We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  After they have eaten, Radha leaves the boys to a new game. Poker, with Jivan’s self-devised, all new American rules. She accompanies Ranjit Uncle back to his suite. He presses her to stay for one more drink, he wants to show off his new toy: a wood-fired pizza oven he has just had installed on his terrace. He promises a pizza party next weekend, in Radha’s honour, if she will just spend some time with a South African business colleague of his, who should not leave without a taste of their proper hospitality.

  Miles is over six foot (taller than Bubu); his shoulders are wide as India Gate. He has warm hands, big, with rough palms. He is what Radha would call ‘hot’ if she liked white guys; she does not know what it is about him that makes her feel so relaxed, but she decides that she will stay. He is in India, he says, to buy cigars, direct from Ranjit’s own personal Cuban supply, the best he has found for his taste. Radha smiles, yes, yes, Ranjit Uncle has such eclectic habits. Miles pours her two shots and lets her suck his cigar. Ranjit Uncle nods along. After this, she feels absolutely fine. She confesses to Miles (in a low voice) that of course she knows who he really is – the manager of certain factories outside Johannesburg. He looks so surprised that she giggles. He makes small parts that hold tanks, guns and observation devices together. The Company Materials subsidiary (some of which, she supposes, is now hers) has a small, significant share.

  —It was this factory that supplied the air conditioning units to Saddam Hussein’s palace in Iraq, Ranjit Uncle says. In the Middle East.

  —Did you go there? Radha asks.

  —Sure, says Miles. All gold, inside. Even the lift.

  Radha has no view on this, what is it to her? It makes a good story. The shares bring in several hundred undeclared crores per year. The parts are sold through the Company to governments in Pakistan, Afghanistan and across Iran, Iraq, Syria, Yemen. To UK and America. They come home, as grown up weapons, through the Kashmir Corridor. What big arms you have, Radha wants to laugh. He he he. She raises her arm. A small bulge of muscle under smooth skin. The shadow of a dancer is cast on the wall. Arms and the highest bidder.

  Miles seems surprised that Radha drinks – nice girls do not – that she tastes cigars – nice girls would not – that she knows his profession – nice girls should not – what? Talk about it.

  Radha says, while Ranjit Uncle looks on, proud of her (a feeling that smarts in her eyes like cigar smoke), that she and her husband run the Company Consumer Goods subsidiary, the shawls and extras: she knows exactly what they buy and sell, from whom. And how it comes and goes.

  —Peace! says Miles. Women’s lib.

  Over whisky nightcaps and flambé toffee apples, gold skin crisp and flesh so soft, Radha curls into the sofa, to the left of Ranjit Uncle, her good side, her pretty feet near enough for his hand to use as a rest, should it want to. She tells stories of Bollywood stars and their unnatural demands, desperate PRs, working non-stop on the gloss; money goes through this system, getting snorted and smoked; a cash injection of liquid highs, supplied from the most secret of Company sources, isn’t that right, Ranjit Uncle? He laughs and presses her foot; he remembers the time a Hollywood studio came to Mumbai to meet Radha, wanted her to take them to Dharavi basti, to hear all about Bapuji; yes, and she drinks her shot now, and confesses she supplied them with details – Bapuji’s love of antique guns and his fixation on Q&A games – they didn’t believe her. They made a biopic (which flopped) in which Bapuji started life in poverty and made it big in the textile trade by never taking a bribe. How Miles laughs at this, his laugh like a rifle shot, hapaphapahapa. Radha laughs too, she laughs in the right moments as Ranjit Uncle shares every single detail of a chocolate-making course he has just completed with a Swiss-trained pastry chef called Clive Vertenbaker, a name she thinks is funny, but this time Miles doesn’t laugh, maybe he didn’t get the joke. As her sari slides off her shoulder, Ranjit Uncle brings a selection of delicate dark truffles wrapped in gold leaf – he made them himself. He and Miles want to feed her them one by one with their sausage fingers; she bites and smiles, and laughs and swallows; small, hard, globes with sharp, liquid insides that clog her throat. She keeps drinking whisky and air. So fun, this is, so fun. When Ranjit Uncle leaves (to go find out, he says, more wine from the hotel cellar) it is time. Miles shifts a little closer to her. She allows his hand to rest in hers, among the sari folds.

  He can’t stop talking about his son, a fifteen-year-old boy called William (after the British Prince).

  —Wills doesn’t like what I do. He won’t talk to me. He loves all the gear it brings him though, his iPad, his jeep.

  She leans back. She strokes her fingers through her hair.

  —Ah, life. Would you be doing this job if you had the chance again?

  Her legs uncurl. He watches her toes peek out from her sari, but he does not move.

  —It is too late for me to change now, he says. He tilts his head downwards, towards hers.

  God, he looks too sad. Why are foreigners always so serious?

  —Of course it’s not, she says.

  She jumps up. Steadies herself. Foot in one sandal then the other. A selfie with him and his cigar. For her private album.

  —You seem like a good man, she says. Take your boy on a safari, he’ll love it. Bubu and I went for our fifth anniversary to Rwanda to see gorillas. It was just awesome. I don’t know who was more interested in who, Bubu in the gorilla or vice versa!

  Laughter, laughter, before Ranjit Uncle comes back, she says goodnight and leaves.

  Days pass like this: Radha in the gym, working out every morning with Jivan or Bubu. Lunch. Mould creeps over the fruit in the basket, white speckled green over orange. It starts to collapse and smell; she has to ask for it to be replaced, wondering if the service in this city will ever catch up with Delhi. Afternoons working on the details for the Srinagar opening parties. The pool gets cleaned each morning, the water drained out via a sluice pipe which ends – where? Radha does not know. She likes the way the tiled sides are scrubbed; ready for her evening swim when she goes lengths, then into the dipping bubbles while Ranjit Uncle sits by her; he goes through her plans, adding names to the list, taking some off, who is in, who is out. Never outsource your initial sales. Acquire your first hundred customers yourself, chimes the automated service. Drinks. Dinner. Morning: An educated child is a future tycoon. Tea, cakes, there are no macarons. Bubu calls on friends from Amritsar to play Jivan’s Poker game each night – the rules become more and more complex. No one can quite make all of them out – though Jivan himself says they are simple, like snap for children.

  Radha spirals through the hotel corridors, she goes up and down in the lift; gym in the basement, lunch in the restaurant, tea in Ranjit Uncle’s suite. Working in the hotel’s offices, to the rooftop bar and back down to her bed. At night, thoughts of Jivan make her press against Bubu, which earns her one tight slap after another on her cheeks. She feels chased by boredom, thank God for MrGee. Tweet this, tweet that, about all things Company. And the automated service chimes the passing of the days. Our dreams have to be bigger. Our spirits deeper. Travel further: together we can make new.

  One evening Bubu takes her back to the airport and up in the little plane. They fly towards the sunset: half an hour later they are over Srinagar; they do not land, but loop high around. From the window Bubu points out mountains turning red in the sinking sun; bouncing light off the snow. There are the passes through which money melts, into the river that flows through Company taps. Down there somewhere, is the high place where chirus are hunted. Radha tucks her shawl into her jacket, though it is not cold. On the way back there is turbulence; it only makes Bubu excited, and more energetic. The little plane tosses against his rhythm and she, face in a backrest, hips in his hands, knees lifting off the seat with movement and counter movement, grips on to the thought of Jivan. A hand reaches forward into her mouth, the finest fresh snow from the Kashmiri mountains rubbed onto her gums. Then it feels good. She shrieks like a chiru, feelin
g split in half by her husband.

  Three nights later, after drinks, dinner, drinks, and a shot by shot game of jubaan twisters with Ranjit Uncle in his suite, Radha goes up to the roof. Night rules. The palms loom over the pool as if the trees themselves have drowned and left their ghosts behind. Jivan and Bubu are playing the card game with two of Bubu’s Amritsar friends – Pankaj and Rahul Singh, both tall and broad turbanned, with family in local sweets. A box of jalebi is open on the card table. She looks at it, full of gooey, twisty, gold. Bad jalebi. Bad sweets. No, Radha, no.

  Jivan has added in dice: the Indians are non-stop losing. Radha is in a mood that wants their attention, will sing and dance to get it. She stalks around the deck. She leans over the balustrade to watch the trucks playing chicken on the highway. If she raised her hand she could pick them up from here, pull off their wheels, watch them try to keep running. When she was nine, Jeet used to make her do this to cockroaches, wiggle-wiggle if you catch them, then crack as you squish, brown blood on Radha-baby’s hand. Screaming tears, she would hold out her arm, five fingers spread. Jeet used to tease her, force her to lick them.

  It must be two in the morning at least. She never goes into the city here, it would take at least an hour – in the daytime Amritsar is a simpleton, Delhi’s big, fat Auntyji squatting in the corner of the party. Yet at night it is held in a wired kind of peace, fuelled, she supposes, by the chanting from the Golden Temple, non-stop, non-stop. Her class of tourists love this monument so much more than the Taj Mahal, it’s so clean, so quiet, no one bothers you there. And have you seen the langar cooked to feed hundreds of the poor each day? So strong the Sikh faith is, so beautiful, so honourable. Ranjit Uncle’s faith. A strong breeze rises in the treetops but the hotel is too far away to catch the chanting. Still, there is something, like a snatch of music in the air, which Radha cannot identify. A whistle, perhaps, just the trees.

  Radha wanders back to the card table; Jivan has a pile of chips in front of him, he is leaning back in his chair, grinning. Bubu has lost his tie, his top shirt buttons are undone; his face all twisted like a sulky schoolboy’s. The men look up to greet her cocktail dress and legs, her Louboutins; Yes, say the trees, you are pretty; the night sky seems to agree. Bubu holds his arm out and she stands behind him, resting her glass on his head. He twists his arm around her waist, pressing her sequins into her skin. He’s got shitty cards.

  —Babe, he says. This madarchod foreigner is whipping my ass.

  —Aw it’s such a cute ass. Come on, you can’t let this American beat you.

  —Hey friend, says Jivan. I’ve known you since you were in poopy nappies, I’ve got the Indian chips and the foreigner chips.

  —Not possible, dude, says Bubu. You gotta choose. And you didn’t properly grow up here. How can you know what’s up? We like to party hard, we like our women sexy, we like our spirits neat. And we don’t play by anyone’s rules but our own. That’s the Indian way!

  Jivan tips his glass to Bubu.

  —And yet here you are, he says. You think I can’t beat you?

  —Don’t worry, your day will get over. You know what I say to the US of A?

  —What? Tell us oh Bubu, oh Sage! Radha says.

  —This is India man! Anything they can do, we can do better. And we’ll have theirs as well.

  —Amen, says Jivan.

  They all raise their glasses and drain them; they order more bourbon to be poured.

  —Just don’t lose too much, she says to Bubu. It’s my birthday soon.

  Jivan looks up at her.

  —Hey yours too, she says. November. God – do you remember Gargi and her cakes? Me, then you. Yours was always nicer. You used to come to our house all dressed up for an official birthday visit. Wasn’t there even a bow-tie one year?

  —OK, Miss Piggy, says Jivan.

  —Wasn’t she your favourite toy? Piggy, piggy, chants Bubu. Don’t disrespect your sister. It’s too bad for Gargi that she doesn’t get any. Blow on my hand, Raddy. Be lucky, or I’ll lose everything and I’ll have to bet you.

  She sits on Bubu’s knee. He has to put his arms around her.

  —And what will happen if Jivan wins me, and I protest? she asks. Will he pull on my sequins? I don’t think Lord Krishna is going to appear and replace them with Prada after Prada.

  Bubu drums his hands on the table as if she is the singer of profound ghazals, just about to begin.

  —Jivan, do you know what she’s on about? Look – our Foreign Return doesn’t even know his basic Mahabharat!

  —Kids’ stories, says Jivan. I know how to count what you owe and that’s good enough for me.

  —But you should know these things, Radha says. According to our resident Sage Bubu, Hamare apne India mein, yeh chize pata honi chahiye, nahin toh sab toot jayega. Get it? Poor Jiju. Let me transplain. In our India we should know these things, otherwise everything will be lost. No, ‘toot jayega’ means ‘it will break’. Whatever. Here begins your first scripture lesson.

  She gets off Bubu’s knee, stands, the stem of her glass falling between her fingers. She shakes out her hair, watched by Bubu and his sugar buddies, she moves so that she is in front of Jivan, hand on jutting hip bone, wine raised high like one of the Sisters from her convent school, about to baptise him in the name of the Lord. Let me play, and I’ll tell you, she says.

  —Tell me, and I’ll let you play, says Jivan.

  —Promise?

  —I cross my heart. Isn’t that right? Cross my heart, hope to die, he says.

  —Never, ever speak a lie, she continues, then together, faster and faster, If you do I’ll tell Nanu and that will be the end of you! One, Two! They reach to slap each other’s cheeks; she ducks, he lunges, her wine spills between her legs and she is bent double, hair hanging down, teetering over the dark red mess.

  —Radha, come on, get up, says Bubu.

  —Woah, hold on there, sister! Jivan kneels to help her straighten. Come sit down. Want some water? Want to go to bed?

  She smirks a little; he does not see.

  —She’s fine, man! You need more wine, baby? says Bubu. Just get her some more wine.

  They sit her up on Bubu’s chair. Her glass is full again. Red, like liquid rubies. Drink up, drink up. None of the men have noticed that Radha almost puked at their feet. They leave her to go and smoke at the bar. Only Jivan stays. She puts her elbows among the cards and the scattered rupee notes. Zeros swim up at her, a thousand pink faces of Gandhiji. Laughing, laughing, laughing.

  She wants to know if Jivan remembers how his Ma used to do that dance with the stripping: Draupadi in the gambling hall, you know, the wife married to the five brothers. And her husband gambles everything he has to his bad old cousin, until she is the only thing left. And then her husband rolls the dice and loses. He loses everything, and then he loses her.

  —Then what happens? Jivan says; he leans forward, stroking her hair back. His hand feels so cool on her face.

  —Draupadi comes to the hall and refuses to go with the evil cousin, then one of her uncles tries to take off her sari. She’s a pious type so she prays hard to Lord Krishna; the blue one with the flute? Anyway, as the sari unravels, one more appears, then one more, then one more. You must remember. It was our favourite part of the dance. Your Ma used to spin and spin, she used to flick out her dupatta—

  Radha stops. She looks at Jivan and sees the little boy that used to hide behind the door with her, gripping her arms too tightly as his Ma stripped her coverings until there was only one left. Red, a flame. And their childish relief as she stopped there, and began to circle, her skirts spinning out, her feet going so fast, jewels on her wrists and neck flashing under the chandeliers as if she was the force that made the earth turn.

  Jivan gets up from the table.

  —You need water, he says.

  Bubu comes back; he pats Radha’s head. He reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out a small wrap of coke. He uses his favourite card, the Queen of Diamonds, to cut it in
to lines: the Jack of clubs to make them straight. Radha watches Bubu’s hands holding the cards. She stands so he can sit on her seat, she takes her place on his knee. He rolls up a pink thousand note and passes it to Radha. He pushes down on the back of her neck, holding her until she is finished. Flick up your hair now, Radha, and wander past the pool, to the lip of the roof. So high. And your beauty, and your body is the only thing between the drop to the ground and the stars.

  The world is full of glimmering colours and lights. She takes off her heels and begins to trace the steps of the Draupadi dance, slowly beginning to twirl, then faster and faster until she cannot stand anymore. Her dress has no straps and no pleated skirt, her black sequins are sparkling, catching the pool light, making her feel like a comet:

  —Oh my God! she shouts. Awesome! I’m awesome!

  Jivan’s Ma must have loved this dance. Radha collapses on a lounger, panting. Tries to pick out faces among all the stars.

  She leans over the balustrade again. Down below, at the back of the hotel she can see the back kichen courtyard, bright lit. There’s a group of men, a circle around two figures. Wrestling, or waltzing? She cannot tell. She lets out a giggle. Something fun is going on down there.

  She picks up her shoes by their heels: her diamond rings flash dark against the patent leather, the red sole. She should just drop one shoe over the balustrade and let it bomb. Behind her, Jivan says,

  —Radha? Something’s going on downstairs, my Dad wants Bubu and me. We’re going down.

  —Wait for me, she says. I’m coming.

  She carries her shoes in her hand. They take the lift. Radha could run down the whole thirteen floors. At eight, the doors open; Ranjit Uncle is standing there. He is in his topi and kurta pyjama, carrying his stick, looking too old. Radha feels her giggle rising, something about nightcaps and nightcaps, get it, get it? One for @MrGee.