We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  When she gets back to her street, the house on the corner where the boys live seems closed. In the safe house, she hides her treasure in her underwear drawer.

  *

  The morning of Diwali, before she is meant to greet her sisters, Kritik Uncle has a box for her, which he insists she open. Inside layers of tissue is a calf-length pashmina kameez in a bright, happy red. To wear with it: a matching red shawl embroidered with black paisleys, long enough to skip with. She puts them on in the bathroom, hooking the shawl around her neck, over head, a hood. And despite herself she is entranced; it’s as if the spinner, the weaver, the ironer, the right-handed cutter have all left their meditations in it, for her. Kritik Uncle has forgotten to give her a salwar, so she has to wear the kameez over her jeans. Anyway it is so long that no one will look at her ankles, her feet.

  —Thank you, Kritik Uncle, she says. She kisses him.

  —Happy Diwali, Sita beti.

  Now Kritik Uncle says she is ready to meet those who are here to help her. Wrapped so warm, she gets into the car with him. She watches his face as they pass the house on the corner – he does not flick his eyes to it, nor does he turn away. She looks out of the window trying to get a sense of the whole city – past the prison, the hospital, a cinema hall. Sandbags are piled against the door, the windows are boarded shut. Barbed wire scrolls around thick-fleshed soldiers; they stand to attention at the checkpoints, cradling their guns. Despite them there is a sense of something in the air – or maybe that is just her own excitement. Tonight she will see her sisters. Or maybe Srinagar, too, is getting ready for tonight. Even while the graffiti’d walls still cry – Azad Kashmir.

  The car skirts the lake – it is forty-five minutes or more before they turn off a dirt track behind a low white building, and stop at the gates to a children’s play park. It runs down to silvering water, where three or four tourist houseboats are moored.

  —Where are we, Kritik Uncle?

  —Nagin Lake. See over there? Zabarwan mountain. Come.

  One foot in front of the other, she follows Kritik Uncle across the park towards the water’s edge. There are no children on the swings or slide; the roundabout is still. A blue flash catches her; a bird skims the water’s surface for a few beats and vanishes. A kingfisher.

  A young man in a pheran with a small, trimmed beard gets up from a bench to meet them. He clasps Kritik Uncle’s hands and receives an arm around the shoulder.

  —Salaam Aliakum, he says.

  —Wa aliakum as salaam, says Kritik Uncle.

  They bow to each other.

  —Imran is the son of one of our best friends in Srinagar, Sita, Kritik Uncle says. His father has given us the safe house here, and all the men looking after us. He is a great supporter of your Papa.

  —Thank you, we are so well looked after, she says.

  Imran’s prayer cap is pinned to his hair with the same grips Gargi used to force on her. He leads them across a gangplank to a houseboat door; they must hop like chickens to remove their shoes. Through the houseboat they walk, single file towards the narrow, arched front room. Polished walnut furniture; the carpet is thick underfoot, baking in the warmth from a small fan heater that growls quietly in the corner. A short old man in a pheran, a prayer cap on his head. His beard is the colour of Sita’s pashmina.

  —Mawlana Sahib, salam alaikum, says Kritik Uncle.

  —Namaste Kritik Sahib! How are you?

  What can I tell you, Mawlana Sahib? Today is the day of celebration.

  —The Princess shall go to the ball, no?

  The old man looks at Sita.

  —What a beautiful outfit, he says. He shows her his open palms. Sita. My dear, I greet you as my own daughter. Come, please, my home is your home. I wish you a Happy Diwali. He joins his hands and bows.

  Behind him, an arched window frames the lake, the mountains. Behind Sita, Imran, the walnut furniture, the children’s park.

  The Mawlana’s palms are so big, she thinks. The walls of the room are covered in crewel-worked cloth: vines, birds of paradise. It’s the same on the chair covers, the curtains, the cushions and bolsters, a stitched forest of patterns repeating.

  She swallows and answers as she should; as if she has known him all her life.

  —Thank you, Uncle. My Papaji is recovering, slowly.

  His eyes peer at her from behind rimless glasses; she tries to look at him steadily.

  Sita, she thinks. Stay calm.

  There are carpets on the wall, there are soft cushions on the chairs, there is a framed picture of the Mawlana with George H.W. Bush. And see the awards from Tripadvisor, and the India Tourist Board, also hanging there? There is an open visitors’ book on a low table, a pen lying next to it. Should she sign? So someone might know she was here?

  Imran comes with a tea tray. A flask and three glasses that seem too fragile to take heat. Sita accepts one filled with pink tea.

  —You have tried our noon chai before? Saffron goes so well in milk, our own recipe here, the Mawlana says.

  —Yes Uncle. It’s delicious.

  —Mawlana Umer owns many of these beautiful boats, Kritik Uncle says.

  And so much of land in this state. He will help us resolve all troubles with your sisters. Any problems, you can contact him.

  —Thank you Umer Sahib, for all your help, Sita says. But Kritik Uncle knows, I don’t want to fight my sisters. The campaign we started is about more than my family – it’s about changing the way people think, you know? My father promised me this.

  —And did you know I am one of your father’s oldest friends? All this. Umer Sahib waves his hand at the furnishings. I owe him all of this. Your father has always understood that wealth creation knows no borders. That is the cure for the sickness in Srinagar. All through these years of conflict and hardship he has helped us invest, so we have helped him, and so we have not starved, and some of us have prospered.

  —What do you mean? she asks.

  She sips her tea. Her eyes smart with the heat of it, the salt.

  —Ah, Sita, this is not for you to worry about. Just know that whatever you need, I can arrange for you, says Mawlana Umer.

  —What about my sisters?

  —Why not let the future take care of itself? My dear we will make sure you get what is rightfully yours.

  —But what do you mean? she asks again.

  Kritik Uncle reaches a hand out to take his tea. How dark his skin is! Her own is pale. Her mother’s skin.

  —Without Mawlana Sahib’s support, all of Srinagar would have risen up against the hotel. Gargi’s tactics did not help – bringing workers from outside states, contracting foreign architects and so on.

  —But Kritik Uncle, the Company has always done this, she protests.

  —Be that as it may. Local people – after years of war, of course they have wanted to protest this development, since the project began. I know you want to support them, no, Sita beti? So, we will. One cannot create paradise without maintaining hell. Need is a powerful motivator.

  —But Kritik Uncle, she says. Bapuji – and Gargi—

  —How soft she is, Mawlana Umer says. We have to toughen her up. Does she know the bottom line?

  —The what? says Sita.

  —Our streets may have been decimated by the years, he says. But we have such beautiful halls in Kashmir, beautiful rooms and corridors. Particularly beautiful are the corridors of your new hotel. Ask Kritik Uncle to show you their treasures some time.

  She sips her tea – sweet, bitter, bitter – she has no real idea what he is talking about. A fist squeezes her insides; look at Kritik Uncle, look at Mawlana Umer – look, look, steadily. She realises that for all the books she has read, she has never quite believed in the terror of this world. She knows it exists, she thought she knew how it worked. But she has never actually seen it.

  Here it is. Kritik Uncle, and this man, talking in riddles about Kashmir, corridors, ‘her’ hotel, treasure that will bring her more power than she can imag
ine. Outside, the waters of the lake are silver, and still.

  She does not belong in this world. She lives with spreading plants and strange fruits in a country these men cannot imagine.

  —Chalo, Sita, you should get back, says Kritik Uncle. Your Papa will be needing you. Go, take the car and I will follow. Tonight is the opening. We must prepare.

  She rises. Her blood is telling her to run, her head to stay and force answers. Her heart wants Gargi and Radha: her hands need to hold theirs.

  §

  WHEN SITA CAME HOME she talked about her sisters – but she came back to be with me. She watched me as if I might escape her. What did she think, that I was a cat or a cockroach? She watched me watch the pigeons on the ledge. Little birds, what a life. Eat some food, fly around, have some sex, what else? They told me this is Kashmir and we came here for my honour. They said I was a great man. But they didn’t know this one secret – I am not too great to die. Ha! I thought. They will not let me die.

  They will build statues to me when I am gone. I will be a bird, and come and sit on my own shoulder, and shit on my own stone head. Who will clean me? Sita will. Goddess of rain and tears. Water to fill the cracks in this earth.

  In the recent mornings I heard her singing, fighting with the birds. I wondered why she could not understand: this disturbed me.

  I want tea. There are only dogs here. Don’t think I do not recognise them. Here, Here doggy doggy, kuch khaoge kya? No, they are resting. Their pups are suckling. They are the Lords and Ladies of this shit heap. Why can I see the sky above the angel’s head? Why does she not speak? This is the house where I wooed my wife. Where I began the Company’s finest trade. Come, sit. And we will refine it.

  OK come sit, do not dance. Be soft. See? Much better. Sleep, baby, sleep. I pushed her down to my laps, I petted her head. The night will be over and the sun will warm. This is not the first time I have lost a night dreaming over Sita.

  Sit, and I will tell you a tale.

  The King of Beasts, full of energy,

  Dwells in the woods, solitary

  Without emblems of royalty;

  Unlearned, untrained in polity,

  His superior strength gives him sovereignty;

  He rules, crowned simply by the words, Oh King! Hail. Oh King!

  Meat of tuskers moving slow, majestic,

  Drops of rut trickling, he relishes most;

  But if his favourite food comes not his way,

  Still you’ll never catch a lion eating hay.

  We can wait till the auspicious moment. We can wait.

  *

  When Sita gets back, the nurse meets her; behind him the safe house is in uproar. Roar! A panic so fierce it could crack the walls.

  —Where is Kritik Sahib? he says.

  —Why? What has happened?

  Papa is missing. Missing – when these men did not even expect him to be able to stand up alone. She leans against the door, watching them, on their phones, putting on their shoes, pushing each other around, each accusing the other.

  —Where has he gone?

  —You were supposed to be with him, are you blaming me?

  —He said he wanted to go outside, I brought him to the courtyard, I went for a piss, how could I stop him, who am I to tell him?

  On and on and on.

  —Stop! she says.

  And for the first time, they obey her.

  —I’ll go find him. Stay here, all of you, or you will feel Kritik Uncle’s rage. This is your fault. Stay. I’ll go alone.

  §

  LET US TAKE A WANDER in the city of youth all the way back to the cradle. In the early days, fresh red coats and white skins, skirts on boats for romancing. The wind changed and the red coats left chameleons of many shades, the people in between. We rode our motorbikes in autumn, under the shedding chinar trees, dreams of being crorepatis never far from our minds. We feasted on wazwan, all thirty-two courses, lamb skewered, lamb beaten, lamb marinated. Lamb balls, lamb eyes and testicles in sauce. Lamb brains, with curd and fresh ground spices. Lamb liver so tender and rich in iron for strength in the fight to come, lamb innards in sweet milk gravy. We add a chicken, cooked whole and cut. Into two halves. Serve with green spinach for the two shades of cloth – the flag and the uniform. We played both sides and ate both halves and paid for what we ate and got good returns. Ours is not the business of war or land, but money.

  Back to the city and the golden days. Across the whole country, the youth are resourceful. All should come here and settle and claim their due. For this I have built the Company.

  I chose the site as a young man. On the hills over-looking the city. Began a stone quarry with blast dynamite. Glass houses were built into the plans.

  My favourite part of this city is the market.

  I want to find that market, for my wife enjoys pink tea.

  I trade promises for air and buy what I like. This is what my Company is built on – secret though, between you and me.

  What have I left? A walnut shell cracked open. We came not to this world as an abiding place.

  Sita came to find me, she wanted to play hide and seek. I ran until I reached the temple, I went to seek the pandit’s blessing, I wanted to hide in stories and on the stage. I am everywhere, can you find me in your mouth and your memories? Come seek, come seek! I am here.

  And do not scream for I will scream louder, and drown your voice in the syrup of mine – just watch, just wait, just come find me. Come on little bee, fly home.

  *

  She runs to the end of the road. She bangs on the door of the house on the corner. When the young man opens it, he looks shocked; as if he is face to face with someone he’s only ever seen in a film.

  —I know you are Kritik’s men, watching for my safety, she says.

  The young man nods. What big ears he has.

  —Did you see my father leave? He’s gone – he’s gone! I have to find him, she says.

  —Don’t worry he says. He gives a high-pitched laugh. He steps towards her. We were watching. Your father also came banging on our door. He demanded we take him to the Pandit Temple. In the Old Town. Come, we will follow him there.

  In the streets the sound of firecrackers. The cold is electric, so many families, so many children are out all walking towards the river and the Zero bridge. Sita should be with Gargi and Radha, writing her name with a sparkler, admiring each other’s new clothes. Papa, where are you? There are candles in the windows, and people are going from house to house. Tonight there is no curfew; only the road to the new hotel will be closed, keeping the people locked in their own circles. Sita follows the young man, he tells her his name is Punj; they keep walking, towards the parts of the city she has not yet been to. She looks up. In a high window lit by a naked bulb, a man is bent over, stitching onto a cashmere shawl. It was probably commissioned by Bubu himself – it will be delivered to Radha soon. She wraps herself close in her own red shawl; the man at the window has paused in his work. He smiles down at her. He has no teeth and his face is more lined than Papa’s. He points at her and seems to offer her the shawl, nodding, rubbing the fabric between his fingers to show her its value.

  Behind her a motorbike carrying two boys swerves and just misses her. People are spilling from their prayers, brushing past her, knocking her, they go into grocers and butchers shops to buy for their evening meals. She feels she’s being watched: is it because she is the only woman not wearing a hijab? No – there are some women in salwar kameez and shawls, heads uncovered. No one is looking at her. Sita, she thinks. Stop.

  —Stop, she says. Punj, stop. Where are we going?

  —To the temple, no?

  He grins at her. A tour guide trying to stay calm, to hurry up the difficult customer without seeming to.

  —Wait. I have to – just give me one minute.

  She slinks into a general store and walks the aisles, trying to keep breathing. Old tins of condensed milk and custard powder, bags of dry spices and sacks of flour. Uncle
Chipps – a brand she has not seen since she was a child.

  She waits; two minutes, three. She picks at her nails, wondering if Kritik Uncle has come back to the safe house – if he is looking for her and Papa. Outside she can see Punj, talking on his phone.

  She goes back outside without buying anything.

  —Who are you talking to? She says. Across the street a broken neon sign flashes – gym, body-building, boxing.

  Punj gestures behind her.

  A group of young men is coming down the street – with them, the good-looking one in the crimson hoodie. She saw him that first time she went out. When she stood by the Jhelum worrying about buying cigarettes, as if she had nothing else to care about at all.

  What long eyelashes he has, she thinks. In the darkening city, suddenly she feels cold.

  —I know you, she falters. You look like people I know.

  —Jivan, he smiles. Great to finally meet you. Again. He laughs. It’s been fifteen years.

  Her body feels as if it is waking up after a hundred years of sleep. She straightens her shoulders. Jivan. She looks around, behind – his boys are grouped in a loose circle. Security.

  Jivan takes her hand. She is so surprised, she does not move. She feels how warm his fingers are, feels the cold in her own even more.

  —Don’t worry. I know where your Dad is, he says. Gargi sent me. She just wanted to make sure he was OK. She wants to see you both.

  —Gargi?

  —Come with me, he says. He is still holding her hand. Your dad’s at the shrine. We’ll go get him, then go up to the hotel. It’s going to be OK.