We that are young Page 8

  Devraj smiles towards the star-stuffed sky. The crowd clap – none of them seem surprised at this rambling speech.

  The writer should be fired – it makes no sense. The great Devraj has lost it.

  Devraj coughs into the microphone, Surendra pours him a glass of water. They all have to listen while he sips and swallows, wet in their ears. Then he goes on, his voice rising.

  —Not only Gandhiji but all the great lines of this country; I am no different to them. Our tradition continues here. We have always concentrated our efforts within our national borders and we will continue to build inwards and upwards. I, of course am humble in my work, an everyday man; and that is all one can ask, long life, good health from God. We are like Mohammed, we cannot move the mountain, but we are also the mountain, and Mohammed will come to us! When he does, we will make him pay to pass.

  Yep, there’s definitely a samosa missing from the high tea selection. Jivan checks the rapt faces around him: not a single raised eyebrow or smirk. Look at them, sitting in their socks like good little children, listening to a man who is mad or must think they are all morons, if this is the best he has got. Get up Jivan, he thinks, this isn’t where you’re going to find allies. But his legs are numb, his ass. And Devraj is still talking.

  He tries to laugh in the right moments but now he’s so hungry he could eat his own arm. He’s thinking about Jeet, Nizamuddin, all he has lost, and he repeats under his breath: it’s not about land, it’s about money.

  Bubu and Surendra help Devraj back into the house. The men around Jivan wait till they are gone, then turn from the stage to the bar.

  —Jivan. You’re here.

  A voice stops the drink on its way to his lips. Jeet. His half brother. Standing in front of him in a muted silver kurta and black sliders: the first brown man to make it to earth from the moon. There’s a diamond stud in one of his ears, his hair is pulled up in a topknot on his head.

  —Bro! They knock arms and elbows and shoulders: they grip each other, a drowning man and the one meant to save him.

  —I cannot believe you. Jeet steps back, hands on hips. Looks him up and down.

  Here he is. Jeet Singh, honest to God son of Ranjit Singh, only Godson of Devraj. Muscled but skinny as ever. Jivan puts his hand on Jeet’s topknot, he pulls lightly; he laughs when Jeet ducks away.

  —It feels pretty strange. Like I’m going to wake up in the States tomorrow morning on my own, you know?

  —That’s just jetlag. What’s wrong? Are you pissed I wasn’t there for the airport? Come on Jon, you got here! Let’s drink to that. Gin and tonic?

  The young barman, eyes on Jeet, puts two drinks in front of them before Jeet has finished speaking.

  —I’ll actually have a JD. Please, Jivan says.

  He waits until he is served his own drink.

  —You know what? It’s all good. Ranjit came to meet me. With Kritik Sahib himself. In the Bentley. He watches Jeet’s face – he can see a blink of something – hurt? Surprise?

  —Good for you, Jeet says, swirling his ice. You must have been shocked.

  —Just my dues. He smiles and shrugs. A little pride enters his voice. And Kritik offered me a job. Working for him in intelligence. He showed me the bunker – do you know about that?

  Jeet raises his eyebrows.

  —And then I went for this crazy tour of the Farm, with this guy, Punj, big ears, seems to know you, seems to know everyone – he took me to the repro yard. Jeet, tell me about that – your own business, bro – congratulations. It’s the best thing about this place. The only thing that gives it any class.

  Now Jeet looks pleased and shy, like an insecure girl whose been told she’s got game. He’s off; talking about his marbles, the sandstone and terracotta he is saving from states that Jivan has never been to. Hyderabad, Gandhara, Uttar Pradesh, where Jeet says he discovered fragments of a terracotta army of female farmers from the Shunga dynasty, decorating the local head honcho’s backyard.

  —That’s first century BC, Jivan. Can you imagine?

  —Amazing, says Jivan. Must cost you a lot, getting it all.

  —You have no idea, says Jeet. It’s not easy. Dad and Bapuji don’t know half the price or value, but they love the results. I’m blessed, you know?

  —I know, says Jivan. I am too. You didn’t come to the airport – I got a ride in the Bentley – and you know what else? When I got back to the bunker Kritik was there, kind of having a seizure. He told me he quit.

  —Quit, says Jeet. Are you joking?

  —No. Why would I be?

  —So the job he offered you might not even exist. I mean, people say a lot of things, come to my house, sleep in my bed, marry my beti if you have enough collateral. He could have just been, you know, saying.

  —He meant it. He could see – I don’t want to be some kind of tourist here.

  He is the whitest on the Farm, but he sounds like he is begging. Jeet is looking at him, head on one side, a small smile as if he knows everything that cannot be said. He hasn’t changed.

  —Jivan, he says. Do you really want all this? Being under the thumb – yes Dad, no Dad, how high, Dad? He swallows, waves his glass towards the party.

  —It’s better than nothing.

  —I guess. Jeet smiles at him. I thought you would never come back.

  —Me too. I’m going to get my own place, a job, who knows?

  —Hey, slow. You’ve only been back three hours. I was betting on you having second thoughts, Jeet says. He shifts from foot to foot. His pupils are huge and dark.

  Waves of men crash against the bar, get their drinks, retreat, repeat. Friends grip each other, toast each other, trade stories and cigarettes, compare who has the best business card, the best phone.

  —Is that why you didn’t come meet me?

  —Enough with the airport. Jeet says. I had to work – things are a mess right now. It’s all trips to get artefacts, transport them through customs, state borders, and so on and over. I told Pa, you don’t find treasure in the godforsaken city, you got to go to the village, deep-dish Bharat, that’s rural India, where the good stuff is. People don’t even realise what they are sitting on.

  —So what’s wrong?

  —Where shall I start? First of all, there’s the Department for Archaeology, full of old school pen-pushers with their Art Treasures Act. Then there are the Survey curators, who I have to get around. Then there’s the state border guys – customs – ha ha, who don’t realise what is precious, but constantly open the boxes, impound the art for being ‘obscene’– it all costs.

  Jeet makes a fist and moves it up and down, milking dollars from the air.

  —I mostly do it all in Dad’s name. For the Company. Only an insider could trace it back to me. Smuggling is a serious charge here.

  —I believe that. And he’s given you the Nizamuddin house, Jivan says.

  —What’s this got to do with the house? That was some time back. It’s worth five million or more now, and I converted it into a gallery but, you know, I use it as a go-down. You don’t remember what a go-down is, do you? Forgotten more than you ever knew. It’s where I can ah – go down…

  Jeet’s teeth chatter and he lets out his high-pitched laugh.

  He sounds exactly like Punj, Jivan thinks. Him and Punj could start a double act. Jivan pulls his half brother’s topknot again. He laughs when Jeet pulls away, his thin frame shaking. Perfect. One of them is high and the other hungry.

  —Go down. Jeez. Are you sure everything is OK? Ranjit seems kind of pissed at you.

  Jeet shrugs.

  —Dad’s got a control issue, you know that. He laughs again: jittery, nervous.

  —How many lines have you had, bro?

  —Not that many, you know, not enough to do any ah, real damage, says Jeet. This whole scene. It’s so fucking haute bourgeois. I can’t handle it. All these guys, the wives inside, the kids with the ayahs waiting upstairs or at home, the hair, the nails, the unwaxed vaginas—

 
; —Whoa – enough… Jivan holds up his hands.

  Time to lighten the tone.

  —Speaking of which, Jivan says. What about our future generations? Love and marriage, it must be on the cards.

  —Very funny. Oh God, Dad keeps introducing me to suitable girls. There’s no real problem, except when the party gets in the papers, you know, says Jeet. Truth is, there is someone. I can’t wait for you to meet him.

  Jivan watches his brother smile as he fishes for the ice in the bottom of his glass, picks it out, crunches on it. He thinks of the last six weeks; propelled through the funeral and all of the rest by the sense that if he came back to India, Jeet would be waiting. Brothers, moving forward as if home could change but they would not, because they shared a yard, some games, a few made-up words he’s forgotten now of a language only they could speak. He watches Jeet take the lemon from his drink, suck the flesh, drop the rind back into the glass. He sems to be shivering, even in the warm night.

  —O, Jivan says. That’s what Kritik was telling Dad about. In the car. Kritik gave Dad an envelope and they talked about you: the Company, the company you keep. It was all in Hindi. I guess they didn’t think I would understand.

  Jeet takes a step closer to him, his face like a cardplayer’s with a bad hand.

  —Kritik? Jeet says. Thought you said he was out.

  —Thought you said I didn’t know what I saw. So there’s me, Ranjit and Kritik: dude, when we were kids he was one scary dude.

  —What did you hear? Has Kritik put some kind of tail on me? Is it one of these guys? Which one do you think it is?

  Jeet’s teeth are almost chattering, he gestures to the party, swarming with men. Jivan sees Ranjit at the far fringes, scouting.

  —Dad knows about your, ah, preferences already, right?

  Jeet grips his arm, leans forward. As if he’s been waiting to voice this name for all the days of his life, he says,

  —Vikram. He’s my – Vikram. Jivan, Vik’s my… go down. You know. He’s my lover. He’s Kashmiri. He’s from a modest background, he’s seen some bad times. Jivan, he’s so different. Just the most intelligent guy. I met him getting finds out from a forest site near Anantnag; it’s near his home village – no one knows about it. Iron age. Fifth century – we’re saving art, you know, from the conflict. Dad doesn’t know about him, or me, or any of it.

  Vikram. Right. Jivan takes a deep breath.

  —Would it really matter? I mean, you could be riding a cow called Vincent butt-naked round the Farm; as long as you’re making money, making a name and keeping everything else quiet, Jivan says.

  Jeet swallows. —If you’re going to stay here, you can’t talk like that, Jivan.

  —Sorry? Jivan says. He puts his hand on Jeet’s shoulder. It’s a tough world for your kind everywhere. Trust me, no matter how much pride there is.

  Jeet looks terrified. As if he wants a trap door to open just for him.

  —Yes but it is 2012. It’s not illegal. Just, if Dad knew, if Bapuji heard… O, God. I’ve got to get out of here, says Jeet. Tell Gargi, when you see her.

  —That you’re gay?

  Jeet laughs, then his smile drops.

  —Don’t be stupid, I told her when we were sixteen. You were still playing dress up with Radha. Just say that – oh, kuch nahin. I’ll be in touch.

  —You better go, Jivan says. While these guys are all busy worshipping at the shrine of Devraj. Or the bar.

  Still Jeet hesitates. Typical. Even as a child he could never make up his mind to act. Cowboy or Indian? Police or thief? Soldier, dakoit, boy or girl?

  —Come on man. I’ll message you, Jivan says. I’ll let you know what’s up. You know whatever Ranjit wants, Devraj will give him. Devraj might be your Godfather, but he’s Dad’s closest friend. Like brothers. Or half-brothers. Like you and me, he says.

  —I’ll go, Jeet finally says. Be good, OK? And take care. I’ll see you.

  —Watch your body, OK?

  They embrace. Then Jeet moves to the edges of the crowd; from the back his shoulders droop, a clown in a kurta, leaving the ring. He stumbles and disappears beyond the lights. Jivan thinks, And that’s all, folks. Fifteen years of exile, Ma’s death and it’s: Hey, what’s up, I’m in love and in trouble, catch you later, bye. And also, I got the house. Turned it into a fucking gallery. For my art.

  Jivan counts a slow hundred. Then he gets out his phone. Don’t go to Nizamuddin, he texts Jeet. If you’re in serious trouble, that’s the first place anyone will look. Done. Bad brothers make you do mad things. Jeet Singh is gay, and stupid.

  A Bollywood beat with an RnB mix rises around him, a group of men near him punch the air, taking off their jackets and making kiss-faces at each other, shouting Chammak Challo! Across the terrace, the French doors slide open; high-cut sari blouses and low-slung petticoats, glitter-tube dresses and bandage-silks spill out, tickertape parade. Pink, red, deep blue and purple: more fit, bare, brown-girl flesh than Jivan has ever seen in real life. He has to eat. He takes off his jacket, loops it around the milky shoulders of one of Jeet’s stone goddesses. Top button open, sleeves rolled up, Jivan pushes though the crowd, jumps the queue at the buffet then goes around the world, cramming as much food as he can onto his plate. Herb roast lamb with gravy potatoes, cheese and tomato slice, daal makhani, prawn battered potstickers, stir-fry vegetables, kofte, tabouleh, pilau rice, salmon sashimi, pasta arrabiata, chaat, chopped salad, coronation chicken and five-spiced ribs with corn. Only thing missing is some drumsticks, southern-fried, but maybe they don’t do black food here. He fills his belly, standing up in the centre of the garden, planning his assault on the dessert.

  If you asked him what happened for the next two hours, what he saw, whom he talked to and what he did, he would not have been able to say. More than once when the men are piggy-backing and thumping each other to the beats with their drinks raised high, as the women bend backwards in unison to the song, he hears person after person ask where Sita is, and someone always replies, she’s over there somewhere and looking so lovely, and shouldn’t her Dad be proud? Every time that happens Jivan wants to get up on the bar and proclaim himself arrived – that Jeet is a faggot but also a thief – he steals artefacts from the poor and houses from his half brother and who knows what else? Added to that, Devraj Bapuji is clearly cracked in the head, that speech was a little bit crazy, wasn’t it? Come on, wasn’t it? And where is Sita, exactly, could someone please point her out? Thinking all of this, standing at the bar, he puts down his glass with so much force that a woman in a French Fondant yellow dress turns around to stare at him.

  He stares back. There are diamonds in her ears, single solitaires like two shining eyes; the type of jewels his mother always yearned for. From the front, the dress has a high neck, and capped sleeves. From the back, it plunges in a deep V. It’s a little too avant-garde for her figure, the softness of her skin.

  —Gargi, he says. He counts the seconds. Five, four, three, two.

  —Jivan? she says. Her hand goes up to her neck; her rings catch the light and cast tiny rainbows across her cheekbones, her chin. Oh. My. God.

  —I’m back, he says, at the same time as she says,

  —You’re home.

  She is shorter than he remembers. Her skin is still smooth, and although her eyes seem swollen, they are wide and full of delight to see him, as if the years of no contact were no more than a summer holiday apart. He wants to ask why she didn’t try to keep hold of him (but doesn’t), because now she puts her left hand on his arm; on her middle finger he sees the Devraj family signet ring, on her third finger, a fat, square cut ruby, and a thin gold band. Yes. That’s right – she got engaged and married at eighteen, just after he, Jivan, left. Although she looks soft, the women around her seem less than her – they look at her as they talk, checking for her response.

  She takes him a little to one side.

  —I looked for you before lunch, but your dad said you went off to rest, Gargi says. Did you eat anything?


  Her voice, trained by his own Ma to emote, with elegant suggestiveness when needed, has deepened with age – and, he guesses, playing the Memsahib for so long. He puts his plate down on the bar. It is smeared with the remnants of his dinner.

  —Gargi, he says. You haven’t changed. Still worrying about my stomach. It is so good to see you.

  He waits for her to step forward. To hug him, just like she used to when he did something good, that pleased her. She does not move, just stands looking at him, her eyes on him, in his woollen suit.

  —I only brought two. The linen one got itself filthy in the plane, he says. Her gaze drifts down to his belt.

  —Coach, he says. A gift from Ma, when I turned twenty-one.

  Gargi’s eyes finish on his Lobbs, then her gaze travels all the way back to his face.

  —Jivan, she says. She reaches up; her palms open on either side of his temples. She does not touch him. You’re home.

  The music starts again. Will she take him to some corner to talk? Will she come dance? She can’t disappear, she says, she is meant to be hosting. She can’t dance with him, it doesn’t look right.

  —Come on, he argues, all the old men, even your husband, must have gone to bed.

  —Still the same naughty boy? she says. Let’s just be here, you can tell me all of your news. Start with now, go backwards. No, of course, you don’t want to do that. First you should come meet Radha.

  The girls around her murmur approval, ya-ya-meet-her. Now, Gargi links her arm through his. They walk the party together. Eyes still clock them: this time it’s the wives, more than the men. By the time they reach the edge of the dance floor, she has pulled her arm away.

  Another scoop of women, all younger, thinner, more toned than Gargi. In the centre, a killer black dress, slashed and ruffled almost to the waist. Radha, his old playmate. Favourite colour: naughty pink; favourite food: golgappa, secretly bought from a street café in Sunder Nagar while Nanu went antiquing. Buying back her past. Radha. She’s a cut out princess now – her hair is braided into a crown around her head, her face is made up: red lips, black khol and mascara that emphasises her pony lashes.