We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  *

  You, again! the lobby says. Welcome, your regular rooms are waiting. Indian fruit basket (lychees, satsumas, jackfruits, banana – pineapple optional); champagne on ice. There is the atrium to pass through, and lifts to go up and corridors to walk down, and rooms. Rooms for eating and some for sleeping; rooms for being pretty in, and some for drinking in. All the Company rooms. Some with connecting doors for suites done in business traveller-gothic-style: clear plastic chairs, black and purple candelabra, lazer cut and cast in the old style. Velvet fruits and paisleys covering the walls. Amritsar is a boutique hotel: there are only thirteen floors, stacked one on top of the other like a giant tiffin box. The internal corridors have no windows, just soft, low lighting. You can go around in circles, up and down, and never know where you are until you get to the top. On the eighth floor the schema changes; half of it is rooms, half is cut away. One half is Ranjit Uncle’s suite and the offices of the Company North, the other his private terrace. It is full of Jeet’s statues. The precious and the fake. All together, posing: Radha calls this the terrace of standing still. On the hotel’s roof is a deck, a bar, a pool and hot tub which, when Radha and Bubu come to stay, becomes exclusive for their use. The hotel sits in five acres of tended gardens, watered every day. All of it bordered by a yellow brick wall. At the back of the hotel, south-eastwards (she thinks) is the stinking Dhimbala basti: the hotel kitchen gives food to the children on festival days. Beyond that, is the Kingdom of Napurthala, where Gargi and Radha were born. A place for the sweetest of times: the tale of a mother and two Little Princesses playing together happily, all day long. Stop. Outside, the highway leads south, into the city; and north, towards Kashmir.

  When they get into the Srinagar hotel… Doors open and close.

  Dinner tonight will be in the public restaurant, among the aam janta. In the fifth year of her marriage, Ranjit Uncle had told Radha (over tea) that he had made some bad investment decisions. Sole ownership of the hotel was at risk. Outsiders might become involved… he held her hand, and wept. Now, it was Radha who plucked out his handkerchief from his top pocket and used it to wipe his poor sad eyes for him. Thank God Bubu came to the rescue, and bought out three fifths of the place (without a word to Bapuji). Still they observe the protocol: Ranjit Uncle will invite Bubu and Radha to join him for dinner, and Bubu will accept.

  In Radha’s room there is a present waiting. A soft cloth bag with a brand new toosh inside. The shawl is creamy white, scattered with hand-embroidered butterflies. Such fine zardozi work. Radha touches a wing with her finger. The creature looks almost alive. With love, Ranjit Uncle.

  Radha wraps herself in her butterflies, over her bra and panties. She wanders around her room, she hops to the mirror like a chiru; long-legged antelope of the high snowcaps. It takes three chiru to make a woman’s toosh and five to make a man’s. A Gargi, a Radha and a Sita chiru, a Jeet and a Jivan too. Ranjit Uncle taught them this process when they were kids, after-lunch lecture in the library. Then Jivan was the baby chiru, hopping through the forests in the mountains above India, almost in Tibet. One of the harshest environments in the world, Ranjit Uncle had said. This was demarcated by a stern ridge of books, pulled from the shelves of Bapuji’s library, it was not as if they were ever used. Light footed, Jivan the chiru-baby clip-clopped around the parquet of the Jor Bagh house, finding his hiding place. Radha was the hunter with knife, she had to report to Gargi and Jeet, take instructions on where to seek until the chiru was caught. Or until Nanu would not allow their noise any longer. They would not stop, so Nanu called Ranjit Uncle. Jivan had been taken into the garden and beaten, in such a way that his soft underbelly skin did not get bruised. Little Radha kept her part, holding the stick with Ranjit Uncle’s hand over hers for a few good whacks; he said she had to learn how to teach animals a lesson.

  Then the chiru would start to die. Before it did, the fur would be taken from its softest parts, tuft by tuft, and hand woven by nimble-fingered women and children, squinting over the work in their huts. They would lie Jivan down on his back, tickling his tum, pinching until he stopped crying and played dead. After that Jivan became the poor Kashmiri woman, carding the wool, weaving the fine shawl for a year or more (five minutes), and then he was the Shi’a man who did the embroidery: another year or so (five minutes) for that. Gargi was the distributor, Jeet was the chief buyer, and Radha was the English lady customer at the end. Compare and try, free to say no or buy.

  Then the three of them were called to dinner. Ranjit Uncle finished the story with the words —Those who wear the Shahtoosh are the Kings and Queens of this life. If she and Gargi and Jeet ate all that they were given, they washed hands and were allowed to touch a Shahtoosh, maybe even tuck it over baby Sita in her crib.

  Radha twirls in the mirror. The sequins catch the light, they cast shadows, glitter ball. She pinches her fingers together: the lotus flower, the wolf. Very nice, says the mirror, just right. The mirror is repro-vintage, fake-spotted to look aged. An older Radha gazes out at her, like a movie star from back then, considering her youth. This lovely girl will never grow old or die. The mirror keeps silent on that.

  She dresses herself: a green silk sari, a blouse held up by two strings: one across her back, the other around her neck. She ties the sari as low as possible: her navel stares out so brazenly. It winks at itself in the mirror. She pokes it with her finger, naughty naabhi! Then dusts it with bronze powder. She calls for a set from the hotel jewellers – a collar of antique gold, crusted with diamonds; a pair of earrings like tiny chandeliers. Now the room says, Ah pretty Radha – so like a bride! Ranjit Uncle will appreciate her adorned in the wares from his shop. Yes, so he will. And Jivan?

  Strange, how she wears a touch extra scent. Is this for the rate paying public? Come get your tickets to see the Goddess, extra to ask her your fate!

  *

  There is no mirror in the elevator; it has been replaced with a video of a goldfish, eyes rotating, mouth gaping as it flickers from side to side. Bubu stares at the doors; Radha at her toes. The fish swims behind them. They reach the Lagoon Bar (members only). The maître d’ greets them; Radha follows Bubu, now the night begins.

  Hours of Fashion TV before she got married have taught her to straighten her back, drop her shoulders and stick out her hips as she walks. Everything in here is deep sea: cold light on blue velvet. The bar watches Radha pass by, the backlit bottles a rainbow regiment; they stand to attention and say, Good Evening, Radha Rani, so lovely you look. How about a cocktail tonight? Strings of clear glass beads cascade from the ceiling: tiny waterfalls hiding each clamshell booth. Radha carries her new shawl, butterflies flitting through aquamarine.

  The music is jazz. Not, for once, Ranjit Uncle’s old filmy favourites.

  —Bubu, Radha! Welcome, good to see you.

  Jivan. Waiting at their table, in jeans and dark shirt. His eyebrows have been trimmed. It makes his face look sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced. He always looks as if a joke is coming and it is going to be dirty. Radha’s smile spreads down her body, warm like Goan sun.

  —Hey look who is here, says Bubu.

  They do the boy-sniff-boy: grip, pull, backslap, press, release. They seem genuinely pleased to see each other. Bubu likes the corner position of the booth, but raises his eyebrows at the waiting bottle of Veuve Cliquot. He waves it away. He always drinks Indian (there is no import tax). It is his father’s habit, to care about such things.

  The maître d’ clutches the ice bucket; he shakes it as if it put itself there on purpose. It sounds Radha’s nerves as she leans towards Jivan, feels his hand on her back; she kisses him once on each cheek, European style. His stubble grazes: she thinks of herself as a long, slim match striking against him. He smells of citrus and almost, perhaps, of jasmine. He pulls her lightly into the velvet clamshell.

  Under the table, she presses Jivan’s palm with her thumb.

  —Sirs? What can I get? A young waiter. His uniform is too big: it sits on him as if
expecting him to instant-grow, just add water. His trainers are luminous under the ultramarine light. Drink, drink, chime the glass beads behind him. Drink? Why yes, I will.

  —Tiger? Bud? Jivan says to Bubu.

  —He’ll have a Tiger, says Radha. Vodka Tonic for me.

  —Ek dum thanda, ok? Jivan snaps at the boy. Aur glass nahin chahiye. Bhoolna nahin, ok? And one JD for me, one Vodka-tonic for Radha Madam, ice and lemon. Bring Mr and Mrs Balraj some snacks. What will you have? Spicy nachos? Finger chips? Or shall we start with some of the hot specialities?

  Bubu raises his eyebrows.

  —Wah, wah. Not bad Hindi, Mr Head of Intelligence. Man, you only just landed and you can talk the talk already. Pretty impressive my friend, he says.

  —Yah, well, you know… I grew up with it. And Gargi Madam said I should practice my language. What Gargi Madam wants, Gargi Madam gets, Jivan replies.

  Bubu laughs, so Radha laughs as well. So funny, it all suddenly seems. Her and he and he and where is Ranjit Uncle? Jivan’s face does not register when Radha lets go of his hand; she places both of hers on the table. Wedding ring, engagement ring, eternity ring. They wink at her, Bubu’s co-conspirators. She wants to crawl inside Jivan’s head and pick through his memories, see which Radha he remembers: is the one who used to dress him up and play hunter hunts chiru still there?

  The drinks are served: she watches the men, the whisky and the beer. Bubu dismisses the nachos-katchos, so she orders hot samosa, the good stuff. Radha sips at her Vodka then rolls her finger around the top of her glass, trying to make it sing.

  *

  Three little Vodkas and the room has warmed to her: how cosy it is in Amritsar. She loves the bar, the sense of blue; the talk about this and about that swirls around. Bubu scoops up a fist full of peanuts and shoots them into his mouth. Jivan smiles at her every now and then, lazily. As if time slows for him. She watches them. Bubu loves home cooking, loves going shopping. He takes an interest in her clothes and hair. Jivan, she thinks, is younger, more fresh. A thought snakes into her with her vodka and tonic; it wants to rise with the bubbles and come out as laughter – Bubu and Jivan, perfect for each other. They could get married, go honeymoon in Srinagar, go boating on the lake.

  She drinks and scrolls her mobile. MrGee has fifteen new followers. She taps out a tweet. Pre-launch buzz on the new Company Eco-Car is hot! Advise getting an order in soon – I’ve got mine already! She watches her two men; catch up, catch up. Drink down. They start to talk about Jeet. Jivan actually seems very upset.

  —Seriously, where could he have gone? he says. Naturally, my Dad is devastated.

  —Damage is done, Bubu shrugs. Jeet has always been flaky. I’ve got the Delhi and Amritsar police working together. If they catch him, I’ve told them not to hurt him. Those guys can be pretty easy with the sticks, know what I mean?

  —Are you joking? Jivan says.

  Now, he just looks scared. Or is it excited? In the pale blue, Radha sips her vodka, she watches little dots of light dance all over him.

  —Why would I be? says Bubu. Jeet’s picture is with all the international and domestic airports, the train and bigger bus stations. We’ve got some plain clothes on it as well. Just in case he’s still hiding out in Delhi. In the old town.

  —Wait, you mean, like your own Secret Service? Jesus. Isn’t that my job? asks Jivan.

  —Huh. Kritik and Kashyap. As intelligent as monkeys trying to write. Look, we don’t even know what Jeet is involved with. It could be some terrorist group, some communals, could just be he’s got some gandu blackmailing him. Either way, we’ve got to protect the assets.

  —From Jeet? Jivan says. Really?

  —He knows a lot of characters. It’s how he does his work. Tribals, Tamils, crazy Sikhs wanting a separate state. Kashmiri fanatics. We’ve already been hit by them once, Bubu says. He better not have been stealing from them – with Jeet you just never know, and I’ve tended not to ask.

  The music becomes a frantic piano, undercut with drums. The rhythm beats, where is that boy? Radha’s glass is empty.

  —OK back-up, says Jivan. Where the hell has all this come from? This is some heavy shit. Kashmiri fanatics? You mean like, terrorism? Jeet couldn’t be involved in anything like that. I can’t believe he even knows the right end of a gun.

  Yes! Finally, something only Radha can answer.

  —Bapuji taught him to shoot for his eighteenth birthday, she says. They set up paper targets in the wild wood – all these cut outs of industrialists Bapuji was feeling mad at – Jeet actually kind-of enjoyed it. He told me.

  —But terrorists? Jivan says.

  —Trying to get us to quit Kashmir, says Bubu. You Americans aren’t the only ones who have to deal with this stuff. There have been attacks on Parliament in Delhi. Four years back there were bombings in Mumbai – our Company hotel and a bunch of others. Last year there was more. Don’t you know about it?

  —That was crazy, Radha says. I was there – out that day at meetings with this fantastic young director, Amit Khanna – we were talking about ad campaigns and we had just ordered matcha tea. I remember it so clearly.

  Bubu reaches over the table. He puts his finger to her lips. He strokes her cheek. She moves against him. Wants to bite, but doesn’t.

  —I remember that Mumbai thing. Forgot you guys got hit, says Jivan.

  —Yah, terrible, Radha says. Terrorible.

  Jivan and Bubu look at her. Neither of them laugh.

  *

  You here, at this public hour? The lobby is so bright, it is too full of strangers. Radha puts her shawl on. She holds her phone in front of her face. Snap, snap, snap. For MrGee to tweet, later on. The restaurant is full of families eating from the buffet, so many dishes on burners and on ice. Perfect for having a private conversation – a tête a tête – where no one but the person next to you can hear what you say, not even the wine or the water-waiter. Every place is set with five knives and five forks; a stack of three plates crowned with a napkin in a peacock fan.

  Ranjit Uncle is already at the table, waiting for Radha to come sit by him. He stands to greet them; his eyes are a little bloodshot. He looks a little old. Ranjit Uncle: who taught her to mix a whisky sour before her wedding – survival skills, he said. Who took her to Dubai for her twenty-first birthday because Bubu was too busy with his mall. From whom Radha learned the art of get-what-you-want-without-losing-any-friends. Even his beard is a little untrimmed.

  —You like the shawl? It is so you. His palm is damp. His voice, his breath are whisky over ice.

  They take their seats, Radha, then Ranjit Uncle, then Jivan, then Bubu. One is her husband, one is her mentor, the other her oldest friend. She cannot tell which is the honest one, which is the naïve one, which is the monster under the bed.

  —I must tell you all, I cannot believe Jeet could behave with such callousness. From where did he learn this? Ranjit says. Usne mera dil chir diya.

  How strange it is that he says his heart ripped, not broken. Is that because he now has Jivan? She smiles at the son, across his father.

  —We can’t believe it either, she says. Your own precious Jeet.

  —Aré Radha Beti, I wish I could forget this thing. How can I face your Bapuji?

  Chef Mistry comes to the table. His hat stands like pillar of icing on his milk chocolate face. He wants to know what delicacies he can make for Radha, then tells her what he likes best.

  —Bring a selection, she says, as she always does. And another round of drinks.

  And now, she must turn to Ranjit Uncle, must soften her voice.

  —Dear Ranjit Uncle, I know you love Jeet, but sometimes he does misbehave. With Bapuji’s Hundred, you know? Gargi tells me they have been going wild on the Farm, encouraging all sorts of pranks. It is so bad for Bapuji’s health. Did you know Jeet is close with them?

  —I don’t seem to know, beti, what-all Jeet does.

  —It’s true, Dad, says Jivan. Jeet has always been into those guys
. And their scene isn’t exactly veg, you know?

  Check it out! Radha realises that Jivan has begun to use old slang, the kind Gargi used as a teenager. ‘Veg’, ‘non-veg’. Don’t they say – what is it? ‘Savoury’ and ‘unsavoury’ in the West? Even more interesting: Jivan is backing her, Radha, up on something, that after all his years in America, he cannot know is true. And is he trying to hint that Jeet is gay? To his own Dad?

  —Yet Srinagar hotel is about to open. How could Jeet have gone off? says Ranjit Uncle.

  Like milk, she thinks. Jeet the Doodh. She drowns her laugh in her wine.

  —I thought Bapuji might even bring his boys to Goa, and expect me to play host. It’s too much, she says.

  Eyes all wide and mouth open, her dismay tugs at her cheeks, as if Ranjit Uncle himself is pinching them.

  Ranjit Uncle shakes his head. Yes, dear Radha, too much.

  —Don’t worry, Bubu says. We’ll find that bad boy Jeet. And then you can decide his punishment.

  Bubu looks from Ranjit Uncle to Jivan; puts one hand on each of their shoulders.

  Ranjit Uncle picks up his drink. For years Radha has watched him do exactly this: swirl the liquid, and knock it back. He puts the glass down but does not let go. His eyes stay on his hand; his expression is impossible to read. His skin is pocked like the cutwork on the glass, notches of too many late nights. Bubu, she thinks, is more likely than Jivan to look like Ranjit Uncle one day.

  The food arrives. Butterflied king prawns, looking split pink and so pleased, as if they swam to the pot and sacrificed themselves willingly to the sauce. Roti, a tandoor-baked daal. A jewelled rice, bright with pomegranate seeds, with saffron, the finest from Kashmir.

  —Let us eat, Ranjit Uncle says. Come beta, come. You’re welcome to all I have.