We that are young Read online

  There might still be scraggy dogs running on the verge, but everywhere there are signs of the future that has happened without him. Apple, Nokia; there is even a metro system like a giant web spun high above the city. The car is caught in it, driving under and alongside it; he is not surprised to see the Company logo, D.C., stamped on the concrete clawing the sky.

  He lets his head droop, his eyes focus on the back of Kritik Sahib’s neck.

  —So, beta ghar aa gaya! This is your son.

  Kritik Sahib turns and reaches his arm back. His nails are buffed to shine. His knuckles and age spots are like fine heritage wood, the kind you have to remember not to put your drink on when invited to the offices of Harvard dons.

  Kritik Sahib smiles, taps Jivan’s knee once, twice.

  —I’m sure he is a fine boy Ranjit. Just like his father.

  —Aré nahin, says Ranjit. Kritik Sahib, you’re too kind. But nine-ten years he’s been gone, a long time, no? His mother wanted him with her, so what could I do?

  It has been fifteen years. Jivan keeps quiet, staring out of the window. A young woman alone on a moped overtakes them, her skinny jeans tucked into snakeskin cowboy boots a pale shade of blue. Her hair streams out from under her helmet. Ma would have chi-chi’d at that. Wouldn’t she?

  —Kritik Sahib, do you remember this one’s Ma? Ranjit says. She was a beauty. A young man’s heartfelt mistake. But really, I was seduced. My first years with Devraj, I was just an uncouth boy from Amritsar. Such elegance they had, these old performance families. Who could resist? When we are young we are foolish in love. Aré, who can blame a man for falling under the spell of a veshya when she is packaged like a royal princess? And such a voice she had! A rare, beautiful bird. A Bulbul-e-Punjab.

  A pause.

  Kritik Sahib removes his hand from Jivan’s knee, draws his arm back, and wipes his palm thoughtfully on his own trouser leg.

  —Well, he says. His smile shows his teeth, still so white, as cared-for as his nails. No matter. You’ve got a fine son out of life, who cares which glass he was mixed in? A man is made by the honour he brings today to his father’s name, not by what-all activities his mother indulged in last night! Aré don’t give our Foreign Return the wrong idea. This is New India after all.

  —Rightly spoken, of course, says Ranjit.

  The two nod together: puppets, pulling each other’s strings. Then Ranjit says,

  —Jivan, did you greet Kritik Sahib properly? Do you remember him?

  He remembers, as a boy, being told to stay out of Kritik Sahib’s way. Devraj’s shadow. Don’t anger him. Always show respect. Even Ma was careful around Kritik Sahib. Get out of the car, flag down an auto. Take me back to Boston phata-phat, Jivan thinks. Then he remembers: he has no rupees.

  —Kind of, Papaji.

  Sorry Ma. Sorry, he thinks. I promised myself I would never call him ‘Papaji.’ Here I am and you are gone.

  Ranjit frowns.

  —Well, Kritik Sahib is a very important man. You should love him like a father only. He might just find a place for you in Security and Intelligence, if he considers you up to the mark.

  —Yes, why not, why not? Kritik Sahib’s voice is warm. A starter position, we will see how you do. After all, we have plenty of time to get to know each other. Are you interested? Of course. Ranjit’s son is absolutely welcome. Company Security-Intelligence always has room for boys with initiative. And you have that, no? For here you are.

  —Thank you Kritik Sahib. That would be great. But ah, don’t I need some kind of different visa? A permit?

  —So upstanding, Kritik Sahib says. Just what I like to see. Don’t worry, Jivan, all in good time.

  —My friend, says Ranjit. Don’t spoil him. He has to earn it. We should send him to the north, he must see the Company properly, get to know the lie of the land. Yeh Foreign Return kuch nahin janta hai.

  The two men laugh together, scripted.

  Jivan wakes with no sense of how much time has passed. The car is looping around a high, redbrick wall; beyond it he sees the tops of trees, and an ornate tower made of similar rust bricks. They slow for a tourist coach, offloading a cargo of swollen white ladies, Scholl sandals, floral skirts. He watches them turn through an arch, UNESCO world heritage site, says the board overhead.

  —Where are we? he wants to say.

  His mouth is so dry, his lips won’t move. He watches the road widen, shaded by more trees, aged by dust. The traffic thins, there are few houses – they are not in south Delhi at all.

  —Chalo, says Kritik, we have reached.

  They turn off the highway. Clip a tumble of shacks by the side of the road and plunge. Into a maze of high, white walls. No graffiti, no flybills: just white gleam, even through the car’s tinted windows. The road becomes a potholed track; the Bentley lumbers around as if in some great processional. Every so often a glimpse through a gate: tended grass. A sense of palaces, hidden beyond. Were there so many walls when I left? Jivan could only just see out of the windows then: he was short until he was fifteen, only grew after two years of drinking Dairy Pure. Now he knows where they are going: The Farm.

  Googling Devraj, the Company, the girls, he has never found a picture of it. He sits forward. They edge around a crater and arrive at a set of ornately carved wooden gates. Lions and tigers and bears. A dark skinned man in a white and gold uniform rests his gun, salutes the car through. Now he opens his window. Sepia gives way to a long shot of heart lifting technicolour: it is a bright blue day, fresh as if issued to ad-men for a shoot. Sunken palm trees like giant pineapples frame the pale brick drive, sorbet scoops of lemon and orange marigolds ring the place, a garland for a long-awaited groom. There is a frosting of giant daisies at each corner of the lawn. He faces into the air with his mouth slightly open to see if it will taste as sweet as it smells. A leafy vine curves up the nearest palm, its white flowers like tiny stars scattered all over the trunk. He breathes in.

  —Chameli. Jasmine to you, says Kritik Sahib. The Company signature scent. We sell it only in our most exclusive boutiques. Turnover is almost one hundred lakhs a year. Not bad for a perfume made from a climbing weed.

  This place was once a wild kingdom, where Radha and Jivan used to dig for treasure, play Hunters and Chirus or whatever game she wanted. Gargi and Jeet let them join in with exploring the land as the pigs were evicted, as the fields were dug up and drained so foundations could be laid. The builders put up bamboo scaffolding and crawled all over it: he remembers the construction of the long, curving façade, the erection of the colonnades. As they reach the top of the drive, the finished house reveals itself: a wide, elegant structure that sucks up all the light and breathes it back out over the lawns.

  He gets out of the car. After the stink of the plane, the dust of the airport, the relentless roads, he is washed by a gentle breeze. Lime green parrots swoosh above, he wants to point (but doesn’t) and say Look! A parrot! There is even a fat-bodied peacock pecking across the grass to check him out. As he watches, it cocks its head, measuring him up: Jivan beta! Haven’t you grown. How is your Ma? Why didn’t you bring her with you?

  —Don’t worry, you’ll get over it, Kritik Sahib says. Acclimatise toh karna hai. Set your watch. India time.

  —I’ve done it, he says. I’m ready.

  Kritik Sahib does not look surprised. He folds his hands under his chin, begins his first lesson: why we call this place the Farm. It is true that Jivan did not know the deeds for the land are only sold on the promise of cultivating at least eighty per cent crops from it. What do they produce here? Kritik Sahib invites him to take a guess, then says:

  —Base matter into gold. We print money for the rest of the country, I think those government-wale can let us off being sabzi-wale. The Farm. English language, Indian meaning – a bastard word, hey Jivan?

  Kritik Sahib laughs. So ends the first lesson.

  —Ah, don’t pull his leg too much, says Ranjit. Green is the colour of gullibility, not just dollar bills. But
say thank you to Kritik Sahib, for his time and insights.

  —Thank you, sir, Jivan says. He stretches. Shrugs them off. Kritik Sahib and Ranjit. Wants to run around to the back of the house to find the feral puppies he used to play tag with, their wild, trusting eyes, frantic tails and vivid, twisting bodies; they trembled and tried to bite when they were caught. And even when he was twelve-years-old, he felt a jumbled longing – love mixed with pain – and understood as he held them that this is what it might feel like one day, to have a child of his own. Why did Ranjit favour Jeet when he had Jivan? Thinking this, he would take his shoes and jacket off and roll around with the pups in the mud, and chase after Gargi and Jeet with dirty hands and face. He half expects them to be there: the little dogs and children, warned not to spoil their clothes, unable to obey.

  He lets go of the stretch. The ache of travelling settles back into his bones. There are no more wild dogs; instead, another dark skinned, white-liveried doorman salutes. Ranjit’s hand presses lightly on his back, the only touch he ever offers: to push his son forward or hold him back. Jivan feels his adulthood evaporating. How to fit in? He will offer the not-so-Duty-Free black label to Devraj.

  The atrium is so ugly that he almost snorts. Ornate tables in every corner, gold picture frames and carpets hang on the walls; the floor is circular, laid with checked tiles, an infinite game of squares that somehow curves: his dizziness returns, he stretches out an arm and steadies himself against a plinth topped by a vase of laughing pink lilies. They have no scent. He looks up. A chandelier hung with pearls and diamonds drops from a vicious hook above him. A man in a ragged shirt and cut off pants is splayed flat across the outside of the dome, Shit, is he dead? No, there’s a rag in his hand; he’s polishing the glass. It looks like he’s waving. Jivan almost lifts a hand in response. It is only just past noon. Dude must be getting fried out there. Jivan’s stomach groans.

  He clings to the outside world of sun on the lawn, the breeze, the jasmine. He feels again as if something is gathering around him, as if the house has been waiting for him – and so have Gargi and Radha – and Jeet, his big brother, all this time. They must be here somewhere. Hiding, seeking. It could be that Ranjit wanted to come to the airport, and asked Jeet to wait for him here. It could be they are all gathered around the table for a welcome-home lunch. He catches the rich nutty scent of daal and ghee undercut by spices, of meat being roasted in a real tandoor. Thank God. He shakes his father’s hand off his back.

  —Come Jivan. Want to see the homestead? Kritik Sahib claps him on the shoulder.

  —Yes. Go with Kritik Sahib, Jivan, says Ranjit. He flicks his wrist as if he is chasing flies away from his face.

  Jivan puts on his shades (Raybans, vintage). He leaves Ranjit to follow Kritik Sahib around banks of lilies, so white, so pointed, the classic offerings for grief. Focus. The positive. Think bright. Not bad, Jon: a job offer, a private tour and you only touched down three hours ago. They go through French doors to a garden that stretches the length of the house. The sun beats down. His suit has wilted onto him. Behind Kritik Sahib’s back he pulls off his tie, stuffs it in his pocket. He wants to shower, to change before he meets the girls – then his eye is caught by a courtyard to one side, workers are crawling all over a platform, putting up or taking down a childlike banner with the words ‘Welcome Home’ painted on it in red. Yes, he thinks. There it is!

  —It’s for Sita, says Kritik Sahib. You know, she just got back from studying economics at Cambridge University in UK. At Trinity College, the same as Pandit Nehruji, as our own Professor Amartya Sen.

  Right. Sita. Does anyone speak of him that way now that Ma is gone? Does anyone say, Jivan Singh, a Harvard graduate, a self-made man has come home? Where the fuck is Jeet?

  —Do you know who Professor Sen is, beta? says Kritik Sahib.

  —I went to Harvard, Kritik Sahib. Business School. I saw him give a lecture on welfare economics, right in the middle of the financial crisis. It brought the house down. Must have been about ten years after he won the Nobel Prize.

  —Nobel toh achcha hai, but his writing on India lacks a certain… what shall I say… love for our country, says Kritik. Criticism so fine, but at least acknowledge our contribution to progress, no?

  —Uh, sure. Even I thought that, at the time.

  No response. As they cross the gardens there is a gap in the neat hedge wall, a glimpse of glinting blue. The pool. He fights the urge to run, get naked, tip sideways, sink to the bottom then let the water lift him so he can play dead while it holds him safe, floating.

  They reach an enclosure where pink and red roses stare barefaced at the sun. Not one petal has fallen on the grass; again, the flowers have no scent. He sees workers in stiff white suits and red cotton turbans, clipping the hedges straight, even though each leaf is already standing to attention. More men squat on the paths: for a moment he thinks they are having a crap, Indian style.

  —The sight of these guys always arrests the foreign eye, says Kritik Sahib. All they are doing is picking out the weeds from between the stones. Some tasks one has to do by hand, no?

  —Where does this place end, Kritik Sahib?

  —If you need a tour, beta, I’ll find someone to take you later. Or Gargi will arrange it and you can ask all your questions, OK?

  —Is she here? I mean, do you think she’d do that?

  —Of course! Now I’ll give you lesson number two. This will be all you need. Our Indian women are a special breed in the world. Like beautiful phools they bloom best in beds, when they are well tended. They are strong willed but only when it comes to three things. One: household politics. I mean, who says what to whom and when. Two: household economics. I mean, husband making money, of which she will save some and always spend the rest wisely. Three: household sustenance. That is, food to feed the family, home-cooked preferable except on Sundays when she likes to go out for whatever outside khaana is currently in style. Right now it is Royal China dim sum and Peking duck, according to our wise Radha beta. In 2012, India is only hungry for Chinese. And, in exchange? She must be worshipped by the gifting of quality diamonds. Solitaires – a pair at least, no less. Finally: no matter what they say, and this is the most important thing of all, so listen carefully: just tell her what you want, she will never say ‘No.’ At least to your face. (Kritik Sahib grins.) We could all learn from this natural female survival strategy. Come. We are almost there.

  Jivan tries to picture Gargi wearing diamonds, eating dim sum, saying No, and meaning Yes, or the other way around. He cannot. To him, she is still twelve-years-old, all Bapuji Girl Scouts and turtlenecks and long pleated skirts or school uniform tartan salwar kameez. Her hair is always looped in two fat braids garlanded around her ears and tied with bows – or maybe he saw that in a movie. She would not choose meat, she does not eat it because she is sure animals feel pain. She didn’t want to drink water because she believed it was too precious to waste; she kept cacti in her room, a whole prickled planet of them – she said she thought she could learn from them. It gave them permission to laugh at her, back then.

  They cross a courtyard inlaid with circles of orange, white and green mosaic; at the centre is an enormous sundial set into the ground. Twelve fifteen, two twenty, five forty, nine thirty: their shadows chase each other, the time is impossible to read. He follows Kritik Sahib through an archway of vines covered in thorns and pursed pink flowers, and then they are in the next clearing. Here is a shock of wild grass, a miniature prairie frontier, riven with faint lines where people have walked before them. They wade to the far end where a tired looking bungalow with a cheap screen door sits sunken, waiting for them.

  —Follow me, says Kritik Sahib.

  Inside he must wait for his eyes to adjust. Then feels he is back in the airport, being frisked by security and left with the grimy sense that though nothing is missing, he has been robbed. Sita gets a banner, the works. He gets this. After the whole long journey, Ranjit’s appearance, the newness of the old places;
his throat closes, he cannot speak. He is standing in a near perfect reconstruction of his rooms in Nizamuddin. Is this where he is to stay?

  Nostalgia is a sickness, he caught it from his Ma. He used to wait in a room just like this, for Jeet to get back from school. Then he would cross the courtyard and they would play at being Ranjit, dressing up in his clothes, threatening each other with a bamboo cane they found and kept just for this purpose. In a room just like this, Ranjit would come visit Ma at least once a week. She would tie her heavy gold ghunguroo tight around her ankles and then she would sing and dance. Hiding in the bedroom he shared with her (unless Ranjit was there), he would keep time with his fist thumping into his palm.

  There is mustard-coloured paint peeling off the walls, a fan turning sardonically overhead. There is the old wood furniture with the woven wicker covering: tiny diamond peepholes stretched over the chair seats. There is the cupboard: fake walnut, cracking veneer. The faint lemon smell of machar repellent: someone has left a mosquito coil and an incense stick burning to ash on a tin plate alongside a tiny bronze model of the elephant God, Ganesh. The plate sits on a grey metal filing cabinet, covered in a faded block-printed sheet, the kind he used to sleep under until he left India. The small windows are covered with mesh, a broken AC unit is suspended on one wall. In a corner is the final touch: a lacquered hostess trolley with a few dusty, half-finished foreigners: Gordon’s Gin and Jack Daniels, an ice bucket and two heavy tumblers. Ma always had these drinks waiting for Ranjit.

  You could find a version of such a room in every common home across India, in any office, in any school. He once saw a perfect reconstruction in a New York gallery. Middle-aged brown men in white collars stood three deep, gazing at it. The mask of assimilation – bland eyes, neutral smile – had dropped from every face. Their mouths were open; their chins trembled. They clutched their sari-clad wives as shields against the mirage, and tried to pretend it did not affect them by whispering, Hain. This is art?