We that are young Read online

  —Good evening Jivan Sahib, Can I help you? A woman: welcoming, hopeful.

  —Hello? How do you know I’m me? he hears himself say. Takes a breath. Can I get something to eat?

  —Of course. Time is eighteen hundred thirty five. Would you like a Viceroy Tea? You would get three bite-size samosas, mini-cucumber, salmon and paneer amuse-bouche, two tikka patties, a selection of finger éclairs, French Fondants and a pot of Assam or Darjeeling. Or Earl Grey. Coffee we can also do – Company Cappuccino? Ranjit Sahib always takes Assam around now if he is at home.

  —No. I think, I mean, yes, he says.

  —Tea-coffee?

  —Coffee. Can I get some fries?

  She is gone. He puts the phone down. He doesn’t know what a French Fondant is. Does anyone? Jeet would; he cares about stuff like that.

  Across the desk, the silver framed photos document the life he has missed. Jeet age nine or ten at India Gate: Kwality ice cream tub clutched in his hand. Jeet again: at five-star establishments, restaurants, picnics, parties, getting older, fatter, graduating school, off to college. Standing at the doorway of the Nizamuddin house and looking pretty pleased with life. Jeet in a candy striped shirt and dark suit, standing by an uplit swimming pool with Devraj, Gargi, Sita, Radha and Ranjit. Sita, who looks about a cute fourteen, is holding a glass of champagne. There’s a banner: Happy 21st Jeet. In pink.

  Jeet, Jeet, Jeet, he thinks, Where were you today? You promised you would come.

  In the kitchenette, Jivan struggles with the wall-mounted bottle opener, spilling Company beer on himself. He wipes his hands, downs one small bottle. He opens two more, and takes them out to the verandah. The air has cooled. Crickets have replaced the birds and there are stars in the sky, so many stars. What kind of man is Devraj that in this smog filled city, stars shine over his farm? To you, Devraj sir! And Kritik, and whatever went down today. He finishes the bottles in six gulps, head lightly spinning. I am here! he wants to shout (but doesn’t). The stars don’t seem that far away. He could reach them, easy, he is just as bright, as shining as them. He is about to stretch his arms out wide and whistle, but here comes a golf cart, put-put-put, his father in the back. Quick – hide the bottles; fold the shirt collar down.

  —Jivan! Aré beta, you are here? Good, good. Got a drink? Yes. Very good. Did you see much of the Farm?

  Ranjit takes a red-gold pack of cigarillos from his top pocket, taps to release one, picks it out with his teeth.

  Jivan doesn’t smoke but he takes one when it’s offered. It’s worth it: Ranjit actually leans in to light it for him, holding the flame close to his face.

  —Good evening, Ranjit Sahib.

  A young, pretty uniformed woman, grey and gold, appears from the second bungalow. She’s carrying a tray with an ashtray and two glasses, a tall and a squat, a bottle of Tanqueray Gin and one of Company tonic, a bowl of ice and an uncut lemon. She stops with the wide-legged stance, the fixed smile of the airhostess bracing for turbulence. Ranjit reaches behind her and places his hand in the small of her back. The tray wobbles slightly.

  —Vanita, says Ranjit. Here is my young friend Jivan. He’s staying just for a week or so. Make sure he doesn’t get in your way, haan?

  —Good to meet you, Jivan. Let me know if you need anything. You just pick up your room phone and I’ll answer.

  They watch her leave, the father and the unmentionable son, sitting together on a porch in the Company Farm, waiting it out with a drink and a smoke with crickets in the background and stars overhead. A Hindi song crackles between them, Jivan does not know the words but the tune is pure old Bollywood. From his inside pocket, Ranjit pulls out his phone. The tune soars louder, then stops.

  —Hello, hello? Ranjit says. His voice loops upwards, goes taught. Jeet? Did Gargi call you? No? Are you nearly here? I can’t tell you – just come now, only.

  Jivan flushes at his brother’s name. He checks his own phone; there is nothing from Jeet, although there are five new texts. Iris – delete. Iris – delete. Iris – delete. Love Iris. He jabs at the phone, delete, delete.

  Ranjit is still talking,

  —Jeet beta, the girls, well, Sita, I – no, I am OK. But things are shifting here. I want you to come here right now and meet me. Don’t get late, OK? Have you met Gargi-Radha today? Seen anyone else? This is what happens when – OK, OK. OK, bye. Ranjit snaps the phone shut. He takes a breath and smiles at Jivan.

  —So beta. Obama in America, he says. Three years of black in the White House. This world is a strange place. Truly, we could not envision this thing in India. But, years pass. Things turn about. This new kind of openness, it cannot continue indefinitely. To what end, I ask?

  He does not wait for an answer. He raises his glass to Jivan.

  —So, come on beta, tell me what’s new?

  What to say? Jivan could tell his Dad that he graduated with honours. That he fenced in his first year, that he sucks the salt-caramel from Hershey’s kisses. That his favourite season is fall, which they don’t have in Delhi.

  —Not much, he shrugs. Except I saw Kritik Sahib after lunch today. He was pretty upset.

  Ranjit looks at him,

  —Relax, beta, just relax. What did you see?

  —Nothing. I went on a tour of the Farm. When I got back, Kritik was a mess. He said he was leaving. Like he really meant it.

  —Ha ha. Jivan, you must wait, and learn how things work. There is a lot you can be involved with, in time. You might spend a few weeks with Devrajji’s hundred, all fine young men. Handpicked from the best families to train for a future in businesses, in media, in government. Across India they will work, some also within the Company.

  Jivan imagines a Devraj army, white kurtas, brown shawls, dark glasses, marching over the Farm to get him. He really needs that food.

  —You should also come north, see how we do things in Amritsar, Ranjit says. And if it works out, you can also come to the new site in Srinagar.

  —I read about it. The new hotel. I love the idea of the lakes and boathouses. War-zone lux. Very cool.

  —Good, you already know about it. The army is there but this last few years it has been decommissioning. This year Diwali will take place in public for the first time in years. Yes, this hotel is Devraj Bapuji’s vision and methodology. Unless our young generations can go to Kashmir and fully enjoy its great beauty, how else can they understand what it means?

  —Means? Like, as a place? Jivan says.

  —Ah Jivan. So much you have to learn. For our guests, the Company Srinagar hotel gardens, in the City of Gardens, will be stunning. Yes. I will have Jeet take you to Srinagar. He’s been doing great work, sourcing antiques for the family collection, such priceless pieces. We have some here, but the main store is at the Nizamuddin house. Such arty things he likes.

  —Jeet is living in Nizamuddin?

  —Converted it into a gallery. I gifted the deeds to him, when he turned twenty-one. A hint you know, he should start thinking about doing his duty. Now he is 33-years-old and still he insists on remaining a bachelor. What does he have to prove?

  Wait, Jivan wants to say. You gave him my house? Ma’s rooms? He shuts his eyes. Ranjit’s cigarillo smoke seeps into his nostrils, catching in his throat.

  The sound of china: he opens his eyes to see Vanita, hands full with another tray. This time a coffee pot, a three-tier cake stand arranged with wilting bites of sandwich, pert samosas and pretty cakes, more food than Jivan has seen for days.

  —This is your order? says Ranjit. Nahin, we don’t have time. Go and get ready now.

  —But I haven’t eaten since Boston.

  He reaches for an éclair, but Vanita is already turning back, taking the tray with her.

  —Let her go, Ranjit says. There is no time for this cake-wake business. Go change. Jeet will be at the party, and so will Gargi-Radha.

  Will there be food? All he has to swallow is the old, clear-eyed rage against Jeet, who gets the blood, the family, the house. What about me? He
could ask the stars – but what is the point? He used to watch Jeet get all dressed up in a short-sleeved shirt and bow tie and disappear into the Bentley for the Tuesday Parties. The next day Jeet wouldn’t talk to anyone, as if being around the older men made him too good to play out in the yard. On the nights that Ma was performing, he would beg her to take him as well. She made him promise to stay out of sight. When they reached the Jor Bagh house, he would hunt down Radha in her bedroom, make her disguise him with her chunnis by promising to play dolls the next day. As the men drank and the women joined in, Radha would pull him around behind her; introduce him as her girlfriend. There was nothing weird about it; it was F.U.N.: Radha’s special subject.

  *

  His spare suit is Hugo Boss wool. The summer one stinks of the plane. He puts on the woven trousers, tucks in his city shirt and carries his jacket. He doesn’t have another tie. Here he is: broad shouldered, strong armed, brown skin, white accent. Starving.

  When he comes out, Ranjit is already in the back of the golf cart, éclair in one hand, licking crumbs off his fingers.

  —Don’t get too carried away, he says. You’re here. I want to see you can behave. Shadow Jeet and you’ll be fine.

  —Great, Jivan says. But first there is this yogic ashram place he wants to take me to – you know the kind of thing he likes. Silence, meditation, no girls. I texted with him about it, a month or so ago, he seems pretty serious about his religious studies.

  Ranjit raises his eyebrows, shakes his head.

  —Jeet’s got these issues, you know, Jivan says. He takes out his phone, starts scrolling. He finds the message Jeet sent after Ma died. All this shall pass. We look after our parents, we take over their dreams. Don’t forget, work isn’t everything. Take care, and when you come, maybe we can leave it all behind. Start up some new vibe, outside Company life. Even get holy on their asses. Love you, Jeet.

  He keeps his voice Kritik Sahib-light and his face turned towards the gardens.

  —Maybe Jeet thought a bit of time out would help, he says.

  —Jivan, says Ranjit. Just pass your phone here.

  The message came when Jivan was leaving the apartment to go to the bank vault, Ma in his holdall. There was an Indian accent in Jeet’s English. It made Jivan feel less alone. It was written recognition that they are brothers, not just one who has and one who has not.

  Jivan keeps his mouth shut and watches Ranjit’s face. Eyes all slitty, lips brown and puckered as if he’s about to kiss the air goodbye.

  —Wah, what fine words! Start-up ka bachcha. Start-ups, what, what? Upstarts. Ranjit says.

  See? Jivan thinks. It’s that easy.

  Now comes the beauty of the grounds at night. The temperature has dropped to bearable. Clay lamps cast moon shapes along the paths. Banks of flowers wilt and wave like teen fans on MTV. As they reach the house, Jeet’s goddesses form a walkway, offering them stone fruits, stone pitchers tipped, their white nipples eternally hard. He cannot tell if these are the real ones or the fakes. He sees a long, curved bar, around fifty or sixty men in suits and ties grouped around. Thank God, there are at least three long tables loaded with burners and covered steel dishes, chefs in tall hats standing to attention behind them.

  They get out of the golf cart. Ranjit raises an arm; Jivan flinches, but it comes down around his back. It stays there as they turn, even as they join the party.

  Jivan lets himself be pushed through the crowds of young men, slim cut suits (from no label he can name), pink shirts, floral patterned ties. He spots some heavy wrist jewellery; he slides his watch into his pocket. It’s easy to imagine these young men graduating to boardrooms in New York or London or Dubai, dark chess pieces being moved around by some invisible force. He smoothes his hair, heads turn as he passes – the suit is too warm, but at least its Boss. It’s not so bad walking in Ranjit’s wake, being introduced as:

  —Jivan, my younger son, home from America.

  How about that?

  Almost every other step, someone asks, How do you like India? And the next one, So, what do you think of India? Then again, How are you finding India? Each time he likes India more, replies that it’s even more awesome, that he found it with a map, a plane, his feet (a depleted arsenal of half-remembered words and a motherload of memories). So it goes on, and when he has found and loved India more than anyone ever has, they reach the heart of the inner circle: three men standing at the bar.

  Now he is face to baldspot with Gargi’s husband, Surendra, in thick-rimmed glasses, an embroidered silk kurta.

  —So, you’re here, says Surendra. Gargi mentioned, in passing. His handshake is damp and limp.

  Then Ranjit gestures at Bubu.

  —Who has our dearest Radha to manage, he says. Poor Bubu.

  Up close, Bubu is a beautiful specimen getting spoiled. He has the cheekbones and the stubble and the firm grip, but the whites of his eyes are yellowing and his skin has the same sallow tinge, a hint of Bourbon after lunch. He is also the only man there wearing jeans.

  —Whassup, Gee-van? Isn’t that how you say it in Amer-i-can? Bubu grins. Jeet’s long lost half-brother. Well, well, well. Good job, Ranjitji. Great suit. What is that, Autumn 2010?

  All around them men are drinking, talking, backslapping. No Kritik Sahib in sight, and no Devraj. If Kritik Sahib is here, then what Jivan saw was just an old guy having a moment. He keeps smiling as Bubu and Ranjit toast his return; they drink down their JD, as they order more and keep their backs to the rest of the party. Bubu invites him to a Polo match (watch, not play), to swim tomorrow, early morning in the pool, to breakfast with him and Radha, to come shop at DLF Emporio which is – no shit – a mall owned by the other real estate family. You want to go check out Hermes or Gucci? And you must come to the Company store too, it’s out of this world.

  —Delhi has a mall? Jivan says.

  —Yeah and we eat with knives and forks. Jeez, how long have you been gone?

  Bubu’s thick eyebrows, plucked where they should meet, rise at this display of ignorance. So Jivan changes to sport, gets Bubu into a conversation about the manners of Indian cricket versus those of American football, which, Bubu says, he totally loves (to watch, not play). Jivan cannot concentrate, the chefs are taking decades to start service; by now he’s so hungry that he’s staring at Bubu’s lips dragging on a Marlboro Red, while behind him, Ranjit and Surendra are muttering invocations like Aunties at a wedding.

  —Hai Bhagwan, says Ranjit. What is happening, see: he’s not coming, what is going on? Is this the kismet of a man who has worked so hard, to be reprimanded by this arrogant ladki? Gargi should have given better example. And where is Kritik Sahib, I mean what kind of world is this? Everywhere the same thing, communal riots, bad governance, new generation don’t care. I mean, what is happening, yaar?

  —Ranjitji, Surendra says. Don’t worry. Devrajji is born under a lucky star, all will be OK. I will personally make sure Gargi does not do anything without Bapuji’s sign off; being so busy with running the Farm, how can she?

  Gargi’s name scatters around Jivan. But there are no women, not even Gargi, anywhere in the crowd.

  Bubu, Ranjit and Surendra peel away from the bar, Jivan stands watching the ebb and flow of suits. Feedback shrieks from the sound system, there is a heartbeat sound, a skid: Surendra reappears on the low stage, stroking and tapping a microphone.

  Will there be live music, like the old days when his mother and Gargi danced?

  No, the men around him are taking off their shoes and putting them neatly in lines and pulling up their trouser legs to sit on the sheet covered grass. Are we all going to pray? He is almost the only one left standing. He drops to his knees.

  Strained excitement presses around him; it’s like watching a sports game with the volume turned low. Devraj steps onto the terrace; he’s in a white kurta pyjama and the same brown shawl from the magazine pictures, he is flanked by Bubu then Surendra, tall as the first, towering over the second. The waiting men slap thei
r hands against the earth, rumbling distant thunder across the clear night. Devraj stretches his arms out, then seems to fade backwards and stumble, to be caught by Surendra and Bubu. He grips their arms; they lower him to sit cross-legged on the stage. He raises his hands, palms upwards over the heads of the crowd, then grasps his own feet, fingers lacing his toes. He rocks back and forth, his body trembling. When he speaks his finger points straight to the sky, his voice is strong, as if stolen from someone much younger.

  —Hello, good evening, Bapuji says.

  His voice has that same deep tone that could bring comfort after a beating, or announce some new surprise; even though as a boy, Jivan was not really meant to be in Devraj’s presence too much, still there were a few times it happened. The men murmur and signal their greetings.

  —So thank you all for coming to listen tonight, Devraj says.

  There is a smattering of warm laughter; then it dies down.

  —Tuesday Parties have been continuing for many years. Some of you have been coming for so long and some of you are here for the first time. And what a time!

  Across all of the men, their hands in namaste, their heads nodding and bowing, Devraj seems to look directly at Jivan.

  —Tonight I wish to talk to you about something very close to my heart, Devraj says. The last few years have been sometimes challenging, but, as great god has been kind to us, Ram, Lakshman (Go on, Jivan thinks, say ‘Sita’), nature has taught us how to mind our own, our beloved land, and even that is in the hands of God. Time for each to tend his patch, weed out dissenters and save himself through growth of goods. Though we have always advocated for family, times are changing and we must beware. Each must turn over his own patch, weed out dissenters who do not believe, protect with walls and clip the wings of those who wish to fly too far. Tend to minds of children and on Wednesdays, ah, eat only mutton. For what else makes us men?