We that are young Read online

  Over family dinner he is silent while they all talk state of the nation: Gargi says the country is an heirloom silk carpet, moth eaten, fraying – intricately woven patches of beauty still just about visible. She uses words like hope, femmeability, common, market, she eats one roti then disappears into her rooms to work. He wants to follow, but is not asked.

  The others exchange looks. When they speak in Hindi, he finds he can catch more and more, linking the normal words like person, tender. He rises to leave the table, they look up – and smile – and the talk switches back to Radha, in English, her hands orchestrating the air, telling tales of Bollywood stars, and who-all she’s rocked with at Cannes.

  Two weeks are gone. Another Tuesday Party takes place. This one sees Devraj back on the stage, Bubu at the bar. It is a clockwork night, almost down to the same speech. Jivan listens to his father; he lurks at the fringes of the crowd, because Ranjit has told him he must wait just a little longer before Bapuji will meet him. Later, Jivan wanders through the chatter, hearing a few women ask Radha or Gargi after Sita, and the answer quickly come – she’s off on a final pre-Engagement trip. To have some fun, before she joins the Company.

  This time the party dissolves into Wednesday afternoon. Various of the hundred, who should be working at their futures, still taking up the Farm’s space, sunlight, air. Jivan comes across twenty of them playing a slow game of ‘dead’ in the pool. Holding each other down until mercy is begged. Maaf. Jivan wants to swim, alone. He decides to persuade them to leave. He does this by making it clear that Gargi has requested it, as lady of the house and her father’s eldest daughter, as Executive Director of the Company’s resources, human and otherwise. They do not argue, just get out of the water, drip away across the tiles to find Devraj, spending his days in ‘prayer’, somewhere in the grounds. All of this is watched, he knows, by Kashyap in the bunker, and by Uppal, who is, of course, reporting on him to Gargi.

  *

  At dinner that night, Gargi is late. They get started without her; but when she comes into the room with Uppal, they fall silent.

  —We are lucky to welcome Jivan, as if gifted to us by God, she says, her eyes, her voice full of delight. Ranjit Uncle, I know that before he took leave, Kritikji offered Jivan bhaiyya a place in Company security. With little guidance, he is already making such a difference. Well, I have a return gift for him.

  Uppal steps forward, he hands Gargi an envelope. She pulls out a hard document. Dark blue, embossed in gold.

  —Passport ki-Ma! whistles Bubu. Jivan, bro, you’re legit!

  —I think we should celebrate this by making you official, says Gargi. Vice President for Research and Intelligence North, liaising on the South, East and West with the existing guys there. For is not our way that the Devraj family protects its own from outsiders? Always, our trust has remained within. Kritik Sahib has chosen this moment to take recess. So.

  —Hear, hear! shout the others.

  —What about that guy, Kashyap? Surendra says. He was handpicked by Kritik Sahib, wasn’t he? Gargi – you cannot do this – Bapuji also trusts him.

  —How do you know? Gargi says. In any case, Kashyap can’t take Kritik Sahib’s place. He is sixty this year. He’ll get an excellent retirement package. Dear Surendra don’t get involved – or do you want to take my job as head of HR? Please do so – then I can get on with running the Company.

  A small silence. Surendra lifts his cloth napkin to his mouth. He belches softly into it then places it on the table.

  —Excuse me, he says. I have writing to attend to.

  Whisky is poured, and that night, with Radha and Bubu cheering him on, Jivan cuts his American IDs into confetti, he dances with his shadow around Bubu’s private bar. He lets himself drink until he cannot count his own five fingers in front of his face.

  *

  The following afternoon, Gargi herself comes in a cart to seek Jivan out at Ranjit’s bungalow. She waits for him on the porch. It takes longer than it should to get ready. Then he goes out to her.

  —Come.

  He follows. Silently, she put-puts back to the main house. He has learned enough about the architecture of this place to know where she is taking him. Back to the white curve, with five doors leading from it. Her private rooms and overstuffed study, her pristine personal training zone, her studio, where the girls are reworking the Kashmiri boxes, replacing each ‘Sita’ sticker with a standard Company seal.

  The cinema. This time, the popcorn is fresh made and waiting. Gargi sits in the front row.

  On the screen is the family dining room, table unset, place empty.

  —Home movie time, he says. What is this?

  The lights fade. An earlier Gargi appears on the screen – happy, purposeful. Next to him, his own Gargi’s eyes are closed. The control is loose in her hands.

  —You should know what really happened the day you came home, she says. The reason why everything around here is falling apart.

  Then begins the lunch Jivan missed on that day. The parts he has already seen repeat: Gargi, robotically ordering servants to lay the table, the food mechanically set and served, rice, daal, meat, no meat, chapati. Gargi, filling Devraj’s plate and then Surendra’s, Radha serving Bubu. Ranjit and Kritik and Sita, serving themselves. Sita. The back of her head seems so small, her neck exposed. Her plate, empty except for vegetables and half a roti. Arm up, arm down, drink water.

  He remembers that day as one of thirst. Tracking Sita across all the parts of the Farm. His eyes fix on the screen. The camera has captured it all. How young they all look. It is a scene from another life, many years ago. Ten days have passed since then, not more.

  Then Gargi says,

  —This is what happened. All of us were there.

  —There’s no sound, he says.

  —Allow me, she says. She stands. This is me, telling my father for the hundredth time how much I love him, she says. —O Daddy, I love you so much, more than all the light in the sky, the water in the ocean, the cars on the road. O Daddy without you life would be nothing, she mimics herself.

  She times it right: on the big screen her image looms upright at the table making some kind of speech, and finishes just as Gargi, standing next to him, falls silent.

  He looks at her, amazed. She is tense, as if tears are gathering in the base of her body; rising through her, threatening to spill. She holds up her hand to mask her face.

  Screen Gargi sits down, holding a large white envelope. Next, Radha stands up.

  —Watch this, Gargi says.

  Jivan stares at Radha, smallscreen goddess promoted to the bigtime. Her body is tighter than Gargi’s, more curved than Sita’s. She is so fucking polished, beautiful in a girls-magazine kind of way, just asking for the page to be ripped out and pinned. But there it flashes: the old insecurity, her eyebrows go up and her eyes become squits, breath held like a jumper on a ledge. Jivan remembers her like this, when he was dressed as a girl, hiding behind the door with her at Devraj’s old house during Company soirées. She, pressed against him; her dress scratchy – it tickled his arms. They watched as first his own mother, then Gargi performed for the guests. Fingers stiff, elbows out, head moving, neck still: Dha went the beat, dha-din-dha. Little Gargi was graceful, her eyes speaking, her movements witty, controlled. Jeet was there with a Masterji, showing off his tabla skills. Jivan’s own role was to keep out of the way, and keep Radha from being sick before she had to perform. She can’t dance, she can’t sing; she can only copy. No one likes a piti-parrotter; so Nanu said. The grownups clapped Radha anyway; she was all cute cheeks and smiles.

  Gargi turns up the volume, sits back down next to him. He wants to take her hand (but doesn’t).

  On screen, Radha is ready, Bubu is smiling, leaning back in his chair with one hand behind his head and the other probably resting on Radha’s ass.

  Radha says,

  —Really, Daddy! Husband? She gestures at Bubu. Do you actually think I care about this one? He pouts, hands up! and
laughs.

  —Bapuji, you know husbands are nothing when Daddies are around. Radha says.

  For that she gets a clap, and when she sits down, an envelope that she gives to Bubu, with a kiss.

  —Now watch, Gargi says, her voice almost breaking.

  —Chalo, Sita you’re last but not least, says Devraj.

  In the cinema, on the screen, they all look at Sita. Gargi is fiddling with the corner of her envelope; Surendra is scraping his dessert bowl. Bubu and Radha are waiting.

  —Come on, Jivan whispers to the screen. Makhan lagao. The childhood phrase tastes good in his mouth.

  Gargi looks at him, then back to herself at the table. Smiles. Shrugs.

  —Too late, she says. Look.

  Sita does not stand. She stretches her arms above her head, signet ring glinting on her finger; her body arcs forwards at her father. Then she straightens.

  —Papaji mujhe kuch nahin bolna hain, she says. She holds up her empty hands: there is nothing but air in between.

  Father (respectfully) I don’t want to say anything. The words form in his brain like a poem learned in fifth standard, translation/recitation/explanation class. From nowhere, Jivan thinks, ‘Transplaination’ class – take that, Barun J. Bharat.

  Kritik told him that day: Indian girls never say No. And Punj said the family played this game once a month. It was hard for Jivan to see how this time was different, but each face around the table was changing at Sita’s words. Laughter giving way to wariness, Gargi, sitting up straighter, Surendra, slowly putting down his bowl and spoon. Radha looking from Bubu to Gargi to Ranjit, her hands flat on the table, fingers spread out stiff over her envelope.

  —Come on, don’t be shy! Be strong, stand up. Be a soldier, says Devraj.

  —Papa, says Sita. I love doing whatever you ask and need. But I’m an economist. And an environmentalist.

  No one laughs.

  —And then there’s ‘Future Husband’. Sita makes the quotation marks around her own head. I have to supply his demand also. Follow the example set, she says.

  —She has always been like this, says Gargi. Afraid of the people who love her the most. Not caring that pain inflicted on others also hurts the self.

  Screen Gargi is staring at Sita, the fingers of her left hand crossed against her mouth: her old sign for ‘shut up.’ Radha’s eyes are fixed low, Bubu staring straight at Sita.

  —You don’t say ‘no’ to me, says Devraj. Madam, kuch toh sewa karo. Are you sure you have nothing to say? Your wedding gift is in my hands.

  —Daddy, Sita says. You should know better. How can you even call it ‘dowry’? It’s illegal, it’s outdated. Don’t you know me at all?

  Damn if Punj wasn’t telling the truth. Satyamev Jayate. Sitting in the cinema, unable to look away from the screen, Jivan waits for Devraj to break the standoff. To laugh and give in. But on screen Surendra’s shoulders are shaking, as if his knee is going fast under the table. Radha is perfectly still. Bubu’s grimace says, who do you think you are? And look at Gargi on the screen, and at his Gargi, living, breathing, here. Four eyes wide, two faces rigid, smiling without showing teeth.

  Devraj says,

  —Fine, beta, fine. What’s in a name? Call it inheritance if it makes you feel better. Or nothing at all. Chalo, all good. You go, do as you like. If you don’t need what I have worked for all of these years, let us see who wants you.

  His voice is light, so light. His arm rises and his hand floats as if scattering her ashes over them.

  —If you don’t want my Company, you won’t get it. So what?

  He rests his fists on the table, wrecking balls ready to swing. He leans forward, his body stiff.

  —Where did you learn such talk? he says. From your sisters? From Gargi Madam?

  In the cinema next to him, Gargi’s body seems to shiver. The first tears fall.

  —What are you? Devraj asks Sita. His voice drops to the register of shocked news announcers, struggling to report: Lives have been lost in this terrorist attack. The country is at war. It pins Jivan to his seat. He keeps absolutely still. This is the God of his bastard childhood, invoking all the sacred books that none of them – not even Jeet – could ever memorise properly.

  —Rg Veda, verse ten, one hundred and twenty-one. Can any of you tell me? No?

  Devraj waits but no one speaks.

  —Look it up, Sita and learn this by heart: ‘He who by the awesome sky and the earth were made firm, by whom the dome of the sky was propped up, and the sun, who measured out the middle realm of space, this world which we live in, who is the God we should worship with sacrifice,’ I swear to you now, you will not get a jot more from me.

  As if she’s been thumped in the belly, Sita sits down.

  Jivan feels the breath leave him, as if he, not she has lost. He thinks back over the night of that party. The last time he sat here. This all happened the day he came home. The wool suit, he thinks. My city shirt. Where did they even go?

  On the screen, Kritik Sahib bends and murmurs something into Devraj’s ear.

  Devraj’s head snaps up. He says,

  —Don’t you roll your dice for her. You are a deer provoking a tiger! You also should know better than to talk like this. Aré Kritik, harami, after all these years, learn something from this one, and just keep quiet.

  Harami. Jivan can transplain this word himself. Bastard.

  —As you wish, Devraj, Kritik Sahib says. There is rage in the set of his shoulders, shock in his tone. A silence stretches out – no one defends him, not even Sita.

  —Out! shouts Bapuji.

  Kritik Sahib walks off the screen.

  —Jesus, Jivan says. His own voice sounds tiny in the realtime dark. That was when Kritik came back to the bunker. In that heat. I was there, so jetlagged, drinking his whisky.

  —Ssh, says Gargi. Watch.

  —Hai Bhagwan, meri Ma! Devraj mutters, clutching and pressing his left arm with his right, rocking back and forth like old Nanu at her prayers.

  —Hai Ram!

  Devraj stands up; he pushes back his chair. He points at Sita.

  —Fine. Sita has decided she wants nothing. Let her future mother-in-law take her just like that, he says.

  In three steps, he leaves the room. Ranjit following, Surendra following, Bubu pushed after by Radha.

  The women are alone. Sita has her knees pulled into her chest, feet on the edge of her chair. The others do not comfort her.

  —You should have just humoured him, says Radha.

  —She’s right, says Gargi, taking Radha’s hand.

  She reaches for Sita, who starts to uncurl herself. Stops.

  —No.

  —He is giving you this enormous gift, the best part of everything we have all worked for, Gargi says. It’s your heritage. Your future. Don’t make me sound like some kind of school ma’am. Come on Sita, it’s the Company. Even if he hadn’t asked you to speak, he would be giving it to you.

  —I don’t want it. I never would, Sita says.

  She is shaking her head at Gargi. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She points at her sisters. Her tears have rinsed her English accent from her mouth: when she speaks she sounds as if she has never left home.

  —Why is he even still asking us this question? Why are you still humouring him? I can’t act to please, I never could.

  She steps towards her sisters. All wait for the other to speak.

  In the cinema, Gargi wipes her eyes.

  —I tried to reason with her, she says to Jivan. Why doesn’t she understand? It’s a game, sure. But one day she is going to be married. She has to learn to look after her husband, his family. It’s not easy. Husband, in-laws, running a house and doing a job. Daddy. She has no idea what this all entails. I said, Please, go to him and tell him sorry. Tell him what he wants to hear.

  —What did she say?

  —She said, No.

  —Sita, Gargi says. Please, listen to me.

  —Promise you won’t trac
k me, Gargi di, OK?

  Next to Jivan, Gargi presses PAUSE.

  What is worse? Jivan wonders. To lose a mother, or to lose a child? Ask the loser, you will get the same response. Then he remembers that Gargi has neither mother nor child, anymore. Was never even really a mother, just the understudy, shoved into the lead.

  —You know, Jivan, Gargi says. Her voice is low and steady. You know what is at the core of this?

  —What?

  —The Company Kashmir. The new hotel.

  —Sure, he says. Will it have a Mukti Spa? That will make you say Ahh.

  Gargi looks confused. Then her face becomes sad.

  —Sita doesn’t think it’s right for us to be expanding there. It’s a place so fragile. Not ours to brand. In my heart, I have to tell you—

  —What?

  —I know she is right.

  Uppal coughs quietly, a few rows behind.

  —Gargi Madam is there anything more you need? Can I get you some chai or some hot chocomilk? he says.

  He comes down the aisle. From his pocket he gives Gargi a white handkerchief folded into a triangle.

  —No, thank you Uppalji, that’s kind. She wipes her eyes. Shakes out the handkerchief, blows her nose into it, gives it back to Uppal.

  —I didn’t even finish her trousseau planning, she says. I let my little sister leave without putting sugar in her mouth.

  Now, with Uppal watching, Jivan reaches for Gargi. Her tears spill onto his hands.