We that are young Page 4
Kritik Sahib is watching him. He holds out a pink striped cake-box with curled red writing, The Company Delhi Deli And Bakery.
—Croissants, he says. They do them very well in the deli. Want one?
—What is this place, Uncleji? Jivan almost chokes on the word but can’t help himself: it’s this room, the jetlag, the fucking croissants. This would have been the moment to take off his wilted jacket, his damp shirt: sit down and tell Ma all about his strange day.
Kritik Sahib smirks, dumps the cake-box and crosses to the trolley to pour three fingers of whisky into each glass. He takes a sip from one and holds the other out.
—Midday cooler?
The sweat trickles down his neck, his stomach is about to eat itself. He thinks whisky might kill him. Kritik’s eyes are on him. He walks forward, takes the glass.
—This is my office. What do you think?
He looks around again. There is even a picture of Sai Baba on the wall, eyes painted wise, lurid orange robes, red dot on his wrinkled forehead.
—There’s no desk, he manages.
—What else? Kritik Sahib smiles.
—There’s no phone, no fax, no computer even. It doesn’t look very secure.
Kritik Sahib laughs.
—Quite right beta, I knew you were clever. Don’t worry. We are never as backward as it appears. Come.
There is an old door behind him. He holds it open.
—After you. He gestures down the staircase.
Jivan can feel Kritik Sahib’s breath on his hair, his belly almost in his back as they go down the stairs; he tries not to turn and scrabble his way up to the sunlight. They get to another door: this one thicker, metal. Kritik Sahib enters a code.
The room opens up, much bigger than the box upstairs. Cool air, strip lighting. The plastic scent of everyday offices. Apple logos shine at him like so many forbidden fruits, scattered across eight or so islands of desks. There is a sign hanging over each one with the name of an Indian city on it. Hyderabad, Jivan reads. Mangalore. Around the walls are framed maps of Company holdings, pictures of Company hotels, photos of storefronts selling Company silks and woollen shawls. Half a dozen young men sit tapping at the screens, faces backlit, flickering. Their shirts are too big on their shoulders, the sleeves balloon on their arms. They all have pens in their top pockets like Indian extras in sci-fi movies. Central casting Hollywood, Bond in India, Act 1, scene 1, he thinks and wants to laugh.
—Kuch funny hain kya? says Kritik Sahib. Upstairs is for relaxing only. But if you are interested in working for me, this is where it happens. Come. Observe.
They sit at the central island of desks, in front of a bank of monitors. The sign above them says Devraj Farm. Kritik Sahib presses a switch and six screens come to life. Screen 1: a foreshortened view of a soft looking woman in a dark green sari. She paces between long tables, where about thirty girls in navy blue Company salwar kameez slide cake boxes into plastic sleeves, stick round, gold stickers, tie red ribbons. She gives instructions to an older man: sharp faced and concentrating on a clipboard as he ticks down a list. As she leans close to him, they laugh together.
—Gargi. Kritik Sahib says. Remember Gargi? Such a good student before she got married. Such a shame she’s getting so plump these days.
Jivan’s hand reaches for the screen. Gargi. Who he used to follow around and spy on until she got annoyed. Who he laughed at but always obeyed. Gargi. Life radiates from her like the light from the house over the gardens. He feels it right through the screen. He will not cry. Her hand is on the older man’s arm. Her hair is loose and long; she doesn’t play with it like some girls might. It is just there, hanging in ripples to her waist. No, he will not cry. What it would be like to press his face into her sari silk, breathe in Chanel No. 5? Feel her hands smooth his hair and her fingers pinch his cheeks as she used to, getting him ready to be seen by his father – or was it Ma who did those things? Concentrate, he thinks. Fucking jetlag. Gargi. What, he is twenty-eight now, so she must be… thirty-two? Thirty-three? Ripe, she looks, like Ma became, in America. (Don’t think about it.) OK: Gargi, you’ve got a bit heavier over the years. Could afford to lose a few pounds. She’s wearing her glasses on her head; against her hair the lenses stare at him with nothing but black behind. He looks away.
Screen 2: another woman, this one polished to a Delhi-girl shine. He used to see girls like this swarming across the Harvard campus each fall, marinated in money, on student visas for their Masters’ year. Hair, skin, makeup all perfect, getting hysterical in American Apparel, in Armani Exchange, in All Saints: matching bags and shoes and nails and thongs. He looks closer and realises again the limitations of his Googling. He wants to laugh out loud. It’s Radha! At her desk in a stiff candy coloured dupatta, over a low-necked pink kameez. It should be vulgar, but she looks like those flowers on the vine outside, fragile, delicate, promising. It’s the fabric she is wearing: shot silk, handloom. It’s her hair, dropping over her breasts in loose curls, the kind that take hours (at least, they did for Iris) to perfect. There is a thickset man leaning over Radha, white collared shirt with a thin gold stripe tucked into his jeans. He is talking, she is smiling, she is flirting: they are stars of the small screen.
—Radha, says Kritik Sahib. Bubu. Her husband. We did the right thing getting her married at eighteen. What was that, five years after you left?
—Ya. We’re the same age.
Jivan stares at Bubu. Jeet had told him about Bubu, called him the ‘Brand Manager’, for he always had Radha on his arm.
He leans forward. Where is Sita?
—Watch beta, just watch, says Kritik Sahib.
The central monitor flickers to life. A sun-room full of wild plants and flowers, a deep wicker chair and a man sitting in it, crossed-legged like a Buddha. Devraj. The Company himself, the man they call Bapuji: father to the girls, to Kritik Sahib and Ranjit, to every employee in this vast corporation and every shareholding consumer of Company goods. He’s there in his white kurta pyjama, with a fine brown shawl over his wide shoulders, his thick white hair gelled close to his head. Liver spots and wrinkles mar his skin and crease his chops, he is fat, with a girth the photos in the in-flight magazine only hinted at. Legs stretched, head back, eyes closed. A business legend. A loving father, a loyal friend and celebrated philanthropist: a man of India. Finally, Jivan sounds like that journalist, Barun J. Bharat.
At Devraj’s feet is a barefoot girl in loose, rolled up jeans. A yellow T-shirt knotted at her waist – Jivan squints at the screen – says #MakePovertyHis in red letters. Her hair is shorter than Gargi’s or Radha’s; it’s mussed in some kind of hippy crinkle. She presses Devraj’s legs while three yappy dogs tumble about them.
—Look at them, Kritik Sahib says. His tone is a spoonful of ghee sliding onto hot rotis. Look how happy Bapuji is that Sita has come home. He passes Jivan a pair of headphones. Bluetooth. Put them on.
—Hallo Chinku, hallo Rinku, hallo Mr Stinku! So, so cute.
Sita’s voice fills Jivan: strong and light, laughing. Her accent has Indian undertones but something on top – not America, but—
—England, says Kritik Sahib. You know, Jivan, she came home with a double-first-classification result in Social and Political Sciences.
Sita. Jivan sighs. Takes off the headphones. Of course she would get the hero’s welcome.
—You’re tired, Kritik Sahib says. Hungry. You want to eat something? Then come, lunch must be ready. Gargi is gone from there, see? Screen 1 is dark. Cameras respond to movement only.
Lunch? Like this? With his suit limp, his hair plastered to his head and dried out by air conditioning. The whisky making a comeback in his throat.
—Thank you Kritik Sahib, he says. I’m OK.
—After all this time, you don’t want to meet them? They are expecting you.
—Are they? Wow. But, I mean, I’d like to stay here and get used to all this, you know, if I’m going to work here, to start the job as I mean to go on.
—I’ll stay here, Uncleji. I’d like to get familiar with all this.
Kritik Sahib stands. Over his shoulder he shouts,
—Kashyap? Punj?
—Sir? A skinny youth with spiked short hair appears, offering a glass of water on a steel tray. His ears stick out like the handles on a speech day cup.
—Thank you, Jivan says. He takes the water, does not drink it.
—My pleasure, sir. I’m Punj at your service. He spins the tray between his hands.
Jivan smiles. He’s sitting in a bunker, this close to his childhood and for the first time in his life, someone is calling him sir.
—Punj, Kritik Sahib says. Where is Kashyapji?
—Sir, he has gone to pray at the staff mandir. Then to lunch.
—Fine. Jivan, Kashyap is my second in command, you will meet him soon. This young man is Punj, appointed by Kashyap as nominal deputy.
—I’m learning a lot from Kashyapji, Punj says. For example, verses from the Bhagavad Gita: he reads them to us, each day before we begin. He says it creates the right conditions for watching over the Farm.
Kritik Sahib nods.
—Punj, Jivan Sahib is our very special guest. An old friend of Gargi Madam and Radha Madam. Just observing for now. Sit here, but zyada der nahin, five minutes and you take him out, OK? Show him around.
—Yes, sir.
Gargi has appeared on the central screen. Standing at the table in a large dining room, directing servants. Some set plates and spoons, others bring in burners and dishes, place them, step back, wait for her approval. Kritik Sahib’s hand squeezes Jivan’s shoulder. Then he is gone.
*
Jivan used to watch these hokey Indian serials on Star Plus TV, sitting with Ma in the afternoons when he got back from school. She loved them all: the family dramas with cardboard villains and handsome heroes, non-stop cases of mistaken identity, masters for servants, good girls for bad. Brothers disguised as each other, lovingly beating sisters, wives and mothers-in-law fighting over sons. In the end the good would get rich and the bad were punished. The lovers would be united with parental blessing, kneeling for hands to be raised over their heads in benediction, the parents would kneel and beg their children to bless them right back. It was always happily-ever-after-the-end.
—Hey Punj, he says. You ever see those serials? What were they called… Hum Paanch, or ah, Doosra Keval?
—Sure, sure, those old shows, says Punj. How funny that you know them. One had five sisters – and all dreamed of Shahrukh Khan. The other serial starred him, no? I love Shahrukh. He’s the Baadshah of Bollywood.
—No, it was Salman Khan.
—OK sir, I’m sure Shahrukh, says Punj. King Khan. Salman Sahib is Bigg Boss only.
—No, it’s Salman, I’ll bet you, Jivan says.
—Yes, sir, says Punj.
It’s clear he’s just being polite because there’s blank fat nothing written through his smile – and doesn’t that ‘sir’ sound a bit sarcastic?
—I like TV, says Punj. My favourite is American die-nasty. I’m watching it these days via re-runs.
—Dynasty, right, sure.
Jivan turns back to the monitors. One by one, the screens go dark until only the central monitor shows life. Enter Radha and Bubu, his arm around her neck in a buddy grip.
—Radha Madam and Bubu Sahib, says Punj. He’s so cool, no? But see how Radha Madam always modifies for Gargi Madam? PDAs not allowed!
He’s right: when Radha sees Gargi she pulls away from Bubu and straightens her dupatta. Best behaviour for didi.
Ranjit comes in. He shakes Bubu’s hand and hugs Radha, eyes closed, pressing her into him, dirty old bastard; he keeps hold of her hands as they talk.
—Ranjit Sahib, says Punj. I know all sorts of factoids about him.
—Ah, Punj? I’m trying to watch, Jivan says.
—OK, sure, sir. Sorry.
Then comes a man Jivan does not recognise, must be an uncle, or a guest of Devraj’s; he’s quite old, wearing glasses, a golf shirt and whites. He allows Kritik Sahib and Sita to pass in front of him.
—Sita Madam, she’s truly just a Goddess, no? says Punj. So sweet. And so, you know, such zero tolerance about everything. Always fighting. He grins.
—Wow Punj, tell me what you really think, Jivan says.
—Jivan Sahib, says Punj, shielding himself with the tray. Your disapproval is a wound to my sensibilities. Of course, I’m just kidding. But look at her. Everything just feels so fresh around here since she got back.
Sita is still barefoot. The lettering across her chest is now obscured by her chunni. Her arm is linked through Kritik Sahib’s. She lets go and takes her place at the foot of the table, her back to the camera.
—Now for the main event, says Punj.
—Punj…
—Sorry, sorry, I’ll keep silent. But every two weeks, the game, you know? It gets tense, I swear. Watching this, mera toh keema banega, ek din.
Enter Devraj. The white kurta pyjama, the shawl. Jivan puts on the headphones, the chairs scrape his eardrums as the whole family stands up. He remembers doing that! Devraj stands at the top of the table, they all sit, and, at his signal, Gargi picks up his plate. She wipes it, and reaches for the dishes on the table. Devraj gestures that he wants more saag. He wants less daal. He wants chicken, no not that leg piece: a thigh and some tari. Roti, not rice. Raita, no, not on top: put it in a bowl on the side. Everyone is silent as this ritual takes place. All Jivan hears is the scrape of the spoons as Gargi serves her father. Everyone is still except Radha, who folds a chapati into a triangle and lays it carefully on a small plate, next to Devraj’s elbow.
—Jivan Sahib, are you married? says Punj. Me, I’m married since ten years. I never go home for lunch. Today she’s given me aloo paranthe, as if Sunday brunching came early. Can I offer you some?
He looks up at Punj, finger on his lips.
—You don’t want? Fasting? OK, perfect, says Punj.
—No, I – God, never mind, he says.
Gargi finishes with Devraj then turns to her other side, where the old man Jivan did not recognise is waiting. An uncle? A cousin? That cannot be her husband. But something in the way Gargi carefully takes his plate and places small parcels of sabzi, roti, daal on it so they don’t touch each other; only a wife, a daughter, someone trained or paid would do that. He looks at Punj.
—Surendra Sahib, Punj says. Such a learned guy.
—Huh.
Gargi, Radha and Sita must help themselves. Sita takes gravy but no meat, rice but not roti – and the smallest amount of pickle.
On Friday evenings, Ranjit would take Jeet and Jivan to Jor Bagh, where the girls lived with Nanu and Devraj in the old Napurthala family townhouse. Ranjit would tell his boys: Sit straight, finish your plate, chew with your mouths shut, don’t forget to thank Nanuji, you especially, Jivan. And you, Jeet. Watch him. Report.
When they got to Jor Bagh, there would be a children’s table set in a corner of the state dining room for Gargi, Radha and Jeet – and Jivan (if he had been good in the car). Sita was nothing but a baby in a high chair. Nanu was always there, crotcheting endless forget-me-nots onto hand-made lace while she monitored Gargi, and Gargi was Prefect to the rest of them. When she wasn’t looking, Jeet would kick Jivan and make him spit out his food. That would mean extra punishment meted out by Ranjit – example – not being allowed to get down from the table while the others went to play; not being allowed to go to the toilet until his thirteen times tables had been recited up to fifty times thirteen.
Now Gargi and Radha are married women, Sita is a fox. There is no children’s table.
—Hai Bhagwan. Devraj’s voice is deep, his vowels long. His invocation envelops the family, silencing their whispered chatter. He raises his eyes as if God is only up there to help him digest. There is not enough salt in the meat, he says. Kya Sita, ghar kya aa gayi tum ne angrezi khaana banwa diya? Everyo
ne laughs.
What did Devraj say? What does Jivan catch? Not enough. Sita, foreign food. He shakes his head, as if the meaning of the words will form and fall into place. Then Gargi gestures for the servants to start clearing. Devraj puts his hands flat on the table. Gargi makes another signal: everyone stops. Each member of the family sits up and though they cannot see him, he does too. He feels Punj lean forward, breath on his neck. The silence is waiting to spark.
—Boys and girls, Devraj says. Sita is home, she is about to be married.
The men around the table smile. Spoons go down, clinking on the plates, chairs scrape as everyone shifts about. Radha claps her hands.
On the screen, Sita bows her neck and curls her hands under her chin, acting the demure bride. Jivan stiffens. He pulls the headphone from his ears then settles them back. Sita getting married? Why didn’t Barun J. Bharat, or Jeet, or Kritik Sahib say anything?
—We have binders full of boys, Devraj says. We will show you the shortlist later. But pehle, I want to say something important. So please, he points at them. Meri baat dhyaan se suno.
Listen carefully. Jivan watches them all watching Devraj. Only Gargi’s husband is still smiling.
—As you all know, I am getting old, says Devraj.
Laughter whispers around the table, up into the headphones and huddles in Jivan’s ears.
Devraj holds up his hands.
—Seventy-five is a good age, a fine age, he says. I have seen this Company of ours change with the country; getting better with each year. Two of my daughters are married, although no children, we can pray. He looks at Gargi’s stomach, then at Radha’s. Sita now is home. Today I have already decided: tumhaare dahej ki baat karne ka waqt aa gaya hai.
What is waqt? What is dahej?
—Dahej? Jivan says. Subtitles would really help here.