by Preti Taneja
But Sita just told me that she does not want to marry.
—Until the law changes for the rights of women, and all are protected, from eyes, from the streets, from brothers, uncles, from husbands.
—And from fathers, I suppose? I said. Sita, what is this legal-shegal? I laughed. What price tradition?
—To say ‘no,’ and be heard! she said. That is a freedom some will only dream of.
—Should I beg you for kindness? Will you please spare me this? I said.
Above my head the angel turns, so sad at my tears.
—Come down now, I ask it, but there is no reply. Don’t you want to come? Answer me. No? Still refusing to speak? Fine, I said. Listen little bird, and I will tell you another story.
When I was on the road, I met a beggar boy named Rudra, who was pretending to be a girl. He was always cold, so I gave him my best shawl. It was an act of love. Rudra was a kind boy, and reminded me of myself at his age. Funny and honest, with the ability to move a crowd in his favour. He had a peculiar way of talking, mixing his words in many tongues as if it didn’t matter what language he was speaking, as if from the mountains of this place to the jungles of Sri Lanka, anyone would be able to understand. On the night I was caught in a terrible storm, he sang these words to me:
—When the King does not wield the punishment justly, a dog will lick the offering. Then every thing will be turned upside down.
ii
In the morning they flock to berate her: Kritik Sahib, Ranjit Uncle, Nanu, Sita and Bapuji. They stand at the foot of the bed: a five headed fury. Radha, nice girls do not! Nice girls could not! She hugs her pillow and wails to the faces gathered around her. Why are you persecuting me only? Bubu was there, and Jivan. Ranjit Uncle, you were there too. Kritik, Nanu, Sita and Bapuji fade away, but Ranjit Uncle stays; his eyes are so eager but so disappointed in her. The same look he gave when she was too tired for tongue-twist-finger-kiss, blindman’s touch: it gives her that fly-crawl-on-skin feeling.
A mellow light hints through the curtains. The room is shadowed and chill. Bubu has left her wrapped in the sheets, a body waiting for burning. Where are the servants? Where is her breakfast? Around her the wallpaper’s vines of cherries creep, its leaves and apples dangle, looking so juicy and ripe. Stop dreaming, Radha, stop dreaming. Do the dead eat? What do they eat? Do the dead order room service? Can they read today’s papers? Radha is thirsty. If I eat and drink and look pretty, Ranjit Uncle, will you please go away?
Do chained men deserve water? He shakes his head. So sad, he is. So gentle.
Stop dreaming. Radha opens her eyes. The phone is a solid reality: that is good. She sits up in the bed. The stern hands on the old carriage clock point straight up. Noon. The room shrinks back from her; last night’s cigarette smoke lingers in her clothes. Using the bedside phone she asks the chef what the specials are.
—Ranjit Sahib has organised a rare Wagyu beef burger for you, Radha Ma’am, he says. I can make it with bacon, cheese, and smoky sauce.
Radha should not eat this. In Amritsar. She knows Gargi wouldn’t like it. Neither would Nanu. But Ranjit Uncle would be disappointed. She cannot decide.
—I’ll have it, she says. With a side of stringy fries, a katori of mayonnaise, and one of ketchup. Ketchup. She rubs her head. A soft bun.
—Make sure it is soft, she says. And the sauce should come in a chilled silver dish with its own tiny spoon.
To drink: a chocolate milkshake. And to finish: a fruit cup with raspberry ripple ice cream. No, a rasgullah. No, ice cream. Perhaps what she actually wants is hot, fresh cholay, piled high on a puri and squeezed with lime, black from a street vendor’s hands. She will have the burger, and a Bloody Mary with extra spice to start.
In the bathroom Radha splashes her face and arranges her hair. She puts on her base, her foundation, her powder, it makes her feel so natural and fresh. She does not bathe, just runs and jumps back into bed, settling herself with her mobile to wait for her food.
By the time the butler has knocked to say her cocktail is mixed, her burger is assembled, and would she like salt and pepper on her fries – by the time she has scrolled MrGee and tweeted, Did you know the Company Srinagar hotel is bringing jobs and hope to over 100 impoverished local women (not true); and Bubu Balraj works out every day – he’s a role model for young entrepreneurs (could be true) and Cigar smoking is the new pastime of wealth and cool (as of now, true) – her food has been served on a bed tray, with the day’s press cuttings on the side. Radha dips a fry in mayonnaise. Almost eats it. But is caught by a snap of Bapuji in Goa, doing Yoga on the beach. Bent into positions Radha has never seen him in. Niralambha: shoulder pose (unsupported): pyjama rolled up, toosh around his neck, bums in the air. Pasasana: squatting, arms twisted around legs, hands joined in a noose. Morning prayers, evening prayers, she reads. Then, Bapuji went to Ghaziabad where he met with the strikers. He shook their hands, the cutting says, and promised to address their demands. After that, in Mumbai, he held a vegetarian lunch for all the key religio-politicos in their saffron and khadi. Which ended in a rendition of Jana Gana Mana, lead by Nanu, apparently exchanging the word ‘Sindh’ for ‘Sindhu.’ Can you exchange a province in Pakistan for a river in India? Radha thinks. MrGee goes online, finds the story and retweets it: Check it – Jana Gana Mana: the Bapuji mix.
La la la, Bloody Mary and a burger. Bapuji cannot action any of his plans. He can promise nothing to the workers but his words. Whatever he wants to do with that Goa land – retirement villas for foreigners, hundred-hole golf courses, whatever – Bubu and Gargi will not allow it. The yoga and the sing-song – maybe that is just age. Older men cultivate their spiritual intensity; India Today said so, only last week.
Her mobile chimes: Make the most of every breath. God watches over those who watch over themselves – Bapuji. Radha thinks of Bapuji’s subscribers, all reading this text right now. She bites into the burger, tasting cheese, pickle, the tang of raw onion and a tomato slice that seems to have been cooked (why do they never get that right?), as she checks through the faxes brought up from reception: every single one is from Gargi. She has seen the cuttings and thinks Radha has authorised these stories. She pulls a sliver of tomato skin off her tongue and wipes it on the bed sheets. It seems as if Bapuji is en route to Amritsar. Radha tries to visualise a What Would Gargi Do scenario; instead she can only think, with some surprise, about Sita.
—Sita, she says, to her burger. What would you do now? Be honest. Oh? You would tell Dad, when he shows up, what you really feel. Very good! What do I really feel? That’s an interesting question for a girl like me. Chalo, let’s think.
Radha picks up a French fry – it is her father. Good PR is the future of this Company. Bapuji, you are mad if you don’t realise this. I am a wife, and since Gargi has abdicated that responsibility I will also be a mother. Now that Sita has gone, it is up to me to supply the future of this family. Yes? She bites the top off the fry.
Enough thinking. Time for her daily dose of weird and wondrous, though the file is slim pickings today. Two headed-cow born in Chandigarh as full moon rises on consecutive days (the picture almost makes her spit out her burger). Freak gale brings Calcutta to a standstill: this one with a picture of the usual choked traffic lanes, the normal standstill – not that funny. Delhi’s INA vegetable market covered in filth and flies – source for all households and five star hotels. Why is that even news? The next one is better: Five limbed baby needs immediate surgery, angry villagers call her Goddess, want extra arm to stay. The parents are trying to get admission to hospital. Radha will get someone to call them up and offer to pay the fees. A little job she can do.
Now to the columns, and The Speaking Tree, where her dear brother-in-law has failed once again to be published. Poor Surendraji, always scribbling away. Penning his mind for anyone to read. So often has he tried to get a slot here; yet, it seems all the kickbacks in the world cannot make the editor print him. Today is for Swami Vivekananda: and you have to
respect a Guru who reached thousands of followers before mobile phones even happened. The path of non-resistance, his message for today. Surendraji should take it as a sign and give up.
Now to the horoscopes: all agree – this is the time for stinging Scorpio to find love and adventure. The advertisements endorse this: again and again Radha sees a picture of a brown Penelope Pitstop astride her pink scooter, her hair blowing out under her helmet, her legs in high heeled pink boots. You, as a woman, love to revel in every sensation, and express every emotion. Here is a feeling you have never touched before. Just mount your new scooter and kick off: become one with the universe, your karma complete, your chic intact. Come into a new world you never dreamed could come to pass. Now cherish your engine power – Does she want a scooter? Is she too old? This thing is for college girls from the outskirts of the cities: good families, but even so. Or girls who, for the first time, are making their own money; who don’t yet have husbands to think about. Where would Radha even ride? She never goes out in the city. Not to markets or to restaurants where everyday girls go. Still she might get one scooter. To scoot around the Farm. She could use it as a prop in the ads for the new Company engagement and honeymoon brochures: Come awaken your senses. Begin your new life in the most elegant Company. Leather chairs, old movie posters: Mother India or Sholay: ‘entry from the backside only’ signs, and in the ads, a young couple in formalwear (or maybe lux-Western?) sipping chai (or champagne, she has not decided) on a terrace. Nostalgenticity shabby-chic circa 1950s to the 70s: this is the romance of now.
Her bedside phone rings – her hand hovers over it and she prays, Not Gargi, not Bubu, not Daddy. Let it be… Jivan. And then she answers.
—Hello?
—Radha beti, are you OK?
—Ranjit Uncle. I’m just, you know, catching up with work. I wanted to stay in the room; it’s so quiet, so nice here.
She hears the chained man’s whistle. She curls her toes in the bed.
—Is your food OK Radha dear? How was your burger?
The remains are congealing on the plate; the sheets are stained with streaks of red. Radha is eating beef! Radha is eating street food again! Radhababy is putting on weight! And so on, up and across the family. Blood on the sheets! Radha-baby ke Aunty aa gayi hain? Is she down? Why not call Barun and get it on the front page? Times of India of course, after all, it’s got the biggest circulation of any newspaper in the English-speaking world. Fact.
—Thank you, Ranjit Uncle, very nice, she says. The chef is really too good. You have done such an outstanding job with this place.
—He can cook anything you want. You want to eat sushi? That he can also make. When you are here, this is your home. I got this meat only for you, airfrieght.
—Did you try it?
—This is a holy city, beta, he says. Aur waise bhi, as you know, beef main nahin khata.
She knows. The whole business world does: Ranjit Singh, Company director. So devout, he is famous for it. Moo. Radha picks up the rest of the burger. Stuffs as much as she can in her mouth.
—I hope you find the bed to your comfort, Ranjit Uncle says.
She almost chokes, chews fast and swallows. The whole room stinks of barbecued flesh.
—Ranjit Uncle, she says. I think Bapuji is coming to Amritsar. Did you know about this?
She realises she sounds… exclamatory, as her English tutor used to say. With her fetish for glass bangles and market bought jutti, her printed tea dresses from Liberty London and Scottish cashmere cardigans – a word Radha found so alien it always made her think of old white people. Alicia, not Alice, had come out to Delhi with her husband, a property developer who Bapuji was using for deals. Alicia said she used to work in UK publishing; was always correcting Radha’s sentences, trying to iron Radha’s accent, until she gave up, and moved on to groom Sita for Cambridge entrance. Now look. Ranjit Uncle thinks Gargi can oversee 70,000 members of staff, even head the Company for now. And Sita can go hang out wherever. But Radha, wife and PR expert, is still his Little Firebrand, running about, begging for a lollipop from his special stash. Still making up stories about the others to enchant him and pressing his feet while she does so.
—Listen Little Firebrand, Ranjit says. I am going to send some paani to the back gate. Last night Bubu was very upset, but you know your Papa wouldn’t like Kashyap treated so badly. Such uncouth brutality should be left to police or the Company gundas. He should be released, at least we should give him one roti and a glass of water.
—No, Radha says.
She hears Ranjit Uncle take a sharp breath.
—It was Bubu’s decision, not mine. And Gargi wouldn’t like it. Please don’t ask me to go against my sister and my husband. I agree with you, you know I do.
Bapuji glares up at her from the cuttings.
—You know I can’t say yes. Imagine if Mummy had done something Daddy didn’t want? My hands are also tied.
—Ah! Your mother, Ranjit Uncle says.
Radha takes one more bite of the burger, ketchup and meat juice squirts out of the bun; it lands across her father’s face. She picks up the magazine and licks it. Chill pill, she thinks. Ranjit Uncle cannot actually see.
—Radha? Ranjit says. You should get up, get ready, come down. Let’s at least have tea together, before you have to go.
She won! She cannot quite believe it. Pieces of her fruit cup, the mango and pineapple, are now drowning in a melted sea of pinky ice cream. So much for silver service – they can’t even bring the dessert after the main. Giving it all together as if they trained in some two-star opposite a train station. She almost picks up the bowl and drinks the juice, then decides that a first flush Assam served in bone china is more her mood now.
—Yes, Ranjit Uncle, she says. But have you seen the press today? People are wondering more than ever what is going on in this big old Company of ours. You have to talk to Daddy. Only you can do it, before he does something crazy stupid.
—Don’t talk about your Bapuji like that, naughty girl.
She hears a sniff. And another.
—I’ll wait for you in the members’ lounge, says Ranjit Uncle. Ninth floor.
Good, she thinks. At least there will be cake.
*
The glass door opens and shuts. Yes, sings the water, time to be clean. Under the shower she feels soft and slippery, she whistles, no, Radha do not whistle. Hand over mouth: the chained man is still outside. What talk can she take to tea with Ranjit Uncle? It must distract, delight. Radha steps out of the shower and begins to dry herself. How about her own special plan as a joint shareholder, a very special plan indeed? (What should she wear for tea? Salwar kameez, this red one.) So.
This is the plan. Mrs Radha Balraj is going to rebrand the Company. No more Devraj Company – Sindh to Sindhu. It’s going to be… Radha poses bare with her tongs in one hand, the other behind her head, stomach sucked even further inside. —It’s going to be… ‘The India Company! Yes, all you Cosmo-Metro guys and gals, all you newbies to the minted classes, here comes InCo. Or maybe she should make it IndiCo? No – InCo sounds better. It is fresh, it is now, it is a new India Company – for the twenty-first century and beyond!
Radha stretches her arms to the mirror, let the legions of shoppers and shopkeepers come to her mall. Bubu will build it in Paradise Park (and she will not let him call it ‘Radha Mall’; God, he is so clueless). No. It will be: The InCo Mall. Short for the India Company but also – InCo – she puts on her salwar, she ties the string – this little word sounds street to her: Inko – they, them – the InCo Mall for the in-crowd. An ad with a group of girls in acid-brights. Tummy tops and tight jeans and bindis and bangles. Caps back to front, desi-cool, like the girls MrGee eggs on Twitter.
Inko InCo Mall pasand hai!
They love the InCo Mall!
Are you sure, Radha-baby? InCo, or IndiCo? IndiCo sounds too much like IndiGo – which she does consider the best of the country’s domestic budget airlines – in branding terms
at least. Maybe they could do a tie up. She would give special airfares to customers travelling between InCo hotels and malls across India. IndiGo. Such a great name. She wishes she had thought of it first. Maybe the Company could buy the airline. India: Go go go!
InCo IndiGo passand hai! InCo loves IndiGo!
No, the other way round:
IndiGo InCo pasand hai! IndiGo loves InCo!
Yes – and the in-crowd – setting off from a Company hotel. All the colours blinding. Or maybe, she could use picture of herself in a business suit, waving from the steps of an InCo-IndiGo plane. It might be good to position herself as the face of the Company – a family touch. Or maybe not. Would she actually have to fly with them?
—I’m in the in-crowd! Kaun? Tu? Haan main! she sings.
Now she flips her head over and begins to blow dry. Wear your hair straight today. Spritz your face Radha, makeup needs fixing. These are serious times. Done. Ready. Tea-time Radha, going down.
She is still whistling as she puts on her rings, her sandals, her beautiful butterfly shawl. She picks up her bag and her shades; she clickclacks to the lift, deciding that – yes – Ranjit Uncle will be first to hear about InCo. If he and Bubu like it, Gargi will agree.
When the pianist sees Radha he begins to play. La lo la lo La-tika’s theme. The lounge has no mirrors, the dark wood and potted palms are anonymous, she ignores them, and the clusters of dimly lit globes. The place is empty except for Ranjit Uncle, sitting at the table in yellow socks and a dark linen suit. How bald he has become, a Fabergé egg. She bends to kiss his cheek; soft, wrinkled like the handmade paper in the Company hotel shop. He keeps hold of her hand, he presses her, he has sharp nails and it hurts. She used to massage his hands, rubbing rich cream into his skin. Fixate on them, stroking her knees. Such smooth hands, in the space between. Her school socks and her skirt. Now, the skin is scaling, she notices, and peeling around his fingernails.