We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  She thinks of Kritik Uncle, the danger on the boat, repeats to herself: Jivan is from my sisters, he knows where Papa is, it’s going to be OK.

  Jivan presses his hand lightly into the small of Sita’s back. She doesn’t understand why this small gesture soothes her. She lets him take the lead – she follows him and Punj and the other boys through the winding streets. As they go, the roads become more and more empty – of people, of any noise. The houses tumble to sticks. How common she must look in her bright red kameez, among their jackets and jeans. The thought nags at her and is lost; around every corner she thinks she sees her father’s head, his collar, his shoulders – she can almost hear his laugh. She senses the river is to her right, but then they loop back into a maze of dark narrow streets, broken brick walls, wooden houses burned to black, the road potholed, raw, she knows what happened here – but not how to grieve. She is twenty years too late. They reach the water, and stop.

  —The Pandit Temple is nearby to here, Punj says.

  Sita looks over the edge. The river is luminous. Phytoplankton. The sky slides into the blue as if it cannot help itself. They have stepped through a door between the city and this place, and come to a world only trespassers find. She looks at Jivan, and feels his quick smile. He nods ahead, to where Punj has paused by a flight of wooden steps; he is removing his shoes. Perched over the stagnant water is a small hut on stilts; one of the men climbs the stairs to open the hatch door. He speaks – it does not sound like Kashmiri, or Arabic or Hindi or Urdu or any tongue she knows. How funny – the place is dirty and abandoned, but here she is, surrounded by boys doing things for her. It is normal beyond reason in this strange place.

  She climbs up the steps. An old woman sits in a low chair, dressed in a deep black robe. Her eyes don’t seem to blink.

  —Is my father here? Sita asks.

  —No. I just thought you might like this original slice of Kashmiri life. Isn’t her hut tidy? Are you hungry? Look, she has a dish of Kashmiri apples. She has her television too, says Punj.

  He is right. In the corner of the spotless hut the television is covered with a crocheted cloth. On top stands a bowl full of deep red apples. Highly polished, reflective.

  —You want a photo? he asks.

  —What? No. Sita cranes her neck, so hard and quick that it feels as though it’s bending in half, almost breaking as she looks for Jivan.

  —What’s up? He is still there. Jivan. He climbs up the ladder. His hands stretch out either side, holding her in the doorframe.

  —Where’s my Dad? she says.

  He looks at her. Everything seems to turn around her. The terror she felt on the boats returns, full grown.

  Jivan. Punj. They are not here to help her. Is this Gargi? Has Radha sent them? Sita, she thinks. What have you done?

  Punj comes to stand full frontal to Jivan, hands on his shoulders as if they going to kiss. She turns but there is only the stagnant river and another guy behind her and the old woman grinning in her shack. She pushes through the group; before they realise what is happening she begins to run.

  She goes blindly, turning left and right; when she can she picks up stones and pelts them behind her. But there is Papaji, there, just ahead – a flash, a laugh, he is there, playing hide and seek like she did with her sisters, with Jeet Bahiya and another younger boy – was it him? Was it Jivan? She turns, and turns, and turns: she reaches a dead end. In front of her steps lead down to a small courtyard, blocked off by a high pink wall. She can make out the Om. The Pandit temple. Her mother’s religion. Her father is there, staring down from the balcony, a fresh red tikka on his forehead.

  —Sita! he calls.

  —Shall we go get him? Jivan is beside her, offering his arm. She does not take it. She tries to keep walking past him but he grabs her.

  —What are you doing? she says.

  —This is Srinagar, Jivan says. You know that.

  He shrugs. It changes his face. His expression is so cold that she cannot look away.

  —Didn’t old Kritik tell you not to talk to strangers, and not to go out all alone? he says.

  He hands her to Punj, who grips her arm. She tries to free herself; he uses both hands, pulling her backwards so she almost falls. They watch Jivan trot up the steps into the mandir. He bends for a moment, out of sight. Then reappears with Papa; someone has draped a long mala around his neck and he is throwing nuts, one after the other into his mouth. It is a trick, she remembers, Bubu once taught him. He’s smiling as if this is the best game he has ever played. He follows Jivan, with no coercion, no force at all, down to where she is held.

  —Papa, she says. Please.

  —Punj, Jivan says. Take them to the house. Be careful with Sita Madam, treat her with respect, he smiles.

  The word Madam sounds so strange on his lips. Shock follows; clarity – a hood being ripped from her head. See what happens to wilful girls?

  She tries to get free of Punj; he grips her.

  —Papa, she says. Let’s go back to the safe house?

  Punj and Jivan shake their heads. Papa only shrugs. She looks from each to each: she wants her sisters. She wants one to soothe her, the other to make her laugh. Was there ever a time they were happy? Not since they were all young.

  —Shall we go and see Gargi and Radha? she says.

  Jivan laughs, a hollow sound. But they would stop this, if they could see her. She will say she is sorry and warn them about Kritik Uncle and Mawlana Umer. She could trade that, couldn’t she? That could be of value.

  —Nahin, nahin, nahin, nahin, Papa says. Why should we?

  He gestures to the broken houses, lilting either side. The sky criss-crossed with telephone wires, sagging into the lanes. He halts; forcing them all to stop with him. He licks his finger and points it in the air.

  —Wherever this good young man will take us, let’s go there. He’s well dressed and handsome, and I am sure does his best. No don’t cry. Birds sing in the bird tower, such pretty birds. Do you know what happened to them? Let’s go see. We can play get-your-feet-in-the-others’-face, isn’t that you girls’ favourite game? Tumbling about like circus clowns, topsy-turvy always.

  She is limp and heavy: like stone. The birds in the bird tower? There is no tower here. Darkness is falling – a curtain over the river, the old town. It is almost night and the birds are gone. What will you do, Sita, to save yourself? Will you stop at nothing?

  She walks, Punj on one side, Papa on the other. They do not touch her; there are no hands on her but their bodies are so solid – the old man, the young – there may as well be fingers digging into her arms, tenderising her skin. Papa almost skips though, Papa seems so happy – she has never seen him like this – feverish with energy. This is what silences her.

  —You sir, you! Do you have a pack of cards? He sings over Sita’s head. We will shuffle the deck to let the joker decide who we will allow to see us and who not, and where we will make our investments and who we can help with a gift of our money.

  And:

  —We can laugh at the bhainjis in their spun gold saris, the bullocks in bindis; these must be accommodated, no?

  And:

  —Come, Sita, no, do not shiver and sniff like a cold, sick, silly girl. We can recite shlokas from the epics if you do not want to gamble, we can talk as if we are Vishnu and Lakshmi spinning the wheel for the wealth of this world. Come Sita, it is time to go.

  Where?

  They take her and move her through narrow streets, her tears spill onto her toosh.

  —Sssh, sssh, don’t cry now, hmm? Devraj ki beti, roti nahin hai.

  Papa puts his arms, like steel, around her.

  —Ro mat, meri beti, ro mat, he says. Around your head the aarti will circle, and shanti will come, and Bhagwan himself will praise you. We will play at being twins, dancing, talking, laughing over minds, in rivers. Let us move to Mumbai, or to the south and open up a pickle factory. Don’t cry it will make you look old. There is plenty of time for that! Before you
fade, we will see them all starve on their own greed.

  The men obey, moving together and around her, carrying her along. They might be nothing more than a clutch of brothers and a girl.

  —Wait! They stop. Jivan whispers something to Punj.

  —Aré, Jivan Sahib, says Punj, putting his arm round Sita’s shoulders. Men have done worse to survive in this paradise.

  Papa giggles. They move on at a trot. All of her care has given him this new, skittish life. Sita has that sense again – that before now, she did not understand even the simplest things about the world. Still. She does not pull away.

  §

  WE WERE BROUGHT TO THIS: the house of my father-in-law, and after that there was nothing to do except play. We raced through it together, Sita and I. And Punj followed us, pounding up the old stairs after us. I knew the way.

  Through this old roof, rain, snow, spring ivy and summer pollen sweep through, year after year after year after year after year. This place was a haven for dakoits. In the conflict. After they murdered their prey. After they all fled. Ha! See how the kitchen still works, even though the commode looks out to the naked street. We have no fresh water to wash or to drink. There is only moonshine. This is just a bare room with broken floorboards and king of the castle dogs on the high high sand pile outside. She would not play, so I slapped her to stop her crying. Silly girl. Chup!

  She should listen to her father. She stopped crying, good girl, good girl, and her shawl was so fine, so fine, a beautiful pashmina. Just like her mother. I am not, she said. She did not understand. She said I didn’t know her, and she didn’t understand. I am her. Mine until married. She said she never wants to be married. Hasn’t she been all this time with a man she did not marry? Wound without end. She didn’t understand; she was just a child.

  Take her, I said.

  Punj thought her beautiful, I could tell. He lifted her like a bridegroom but she struggled like a cat. What claws! No, no, Sita, I said, do not struggle. Punj just wants to help you fly and he is right, she is a beautiful bird. See how she spreads! Do not let her squawk!

  I sleep. I wake and she is gone. The mosque is making an infernal noise. Shut up! She thought we were going to the safe house. Poor silly one. She has always been so sweet. A sweet girl. She is my sweet girl. Sweetie pie. A very trusting girl. Never questioning me. Always caring, caring. Sita. But she has this bad habit of disappearing. Hide and seeking. Where are you? See? She does not want to be found. But I will find her. And when I do, she will sing. Remember the birds in tower at the farm? Such pretty birds they were. Sita! Lovely Sita! Sita Savitri? Where are you?

  I hate the way she never answered, always muttering to herself under her breath. As if I did not know what she was saying.

  From here I can see apples on the tree, and the world is turning, turning. From here I can see all the lights of the new Company, twinkling for me, and the world is turning, turning. From here I could be the sweet honeybee, and the world is turning, turning.

  I returned her to my embrace. Her body was so tired. She refused to speak. One hand on her breast.

  No? Sing! No? She wouldn’t sing. Nor would she comfort. She will burn it all to the ground with her eyes. She will do her will, like a goddess of death. She said,

  —I will return. And when I do, I will change the face of this earth.

  I shook her until her teeth rattled. I removed her jeans. There was blood on her legs. No water to wash. Her hair was matted with dirt and bird shit.

  Shh, I whispered, stroking her there. We came not to this world as an abiding place.

  The games began again. She struggled!

  Punj held her down.

  I hitched her shawl around the beam and tied a clever knot. The thing will hold, it is strong as steel. The other end around her neck. Such fine work, the finest!

  We pulled. When I was a young man I rode, and swam, and ran and lifted weights, all through my business years. When Sita was a little girl, the shooting parties, the Polo matches, all this I could still do.

  Do we ever know, really, what we can do? Not until it is done, my friends, not until it is done. Hoist to song.

  Swift the current, dark the light

  Ya illa, la-illa

  Stars above our guide and light

  Kraliar, baliar!

  All together on the rope,

  Ya Pir-Dust Gir

  In our sinews lies our hope

  Khaliko, Malik-ko!

  How the world turns and brings us to these things. Such a pretty being, Sita: looped around the neck in the safe circle of her shawl. Heave! Dangle dangle.

  There. It is done. Tie the knot! Circle the fire! See how she dances in the breeze? She looked so pretty, like a beautiful chandelier. What do you see, my angel? The world. She rasps, hands at her throat. Her voice is faint. Ilantu. Turning, turning.

  Just bring me a lotus stem salad; let me fall into reverie.

  Her head turned sideways and she looked down at me, wide-eyed, bulging tongue. Breasts drooping, legs bare, mouth gaping, no sound.

  Punj started to laugh. He looked up her kameez. I pushed him and he fell straight through the broken floor, where the woodworm had eaten a hole. The size of the earth. He landed on his back, surprised. He disturbed the dogs.

  Sita gazes down, turning.

  Speak! She cannot speak, now.

  And then, finally, she danced. See her pretty feet, fanning the flames, now, the fire is spreading. Spreading. The fire; what is that noise? Crack and fall – the wooden house is falling down – hear the dog chorus – howl, howl, howl, howl.

  VI

  We That Are Young

  i

  Stay loose, Jivan. Chill, Jivan. The trick is to roll the dice as if any outcome is the one you want, whatever numbers you get. Whatever you have done you just keep going. There are so many old sores here, they’re not going to come back like some foreign return – ha ha – a tax on his actions, no a lag-haan, Hindi lessons, see? He hasn’t met a word yet that cannot be broken into bite-sized biscuits… anything can be made to look tragic and anyone can sound like a liar.

  Jivan once read somewhere that money is a suicide note – it can play murderer too, and no one is coming up the long drive behind him, no one can tell the difference between a smile and a rictus face. He tries not to think as he walks towards the hotel. There has got to be a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, five lakh, twenty lakhs, thirty crores of candles burning inside clay pots, moulding the light into petals, birds of paradise, curved moons.

  Jesus, can Sita still see the moon?

  It’s a cold clear night above the old city of Srinagar; the mountains are sparkling behind the hotel. The mornings here are spiced; like the taste of coffee and pretzels in a Boston in winter, thick salty dough twisted into lovers’ knots. Jivan never properly appreciated them, nor the fresh college girls with their apple-scented shampoo, thrift-store scarves and beaten leather book bags bought for less than 50 dollars a piece. Straight off the river the crew team came, jogging over fall leaves, late for their seminars in banking and law. Rushing in the evenings down the straight roads, the street lights casting pots of gold on the ground at regular intervals, leading to a keg party with some simple theme like Mad Men or the Sixties.

  When this night is over, Jivan thinks, he is going to take a break, go back to Boston, check it’s all still there.

  Jivan stands to one side of the glittering hotel lobby. A river of gilded men and women flows past him. Their talk breaks over him; it makes the space feel too small. He pushes off and up the staircase. Its steps are wide and long; it curves up the side of the wall. The kind of staircase you only see in Disney movies – Cinderella, no, Aladdin or whatever that one with the foreign princesses is.

  —See this, the cost of this. See even this: so much more than this? The chatter goes. —Have you stayed in Company Mumbai? —No only Delhi and Goa but this is better even, better? Best in the world… —But don’t you think that Gargi should no
t have done all this right now? —Is Bapuji even here? —Radha is after all in mourning still. —What is happening in the Delhi protests do you know? —It looks so bad. —Friends, what does it matter? We are here, we should enjoy.

  No one is talking about Sita.

  Brown skin glitters under golden lights and dark hair is piled high. The saris, the smells, the slippery sound of women’s bangles blur together. Some have tried for Gargi’s elegance and come off plain, some have overdone it in the jewellery store and salon. Some look like time-travellers from the 1980s, dated like the décor in the local restaurants by the lake. Girls dressed like frontier robbers stalk through the party, their cross body holsters loaded with India Company shots. The waiting staff have been culled from the best of the hotels across the country; they are trained not to stare, not to hang around the guests, not to insist, non-stop –

  Mozzarella ball? Sheikh kebab? Spiced corn fritter? Tonight the new India Company makes its debut on the napkins and the uniforms, on the newly laid silk rugs.

  Jivan watches from the turn of the stairs as Company guards screen for bombs and weapons. His own boys, selected from local neighbourhoods, have been trained by him to mingle with the crowds, tapping the industrialists and the politicians, trailing the journalists (though Barun, who RSVP’d yes, hasn’t yet shown). Making sure the drugs are discreet, are ready when required. That the carefully planned tours of the hotel and grounds stick to the route, and no one ventures into the private wing. Jivan respects these Srinagar boys. He knows they have lost friends, brothers, fathers. But in the four weeks he has been here, getting this place ready, he has never heard them complain or say one word about anything but work. All of them use English – he has banned them from speaking their own tongues while on duty; it was his first rule of order.