We that are young Page 10

  —I keep hearing people saying they’ve seen her.

  —Perfect. All these people, they’re talking absolute bakwaas. Didn’t you hear me? She left this afternoon. Gargi begins to laugh.

  —Shh. Gargi. It’s OK. You don’t have to tell me anything, he says.

  She wipes her eyes.

  —I’d have to go back years. No time.

  —I can see that, he says.

  —Everything changed when you left.

  She drops into her seat, bends forwards until her head rests on arms folded across her knees, her hair almost sweeping the carpet. The gap between them narrows, the deep room swallows them. He is not a poet. But the air is so still around them. The velvet interior so thick. He feels they are inside the belly of some red-blooded beast, they are its lungs, inhaling, exhaling together.

  She looks up. Mascara on her cheekbones.

  —How do you think Ranjit Uncle is doing? How are you? What are your plans? she says.

  —Remember all those times you tried to get me to stand straight, sit nicely, be good?

  He slips off his seat to kneel in front of her, a strange kind of Romeo.

  —Gargi, please let me and Radha make noise, Gargi, please can you tell Radha to stop chasing me, Gargi.

  —Don’t play stupid, she says. Come, sit back again.

  —This was supposed to be a celebration for Sita, wasn’t it? he asks.

  She looks down at him. Her fingers reach towards his eyes. She makes two clawing motions at his temples and completes the circle by bringing her fists to the sides of her own face.

  —It is so great to have you back, she says.

  He wants to take her wrists again. He wants to pull her down to his mouth. She is Gargi. He does not move.

  She gets up; sweeps past him to the wall and presses one of the panels. It opens to display a DVD library. To Jivan it seems all the discs look the same.

  —The family treasure, she says. Our whole childhood is on these discs. Since Jor Bagh, and before this place was even built. I had everything digitised: all the official tapes from our birthdays, diwalis, Tuesdays, remember the time they closed Jantar Mantar so we could play hide and seek? And none of us could find Jeet, and Nanu nearly called the police?

  —Jesus, he says, sitting back in his seat. This is what you do in here? With popcorn? Watch it all back?

  She laughs at the look on Jivan’s face. She smiles and presses another panel. The minibar. She throws him a foil bag of toffee Butterkist.

  —My Ma’s favourite, he says.

  —We aim to please. So what do you want to see? How about you and Raddy, trying to bake your first cake? She runs her fingers across the DVDs. Or, the four of us when Sita was born? She pauses. I might even have one of your Ma, dancing at the Company Delhi hotel opening. You were in that cute pink cap you used to love, remember that cap? Playing harmonium, such a good boy. Or was that Jeet?

  She carries on, running her finger over the DVD spines.

  —What about after you left – let’s see. My wedding, Radha’s wedding, all the Company openings from Amritsar to Zebulon, every single one of Sita’s birthdays till she left for London. All of her crazy pickets and protests – trying to get Dad to go green in all the hotels, all her practice Cambridge talks, on and on about saving the world one leaf at a time. Less water, more recycling: as if the people who actually sweat blood in this Company don’t matter, as if my work for women means nothing, as if settling down, helping me – all that matters is her… world.

  She runs out of breath. Has to stop.

  Jivan thinks of Punj, telling him he wouldn’t miss anything as they drove around in a golf cart, meeting the staff. All the while something was actually happening in the house, probably at the lunch he could have been at. He was invited.

  —Sorry, Gargi says. She is holding a stack of DVDs; she bangs herself gently on the forehead with them. I sound hysterical. Sita’s gone, OK? Off with a boy. Not even engaged. We don’t know his caste, his family, none of us have even met him. Nanu has taken sick. Bapuji blames me. He is right to. I should never have fought for Sita to go study in UK. Now, God knows where she is.

  —Why? Is she in some kind of – ah – (he hesitates) – trouble?

  Gargi’s look almost skins him.

  —You mean is she going to be a mother? Of course not. Don’t be crude. How could she be? I would know. This isn’t some Bhagat-based TV movie, she says.

  —What?

  —Never mind. She slots the DVDs back onto the shelf.

  A sucking noise – the cinema door opens. Uppal slides into the room, he comes down the aisle.

  —Uppal, says Gargi. Report.

  —Radha Madam is taking the jet and eight friends to Goa for dawn swims and poolside nashta, Uppal says. I am still working on Miss Sita’s activities. Earlier this evening, she checked into Company Gurgaon. He hands Gargi a file.

  —Alone? she asks.

  —No Ma’am, says Uppal. He only looks at Gargi. He has a balding head on a short neck; his hands, Jivan notices, are thick, the knuckles knotted like old trees. He must be sixty at least.

  —As you thought, Uppal says. With the young man. The one with the movie camera.

  —Same room? Gargi says.

  Now Uppal looks at Jivan. Then he says,

  —Minor Rani Suite. Queen bed, lounge with sofa bed, one rainforest bathroom with Jacuzzi bath. Ordered couples Aurvedic room massage and in-room dining at 2145.

  —Thank you Uppal, that’s enough.

  —What about Kritik Sahib? Jivan says.

  —That chamcha, Uppal says.

  —Uppal! says Gargi. Enough. It’s late. Go sleep. Come Jivan.

  He has to follow. He brings the popcorn. Thinks about leaving a trail so he can find his way back here, one day.

  Jivan walks in Gargi’s shadow, Uppal behind him, twisting and turning through the house until he realises Uppal is no longer there. The noise from the party reaches them, the DJ playing Chammak Challo again. He tries to count the guards as they pass but loses track. Gargi marches ahead, tying her hair into a knot he wants to undo.

  Outside, the bar is covered in dirty glasses, the tables in smeared plates. The dancefloor is empty but for a few women, swaying around each other. The men are mostly playing chase, or standing in close groups. No one notices them. Gargi, looking at the scene, takes a step back into the house.

  —Now you come with me, Jivan says. I do have some things, so many things to tell you.

  He does not want to let her go.

  They walk loosely, shoulders touching, away from the crowd on the dancefloor, the bar. They end by the turquoise pool. She tilts her head so it comes to rest on his shoulder. Her chignon releases, her hair falls across him like the sari in his dream. The night garden sighs as the chords of Chammak Challo fade and are replaced by Kissing you, as if Iris has tipped off the DJ, and sent Baz Luhrmann to haunt him.

  —If it’s such a big deal, let’s just go get her, he says. I mean, is Gurgaon far from here?

  —No. It’s not just Sita, Gargi says into his shirt. Apparently, my dad, the revered Devraj Bapuji, quit his own Company today.

  —Say what now? Is that even possible?

  —Ya. At lunchtime. After he finished dessert. Which essentially might make me queen of all you can see.

  The top of her head. Her back. Her toes, red painted at the hem of her dress. The still waters of the pool, the strange plants around, all the stars above. He pulls on her hair, lifting her face up to his. She twitches at the gesture. She allows it.

  —Are you for real? he says.

  —I hope not, she says. I’m praying my dad might have been just, over-reacting, maybe. To Sita’s drama.

  —Jesus. I do not believe this day. This is going to be headline news, surely.

  —We can’t let it be – please don’t say anything, don’t tell anyone for now. I can’t get near my Dad tonight. Everything must be as normal until I do, she says. I’m going to make this thin
g stop. No matter how much I’ve dreamed of being Chairman of the Company one day, I have to make this stop. Now.

  —Chill out. If Devraj really quit, he wouldn’t have been up there on the stage tonight. With Bubu and Surendra and Ranjit. That would have been you. (He pauses.) I’d love to see you with a hundred guys sitting at your feet.

  Gargi does not laugh; he cannot see if she is smiling.

  —I could never do that to my Dad, she says. He was there because that’s what he does. It’s his thing. Even if he actually did mean this stupidity, no one can take that away from him, especially not me.

  —Why not? Jivan says. Because you’re too pretty?

  Gargi thumps him gently. The weight of her head. Her fist on his chest is delicious. He tries not to move.

  —Jivan, please don’t be smart. I can’t take your chien-chien American compliments. They wouldn’t because they have too much respect for my Dad.

  He says,

  —You just need the kurta pyjama, the shawl, you know, the short hair.

  Now he takes the whole mass of her hair, piles it up to his chin, making it his beard.

  —I don’t wear our Shahtoosh, it’s not allowed. Don’t you remember that game? Where you were the chiru and we were the hunters for skin? she says.

  —No, not really. He lets her hair drop. He moves so she has to sit up, away from him.

  —Anyway. She catches her balance, coming upright. I don’t wear it. It’s illegal and it’s cruel. It looks arrogant to flaunt the rules like that. I’ve tried to tell Dad, but when would he ever take advice from me?

  —Devraj is a legend. But you? He smiles at her. You’re a wonder woman. The first of your kind.

  —Hardly. I’m old. She sweeps her hair up, releases it. I’ve been married since you left India. And now you’re back. All fine and ready for life.

  —Stay here, he says. We need to drink.

  In the pool house he finds a stash of red wine and Indian champagne. Sula, the sun. Looks potable. In the back room are two used glasses and an empty bottle on the floor. He washes out the glasses and goes back to Gargi. With a high, pure chime, he proposes:

  —To the Rule of Gargi, the most beautiful, old-married-business-woman I’ve ever met.

  —The Rule of Gargi! she laughs. Then, in a low voice: Jivan, even if one day I do want to be Chair of the whole Company, he’d never allow it. Not even if he meant today. Oh, I don’t know. Let’s drink.

  They down the golden fizz, then another and more until the bottle is empty. As he swallows he feels his American life being scoured from him. He is a kid again, playing in the hosepipe fountain in Nizamuddin, then running around the wild wood and all over this land before the Farm was built. This is how they used to play, even Gargi with her studies and her duties, even he, the bastard son of Ranjit Singh. This is it! he thinks. This is how we used to be when we were young. He feels it gathering around them, every plant, each leaf standing up to wave and cheer. Finally: a hero’s welcome home. He persuades Gargi to drink with him, to her future and his, to India, to popcorn, to the night. While she giggles and gets loose, he says,

  —Drink! To the Gargi Company brickworks!

  She drinks.

  He says,

  —Drink! To the Gargi Company carworks!

  She drinks.

  She says,

  —Drink! To the Gargi Company eco-technologies, future laboratories, all-India concrete!

  He says,

  —Drink! To the Gargi Company factories which make every part of every cooker in this country!

  —How do you know all this? she says.

  —Drink!

  She drinks.

  He lifts the bottle and fills her glass one last time. Then promises to go get Sita back for her, as soon as the sun rises.

  —No, Gargi says. Let her come back on her own. She also needs to learn.

  These are the lessons he thinks that every woman after Gargi should note: be brave but also fragile, be available but do not call, come home early, speak the language of eyes against mouth. Sit always with your legs crossed and do not mind any messing around. He bets Bubu does it. Does Radha? Jivan raises his empty glass and salutes that, silently. Does Gargi? Watching her, head back on his lap, eyes closed, hair covering him, he salutes all of the other things, the ones he cannot voice. The hopeful yellow of her dress, her capable hands, the softness of her skin. Her spontaneous, wide open smile.

  Five days pass; he finds it hard to believe that this moment ever happened. First, he has to tell himself the story of the night’s events, then the day before, then the plane journey and all the way back to America. His Ma, her cold, limp hand, the hair that kept growing on her face. The resistant tenderness of flesh after breath has gone. The alkaline tang of hair removal cream. Then play it forwards again – to work out how he got to the Farm, who he met, what was said, what his next move should be.

  Jivan cannot reach Gargi. Every morning, before he’s even awake, she apparently travels from the Farm to the Company head office in downtown Delhi, and does not return for lunch. He has to ask Ranjit to intervene with Kashyap, Kritik’s second, an old guy, a less fit version of Kritik himself, even down to the pointed white teeth. Kashyap has taken charge of the bunker since Kritik Sahib left. Every morning he blesses the workers, with Punj standing smirking behind him. Every lunchtime he goes to say prayers. Now Kashyap shakes Ranjit’s hand, and promises to look after Jivan. Then shows him a chair at a desk and leaves him to Punj.

  They sit, sharing homemade aloo paranthe in the bunker, Jivan listening as Punj confides that Kritik Sahib has always told him that should he disappear for a while, Punj, not old Kashyap, should take interim charge. Until such time as is reversible. Kritik also left note with Punj, who passed it to Kashyap (who with some reluctance, Punj says, as if he didn’t want Gargi Madam to have it) passed it to Uppal. From there it will have been given to Gargi and passed around the family. Gone to my wife’s place. Do not disturb. No one actually knew the wife existed, or where her place might be.

  They dip the paranthe in homemade yoghurt; they lick their fingers while watching the Farm on the bunker screens. Devraj and a fraction of his Hundred ripping the marigolds from Sita’s engagement pavilion to drape them in strands around their necks. Radha and Bubu fighting over breakfast. Ranjit pacing back and forth on the Farm’s terrace: always on his phone.

  In exchange for Jivan teaching Punj Harvard Business 101, Punj promises to give Jivan the absolute first lowdown of any sightings of Sita across the Company. He also agrees to train Jivan in all aspects of Security and Intelligence. But only, he says, if Kashyapji will allow him the time.

  In the dry afternoons, Punj drives him to the graveyard of stone goddesses. They shoot blanks at the plaster repro statues. Arms and legs and heads roll, Jivan wonders where in heaven Sita is, when on earth he’s going to get an audience with Devraj, where the hell Jeet has disappeared to, run away, it seems, butt-naked: Ranjit found his clothes, his phone and his kara in a pile on the bathroom floor of the bungalow the night of the first Tuesday Party. The contents of the bathroom cabinet were scattered into the sink, a favourite pair of Ranjit’s chappals were gone.

  Life on the Farm absorbs Jivan, his plan to reclaim the Nizamuddin house gets tomorrowed and tomorrowed; he justifies this by telling himself it’s only a day away. Each night he goes with Ranjit to dinner. In the house with Gargi and Surendra, Bubu and Radha. Half the Company board around the table, talking over the day.

  Devraj does not appear. Jivan waits for the meal when he might re-introduce himself properly. He wants to be ready with something about the Company, America, what potential there might be, if Bapuji was interested in such plans. Everyday Gargi apologises – Bapuji is enjoying the Hundred, enjoying the gardens, he will not join them to eat. Nanu is resting, says Gargi. She has been since the day Jivan arrived.

  He feels Nanu’s presence around them: in the way Gargi and Radha start each meal, with a whispered Hari Om; by their serving
Ranjit, then their husbands, then themselves. Where is Sita? The morning after the party, Uppal reported that she had left the Company hotel in Gurgaon, and gone, Gargi tells them, who knows where with a boy.

  —You should have let us go get her that night, says Bubu. Gargi, this one is on you.

  —Noted, Gargi says. Thanks. And where is Jeet? We need him here.

  Jivan shrugs, looks at Ranjit.

  —On a buying trip, Ranjit says. In Bihar. I’ve told him to check in as soon as he can.

  So. Those who are missing in action are not recalled. Instead Gargi commands the others, business as usual: all of them agree.

  *

  Five more days pass. Around them the heat drains rasping cries from the peacocks; the marigolds wilt in the grounds and shrivel on Sita’s homecoming pavilion. One afternoon, Gargi comes home early. She calls Jivan to her private study. He stands, looking at the figurative art on the walls, huge canvases painted with one black spot, or a square of scorching red, while Gargi bundles bricks of fresh rupees into a bag for him.

  —Just until you can bank here, she says. Go, get out of the bunker.

  He rides with Bubu and Radha to the edges of the city to make obeisance to the gods: Bajaj, Tahiliani, Rohit Bal. And for the accessories, Gucci and Todds. He takes note that the cheap-ass mall is right next door to the high-street one, which leads, via a fountain courtyard, some armed security, bomb check gates and a steak house called Smoke House, to Emporio Mall where the players roll. This is the natural progression of man.

  —Hey, Radha jokes. Have you ever watched Pimp My Ride? I’m gonna pimp my Jivan!

  Radha, always in the right clothes for the weather, always with the hair and the nails and the shoes, and a skin bag the size and softness of a small piglet. She takes Jivan for a wet shave, a manicure, a pedicure, a head massage. With Gargi’s money, he buys himself a new watch, an 88 Rue du Rhone chronograph Double 8 Origin. From this montage he emerges, shopping bags held high, costumed and ready for the new life.

  Outside the mall, they sit in Radha’s armoured, bullet-proof 4×4, stuck in the traffic, punching the touchscreen to make the seatback player work so she can watch the end of Slumdog Millionaire again. She confides her first crush was Anil Kapoor in Mr India, a film Jivan has never seen, or if he has, does not remember, until Radha makes Bubu waggle his eyebrows and say Mogambo khush hua in a deep, cartoon villain voice. Jivan laughs, swallowing a sudden surfacing fear. He looks up to see a hillside covered in shacks: the fires burning, the dark-bodied silhouettes blending into the night. He does not mention this, even when a child’s mud-cast body taps a finger on his window and brings its blackened hand to its mouth. To even see it would be to confirm the tourist stamp in his American passport.