We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  Radha brings folds herself up so her head is resting on her feet. Like a little cat, the pet she always wanted when Bapuji only insisted they should have only dogs.

  —You’re like a small dog, Gargi says affectionately.

  —Sing me a song, Gargi Didi. You’ve got such a great voice.

  Such a sweet mood. She strokes her sister’s hair.

  —What do you want to hear?

  —I don’t know. Anything. Something silly.

  —Umm. God. Radha, I haven’t sung to you since you were a little girl.

  —I want it though. Please?

  —Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match…

  Gargi begins to sing the show tune, one of Kritik Uncle’s favourite songs. He would always hum it when she and Radha and Sita were together.

  —No! Not that one.

  —So what do you want me to sing?

  —Something Kashmiri. Tell me the honeybee tale.

  —OK. But not now. The medium is coming. Are you ready?

  —Ready! Radha stretches full length, flashing her stomach. Curved, Gargi thought, with a little bloat. Then she curls back on the cushions.

  —I’m ready, she says again.

  And what did the medium tell them? For Radha the story was written.

  That she must take more care, and also go on a journey with all of her precious baggage. To a place with mountains like this, but far away from here. Switzerland? Perhaps. Otherwise your beauty will turn to dust.

  What does this mean for Radha? Will she ever be loved again? The medium, primed for this question, tells Radha that she should not be filling her head and her body with such thoughts, for they would make her old before her time. No – she should keep her head down, agar Jivan ko sudhaarna hai. To live up to her husband’s legacy, she should go and have a period of solitary reflection, of meditation. Then come back, and take her place in the business.

  For Gargi, the medium holds few surprises. He says she loves her sisters, yes, but she has sacrificed her youth to them. The celestial stars of Modo and Mahu govern their behaviour and these two themselves have nothing in common. But everything they have must be shared. Then, using a star chart from his laptop computer and the coordinates of their births, he shows her that she and Radha are also Gemini-starred twins, born separately because of a cosmic mistake on their mother’s part and their father’s desire. This has caused a critical tension between them. They should love each other as two parts of a whole. One is ambitious and the other is beautiful. A crucial third of their hearts is missing. To make sure of health and wealth and prosperity, they have to get this back.

  —I can see you want, he says, to be young, and have all of life again.

  How true, Gargi thinks. And then, What nonsense. Everyone knows my story, a child could tell these things.

  She does not want to go back. She wants Jivan, just for this one night.

  When the sickness begins, Radha does not scream for him. Instead she sends for – who else? Gargi, the only person she can talk to about loose motions. Once every fifteen minutes and nothing will stay inside. Gargi soothes her and gives her warm milk, laced with a little more laxative.

  *

  She walks through the party, greeting people, smiling. She makes sure the Polaroid photographer with his vintage camera captures the many important men who are only too happy to stand with their arm around her. They still call her ‘Gargi beti’. She smiles, and the photographer flaps the picture in her face till her image reveals itself.

  —Wah! Gargi Madam with the world at her feet, he says.

  She takes the snap and orders a vodka-shot girl to follow her while she knocks back every tiny rejection, betrayal, every hurt, every minute and second of loneliness she has ever felt.

  Tonight, she is going to be the most powerful – also, for once, the most beautiful. The most cunning, the most devious, the most honest. And, for the last part of her plan, where she will become everything her father accused her of being, she needs Radha and her Kashmiri medicine box. Tonight is going to end with Gargi and Jivan in the Rani suite – bubbles in the bath, music, rose petals, soft lights, wetness, openness, fire.

  Gargi goes to Radha’s rooms. The Kashmiri box is fetched. Radha demonstrates what to do with a quick sharp sniff. She grins but she looks truly ill. She is splayed on the bed. Wearing a pair of Donald Duck boxer shorts and a white singlet that are far too big for her. She refuses water but asks for champagne, which is given. Jivan has been already; he has promised to return with food, Radha says. She does not want it though. To want food would mean she is well enough to stand. She wants to stand but the floor seems so far away. The ceiling is telling her to stay in the bed, the bed sheets want to strangle her. Her eyes feel heavy, as if her kohl has weight. Radha says she has been sick so many times, how can she still have organs inside her? She is not sure that Jivan will come back.

  —Gargi, she says, eyes glittering. Help. There is going to be a baby.

  There is a storm in Gargi’s head. She watches as her sister lies back, eyes glazed, her fingers drumming on her belly.

  —Bubu’s or Jivan’s, what does it matter? Radha says. I gave Jivan my ring. He’s going to marry me.

  Gargi grips the Kashmiri box. She traces its carvings and wants to believe Radha is lying. But there it is. So clear to see, now that she has been told.

  For the first time in her life, Gargi copies her sister. A bend of the head, a quick inhale. Her eyes begin to water. The storm turns to sand through her veins. The cold outside frosts the windows, freezes her smile, her skin. A child. Radha starts to hum. A tune you know, Gargi, you should recognise.

  —In the summer, Radha says – (her eyes closing, her arms drifting as if she is conducting a silent orchestra) – all the birds will return to the lake. What shall the baby be called?

  Gargi backs off the bed. She smiles at her sister; she spins – she cannot stop herself – out of the room, as quickly as she can.

  —Doctor Sahib ko bulao, she tells Sheila. Right now. Radha Madam needs help.

  Gargi cannot go to Jivan. She cannot return to the party. If you falter on these shining steps you will fall. There are fireworks behind her eyes and she has misplaced her tongue.

  What have I done?

  She wanders around her kingdom, seeing it as if for the first time. Terror here, and there, in corners, in rooms. Then, lovely kingdom! Beautiful night! Built on concrete foundations deep as the pit of Dhimbala. Gargi goes outside, down the terraced gardens; silver cold and clear. She sees the yew trees, waiting to be sculpted, the crates of tulip bulbs waiting to be planted. She slips over the grass, down the terraces, towards the small forest that rings her new lake. The last of the trees that were here before the land was cleared for the hotel to rise. Pinus Roxburghi, for the man they called the founding father of Indian botany. Interloper. Thief. Such strange thoughts she is having! Radha cannot see this moon. Radha – she should go back. She cannot go back. She goes on. The moon is so bright; so full. The party recedes behind her. The lights from the hotel retreat; the stars reach down to her instead. Radha is having a baby. Radha is sick, so sick that she cannot hold any food down, or water.

  What does it mean to kill a child?

  Gargi reaches the tower of the Rani suite. The old chandelier, brought in from the Farm, swings down through the centre. She climbs the stairs. At the top is the Rani suite. No, she will not lie down. She opens the balcony doors. Wooden slats beneath her feet; a concrete balustrade just thick enough to stand on; low enough to lean over. Above Gargi’s head, a vast ebony sky inlaid with tiny stars. Below is a body of silver water, as if one of those diamonds has slipped from the sky and melted. There is no breeze up here; it is so cold. Running down the hillside, the city offers pinpricks of electric light. That stop around a black hole cut out of the earth.

  —That’s the lake, a voice says.

  She turns, feels weightless. Jeet.

  Months dissolve. He looks real (but thinner). He is all i
n black. His eyes are hollow and his lips so red. She bends and grips his arms (they are more bony than before). She feels that if she does not touch him – she cannot banish him, she will float away. She tightens her hold.

  —I’ve done something, she says.

  To touch him is to be possessed by childhood games and teenage secrets, the terrors of getting older soothed because they are together. She wants to slap him and demand to know where he has been.

  —I’ve hurt Radha.

  She hangs her head. Jeet’s hands on her arms look aged; the knuckles are scarred, the nails short and unshined. He opens his palm. She places her hand in his.

  —I am in love with Jivan, she says.

  Jeet laughs.

  —Do you know what he has done to your sister?

  She stares at him. His face is definitely thinner and his eyebrows have fallen out.

  No, she thinks, what has he done? This can’t be a vision. Isn’t it true that visions don’t chit-chat? They don’t wear pocket handkerchiefs that match their buttons. Gargi frowns. Behind Jeet’s head the stars seem to shift; she knows she cannot trust her own eyes. Panic chokes her.

  —We have to go back. Radha needs help.

  —Not Radha. Did you know Sita is in the old town?

  Thinking of Radha, she does not hear this. Wait. Visions do not mock or make up stories. Do they? Isn’t that – in fact – all they do?

  —Sita? Where is she, Jeet? I have to see her.

  —You can’t. She’s down there.

  He sweeps his hand across Gargi’s forehead, the short brush of her hair. His fingers are not cold, even though the night is so clear and she is shivering. The city seems so calm from here, patches of dark, pinpricks of light. And far down there, by the silver river, someone is holding a Diwali party. Gargi can see something: the streets are on fire. All of her life, hollow in her throat.

  —Jeet, she says. It’s so beautiful. I want to see it better.

  —Come. I’ll help you. His hand grips her waist. She lifts her sari and he pushes her up, onto the balustrade. She looks down on the hotel gardens, the shimmering lake, the city in the valley. That beauty, all ablaze. She puts her hand on Jeet’s head to steady herself. He takes it, stands on tiptoe and kisses her palm.

  —Sita is down there, Jeet says. A fire started in the old town, Gargi. She is at your mother’s old house – don’t you want to go to her? Help. She needs your help.

  A sound rises on the wind, strange sirens wailing somewhere in the city below. Sita! Gargi thinks of her sisters standing tall around a table. She wants to be with them. She must help Sita. She trembles on the ledge. She thinks of her mother running somewhere through these streets. She shifts her feet a little forwards. The lake is so silvery tonight. Sita! Her body could be light, lighter than anything, a feather, a wisp of a shawl. To be young and have all my life again. Sita and Radha and her mother are waiting. She reaches her hands towards the fire. All creatures rush to their destruction like flakes of snow, so joyous as they— she steps into the air.

  iii

  Fireworks break the dark. Sparks draw crazy patterns, below in the grounds the people look up to wonder at the pop and shower of pink and blue and gold. Above them, in an old fashioned library, Kritik sits at the end of the table. Papapapapapapapapapa.

  Jeet. Holder of a fair share in the Company thanks to his dear father. Back from the basti, no longer Rudra, Godson of Devraj or son of Ranjit. Jeet swirls his whisky and watches Kritik cry. And here is Surendra, Gargi’s poor husband, aghast with all around him. His wife – her sisters – the fact of Jeet. He looks ill, Jeet thinks, as if he wants to run.

  Surendra places a hand on Kritik’s shoulder. The fireworks fizz and whistle outside. Midnight is coming. Announcements have to be made, Surendra knows this. Watching, Jeet realises that both men are shaking.

  Jeet wants to laugh (but doesn’t). Surendra cannot lead the Company any more than a slug could win a race against a fly. Gargi used to do an impression of him in bed, pawing at her. Mew! Mew! Mew!

  He remembers his nights in Dhimbala. He fought so hard to stay away from this world. Kritik looks up – his hair is white, and nearly all gone. His eyes have dark circles below them. What is the matter Uncleji? Jeet thinks. Is it so impossible for you to understand how, of all the five, it is Jeet who is left at the end?

  —A fire across the old town, Kritik says. I could not reach them in time. Devraj, my dear. He is gone. Sita with him – I could not even get close.

  Probably the news will be out already, the whispers rushing from the butlers to the waiters to the bartenders to the cooks to the pot washers to the sweepers to the children in their beds across the city. All before the peacocks in the garden can raise one squawk.

  —Kritik Uncle, your words are never false, Jeet says. Perhaps your nature sent them out into the night – has allowed this tragedy to happen.

  —Ask your brother what he allows, Kritik says. He thumps the table. I should have stayed with Devraj. Sita would not listen.

  Jeet looks at the monitors. Jivan appears, disappears, appears again, walking through each room, looking for something in a black and white world, littered with things.

  Surendra clears his throat; he tips his glass so the whisky trembles at the edge and almost spills.

  —What is your advice, Jeet? he says. At least you and I are cut from the same spiritual cloth.

  Jeet tries to imagine Surendra in the basti, with the rats. On the monitors, Jivan has reached the soft drapes and overblown vases of the ladies’ wing. Jeet watches his half brother walk the corridors: turning, retracing, double backing.

  —The first thing we must do is to announce that I am joining the board, Jeet says. Then we can mourn appropriately. Tonight is Diwali. We should conduct the Lakshmi puja.

  —You are correct, says Kritik. But I am handcuffed to death. I will climb to Amarnath, though it is late in the year. God knows how I will go forward from that point.

  —Kritik Sahib, Jeet says. Please. Whatever you need from me I will give you – and if you must go, I understand.

  This is all – the old man slips from the room, he shuts the door quietly after himself. Jeet monitors him as he goes down the stairs and off the screen. He stays to watch Jivan; he is standing, a tiny black and white figure, in Radha’s suite. A maid is crying as she strips the bed. The room is full of Company security. A nurse is there, making notes in a book. A tiger-haired girl in a one-shoulder top pushes herself into Jivan’s arms. He holds her, then lets her go. He drops into a Louis XV chair and picks up a plate of small sweets or savouries: who knows? He eats them slowly, one by one. Where is Radha? Gone. Jeet was there, standing in the corridor when she was taken away.

  —Devraj, Kritik, Ranjit, Surendra says. We can only hope to resemble.

  Jeet hears the fireworks ricochet outside. He feels lit by the shower of manufactured stars. He surveys the room. There are so many books here – how did they get here? Where did they come from? Who will write of Jeet Singh, whose dharma brought him to this place? In the vast mirror hanging over the fire, his own reflection is blurred. He is not Jeet, favourite son of Bapuji, not Rudra, not Jeet returned. Someone new stares back at him, waiting.

  For a moment he sees the library, the books destroyed, the walls covered in blood. His family: all dead. His friends lost to his enemies. Vik is the ruler of a vast palace, then another and another, each one built to show the people what greatness might be. He sees hotels, paradise gardens, the jet. The emerald green of golf courses, the gleaming bodies of Bapuji’s cars, the Company Goa, Delhi, Mumbai. Amritsar and Napurthala. Corridors all leading back to this room.

  He sees Dhimbala, razes it to the ground.

  Now come the screams of the women in the night, a fire burning. Then a vast cool vision, a block of pure marble in a landscaped garden, rises where Dhimbala once was. Jeet will rename every lane that once was. He will build his temples and his voice will rise – remember the cheers at the Company campaigns? Ther
e are thousands upon thousands waiting for him. It is too bright, too brilliant to look.

  He thinks he will never live to the grand age of spent wisdom and withering decay. The blind age. It is his dharma to leave a legacy so strong that none will be able to erase it. A wife will not be needed: if she is, a female will be found. Here is the next incarnation of Jeet, a pure leader of men.

  —Jeet, Surendra says. You and I will always speak truth to each other, no? The times charge us to do so.

  Outside the fireworks yield to qawwali, sung by a troupe of world famous players, a family of five sons. Their voices rasp and rub against each other’s, floating through the window, entreating the night to remain.

  Jeet raises his glass, and drinks.

  —Come, he says. Let us go down. It is time to begin.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not be without the following people’s brilliance, generosity, support—

  and love. Ben Crowe.

  Aubrey and Patricia Crowe. Dan Crowe and Emily Evans. Pria Doogan. Asha and Raj Kubba. Neelam Taneja.

  Sam Jordison, Eloise Millar and all at Galley Beggar Press.

  Gitanjali Kumar. Kristen Harrison. Sophie Mayer.

  My deepest thanks indeed are due to—

  Mary Campbell. Christie Carson. Andrew Dickson. Maureen Freely. Gatehouse Press. Sophie Gilmartin. Imtiaz. Sujata Khanna. David Godwin. Sam Hall. Robert Hampson. Matt Lingley. Juliet Mitchell. Andrew Motion. Deana Rankin. Carol Rutter. Kiernan Ryan. SF Said. David Schalkwyk. Tani Vadehra Singh. Anna South. Ashish and Pooja Taneja. Poonam Trivedi. Simon Trewin. Nilita Vachani. Amit, Amol and Aseem Vadehra. Eley Williams.

  All of the contributors to Visual Verse.