by Preti Taneja
Radha slides behind Bubu, pulling her sequins up over her breasts and then down again over her thighs. Up, down, up, down, off! Don’t speak Radha, chup-chup, shh.
—Bubu! What kind of host am I? Ranjit Uncle says. He is flustered, his pyjama string hangs below under his kurta: Radha sees it, tries not to reach, and pull. I’m sorry your game got disturbed, he says.
—Let’s see, says Bubu sounding sober.
How can he be? Radha thinks she wants to poke him with her shoes, they should be on her feet, but she cannot reach down to put them on, she knows she will fall over. Oh God, giggles are coming again: Bubu’s face is so damn straight. The Lobby is on night watch; Service exit this way, dear, this way, not that. They follow Ranjit Uncle through the restaurant – all the tables are set as if for a party of invisible friends. Through the swing service doors and into the kitchen, where men in white coats endlessly clean a stainless steel world, where the light is too bright and the duty chefs stare at her as if she is next for the chop. Bubu stops. He takes off his jacket. He drapes it around Radha’s shoulders. He holds her as she puts her shoes on – one, two – she still wants to laugh. Maybe she should do the Draupadi dance. She begins to wiggle, but that makes her stumble, so she stops.
She follows Bubu outside. Radha has not been outside at ground level since they arrived here one whole week ago. She has never been to the back of the hotel. A floodlit space. Clean, but the smell, she thinks, must be rotting food turning into sludge. She pulls Bubu’s sleeve over her hand, presses the hand over her mouth and nose. A group of orderlies, skinny, dark figures in dirty vests and dhotis smoke bidis and cheer as they watch the fight. Inside their circle are two men, wrestling. One, Radha thinks, is definitely Uppal. It’s quite funny, because he’s wearing work clothes, the dark jacket and trousers of Company special advisors, all a little too tight, so he cannot defend himself properly. When he stretches one arm, the other jerks up a little. And his opponent – Radha squints – who is he?
—Stop this bakwaas, shouts Bubu. What is happening here?
The smokers disperse, the acrid smell of bidis lingers. Eyes flick over Radha, elbows nudge sides. Ranjit Uncle waves his stick at them: they scuttle inside. So they should, Radha thinks, lazy buggers standing around.
Uppal is bruised and blood is coming from his lip. His opponent is an old man, head tied up in a dirty pagri, he is bleeding from his nose into his beard. Gross. Ranjit Uncle clasps his stick, he wrings his hands. Jivan crosses to the fight, he grabs the old man by the arms. All of them caught in the lights: eyes bloodshot, skins dusty, blood bright, liquid rubies, here’s a beggar, a madman, a hijra, a bhoot. Radha’s skin prickles as if flies are landing on her, landing, leaving, landing, landing, leaving. She shakes her head to clear the dancing colours; an old filmy tune comes into her head, becomes the chorus of the night, Mera joota hai Japani, yeh patloon Englistani, sar par laal topi neeli, phir bhi dil hai Hindustani. Earworm, earworm, she will never be rid of this song.
—You say you have come from my father? Nahin, tum gully ke ho, she says.
She has never heard herself sound like this: like lime and salt in the cut. As if she has lived so long that she is young again and able to say whatever she wants. The old man breaks Jivan’s grip and crouches on the ground. Radha really wants to go to him, tickle and pat him. Nice doggy.
—Kashyap, he barks. I want to speak to Ranjit here. I have messages from Bapuji.
Ranjit Uncle starts, he holds his hands together over his heart – who me? He seems to be saying: Why should Bapuji send you to me?
—Kashyap. says Jivan. What are you doing here? You don’t work for the Company any more, or did you forget?
—He is Kashyap, Radha dear. He followed Kritik Sahib for many years, says Ranjit.
Kashyap. Is Radha meant to know him? She will call him Ketchup and order French Fries. Now he is shadow boxing: a grizzled contender refusing to retire. Fight! Fight! Come on, Radha whispers, fists clenched. Almost, she wants to cheer.
—I was dismissed before my time, but I will never leave Bapuji’s side. I’ve been his man and Kritik Sahib’s deputy for thirty plus years – I am not going to give up now.
—I am sorry Bubuji, Radha Madam, Ranjitji, Mr Jivan, says Uppal. I am here from Gargi Madam, she has sent me to help you. With the Srinagar hotel opening plans. I was just collecting my thoughts out here when this filth showed up. Last time in Delhi he humiliated me in front of Bapuji and Nanuji. He pushed me, then he punched me. For no reason. Just now, he kicked me again.
Kashyap balances on his toes, fists up. He pulls up his dirty banyan and wipes his face on it, showing his belly. It is covered in grey hair, like an old doggy should have.
—Uppal, he barks. You have really strained yourself, fighting your betters.
Ha ha a funny man, Radha thinks, to think he can be so familiar. Familiar man, she thinks, they say he has been around for years. Watching.
—This is Amritsar, the sacred city of peace, Kashyap says. But Waheguru is not within any of you. He points at Uppal, his finger seems so long.
—Even Allah is not in you, he says to Uppal. Aré nahin. Tum toh pathar ke bane ho.
—What absolute crap, says Bubu. Come here.
Kashyap salutes. He wipes his face again. Sweat and blood comes off. He smiles, and his teeth are so white and clean. They bloom out of his face like jasmine flowers from rock. Sharp, Radha thinks, like Kritik Sahib’s.
—Hanji, Bubu Sahib! Maybe you were painted by Mr MF Husain, come back among us! Art for the people! Or, an untrained darji made you – no reputable tailor would stitch such a poor fit of a man. Ha, ha, ha!
Is this funny? Radha tries to be quiet and keep still. Uppal says,
—Apparently he is now one of Bapuji’s men. But why should Bapuji send this man, when he could call you up directly? Or communicate any issue through Gargi Madam via me?
—Suar ke bachche! Don’t open your mouth, Kashyap spits at Uppal. White foam lands on the ground. Radha stares at it dissolving; leaving nothing but a stain on the earth.
He said his name was Kashyap and he comes from Bapuji. He said he worked for Kritik Sahib. His teeth are white, so white, so pointed. Bubu, Ranjit Uncle, Jivan – Kashyap is just like Kritik Sahib. Has she spoken? Perhaps not? No one is looking at her. Ranjit Uncle and Bubu and Jivan are standing arms out, forming a fence around the two fighters. There is nothing beyond but the path to the back gate. Then there is the sky and the same sky is over Dhimbala basti – from there to Napurthala, where – stop.
Radha is actually outside. No rooms, no walls, no doors. She is outside. She is outside Bubu’s or Ranjit Uncle’s view. Now all that comes out are giggles. Such a pretty night to be. So many of colours in this stink of a place. Kashyap is Kritik Sahib’s man, he is Bapuji’s man – oh shit.
—Bubu sir, Kashyap says. I know you are a great being, and your family is involved in the construction of our beloved country. It is common knowledge that you have the prospect of following your respected uncle into political life. You are married to this fine lady here (me, that’s me, Radha thinks) who has grown from excellent seed.
Almost, she bows. Instead she teeters towards Bubu, she tries to catch his arm. Now the Kashyap–Kritik–Bapuji man is pointing at her, his voice rising,
—Yet she is the wife of a flesh-eating ghoul, she covers the sacred fire and sits on it, he says. Just let me take care of this Uppal. Then I will show what this elder can do.
—Bubu, Radha says. She tugs his arm. He shrugs her off.
—Chup! Snaps Bubu. Don’t you know when to say ‘enough is enough?’
Kashyap smiles.
—I know this well enough. But enough isn’t yet, sir, enough is when is dead, only. When we are righteous, we cannot say enough, Kashyap says.
Now Radha’s giggle can come out, now is the time to let it.
—Radha, I said, enough! Bubu says. Ranjit, can you take her inside?
—Come Radha beti, Ranjit Uncle says
. Just wait in the kitchen, at least. Jivan, please take her inside.
—I’ll be quiet, she says. Look! She retreats to the wall, she puts both Bubu’s jacket sleeves over her mouth. Kashyap is just like Kritik Sahib, the wall agrees. He is Bapuji’s man.
—Tell me this. Years I have watched you, I know what you are. I know you value men like this Uppal with his Gargi, Kashyap says.
His face is now blocked by Bubu’s back, Radha can only hear him. She moves, but now Jivan is in the way, then Ranjit Uncle. At the kitchen door, there’s a security guard, give me a leg up? She wants to say: Be my piggy or my horsey, let me see what’s going on. All she can do is listen.
—This Uppal who says Yes, Gargi Ma’am to everything, never speaks the truth to those he is meant to serve. Has he not ruined his Gargi Madam? Caused her to steal from the Company for herself? Spied for her on our dear Sita, our dear Bapuji? says Kashyap.
His question crashes behind Radha’s eyes, causing stars, such pretty stars to jump. Bubu is angry, she can tell, even the back of his neck seems enraged. This man better shut up soon.
—Actually, it is not Uppal’s fault, Kashyap says. Still talking, he’s still talking! He is a dog begging for treats. Typical smiling, as if nothing can matter. Chi! he says. Out, you, go back to your Farm with your Gargi Madam. Come, let me beat you back there!
—Enough, says Bubu. Uppalji, get inside. Get cleaned up, we will sort out this business in the morning.
Uppal scuttles away, into the kitchen. Bubu signals, Jivan moves; now Radha can finally see. Jivan pins Kashyap’s arms behind his back. There is a short struggle – but Jivan is strong enough, he is so strong – and cleaner too – then Kashyap stops struggling. There are only his words, which fall from his mouth so fast, as if someone is sucking them from him; Radha licks her sleeve – if this Kashyap can speak, then Radha can, too – she opens her mouth – but Kashyap gets there first.
—He is a liar, I am honest. He is a lizard, I am a man. What else do you need, sir? He follows the leader, these days I lead the followers. I don’t like his face.
—So what? says Jivan. He hands Kashyap to the security guard. He wipes his arm across his forehead.
—Come on man, apologise, or things will get bad.
Kashyap’s eyes flick over Bubu, over Ranjit Uncle. Over Radha’s legs and her Louboutins. He seems to edge towards her.
—What is it this Madam does? Blowing garam hawa in a hot country. I have travelled all over India and seen better faces licking out the village latrine than any I can see now.
—Aré wah! says Bubu. Big words. Salah chut! He raises a hand. Radha knows what is coming, she cannot watch. She hears Bubu strike, the old man cry,
—Pah!
Radha sucks her cheeks, her lips, into her mouth. She bites. Tastes her own blood. Swallows.
—Bhagwan jo hum ko dekhta hain, Bhagwan jo paani hum ko pilata hain, tat tvam asi, Sasri Akal. I thought you, being from such a fine upstarting family and married to this Goddess would appreciate me speaking in the language of the Brahmins. I speak as the common man. I am as honest, cries Kashyap.
Radha peers through her splayed fingers; Jivan has his knee on Kashyap’s back, Ranjit Uncle seems frozen, like one of Jeet’s statues.
—Tie him up, says Bubu. At the back gate.
—Oh Krishna! says Kashyap. This lot would make a fool out of Yudishthira, a servant out of Bhim!
—Get the handcuffs, Ranjit, Bubu says. He bends close.
—Maybe this can teach you a lesson in manners since you didn’t learn it in school, he says.
—I’m too old Sahib, for foreigners’ teaching. Ranjit Sahib, fetch your iron choodiya and let Madam Radha put them on me to wed me to her; maybe I can please her tonight, heh, heh?
—We will cuff you to the back gate, and you sit there until tomorrow midday, or until you can say sorry, Bubu says.
He spits into the dirt.
—Come Madam! Kashyap holds out his hands, beckons with his fingers. Embrace me, since I come directly from your Bapuji. You might know him: Mr Devraj, Maharaja of Napurthala. Your shame has no bounds if you insult the man who has given you… shall we calculate? O, everything.
Now tears prick her, not fair, no, a drink a little song, that is all; Kashyap’s face is ugly, he is her old Masterji, threatening her bad report. The lights are so bright here, why are they, what for?
—Don’t you address me, she says. You can sit until tomorrow night. Until the day after morning. I am Radha Devraj Kumari Balraj, I say so.
She twists away from Bubu and kicks at old Kashyap. Catching his knee with her shoe’s pointed toe.
—Madam! You would not do this to your sister’s dog, Kashyap gasps. His voice is pained and full of sadness, as if he knows her (of course he does) and she has proved him right. As if she is the biggest disappointment of his entire age.
Ranjit Uncle comes with the handcuffs. Radha has never seen real ones before. She wants to feel their weight. How shiny they are.
She gives the man one more kick in the side of his thigh.
—Bubuji? Radha Beti? Ranjit Uncle looks at her as if he cannot imagine that his sweet Radha could hurt a man like that.
—Please think again, Ranjit Uncle says. Kashyap is rude beyond all reason, but he has not done anything wrong. If he has, then let Bapuji deal with it, OK? This, this handcuffs business – this is how we punish boys who steal from the kitchen.
—Ranjit Uncleji, don’t worry, she says. We must teach as we have learned. Why don’t you go up. I’ll order some tea for you and some rice khir to come to your room, OK?
—It is my duty to advise but ultimately to obey.
Ranjit Uncle shakes the handcuffs. What a clink chime clink. He says,
—I will make sure it is done.
Tired, so tired, it must be time for Radha-baby to go to the roof and finish her wine and play some cards. Or get a foot massage and order hot milk and go to bed. She does not want Bubu near her, he looks too rabid tonight.
—Hungry? she asks him.
—Rumali roti, tandoori chicken kebab. Make sure it’s hot, OK?
—Go finish your cards. I’ll just give the kitchen the order.
The night duty chef must be told how charred and how tender to roast Bubu’s kebab. Radha stands in the kitchen among sacks of rice, flour, sugar; she repeats the order till the chef can say it back to her. Then she goes back outside, scuffing her shoes across the kitchen courtyard and down through the gardens towards the back gate. Strange night, strange path she has never been down before. She still has Bubu’s jacket on. In his pocket she finds his Camels and his gold Company Zippo; she offers herself a cigarette and takes one. Feels the smoke calm her; inhale and exhale: smoke, Radha-baby, smoke.
Lotus shaped lightbulbs are planted along the path. Sprinklers hiss. Bats cut the sky above Radha’s head. She can see the gate, and a group of men around it. She treads so softly in heels.
Halfway there, the path goes kachcha, the lighting stops. The night freshness of wet foliage is undercut by the stink of rotting food; must be coming, she thinks, from the basti just beyond the back gate. Radha ducks into the trees. She watches the group of men; she sees Kashyap cuffed to the chaukidar’s post. Hands behind his back. She sees Ranjit Uncle commiserate with him, but the chained man just shakes his head and laughs.
What will her father say when he hears about this? Doubt licks at Radha. She creeps closer. Hears Ranjit Uncle and this man sigh together. Thinks she can hear them: Sita.
Radha cups her cigarette to contain it. Squats down as Ranjit Uncle and his security begin to walk back towards the hotel.
The chained man calls out,
—Don’t worry, Ranjitji. Sacrifice creates the heat that keeps the world turning. If no one sacrifices the sun will not rise.
Ranjit Uncle laughs. He salutes a goodnight without looking back. He passes so close that Radha is sure he can see her, or at least smell her smoke.
She needs to pee. No one
is watching, no one in the world knows where she is. Above her head the sky is pierced with stars, Swarovskis hand stitched over a deep black shawl. She crouches on her heels, bites down on her cigarette and hikes up her dress. Pulls her panties down to her ankles and strains until susu comes. She can hear her heart competing with the crickets. She holds her breath then slowly exhales. It streams out, it spreads around her feet – and she cannot stop it touching her shoes. She tosses the cigarette into the puddle. It hisses out. There is a skitter of gravel from somewhere behind her, then a silence. Can the chained man see her? She wriggles back into her panties, pulls down her dress, fucking sequins, stupid dress, and tries to stand.
—Hai Ram! says the chained man. Time cooks all beings. Smile on your servant, Lord Shiva. So does the wheel of dharma turn: Come then, what will come, and Indra take pity on me.
He begins to whistle, Memory.
Radha takes a breath. Feet slipping on the wet grass, she turns and walks back. Onto the path. The lotus lights seem to wink and follow her; the captive’s whistle fingers her inner ear, all the way up to the roof.
§
WANT TO KNOW MY SECRET to business success? Sell your vision, not just the product. Not many people know I can be poetical. A statesman must be many things. First, he must tell a good story so you fall for his dreams. Second, he understands the power of repeating, until his stories transcend to the level of mantra and myth, become the truth of what has passed, a blueprint for the future. Third, a statesman is a statesman.
These days modern women profit from all we have worked for. They also work for themselves and this we also support. Many give up their work after marriage, some don’t, and this we think is right, particularly in certain sectors of the family business. Soft management, for example, which they so appropriately undertake. Public relations, which Radha is so good at, and which is so necessary for today’s world. I thought that after her marriage, Sita could take over, and Radha could get on with motherhood.