We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  —You know? he says. I think they should make one musical of Slumdog Millionaire. Now that would be an interesting thing to see.

  —Ya, that would be awesome! You should fund it only.

  She pulls her hand away, waits while he rises and seats her.

  —Can we have macarons? she says. We have started serving these with afternoon tea in the Company Goa hotel and in Mumbai. Really excellent, different-different flavours, liquorice and lychee, massala chai even. Let’s order them, please?

  Smiling, Ranjit Uncle taps his stick on her shoulder.

  —Radha, go easy on me. In Amritsar we like to keep things simple. See? We have excellent choux pastries here.

  On the cake stand are five profiteroles. She slides one onto her plate and presses her spoon into it. Cream oozes out of the sides. She scoops a tiny bit up. Vanilla. Ranjit Uncle is watching her, the lines under his eyes like fine spokes on a wheel.

  —Thank you Ranjit Uncle, she says.

  —Come, come, he says. Have more.

  He pushes the profiteroles towards her.

  Come, Radha-baby, just one more. Three little profiteroles. She takes one more. Just one more. You and me, together at tea. A profit of roles, she wants to say. Ranjit Uncle would not get the joke.

  Their heads are so close she can smell him. Cloves, and musk. He is the Uncle with the tickly beard: there is still some black in it. He balances his stick by the table. His hands cover hers, and the look he gives her! So kind. She feels tears prick, and swallows.

  —Radha I know you are feeling bad. About the terrible acts of last night. It is thirty-nine degrees today. We cannot leave a man like that. We should go outside together.

  —You know Ranjit Uncle, she says. It was you who taught us kids about how our finest luxuries get made. Remember?

  —My sweet Radha.

  He moves away from her: his hand twists the air, plucking memory like an apple from the tree. He strokes her, on her shawl, near her collar-bone.

  —Don’t talk about when you were a child. Let us not have tea, let us have a drink, no? Ranjit Uncle says. I’m not so old that I can’t have a cocktail with you?

  —Of course! You are so young, you could still play dande padenge. Hunter-chiru with the stick. What a harsh game that was, she says.

  He smiles at her. His eyes so kind, so calm.

  —Two whisky sodas, he says to the waiter.

  Radha leans over, and kisses him on the cheek.

  —Oh no, you have a lipstick mark!

  Her finger sinks into his cheek; she can feel teeth. She leaves a red smudge as she rubs.

  —Oh now you look as if you’ve been bitten, oh God, what did I do?’

  —Don’t worry, don’t worry.

  She straightens but he catches at her shawl, pulling her close again.

  —Fine. Just make sure Bubu is in a calm mood from now on. Give him some of those kisses, he says.

  Ranjit Uncle tugs. His lips catch hers, a dart of tongue inside her mouth, less deep, she thinks, than he used to go.

  Maybe I am getting old.

  As she pulls away, her shawl feeds through the loop of Ranjit Uncle’s fingers, as if through a gold wedding band. Radha sips her whisky. The mark of her lipstick on her glass, his cheek. The pressure of his hand on hers. The stick beneath. Training her to beat her victim, almost until he bled.

  *

  In the evening, there is no rest: Bubu has called friends to come from Dehli, nearly fifteen people gather to play in the gold-panelled games room. The two sweets brothers, some more of their local friends. Everyone smoking, getting high in the bathroom. Wine glasses, whisky and shot glasses form towers and condos, they cover every surface. The room has become a fragile future city where wood can no longer be found.

  Jivan’s poker game has been abandoned; the rules were impossible, even he had forgotten, or had never understood. Now Bubu and Jivan are locked in a top-trumps match that has Bubu down to his shirt and underpants while everyone else gets to watch, place bets, drink, smoke, gossip, SMS, drink more, listen to Bubu scream, Trump! and Jivan, Top Trump! Jivan still has his pants on. Trump! He has the better body, built up and smooth. She already knows what he might feel like beneath her hands: didn’t he act as her horse when they were children? Touching him would fill her with life, and tenderness, and excitement and maybe even she would get pregnant and live happily ever after. She looks at Bubu. Whose body she knows better than any other man’s – right down to the hairs in his butt crack.

  Radha has a black dog on her shoulder. She lurks on her cell: scrolls through Ambika Gupta, looking for lucky numbers. Around the table she goes, Jivan, Bubu, Jivan, Bubu – her husband is losing again. The stakes are in lakhs today, bricks of paper notes that Jivan likes to move straight from their safe to his; the building blocks of our economy, he calls them. Thank you very much to the National Bank of Bubu.

  —Come on Bubuji, you’re getting thrashed here. This guy has his ass in your face, Radha says.

  —So what? Bubu says, Jivan isn’t shy. Don’t worry Memsahib, we won’t shame you – we probably couldn’t, even if we tried.

  —Trump! shouts Jivan, he smacks the cards down.

  —Trump, shot! shouts Bubu. Jivan bends down to pull off a sock.

  She turns her back on the room and stands at the window, forehead against the glass. The air outside seems choked with dust. Down below, she can almost see through the smog to the back gate, the crumbling yellow wall. Dhimbala basti stretches out from here, all the way to Napurthala. The chained man’s whistle creeps over her skin. Deep between her legs, it squats like an alien baby, eating her insides.

  Her mobile chants in her hand: a message from the doorman, waiting in the hall: she must come, Madam, urgently. His words kick her black-dog in the muzzle, she yelps, takes the message to Bubu (his back is oily, the hairs matted, he has not showered since morning), and whispers it in his ear.

  —Oh man, whatthefuck? Radha babe, we’re busy, Bubu says.

  She steadies herself, her hand on his shoulder. His focus is all on his cards.

  —But it’s Ranjit Uncle, she says. Bapuji is here. I’m telling you, we have to go down.

  —Telling me, telling you – there is nothing we can do, sings Bubu. ABBA. Get it? Bapuji will just have to wait.

  Back to the mirrored hallway, where she sees herself: a hundred arms, a hundred legs and heads. A hundred strapless nude bandage dresses, tight from bust to mid-thigh, as if she has been cut open and bound back together like this. So many high-high Miu Miu platforms, in patent black. A diamond drop on a jet stone necklace, worn in strings for her hands to play with. See, a legion of us! There are a hundred doormen watching.

  —Ma’am? Will you come now? says the doorman.

  Is his voice sharp or normal? She wants to drink, she cannot tell.

  —Who is with Bapuji? she says.

  —They say he has come with the Maharani of Napurthala, his dear mother, your grandmother. First to the back-chaukidar’s gate. Then to the hotel front lobby. Ranjitji will bring them to the eighth floor.

  A day has passed. The chained man is still at the gateposts, his skin might be burned, peeling in strips off his face. When she looked outside, she saw the heat had tinted the sky a jaundiced yellow, the air itself seemed to be on fire. It was not Radha’s place to free him.

  —Ma’am, excuse me? They are saying that Bapuji has walked here from the train station. He went to Golden Temple first, and now he has come here. He is a great man, Radha Madam, a great man.

  Ha! The Radhas toss their heads. Bapuji’s feet have not touched common dirt in this country since before she and her selves were born. What does this servant know about greatness? Kuch nahin. She almost opens her mouth to demand he stop looking at them, or speaking about Bapuji, but then remembers it is better to say nothing. Right now, she thinks, Bapuji is downstairs, he has found them out. Oh God, where is Bubu?

  Radha goes back into the golden room. Bubu is still sitting at
his cards. He has lost his tie; he is down to his boxers and one green spotted sock. She approaches the table, gingerly. Jivan looks up, encouraging her to speak.

  —Bubu, come on, please, let’s go down.

  Bubu scowls: Radha tries again.

  —Bapuji is here, Ranjit Uncle is panicking. That guy you chained outside could be seriously ill. We have to go down, she looks at Jivan. All of us.

  Jivan and Bubu grin at each other. Bubu starts to laugh – to whip his thigh with the flat of his hand.

  —All of us? On each other? Get down, get down! he sings. No. It’s not even 7pm. I’m high, I’m naked, and, Madam Radha, you still have fewer clothes on than me. No. The big bad Bapuji will have to wait. Let Ranjit see to him. I want to party. I want, I want to party. We like to party, we like, we like to party. Know that tune?

  —You’re disgusting, Radha says. I’m going. The guy outside said Bapuji walked from the train station. Walked – Bubu – something is seriously wrong.

  Jivan tilts back on his seat. Bubu stops shuffling the pack.

  —Radha, he says. It is simple. All you have to do is what I’m saying, OK? He deals the cards and looks up at her with sad-dog eyes.

  —Where’s your F.U.N.? he says. Stay. Play.

  She looks at Jivan. She could, for a while, sit with him and play a hand against Bubu…

  —Oh God, she says. I’m going. I’ll say you are sleeping, Bubuji.

  —Say what you like, say I am sick, yeah, that’s right: sick of being disturbed.

  He raises a hand to get his high five from Jivan; a palm to palm slap, and a matching grin. Yet, see how Jivan looks at Radha? Stay, his face says. Play.

  She knows she should leave them to each other. She calls the doorman on her mobile.

  —Tell Ranjitji I am tending to Bubu Sahib. And ask Chef to make some chicken dippers. And keema paranthe also. Don’t forget the nimboo and the curd. Make it kheere ka raita, she says. And a hot chocolate volcano. Three spoons.

  Now the games room wants to punish her: see how the lamps gutter and flicker, the chair feels so hard? The boys slap cards onto the table, the sound like doors, open and shut. The hotel manager, R. Sethi Singh (a dark skinned, Gargi-quota local hire with a stooping sort of smile), comes in, all the way to the table. To tell them in person that Ranjit Uncle is waiting for Radha Madam, that Sri Bapuji wants her now.

  She gets up.

  —Where are you going? says Bubu.

  There is a fire in Radha’s head, behind her eyes, scorching her tongue. She feels she might start shaking.

  —Daddy has been travelling all day, Bubu. And Jivan – Ranjit Uncle is depending on you. You think he will support us, but against Bapuji? No question.

  —I don’t think so, says Jivan, then Bubu cuts him off.

  —Well, well, Madam Radha Devraj Balraj. Insubordination! What do you think Jivan? Shall we punish her?

  Bubu slaps his hand on his own thigh, he leaves a red mark. His eyes are so wild as if he has been drinking, has passed through drunk and wild to drunk and calm, so calm, Radha thinks, that anything could happen next.

  Jivan puts down his cards. He finds his shirt from the floor, puts it on.

  —She’s right. I just got back in my Dad’s good books after fifteen years. I’m going down. Anyway, Gargi wouldn’t want Devraj and my dad plotting without us there, would she? And I’ve kind of had enough of this.

  He gestures to the room. One of their friends, her ruby sandals winking under the jumble of shawls and coats, has passed out on the bed. She’s clutching her crocodile bucket-bag as if she might be sick into it. A sick-bucket bag, Radha thinks. Ho ho.

  —Good advice, very wise, says Bubu. You’re pretty usefulji. But let’s eat, then go. No? OK, fine. Come on!

  He pulls on his jeans, his shirt. He grabs Radha’s wrist, drags tens of her down the mirrored hallway, a brace of Jivans following after.

  —Bubuji, let me at least get my shawl, she says.

  —No. You want to go, chalo – let’s go.

  He pushes the doorman aside and calls the lift himself.

  —You look fine, baby, very sexy. Right? he says to Jivan.

  Jivan ducks back into the suite. In a few seconds he reappears, waving a yellow pashmina: it is not Radha’s. She wraps it around herself: it gives her a borrowed glow.

  They take the lift down. In the background, the fish gapes and swims. Level 8, the doors announce: Ranjit Uncle’s floor. He greets them himself, still in his daytime suit, his stick in a hand that is trembling.

  —Bubuji, Radha, where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling upstairs. Bapuji is here. I told him what happened, I told him about last night. He saw that man. Kashyap. I have had him released. Just now, the lockup. His face is burned. He is covered in open sores – he needs medical care – dehydration – I had him taken to the hospital in a local taxi. All of us understand the need for punishment, but this… Bapuji is not happy. No.

  —What did you tell him, Ranjit? says Bubu.

  He-is not-ha ppy-no. It sets up a rhythm; Radha feels it from her feet to her skull. Wishing for a drink, now, to smooth the words through her, reverse them and absorb them.

  —I just want everything to be peaceful between you, Ranjit Uncle says.

  Behind him, from the terrace Radha can hear her father’s deep voice shouting,

  —Aré chup kar mere dil, bohut hogaya.

  Then, Nanu:

  —Dekh teri beti kya ban gayi hai? Jab bakri shaheed ho gayi, aur phir bolta hai, chup!

  —What’s she saying, Rads? whispers Jivan. Radha takes his arm.

  —When the goat has already been sacrificed, why tell it to be quiet and stop squirming? she whispers.

  —Stop squirming, Radha, stop squirming.

  Jivan laughs, and pokes her.

  She twists away. He is not really like them, she realises. He does not understand. She crosses her arms around herself; in a huddle she walks with Jivan through the suite, they step into the garden of standing still.

  There are no flowers here; just stone troughs filled with smooth white pebbles, spiked with ferns that do not flower. Jeet, Radha thinks, is everywhere here – in the terracotta benches with clawed feet, in the pieces of broken sculpture. Torsos in grey stone, with no heads or mouths, no tongues or lips, loom through the trees. No eyes. So plump. Radha’s skin creeps cold.

  In the near corner of the garden is an ebony two-seater bar inlaid with silver tiles; a servant stands behind it, preparing two tumblers of whisky over ice. At the centre is a circular clearing surrounded by skeleton ferns. Nanu sits to one side on a low stone bench. Her legs are wide apart, her white chiffon sari sags between her knees. From her Kelly bag an orange is produced. She digs her nails in to it, ripping the skin, throwing the peel on the ground. She curls her lips and slurps at the segments. Radha goes to greet her grandmother, bending, inhaling fine skin crumpled over bone. Nanu’s catches her shoulders; she plants a wet kiss on Radha’s head. Lets her go.

  —Now Radha come greet me. Bapuji stands by the small pond, holding out his arms.

  —Yes daddy, she says. Yes Daddy yes. And isn’t that everything she has to say? Hanji. Can this scene be over now, among the cold white pebbles and the skeleton ferns – she has not been drinking, a mistake, she thinks: this night might be brighter and easier – even a glass of water – the only water here is in the small ornate pond. She has never properly noticed the bust of Gandhi standing guard there – an eye for an eye – what was it he said? A world in which everyone goes blind. Now Daddy is watching, waiting for Radha, his kurta is dusty, his feet in their chappals – did he walk here from the train station? A thing never done. From a place she has not been to since she was a child. Before they started to drive, or fly, there was lunch service in first class and boys selling water balloons on the platforms they stopped at. Stop dreaming Radha, for Daddy is greeting you, his grip is so tight on your shoulders and shawl; don’t slip, shawl, a breeze is picking up, it is setting all
the ferns at her, stupid green plants, she hates ferns. Daddy grips with his strength; he smells of something sharp: yoghurt just about to turn. She does not pull away: for here they all are, in the garden of standing still.

  —Radha, beti, you are glad I am here; you don’t forget your priorities.

  —Yes, Daddy.

  Now she is so close; his body close against hers, squeezing all thought from her head. She blinks into his face, it seems about to dissolve wait – this is his cue to cry? No. Stop. The shawl is slipping but she cannot pull it up so she stands there in her bandages, half mummified, half bronze – then Daddy takes the ends of it and wraps them around her neck.

  —I have told your sister she can do as she likes. For years she has behaved as a vulture with its prey. She has no thought for myself.

  Now on the word, he collapses, his head on her shoulder. Her knees buckle; she has never carried more than a crocodile bag – and now she must kneel with the sack of him in her arms, become a still point in the circling night – where is Bubu, where is Jivan – where is Ranjit Uncle now? Picking them up, Bubu on one side and Jivan on the other, they form a cradle; they lead her and Bapuji to the bench across from Nanu. Ranjit Uncle is sitting with her; they are each peeling an orange.

  Now Radha licks her lips. Her mouth is too dry – and Bapuji has never looked like this: not even when the Company Mumbai was bombed. Overnight, so much lost. The hotel share price, the family stock. Radha took him sweetened chai and badam ki burfi, then was too frightened to give it, so ate it herself while standing at his door, until she felt sick. Had she not been first on the scene in Mumbai, and stayed? Why is it always left to her, to write all the scripts for sorrow and grief?

  Now Radha wants to run. But the shoes, the dress, the shawl.

  —You won’t believe it, Radha. Your sister is a junglee. What do you say about that? Speak, then, Bapuji says.

  Now Radha watches Gargi. Every time they are set a test, Gargi always wins. Gargi gets more praise, more fondants and finger chips for Sunday tea. Gargi got the nicest new clothes and Gargi was allowed to ride upfront in the car. Gargi was so good: at listening, repeating, understanding. There was always someone to tell Gargi every shitput that came out of Radha’s mouth.