We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  Someone has closed the doors to the terrace. Radha can see the five of them reflected, warped and widened, the night a backdrop for their ghosts. It may never be morning. The whisky burns her insides. Look this is you as a fatty says the Radha in the window. Tomorrow, she will get some assistant to call up her favourite designers; come bring her fresh dresses to try in her room. And the bright cherries on the walls of her suite will beam at her, she thinks, and advise on what is modest, what is daring for this place. Maxi, maybe – she should start a new trend.

  What is this warmth? The yellow shawl has found its way back to her shoulders, it’s slightly damp; it smells of Bapuji.

  —Bapuji cannot leave just like that, Ranjit Uncle says.

  Well, has he not been sitting for the last half an hour, sucking Nanu’s oranges?

  —Gargi, he didn’t take a car, Nanuji is with him only, no one else. How will he manage? Does he even carry cash or cards or his own cell-phone?

  —Don’t worry, Ranjit Uncle, Radha says. There are plenty of places from here to Goa where he can make a visit. Any of his friends will welcome him, since he does not want us.

  —Right on, Rads, right on, says Bubu.

  She will never get used to him, standing behind her, kneading her neck with his thumbs. It hurts. He always does it when he needs to de-stress.

  Radha glances at Jivan. He is looking at Gargi.

  —Jivan, Radha says. It is up to you. You want to take on the Company security full time? Then make sure Bapuji stays away from me. Don’t let him cause any mischief I have to fix in the press. There is too much at stake now.

  Jivan’s smile warms her skin, the yellow shawl slips.

  —Yes Radha. He rolls her name on his tongue.

  —Right, she says. Am I right, Ranjit Uncle?

  Ranjit Uncle gives a small sniff, he smoothes the top of his cane with his hand. His cravat needs retying, he should take more care.

  —You know best beta, he says. I can no longer comment. But remember, your father has seen the British quit India. He built this Company from nothing. He raised you, educated you, married you. He is older than this India herself! Without him none of us have any future. Let him keep his Hundred, so what? Over such small moments more will be lost, like a butterfly beating its wing in UK, causing the flood to come.

  Bubu laughs.

  —Don’t worry Ranjitji. We will be lucky if the rains even give us one drop this year. Jivan, Gargi, one more drink?

  —I think I’ll say goodnight, says Ranjit.

  Radha watches Ranjit Uncle stand. When she was young she loved him. She saw him always surrounded by women, having F.U.N. He used to call her over, to sit with them; she knew she was his favourite. He was so smart and fresh smelling, he brought her new T-shirts and jeans, whenever he came back from America or UK or anywhere outside. She looks back to Jivan, they have the same skin colour, the same head. Jivan, she thinks, probably has better teeth.

  —Goodnight, Ranjit Uncle, thank you for all of the lovely tea, she calls.

  He walks to his bedroom as if age is guiding him tenderly towards his pyre. He closes the door behind him.

  All of them sit back. Although they are still in Ranjit Uncle’s suite, now Radha wants to take off her shoes, to pummel the cushions and stretch her feet into Jivan’s leg. He is smiling; he even raises his glass to her.

  —Right, he says. I’m going to take a dip. Who’s in?

  —Great idea. Jacuzzi time. Bubu stretches his arms, flashing his Rolex.

  —I’ll come!

  —Atta Radha! Gargi, you won’t join? Jivan mimes a doggy-paddle, panting and grinning.

  Look at Gargi, sitting like Queen Elizabeth on the sofa. Pinks and purples don’t suit her. And someone has plucked her eyebrows into a permanent question – she looks like a Russian doll.

  —I can’t, Gargi says. We have to talk about how we are going to deal with Dad and the next stage. Rads, I want you to put together an internal brochure. There is no point waiting. We will let the shareholders know that we are taking over now. There are also quite a lot of problems I am dealing with that we all need to talk about. Tax inspections on the hotels and malls, Bubu. The feedback from the Eco-Car…

  —Come on, Big Sis, let’s do this tomorrow, says Bubu. He picks up his drink. Twists his mouth around a sip of whisky; it ages his face. Shutting his eyes, he drains his glass.

  —This morning’s coverage, of Bapuji in Ghaziabad, Gargi says. Radha, any corrective action yet? Or should we just focus on all the leaking holes and shell companies washing cash through the new Bubu Balraj building projects? I know exactly how much each contract is worth, what gets spent, what goes into your personal accounts and what percentage should come to the family.

  Bubu does the graft, Radha thinks, so why not?

  —Oh Sisterji, she says to Gargi. Don’t frown so much, your face will stick.

  It works. Bubu snorts, Jivan sits back, Gargi gives a small, tight smile.

  —Let’s get some rest and have a power breakfast in the morning. We will order you some oatmeal and fruits. I promise we will talk, all of us, together. Even you need to unwind, Radha says.

  —Jivan? Gargi says.

  How sweet his smile is, so apologetic, so helpless! He lifts one shoulder at Gargi.

  Ha! One in the eye for Big Sis. Good. Let her sit with her work, it is her true love. Radha will go to the roof with Jivan. Because Gargi or no Gargi, Dad or no Dad, and Bubu can point her six ways to the sky, but Jivan does something else. Look at him, so relaxed in this drama. He makes Radha laugh. Without thinking first. He calls back leela to her eyes. Bubu does not even guess she has this thing. Now Jivan is here, she feels it again. Life.

  That night she decides to stop thinking about the past. No more remembering that little Radha and little Jivan were bachchas together. Or trying to copy Gargi, or do only what Bubu wants. And – maybe – no more tea with Ranjit Uncle. Gargi he always ignored. With Sita – Radha will not think about Sita. Sita should be home keeping Dad happy, at least looking after her dogs.

  From now on, all of Radha’s memories will begin here, on the roof of the Company Amritsar. The plunge pool! What a name for this thing. A circle of water, a stone seat inside. It is still early, before midnight. Two or three staff shuffle around, so slow. Pouring drinks, fetching towels. Finally, they leave. Twenty minutes, half an hour. No Bubu. He said he wanted to powder his nose and would join them – she found him two hours later, passed out on the floor of his own dressing room, hugging his Kashmiri box, among the hanging suits and folded shirts. She left him there.

  Turqoise shimmers its reflection against her skin, turning her amphibious. She slips out of her clothes and sinks into the warm water. Up here there is no breeze. The scent is of chlorine with roses. It eases her. She holds on to the curved rim of the pool and floats, waiting for Jivan. Her swimsuit has a cut out: an iris around her navel. She strokes it and pokes it with her finger. Nice naabhi.

  —Are you OK? Jivan says. He climbs in; two arms lengths away, asking that simple question. Tears begin to slide down her cheeks. She dips her face into the water and comes up. Smelling of roses.

  —You should come to Goa, she says. It’s the most beautiful hotel in the country. Until the Kashmir one is finished. We’re actually creating fake lakes in the grounds, so people can have their own houseboat suites. Full service, all the treatments; an outdoor screening room in summer, an autumn lakeside lit-fest – books and all that are so cool right now. Maybe even a theatre where we can do English plays and puppet shows. Whatever we like we will do it. Live local music each night. Ski passes in winter with private tuition from Swiss pros. It’s going to be awesome!

  —Radha. Stop. What’s up?

  The water reflects ripples onto his face and onto the windows behind him. A strange feeling, as if they are walking the ocean floor, but are still able to breathe.

  —You must think we are savages, after all that.

  Jivan moves; his legs touch he
rs. The texture of bodies in water, like tongues slipping against each other.

  —Wait, she says. Bubu might come.

  —What do you think I’m gonna do? he asks.

  He reaches under the water. Takes her foot in his hand, strokes her calf with his fingertips. It feels as if a thousand small sea creatures are brushing over her. Radha’s mouth drops open. Turquoise floods through her. She becomes the goddess of water, Ganga Ma. She tries not to let Jivan see.

  —You didn’t shock me, he says. The only thing that has shocked me since I got here is the state of the roads near the Farm.

  He lets go of her foot and pushes towards her. Her back is against the side of the small pool. He traps her between his arms.

  —Still the same crowd-pleasing girl. Come on, he gives a laugh. Tell me. Who is Radha? What does she love to do?

  A dry wind catches the tops of the palms. It sets everything whispering around them. The starting of the jets, the motor hums: bubbles press up between her legs, on her stomach. Between Jivan’s body and hers. It feels good. Jivan pushes back, away from her. She thinks that she could ask him to do anything at all, and no one would blame her or talk badly about her, no paps would point the finger, because there would be nothing to point at. To be Radha with Jivan is the most natural state of being in the world.

  —I’ve never handcuffed anyone like that. But Bubu… he likes to play rough, she says.

  She sinks down and lets the water lift her hair. Her words drift towards him, spreading out across the surface of the pool. She waits. He will comfort her – he knows how it feels to be caused bruising, bleeding pain to the most tender parts of one’s self, pain at the hands of someone you only want to please.

  He stretches his arms out and grips the sides of the pool.

  —Radha, what do you think I am? You remember me as a child – half in your house, half to my brother, half allowed to play, half left out. I’m Indian, I’m American. Half this, half that, always the other. My mother used to sing America’s praises. At least everyone here knows the score. Come and live in Dream Town, built on favours and bribes. And shrug it off and say so what? Aise hi hota hai! Great, just get on with it, live your life. No one has the guts to be the whistleblower. Why should they? Even the whistleblower is probably getting some on the side. Money. Fluid as water, nowhere more than here.

  She floats to him and puts her hands on his knees. She has no idea how she looks, mascara probably running, eyelashes stuck together. She puts her face near his, lips almost on his.

  —Of course. You are right, it’s always like this. And we are in it.

  She skates her hand across the water.

  —Up to the top. We work very hard for every paise we spend.

  —Dude, are you for real?

  Is he laughing at her? She sits herself back on the seat.

  —I mean, poverty, of course it’s there, she says. But we create so much employment, what else can we do? We live in a young country, Jivan. Five years ago you couldn’t even get Coca-Cola in a can here. The kids who are making money now, like all the upper-level staff we employ, the girls and the boys who didn’t grow up travelling abroad, they just want to make money, be cool. They know what stuff they want; the great thing is, they don’t know why. No context! My God they are the ideal customer! They didn’t have access to anything, and now look – everything. All at once. Now, now, now!

  She laughs, beats the surface of the water, sending drops flying around them.

  —And what is my place in it? What is yours? he says. Aren’t we just the big fish, waiting to be eaten by the small?

  Now Radha moves towards him again, she balances on him, a circus act of hands on shoulders, legs floating behind. He takes her arms and pulls her onto his lap. Stubble and skin, wet, hard, muscle. Bone. Ranjit Uncle’s cheekbones and his full, sensuous mouth. Between his legs, ah God, she thinks: it feels good to be so close to him. Bubu (who still hasn’t shown: O please stay passed out, o please) would be sucking on her by now, biting, hurting, not like this. Then she thinks, Ha. Let him come find them. Let him see.

  —Radha, lovely Radha. Haven’t you learned that you have to be brutal to survive in this world? Don’t be fake, don’t pretend. Why can’t you just say it if you feel it? Jivan says.

  Radha stares at him. Faces close together as they haven’t been for years. She wants to pinch his cheeks and twist them. Did you really miss me? Don’t you think of what might have been? Do you want to fuck me? If she said such things, she would risk becoming Sita: she would find herself. Nothing but herself.

  —Do you like it here at all? she asks.

  Jivan’s arms pull around her waist, she is on his lap. His lips rest on her shoulder. When he speaks, his teeth graze her as much as his words.

  —What, you think I’m homesick? I’m not homesick. For the first time in fifteen years. I was born here. When I’m around you and Gargi, I feel like I’ve come home.

  The shadows from the candles and the light from the pool seem to gather around him, framing him in a luminescent glow. A blue God, Krishna, churning the ocean around her at the creation of the world.

  —Jivan, I wish, she begins.

  His head is so solid, a coconut under her hands.

  —I wish you had never gone.

  Then she is limbs and hair all around him, arms, legs, his naked chest, his crotch. He stays completely still beneath her; it is exciting to move against him. Heat burns through her to the ends of her hair, and still he does not move. His eyes are closed and his head thrown back, she can feel him pushing between her legs. She pulls her swimsuit down to her waist and brushes her nipples side to side, over his mouth. Then one arm around his neck, she kisses him. Wet skin, lips as full as hers. His tongue is warm and thick, he tastes of the plunge pool—

  —Jivan, she says. Home.

  He lifts her, turns and places her down on the seat. She is confused then realises he is taking off his shorts. Before she can speak, he lifts her again, onto him. Water makes it easy; they are returning to their element.

  It has been so long since she saw a man’s face like this, close, beneath her. He is so still: his eyes are all she can see, then he strips off her costume; he lunges forward and bites her nipple, sucking first one, the other, one, the other, one, the other, one, the other, one, the other, she sees his dark head bent over her and the pleasure sends her whispered Yes high into the night, it is snatched away by the wind.

  Her hands grip his hair. She pulls his head back so she can see his face, stretched and grinning.

  —Love, she says.

  There is no going back, after that.

  *

  They lie together on a lounger, wrapped under one towel. An hour or more has passed. No Bubu, she thinks, ever again. Her cheek feels the bones of Jivan’s shoulder, her ear to his heartbeat. Once or twice she raises her head to look at him: he is smiling but his eyes are closed. Years have gone by. She counts them: Gargi and she, performing with dances for Bapuji. Growing, staying still, while trying to twist away from the uncles who always kiss you on the lips no matter how old you get; fixed interest that gets harder to pay the more the years pass. Then Surendra, her big brother-in-law, policing her always until Bubu came along to open her to more, more, more.

  Now her skin prickles in the rising breeze, it fans old daydreams to life. She will have Jivan, and Gargi will have Jeet, and Bubu and Surendra will somehow be gone. The four will live untroubled on some sandy beach with nothing to sell or buy. She and her sister will dive naked each day in clear blue waters for strange shaped fish, which they’ll bring home to Jeet and Jivan to gut and cook. Sun will warm and sand blast their features and bodies to abstract bronze. They’ll squat and eat with their hands, sharing morsels between the four, waiting for Sita, who is coming. But then the daydream breaks: Gargi kisses Jivan, Jeet looks on smiling – Radha opens her eyes and speaks.

  —I thought you liked Gargi more than me.

  Jivan pulls on her hair, says,

&
nbsp; —Some women you want to marry. Some are just meant to be adored.

  She is not sure who is who, and tries not to ask him. Lazily she tells him,

  —Gargi doesn’t want children. Did you know that? I mean, how could she not?

  A short silence, then,

  —Is that for real?

  —Maybe she had enough, playing Mummy to you and me.

  —And Sita, he says.

  —Mmm, and look how she grew up. Jivan?

  —What is it Mrs Radha Balraj Devraj? Which, by the way is a crazy big name for such a skinny girl.

  —Thanks, she says, and sucks in her stomach. You know Gargi has a massive mummy crush on you?

  He rolls to face her. He slaps her lightly on her cheek.

  —Don’t be mean.

  —Ask her yourself, see what response you get. You think she has control. She doesn’t know what she is doing.

  —Do you? Jivan asks her.

  —Do you?

  —Always. But I do have one question. What is a chut?

  She grins. This, she won’t translate. Not even for him. She takes his hand and pulls it between her legs.

  —Oh, right. I guess I should have realised. What do you call it? Come on, you can say ‘cunt’.

  Yes, she can. But she won’t in this moment, wanting everything to be soft around her.

  —Come on, you can say it! Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt. His lips against her ear. If you say a word enough times, it empties to nothing.

  —I don’t want to.

  —Just once.

  —No.

  —Cunt.

  —No.

  —Cunt.

  —No.

  —Cunt.

  —Stop! OK. Cunt. Cunt cunt cunt. Happy now?

  He grins.

  —Nanu always called it yoni, she says.

  —Yoni. New age, man, I like that. He kisses her on her neck, her arms, her hands. And your Dad seems to think you’ve got them all over your body. Mmm. Sexy.

  She laughs as the wind gets stronger, the trees around them lilting, the sky tinged red. Is it dawn? No – something else – it’s like the night of her wedding moon. Sand rises in gusts around them, forcing them inside. Only one manservant is still there, wrapped in a rug under the pool bar.