answered; just asked if she never felt it was unfair that she had more money than any Britisher, yet couldn’t get the latest fashions unless she got on a plane. Why, he said, shouldn’t India compete? He told her it was all the fault of a closed financial system based on a mirage, an endless cycle of government dreams locked up in five year plans. Till now. You can blame the late 80s, he had said. And the early 90s. My uncles in Congress, your dad and Ranjit.

  No one had ever said such things to her about Bapuji before. She liked the certainty in Bubu’s voice. She only had a loose idea of what he was talking about. She had footsied him under the table and said,

  —But it’s the Naughties. She expected him to laugh.

  —Right, he had said, holding out a bite of tender lamb for her. And what happened in the last decade? Bail out. Hello international money. Lakshmi Devi has blessed our generation with a liberalised economy; it is our duty to make the most of each rupee. It is our time, Radha, we cannot waste it; the begging bowl is going to change hands, you watch.

  He had been right. Bubu, she thought, was something of a Bu
siness Guru, just like Bapuji. Still, she refused to go and live in Paradise Park. Some of the enclaves were only half-finished; the rest were full of retired Uncles and Aunties in tower blocks, their kids in neat bungalows set around their feet. It was no country for old money to live in. She put it like this to Ranjit Uncle, of course he had agreed. He spoke to Bubu, and for ten years they have lived, instead, on the Farm with Gargi and Surendra, Bapuji and Nanu. Ranjit Uncle.

  Radha turns to look out of the airplane window; all she can see are a few wispy clouds; white hairs trailing across the bald, scorched earth. She thinks about Amritsar, where Ranjit Uncle is. And Jivan.

  *

  Press. Release. She takes a gulp of her wine. Once, when Jivan’s Ma was trying to teach her the basics of bharatnatyam – araimandi, half sitting, samapadam, legs together – Radha confessed she wanted to be Jivan’s rishta. Stiff body, soft face. To get engaged in the gardens of the Company Delhi hotel, where the terrace would heave under the weight of all of her school friends’ envy, and her sisters would look on, wishing for her luck, and her father and Ranjit Uncle would bless them with more sweets and money than she could even eat or count. Arm out, foot stretch. Would they agree? Better not to think of that, or Ranjit Uncle’s hand in the small of her back, guiding her always in the right direction, all of her life it seems.

  —Chi, Jivan’s Ma had said. Take a note of your elders, your sister. Learn well your steps for the dance.

  She had called Radha a pagal, said that Lord Shiva would come disguised as an unwashed gopi and milk cows for her morning doodh before Bapuji would allow his middle daughter to marry Jivan. Why not? Nice girls do not ask. Why not? Such a match would be as unwanted as the noon sun shining on freshly made curd.

  No one had told Radha that Jivan was being sent to America until after he had gone. It was October. The Farm was being finished for Gargi’s wedding. Everyone was obsessed with each detail of Gargi’s jewellery, her clothes, even her underwear was going to be new. Ranjit Uncle had come to the Jor Bagh house and found Radha alone, smoking on the roof. He did not seem to see her cigarette. He bowed to her, and invited her for tea in the Palm Court of the Company Delhi hotel, just her, on her own. He took her in the Bentley: it smelled of leather polish and Old Spice cologne. Well hello, said the seats, how are you, pretty Radha? So elegant at just fifteen.

  Her kameez that day was stitched with tiny mirrors. She could see herself reflected in parts. She sat in the backseat with Ranjit Uncle, his ebony stick between his knees. He told her that Bapuji had just gifted him a beautiful thing. She was confused. Watching her, he had laughed, said – It is the Company Amritsar hotel, to mark so many years of loyalty and friendship. He asked her opinion on his new suit. Radha said she liked it, and he took her hand and used it to stroke the fabric over his leg.

  —See? He had said, brushed cotton. Almost as soft as your skin.

  When they reached the Palm Court, Ranjit Uncle let her choose wherever she wanted to sit. He asked the pianist to play her favourite tune: back then it was Memory from Cats.

  She had cried when he explained, so gently, that Jivan’s Ma had wanted to leave India, and have her own new house. She had felt a bit better when Ranjit Uncle shifted his chair to put his arm around her, and said that Jivan had chosen to stay with his Ma, of course that was the case. He pulled her head into his shoulder, and the handkerchief from his top pocket. She blew her nose in it, and gave it back. He had held it up for a moment, then folded it tenderly, like a letter and put it in his pocket. He had stroked her hair. He told her he had a present for her.

  From his briefcase produced a stack of old photos of himself with Bapuji. She gazed at them, the heroes of back-then cinema, in flares, waistcoats and Raybans – she thought Ranjit Uncle a little more dashing than Bapuji. There they were in the pictures, leaning on balustrades all over Europe, in Switzerland, by the Lac de Genève. (When Radha got home, she showed them to Gargi, who had told her the background was Srinagar, not Switzerland. Radha had checked up with Nanu, but her grandmother took the pictures from her, and sent her away with a stinging cheek.)

  By the end of that first tea, Ranjit Uncle had promised to make it up to Radha. He said —Haven’t I always been your playmate, since you were a little girl? It was true, he had always been there, whenever Jivan was not allowed to come out to play.

  Ranjit Uncle promised he would take her to tea re-ligious-ly once a month. He promised he would be Radha’s special friend. She was so hip-hip-happy. Jivan had left her for good, she thought, without even saying goodbye.

  *

  —Stop dreaming, Radha. Bubu says. I might have a tenth anniversary surprise for you. What would you say if we moved to our own Farm?

  Right, Radha thinks. With space for his parents, his sister and her kids, Bubu’s whole buddy crew.

  —Running around after Daddy is an elder daughter’s job, Bubu says.

  —Yah, says Radha, but I don’t want to leave Gargi alone with all of that.

  —Did Gargi think about you when she got married? Lucky for her Surendraji has no family. Lucky for us, as well.

  Radha was fifteen. She was still only practising her makeup.

  —Don’t worry we will invite them sometimes. And you will keep your place as the fourth of Bapuji’s five loves, Bubu says.

  First: the Company. Second, it’s Nanu. Third – Sita. She – Radha comes fourth. At least she isn’t last.

  Bubu reaches forward to pinch Radha’s cheek. His fingers smell of cholay.

  —Don’t worry, he says. You are always my Number One. Do you want to spend your life working the crowd for Gargi’s parties? More tea-ji and how about a burfi or two? Or do you want to host your own? No more speeches… just party, party, party!

  Bubu jabs the air towards her as if she is the party, three times around.

  Stop dreaming Radha, stop dreaming. She pours herself more wine. When we get to Srinagar… After the Srinagar hotel opening, she should take a cruise. Or maybe a trip to the Maldives? Or she could start a new project, like her own shawls line. Future-modern or old-colonial? Heritage or avant-garde? She will order some Mumbai design magazines and have them delivered to Amritsar.

  Gargi would not approve. Unless – Radha could have a baby. She has always wanted a real live baby.

  —Bubu-bu? she says. Her arm snakes across the table, through the dirty plates from lunch.

  —Want to be my baby-Daddy?

  Bubu puts his work to one side. His eyes narrow.

  —Get up, he says. We’ve got time. Before we come into land.

  He signals to the airhostesses to get into the cockpit. At eighteen thousand feet he unbuttons his fly. Then he invites Radha over to his side of the table and asks her to lift up her skirt. He pulls down her panty and sits her on his lap, facing forwards so that his fingers can pinch at her nipples. His chin presses into her back. She stares at the dishes. There is still some puri left in the basket. She braces: her knees are trapped under the edge of the table. Bubu bends her forwards, starts his familiar rhythm. She cries out, so loud that she is sure that far below, every man from Goa to Amritsar can hear her: a beautiful, wild mynah swooping in the sky.

  The heat in Amritsar. A fierce thirty-eight degrees. It burns through the soles of her sandals. Their car edges out of the airport, away from the old walled city. Radha is full of sex and pastis; she feels safe, so safe, enough to let her eyes look up from her phone, skim over the ragged women squatting in the dirt. She tells herself the old curse is stupid. I’m researching, she thinks. Looking for the money shot. That her magazine ladies pretend they do not come to see. We should get some of these rope makers, these mattress weavers. Hang some large portraits of them in the hotel, tasteful, looking into the lens, so their heads fill the frame and their eyes look like owls’.

  —Feeling good? she asks Bubu.

  She cannot see his eyes behind his shades.

  —Feeling great.

  He reaches over and tugs on the ends of her hair.<
br />
  —Hey, look! There’s one with no shoes, see? Making a tandoor with her bare hands. You want one? A tandoor-maker? We could buy her and all of her pots. Let’s stop! he says.

  They pass a parantha stand, a crowd of men around it; she can smell the hot ghee, thick like a fur lining her throat. If only she could have one – no, she cannot. Bubu hates her street food habit. He has banned her from eating carbs after breakfast. It is for her own well-being.

  —Look! There’s some kids, trying to eat chapati off the mitti! Bubu says. You want one mud chapati? Do you?

  —No!

  —Come on babe, you gotta play.

  The car is too small, the road broken.

  —What are their names? she asks.

  —Ummm, Chinku, Rinku, Mr Stinku! He laughs. Like Sita’s dogs.

  —Don’t be a meany, she says. They’re cute puppos. It’s not their fault Sita has left them without their Mommy.

  —Hello? Since Sita Madam went to college your Dad spent more time with them than he does with you. They aren’t cute; they’re vicious. Particularly Mr Stinku. He’s really on his last legs.

  Just like that, she thinks. One should not get fat, sick or old.

  —Poor Mr Stinku, she says. He’s such a cute pooch.

  —Nasty yappy mutt. Don’t get ideas. We are not getting a dog. If you wanna be licked so bad, ask that one!

  Bubu points to a thin old man on a tired bicycle, piled high in the front with a vast cloth bundle that could contain half her hundred-piece wardrobe. His feet are in broken chappals, his face twists as he bears down on the pedals. As if grieving for his legs. She can see the veins on his neck standing out, like the rivers on an ancient map. His eyes bulging, his tongue clenched between his teeth.

  —OK, you win, you always win! she says.

  Bubu laughs. The car slows; it turns through the pink stone gateposts of the Company Amritsar hotel. Salute, salute, the doormen recognise them. Radha smooths her hair. She arranges her dupatta into a perfect smile across her breasts. Radha Kumari. Radha Kumari Devraj Balraj has arrived at her Ranjit Uncle’s hotel.