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  Punj clears his throat,

  —It’s dowry, sir. He bangs his palm on his tray as if cheering a dog in a race. Dahej equals dowry. Every Tuesday almost, Devraj Bapuji promises to give dahej, and each time Gargi Madam speaks and Radha Madam follows. It’s a game, no? For sport. Both play very well. Sometimes the question that Bapuji asks has to do with the Company, like, How much do you love the money we make in profits from the Company Delhi? Or, sometimes, it has to do with staffing, like How many can we sideline to make way for my real friends? Or, Which one of you could find out the most disloyal managers, and how would you punish them? Whatever he asks, whoever answers right or best gets something added to their chit. And you know, they’ve both been married for so much time, and in so much time still, there’s nothing to give to Bubu and Surendra Sahib. It’s too bad. No wonder they both look so pissed.

  —Oh, right. Sure, Jivan says. Dowry. What the fuck is going on here?

  —But Jivan Sir, says Punj. Kritik Sahib wants that I should show you the Farm. Let’s go now only. I have seen this before. I can assure you, nothing will happen now. No dowry. Just desserts.

  If Jivan married Iris, what would he get? A handshake from her dad, help with a down payment on a Back Bay townhouse in buggy-walking distance of Commonwealth Mall, and a complete collection of Baz Luhrmann DVDs. The chance to be introduced to the inner circle of a midlevel Boston club, to work all hours in an investment bank, eat macrobiotic meals at home, drink at Harry’s on Friday evenings with a group of like-minded psychos. Just to keep Iris in a spa membership to use between her social work stints. Just to provide Hamptons summers for their mixed-race kids for the rest of his days.

  Jivan pictures himself at this lunch with her: the Foreign Return and his American wife. He, trading business cards with Bubu, while Iris gamely tries to pull off wearing a sari as a, you know, gesture. No thanksji.

  Behind him, Punj is waiting.

  —Let’s go, Jivan says. Maybe we can find me a steak sandwich or something en route. Think you can manage that Punj, my friend?

  —As the time is, so shall it be, says Punj.

  Outside, the heat is still. Punj is as tall as him, as wide and as snappily dressed in a local kind of way. Long shirt too patterned for Jivan’s taste, and sandals instead of shoes on his feet, showing off wide, flat toes like a frog.

  —But you know, Jivan Sahib, says Punj. Now we are outside I can say this thing. In any case, dahej is prohibited in India. No dowry, by act of law. I learned this from Mr Sri Amir Khan. On Satyamev Jayate. You know that show? Reality talk show format. Very popular.

  —No, never seen that one, Jivan says. I’ll keep it in mind.

  —Very good. Now, what would you like to see? says Punj. That way to Radha Madam’s ice-skating house— (his hand glides the air like a plane taking off). Everything in USA, we have here, sir.

  No shit. Where’s the zoo? Where are the freaking unicorns?

  Behind the bunker, Punj has a golf cart waiting; he gestures to the backseat. Jivan watches the Farm unfold: the tennis courts, the pitch for cricket and boules; a set of dark globes balancing on a bright, flat rectangle of grass. There’s an awning and a small clubhouse and beyond that another prairie: it’s like being on set at Universal Studios, coasting through Ye Olde England to find himself back in the Wild West. In a clearing near the pool, workers are sawing, hammering bamboo, the structure half-decked with more bright orange marigolds.

  —Miss Sita ki welcome-home-cum-pre-Engagement pavilion, says Punj. Tonight, after the Tuesday Party.

  —They still have those?

  —Wow. So you really were here before?

  —Sure. Tuesday Parties, for the Devraj Hundred.

  All of those guys, handpicked by Devraj for a five-year programme of elite training in personal and business development. Money in the bank. Before and after they joined.

  —When I was a kid, Ranjit never stopped shoving their brilliance down my throat, Jivan says.

  —I’d love to hear more, sir.

  Jivan was NFI to those nights when the Hundred would gather, first to listen to the great man lecture on his favourite subject – the twinned future of India and The Company – and then to get steaming drunk and wild.

  —Will you go tonight? he says.

  —No, sir, not for me, says Punj. I was born in Chandigarh to an agricultural family. I graduated in the evening cut-off from GNDU and started with Kritik Sahib’s special contingent because I excel in IT. I don’t get invited for the Hundred – they’re all sons of business, you know? (He grins.) But maybe one day. I’m an entrepreneur. Restaurants. My shares are in up-and-coming Haus Khas Village. Like your Greenwich Village, only ours is better, I am certain. Food is too good: Tibetan–Mexican fusion. You must come try, and tell me what you think.

  Jeez, why not just fry some ice cream and serve it with celery soup?

  —Can’t wait, Jivan says. But Punj I’ve seen the house and the formal gardens. Why don’t you show me the rest of this place? Take me to some part where you hang out.

  The golf cart veers to the verge and then stops.

  —Jivan Sahib, says Punj. I have to confess I was hoping you would ask me this. Today is an auspicious day, a very special day. Miss Sita is home, you know? We are going to have a wedding. Gargi Madam has promised many opportunities for staff to enjoy. In an unprecedented move, Miss Sita asked for this as her wedding request.

  —Really? he says.

  —I’m serious, says Punj. All the staff. At her planning conference. Gargi Madam promised that Miss Sita said, ‘No one should be left out. Those who serve should be served on my wedding.’

  —With her own sweet hands?

  Punj gets out of the cart and stands looking at him.

  —Sir, this is no joke. Come let me show you what Miss Sita’s return means.

  They get back into the cart. Punj drives off the main pathway, turning around raised flower beds, where he points out the places where special shrubs and flowers have been selected and planted by Sita herself. Where she used to gather all the Level 1–3 servants (diggers, waterers, tenderers, wipers, waiters, drivers) and host them for lunch once a month. Where she once – and Punj remembers this with awe in his voice – went against Bapuji when he wanted to install a boating lake, because, she said, it was a waste of India’s most sacred life, Ma Ganga, its water. According to Punj, only Miss Sita could stand up and do that.

  Then Punj stops the cart. They get out, and go meet and greet. Here Punj works in a special handshake, which is specifically noticeable because every time it seems to change slightly, as if he has developed this relationship with each manager and wants him, Jivan, to clock it. Punj introduces him as:

  —Kritik Sahib’s special guest, childhood friend of Gargi Madam, Radha Madam and Miss Sita—

  And this is met with smiles and murmurs of, Miss Sita, she came just this morning to see us.

  They are following the scent, playing a game of chase Sita through the Farm. The stories of her beauty and kindness and bravery get bigger and better and the more he hears, the more he believes. There’s the old-school manager at the family gym, busting out of his whites (whose handshake with Punj is two palm slaps and a right fist bump). He tells them (his voice choking in his throat):

  —I taught Miss Sita her backhand when she was nine, and this morning she came to give me her Cambridge University tennis jacket which she won for her great prowess.

  As he speaks, actual tears form in his eyes.

  They wait while the manager summons his deputy, who brings the blazer into the light. It seems tiny and sad without its wearer, as if she has shrunk and then disappeared.

  —They call this a ‘Blue,’ the manager says. They give this instead of a gold statue. She said she owed it to me as the father of her skill.

  They all three stand around stroking the soft jacket, imagining it on a podium holding a medal, thanking the sports centre back home with heart on sleeve.

  —Sita, says the man
ager. Only she would do this.

  On to the Head Gardener at his greenhouse (handshake: a short grip and thumb turn) who tells them, kasam kha ke, which Punj (unnecessarily – for this phrase is one of the few Hindi movie lines Jivan knows) interrupts to translate as Truthfully, he eats the truth, before the Gardener says:

  —Miss Sita used to take so much interest in every plant and tree in the Farm. For each and every one, she knew the Latin name, the Sanskrit name and also gave her own trans-planting name. This one: Naomi, this one, Germainey, this one, Sontagi Susisthus. And these plants they were like her dolls. Such love she showed! In fact, she had no fear – even in the wild wood she would always go, first to explore, and then to hide, and then to make her den.

  They pause again, to appreciate the nature of such a girl. All around them the emerald tennis courts sparkle, the cobalt sky reflects. Between the two are the men in white uniforms like links in a chain, keeping land and sky connected. It is so lush: Jivan’s throat is so dry. He asks for water but no one seems to hear him. There are no sprinklers anywhere.

  —Punj, he says, let’s go find her den.

  Punj looks doubtful.

  —She might even be there…

  —Wild wood is that way, Jivan sir, says the Gardener. Come, leave the cart, we can walk. I will show.

  Once upon a time the Farm was covered in trees; and when they were cleared for landscaping, only this part of the wood remained. On weekends, and after school and tutors’ hours, and if they had been good, Jeet, Radha, Gargi and he would be granted free time; they would beg to be brought here to play. The ferns were so large, like wild claws trying to grab them; the trees had a strange, snakeskin bark that peeled into strips like real life pythons. The place was full of birdsong they never heard in the city; it was the best place for a hideout. After he left for Boston, every other country park, every copse and clump of trees, it all seemed tame in comparison.

  Jivan shares none of this. He follows Punj and the gardener, moving from the burning sun into the shade of the tallest trees, still those snakeskin ladies keep watch. There are spreading oaks and delicate new saplings, but the ferns have been clipped. Everything looks smaller, less vivid. They walk for what seems like half an hour but can’t be more than ten minutes. The place is alive with the sound of cicadas, sawing like a thousand tireless lumberjacks. He stumbles over a root and wants to laugh. The route to your roots, he thinks, then, dammit, where is that slogan from?

  —Here, says the Gardener. And over there, our spy hole. Whenever she was in situ, we kept an eye out on her.

  In front of them is an ancient Banyan tree. This he recognises. Here they would rendezvous and play ‘house’. Mom-and-Pop-and-sister-brother, running through the Banyan’s dangling fingers, using them as whips and ropes, daring each other to steal tin cups from the labourer kitchens and bring them for Radha to make invisible chai and serve it on leaves with sweets made of air. Did he carve his name in its trunk? No – but Jeet did, and so did the girls. He looks for the marks, scratched and gouged, but layers of saucer-shaped fungi have invaded the base.

  The Gardener kicks at the growth; rotten wood falls away.

  —Poisonous, he spits. An infestation we will get under control.

  Now the cicadas sound as if they are calling, Sita, Sita, Sita, Sita, Sita. Why didn’t she carve her name? Once he climbed up this old Banyan and fell asleep, got covered in tick bites which made Radha laugh. Jivan didn’t tell Radha that while he was up there he had spied on Gargi, twelve-years-old and trying to kiss Jeet. She had begun to cry when he taunted her. No, he said. Your face is too fat. And you should not offer yourself to boys.

  He felt for Gargi, but he had not moved from his hiding place.

  The forest is so still around them, as if waiting for all these years for him to act.

  —Punj, we should get back, he says.

  —OK, great idea. Kritik Sahib will be finished with lunch by now.

  They turn. Begin to make their way, single file through the trees. The birdsong thins. They are almost out of the woods.

  —But one more place, Punj says, over his shoulder. Please indulge me, Jivan Sahib, this is my favourite of all.

  They reach the golf cart, and Punj starts it up, pressing with his wide, flat foot on the pedal.

  They skirt around the perimeter away from the house, then veer left, skidding through a gate which is not guarded or locked. Green grass gives way to a fine white chalk that mists up from the ground and covers their skins, clagging in their throats, in their eyes. It clears to Punj, standing, laughing, one hand on his hip and the other beak-like in front of his mouth, taking the pose of the statue next to him. They are in a graveyard of stone goddesses, handless, armless. Where there are torsos there are no legs, where there are heads there are no noses, some have full lips and almond shaped eyes stretched back under cones of carved braids, some have pierced navels. All of them are frozen in postures of service or dance.

  —What is this?

  Punj breaks his pose and takes up another one, arms squaring face.

  —Vogue, he says, then relaxes. Jivan Sahib, you know stone cold fox? You know this American term? They use it to appreciate women.

  —Er, kind’a…

  —Actual, you know, stone-cold. But not real foxes, no.

  Now Punj laughs: it comes out strange and high as if sprung from his wiry shoulders, his skinny torso and chest.

  —This is the only place I’ve ever been where the girls don’t walk away on me.

  Punj drapes his arm over a goddess; his fingers graze its breasts, he grins and moves his eyebrows up and down.

  —Do you remember Jeet Sahib? Punj says. Did you know him before? This is his storage yard only.

  Jivan looks carefully at Punj, wondering if he is for real, whether he’s just pretending not to know that Jivan and Jeet are brothers. Sorry, half brothers. He looks around more carefully. On one side of the yard are thirty or so statues; their marble skins have a sheen to them, the carved flowers in their hair, the detailing of muscle around their navels; the fingers and toes decorated with rings and bangles, their ankles entwined with carefully patterned snakes. Facing them, where Punj is standing are their plasterwork twins: some with smiles half finished, or missing a snake or a hairpiece; some with bigger breasts and fuller lips and thinner around the waist.

  He feels that Punj is studying him, his gestures and expressions. He relaxes his arms from their tight fold. Punj moves into the same stance.

  —Sure, Jivan says. I used to know Jeet.

  —Jeet Sahib is an entrepreneur and an artist, says Punj. Every piece he collects comes here for repro. All these (Punj indicates the plasterworks) will decorate the wedding garden. Each lady has her special place.

  —Punj, Jivan says. Let’s go. I gotta getta drink.

  *

  Punj drives back to the bunker. Jivan’s body flops, mind floats. He knows this feeling well: for days after his mother’s funeral he gave in to it, riding troughs of grief, rage, hilarity, hearing her, during her chemotherapy saying khichdi ban gayi as clumps of her hair, black strands and white, came out in her swollen hand. Laughter in her voice, tears in his eyes. Empty, he felt, without bones.

  Since he landed, his eyes have been looking for Ma, or for Gargi. Instead Sita is everywhere, the whole garden springs from her, and Jeet is underneath and behind it all. Eyes sting, every nerve feels pinched and if the only way he could save himself was to lift a glass of water to his lips, he could not do it. Sita would care, he thinks, taught by Gargi: she would care for me as if she was my own. The image of Sita tending to his thirst will not be banished. She has kind, firm hands. She smells of jasmine and marigolds.

  They reach the edge of the praire. Across the grasses, the bunker sits, hiding its secrets in the earth.

  —So, tour is over, Punj says. I must go. Kashyapji will have returned from prayers, from lunch. He keeps proper time. So, I leave you here.

  Jivan gets out of the cart. He raise
s his arm, a half high five, then drops it. He watches Punj rev up the cart, drive away.

  Alone for the first time since Boston. Jivan’s suit traps every atom of heat, steaming his clothes to his skin. The grasses are still. Above his head no clouds, around him, no sound. He walks towards the bunker, climbs the steps slowly. Standing in the upstairs room, eyes closed, he swigs from the bottle of whisky. Looks for the Company Deli croissants – the box has been cleared away. The room presses on him, the incense catching in his throat.

  A roar from outside – he almost drops the bottle, as if he’s been caught in a thieving lie. He opens the screen door, goes out to the verandah; sees Kritik Sahib stumbling through the grasses, his face sheened in sweat. He has a wild startled look, nothing like the man Jivan always feared. He has lost his Nehru jacket; his white shirt is stained with red earth. He trips up the steps, Jivan moves to catch him; they end by almost embracing, the JD held between them. Is that panic or terror in the old man’s eyes? Jivan thinks, he’s just a man, after all.

  —Still here? says Kritik. Chal, hat! He grabs the whisky bottle, stumbles onto the verandah and into one of the old split-cane chairs.

  —What did you see? Kritik tries to catch his breath; hand to his chest, he presses down, sweat or tears dripping from his chin.

  —I should call someone, Jivan says. Punj was just here.

  Kritik slumps over, staring into the long grass. Then he clears his throat and spits. Pulls himself upright in the chair. He holds up the bottle.

  —So, beta, he says, one hand smoothing his hair. Come, sit, have another drink with me. Now you’ve seen everything.

  —I’ve had the tour – Punj took me around, Jivan says. What’s happened?

  —Is that so? Well. Come – be the first to celebrate with me, Kritik says. As of now, I am quitting the Company.

  The heat on Jivan’s head, the whisky inside him make the words seem song-like, as if Kritik Sahib is inviting him to a party or reading cricket scores. But his face is dripping, almost, it seems to be melting. He is ashen. Quit? What is going on?