We that are young Page 14

  —Yes says, Nina. I’ve brought a printout.

  She pulls a paper from the back of her notebook, and reads,

  —Beginning with nothing but the palace in Napurthala and the state townhouse in Delhi, the shawls business, then the first hotels, la la la, and into concrete production, to build the India of tomorrow, great strapline, I love those 1960s ads.

  —Yes, says Gargi. The Company mix was poured into every grain-store and damn of the third five-year plan. All across the country. And in the years of the license Raj, when Bapuji’s hands were tied like everyone else’s; he couldn’t employ more than three hundred workers without the government getting involved. Luckily, we have always kept cordial relations with those in power. By our very honest ethos we ensure this.

  Nina pauses, keeps writing, not asking, no, Do not ask, Nina – Gargi thinks – what-all Bapuji did in those years, Gargi thinks, for he always stayed on top.

  —When you were growing up – how fantastic life must have been! Nina says. (She looks like she wants to kiss the desk.) Eldest daughter of one of the most important, respected and successful men in the country…

  In the early 90s, Delhi was dry: there were no English wine shops in the markets, no drive up car-o-bar. The Devraj family had alcohol: an extra special case of wine or spirits gifted to the family by a supplier to the Company five-stars. Crates would arrive and bypass the customs, from NRI mothers in Dubai or Sharjah, trying to charm Nanu into allowing them to look at Gargi or Radha for future reference. Whenever someone wanted something, there was always down payment. All the real business was done in the evenings: over whisky and ice cubes made with filtered water, melting in the glasses. Sometimes, Gargi had served. Sometimes, especially in the year after Jivan and his Ma went away, she had sung some classic song, accompanied by – yes of course, it was Jeet, on harmonium.

  Now Nina leans in.

  —What do you see for India’s future, our next decade?

  —A good question, Gargi says. Of course we welcome the international competition from foreign companies, India needs investment, we need training and jobs for all our graduates at every level, so they don’t go simply go into call-centre work, or exit for the US. And our customers are loyal. But we also need to pay attention to our resources, and I don’t only mean human. Water, minerals, solar, I cannot emphasise this enough.

  —But in terms of competition from multinationals?

  The answer to this one has been drummed into her. By Nanu, Bapuji, Radha and Bubu. She takes a deep breath and smiles.

  —At heart the Company is a traditional family business. This is why we have always remained within the nation’s borders. Though we do invest outside, our vision is focused here, on the Indian people. And perhaps we do have a secret weapon.

  —What is it? Nina says.

  —Jugaad, says Gargi. This is the Indian way. My grandmother is an example; I take my notes from her. She could make anything out of nothing. This comes from our indigenous, pre-‘India’ nature, before the British, or any of that. This is why we call it? she emphasises the question, the answer, trying to believe in it. Jugaad.

  Nina nods so hard, her bun lurches sideways. Then she frowns,

  —Yet even today not so many women are business leaders.

  —No, that is not correct. There are many, many strong women in this country. Do your research, you will see. My grandmother is a case in point. We just know it is best to maintain a low profile for that is how we can operate effectively. As Bapuji always reminds me, don’t think too highly of yourself, let others do that for you.

  So Gargi was told, at the end of each Friday, when her legs ached and even if she had not drunk water at all before the meeting, she still needed to do susu. Before she was allowed to leave, Bapuji would shake her hand. Then watch her back out of the office. Goodbye, Gargi, he would say. Watch the share price. Report back sharp next Friday. Oh wow, she felt she was the apple of his eye when he said that. The apple! Then she raced her shadow back down to the lobby where the Lottie was waiting, keeping the ladies bathroom door open. The Lottie stayed outside so no one else could come in; she hummed so that no one could hear the boss’s daughter sitting on the pot.

  —And how did you meet Surendra Sahib? Such a sweet man. So gentle. I’ve met him before, at the Polo ground, Nina says.

  Nina, she wants to beg, ask me something that matters, ask me where my little sister is and doing what-all with who. Ask me how it feels to be looked at properly, by a man who is not my husband. Ask me, even, what it is like to be sitting on this side of the desk. Or even about the Company Kashmir hotel. I dare you.

  —You’ve met Surendra? Gargi says. I am so glad. Yes we sponsor part of that Cup. Surendra and I were introduced here in my father’s office only. We liked each other, it was agreed, we got engaged, we got married. Just like millions of couples across the country. Our story is just like theirs.

  Except of course that day, just after she had her eighteenth birthday – there was still a sense of excitement in her, as if her present was still to come. Nanu, not the Lottie, came in her Rolls Royce to collect Gargi from school. She even came up to the office with Gargi, then, at the door, she said she would wait outside. Gargi went in. Bapuji and Surendra were sitting – one behind the desk, one in the armchair, behind where Nina is now. Gargi stood in the middle. She did not know which one to look at. Surendra seemed to blend into the leather: she kept her gaze on Bapuji.

  Gargi what have you been doing today? Tell us, Bapuji had said.

  Morning: I got up, got Radha up, made sure Sita had her bath and they both were ready for school. Made them come to breakfast and eat, they had a boiled egg each and soldiers. Swamiji read the Bhagavad Gita to us. I looked through the business pages. Then I made sure that both girls had done their homework and got their snack, and Lottie no. 4 had tied their hair properly. Ordered the cars to come, made sure Nanu took her breakfast and also swallowed all pills. I gave the lunch order to Topuji, we also arranged dinner; bachchon ke bhoot, milky sweet, Sita’s favourite. Sita went with Nanu. Radha and me and the Lottie went together in my car. I sat in class, gave a presentation on multi-national accounting practices in three selected Forbes 500 companies. I got full marks, then had games: because it is a Friday, it is hockey. This evening, I will teach Radha and Sita to tie French plaits and practice their grammar, eat dinner, do computing, recite prayers, go to bed.

  Then Bapuji had asked a question he had never asked before. And, Gargi, what do you want to do with your future?

  His words had risen around Gargi in whole, shining cities that stretched from the Kashmiri carpet to the mural of Bhishma, painted flat and fat and furious on the ceiling. Gargi’s eyes went up to him, fallen hero of the Mahabharata – still he lies on his bed of arrows, dying on the field at Kurukshetra, his tongue lolling sideways from his mouth as if he wants to lick her, endlessly. She had spotted and named the five Pandava Princes, their consorts and all their children (even the ones who should have been dead, in the battle, days before) gathered round, before she had answered, Bapuji, I have topped my batch in Commerce and I want to come and work with you. In Mergers and Acquisitions.

  He laughed. Good idea. You can come and work for me. For a moment, Gargi’s heart stopped beating in her chest. Then came the bargain. After you get married. Then, you can take your place here as one of the deputy managers in Human Resources.

  Gargi: hot from her knees all the way to her face-cheeks, as if someone had stripped her naked and painted her red. Nanu, in her head, telling her to say ‘Thank you’ to her father.

  Gargi had whispered it: Thank you Bapuji. Then watched as Daddy had leaned towards Surendra, said, You know Gargi is in charge of my house. Of course mistakes get made, but she does a good job.

  Then he had turned to her. Gargi, today I am giving you a great gift. He had waved at Surendra. Gargi, this is Surendra Sahib. Say ‘hello’, nicely.

  Hello.

  The first time Gargi had ever sat down in t
his building was the day she was given her own desk, in her own office, on the tenth floor. She became Mrs Gargi Devraj Grover, Executive Director of the Devraj Company, with overall responsibility for Human Resources. That was her final title – until two weeks ago.

  What should she call herself today?

  From the ceiling, Bhishma still glowers. Tongue still reaching, trying to swallow her.

  —What do you think is your contribution to the Company so far? I mean, in terms of your ideas and so on? Nina asks.

  —Believe it or not, Gargi says, I introduced cappuccino coffee to the Company coffee shops. I had it in the Hyatt coffee shop in the mid-1990s. I insisted we serve it in ours. Guess what? Now, it is our bestselling beverage. We have added Valrhona chocolate dust, of course.

  —Seriously? I love that cappuccino. The best in the city. I stop for one every morning on my way to work.

  Nina’s life. Maybe she keeps her room at her parents’, in the respectable parts of Punjabi Bagh, but has her own exit and key. Perhaps she rents in a shared house, with her brother and cousins in Noida. Or with her college friends, or even alone. Shopping at Zara, stopping once a month for Italian food at La Vie. Does she also risk driving herself at night? Does she drink domestic gin or green tea cocktails in rooftopbars, with new money as her friends? Does she drive herself home late, paying no heed to the men who wait to give chase?

  —It’s my indulgence, Nina says. It’s worth it.

  —Thank you, Gargi says. Plus tax, every 170 rupee cup adds up to an extremely lucrative product. It is the small things that yield the most.

  Gargi’s first cappuccino was bought by Surendra on their first date – the first time she, at eighteen-years-old, had ever been alone with a man who was not Jeet, Ranjit Uncle, Kritik Sahib, or Bapuji. It was an early spring afternoon. They went to the Hyatt Regency hotel coffee shop – Surendra did not want to go to the Company Delhi hotel; had said it would spoil the date if too many staff recognised her. He ordered Gargi a vanilla chocolate ice-cream sundae, fudge sauce dripping off. Then ate it himself, twisting the spoon in the soft ice cream; licking while Gargi watched him. Surendra had a thin face with neat eyebrows. They almost looked professionally threaded. She stared at them, then at his thin lips. Nanu’s voice raged in her head: Make your bed neat and tidy, fold the corners, plump the pillows, be always fresh, make it welcoming, soft when needed, hard will come, be happy and fruitful and obey your husband, and that way you will get whatever you deserve.

  The waiter came over, straining in whites that seemed to wear him. Are you satisfied, sir? he had asked, looking at Gargi. She picked up her menu and ordered Cappuccino because she did not recognise the word. It took time, but when it came, she still sipped it, savouring it, the Cappuccino. Trying not to give herself a milk-mouchie while Surendra talked and talked. He told her he was 28-years-old (a lie, he was thirty-three, the age – Gargi realises, sitting with Nina in the very spot where she first met her husband – that she, Gargi is now). He told her that he loved his roti to come with ghee, he loved having his feet pressed before bed, and every six months he loved to do a cleanse of his gunas using a nose flute that was passed down to him by his be-loved grandfather. He did not ask, Gargi, what do you love? Lucky (or unlucky) since she would have answered, the beautiful horizon of the production possibility frontier. The maximum possible output combinations of two goods or services an economy can achieve, when all resources are fully and efficiently employed. If she had said that, he might have changed his mind.

  A month later, Gargi was dressed in a cutwork pink lehenga bordered with gold thread. The choli was tied tight behind her neck. The fabric left a circle of her back exposed. For the first time in her life her shoulders went naked in public. So smooth. The dupatta was almost three metres of stiff tissue silk, almost see-through, not quite. She stood in her sandals, trying not to move while the dresser wrapped her in it.

  She had been persuaded by Nanu that this colour, this style was the in-thing. But standing in front of her mirror before her sagai began, she saw that her outfit did not say elegant, eighteen, about to be engaged. The dupatta made her look like boodhi amma ke baal she thought; Nanu agreed. Candyfloss. On a stick. Cho chweet. She walked down to the party – which Radha nearly spoiled with a sulk because she also wanted to get a pink lehenga, and go outside to eat with boys – and heard one uncle look straight through to her blouse and say, Aré wah! Target on her back, missiles on her front.

  She pulled herself up straight as she passed through the crowds, and realised Bapuji had cheated her. That she should have negotiated. She is Gargi Devraj Kumari, daughter of a family dharma that turns back to the beginning. Surendra Grover was banking. His paternal uncle Lal Sahib had held a powerful place within Indira Aunty’s government. With Lal Sahib’s help, the Company changed its name and went to ground for a year or two, avoiding the taxation and curtailments of the Emergency years. As the worst of times ended, the Company re-emerged. Its holding group was now called The Devraj Company, its Consumer Goods subsidiary listed on the stock market for the benefit of millions with a new line of dried food products – Pot Daal and Pot Chawal – just like Mummyjis that could be rehydrated with boiled water – just add instant love. Gargi, sitting on a golden chair on a flower-filled stage, bored, had listed in her head the three main subsidiaries and forty-five companies they owned or co-owned then – their partners, their turnover, their share value, their debt – then their managers, their wives, their children, their pets. She watched the line of people queue up to offer respects to her father, then to Uncle Pal, then Surendra’s father, then Surendra himself.

  As Gargi swallowed the pieces of ladoo – pressed into her mouth, hand after hand – she wondered if she was the investment, the interest, or the bonus reward. Her dahej was three cars, a small raise in her end of year package, a tea-chest of saris to wear and linens for her bed, a promise of her (married) name on the deeds to the Napurthala Palace (which even then, needed lakhs of renovation) and a furnished wing at the Farm for her and Surendra to live in. She was very lucky. She was grateful. She was. No more than a deposit against future dividends.

  —Can you tell me a bit about your wedding? Nina asks.

  —Really? Gargi says. It’s so long ago now. 1998.

  —I was five, Nina says.

  —It was the early years of economic liberalisation. We were going through some painful restructuring then. You can’t appreciate this, but my wedding was a landmark event. Such food we had! Everything from French crepes to hakka noodles, never-seen-before dishes here. It was the first 80-crore wedding in India, according to Business Day. At the Nilchamand Hills Company hotel, our beautiful hundred-acre heritage estate. We stayed there for the honeymoon also; it used to be the shooting lodge of the Maharaja of Golkattapur.

  She watches Nina write shooting lodge and draw a box around the words. Hearts appear, on stalks.

  —It has its own jheel, Gargi says.

  After thousands of hours and faces and sweetmeats and lakhs of gold and jewellery and songs, Gargi and Surendra, newlywed, had retired to the Maharani of Golkattapur bridal suite. Rose petals lying all over the bed, the floor. Waiting to be crushed by the weight of their bodies, or under their feet. Then to remain untouched – as Gargi spent her suhag raat weeping in the bathroom, a Company hand towel stuffed in her mouth so that he would not hear. Thinking of how Surendra’s head jerked back when she tried to kiss by inserting her tongue. His mouth tasted like broiled liver with no masala. She did not gag. She had undressed herself. Stood in front of him naked – something she had never done in all her years of life, not for any person including a Lottie – and felt that just having Surendra look at her made the lips between her legs become engorged, her body turn to pure, hot ras, enough to burst all over the room. Despite all of that, Surendra did something that set the tone for the rest of her marriage. He let her stand. Naked. While he turned his back and took his time selecting, for the background music, Raag Chaundrakauns: slow tab
la and mournful sitar like a river tumbling over rocks. Gargi had stared at him, ras crystallising to goosebumps all over her skin. Surendra had lain back on the bed. He told her to dance for him. To music one should only listen to alone – music that makes one weep and then find solace in its movements. This was not music to perform to. On such a night.

  She can still hear the drone of the strings, replacing her heat with duty. She can still see Surendra, leaning back on the bolsters, the stiff silk of his wedding pyjama flat against his crotch. This was not what Gargi, at eighteen, had been told to expect. Even Nanu had whispered to her that it would be pleasurable for her, and might take her breath with its power. But though his mouth was smiling, her new husband’s eyes were closed.

  She keeps her voice steady, her mouth firm. Her gaze on Nina direct.

  —Fifteen years ago, I got married, I took my first step on the Company ladder, and now, here I am.

  —Do you know how many people you employ? asks Nina.

  —You want numbers? No, it’s not nice to talk about people in those terms. I prefer to think of us as one big happy family. The whole Company has this ethos top to bottom. I have a thousand children to look after.

  She smiles. And counts down in her head to the next question, wondering how Nina will pitch it. Five, four, three, two…

  —And yet no babies of your own, Nina says.

  The statement gambit! So predictable, so easy to respond.

  —Oh my God, I knew I had forgotten something! Stupid Gargi.

  She laughs, leans forwards; looks through her papers and under the desk.

  Nina laughs with her. She waves the Company pen in a circle, like a magic wand.

  —What would you like to achieve next? she says.

  Abracadabra. Bring Sita home.

  —And where, ah – is Bapuji, exactly?