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  —Radha, says Gargi. Look what I found!

  —Jivan! Oh My God!

  Radha glances at Gargi, standing a pace away. Then she steps forward and throws her arms around Jivan, pressing him into her, he smells roses, lemon musk, underneath it all, the sour scent of her childhood excitement.

  The Good Witch and Wicked Witch pull him onto the dance floor to find Bubu and his friends busting some bad hiphop moves together. One of them gets Jivan more drinks, another tells him how great it is to meet him, man; how much he looks like Ranjit; another slaps his back and says, how come Radha never mentioned her best friend in the world? He answers this to himself with, So what? I’m here now. Ready to party where the party is at? Absolutely.

  Jivan stands in the centre of them, all shooting their whisky and back slapping him, forming a circle around him and cheering his moves. He grabs Radha and Gargi, gets them both in the middle, and twirls one, then the other, watching them dance around him, three together, home at last.

  Gargi lets go first. She laughs and breaks through the group of men; he follows, but can’t make her stay. She leaves the dance floor without turning; he watches as the groups re-form around him. She walks straight through the crowd and into the house. When the loops of Chammak Challo have pierced his eardrums into pure white noise, he goes inside to find her, and also to piss.

  Through the atrium, pick a corridor, follow the diyas burning at intervals, turn left, turn left, he tries a few doors but all seem locked, he follows the smell of sandalwood and cinnamon to a carved window, lace as wood, giving him a kaleidoscopic view of a plush white sitting room, iced in gold. Fendi, he registers. All the furniture. Jeet must have chosen it. A giant TV is suspended on a wall, paused half way through an Indian gameshow, Q and A.

  He knows he should keep walking. Almost he turns to leave, but then comes a shout. A skittle-shaped man in a Company uniform is being pushed and stopped and pushed by two of the Devraj Hundred. A sculpture sits on the sofa wrapped in a shroud; no, that is a real woman in a cobweb sari, white with pale blue stitching matching the veins on her neck, her silver bun coming loose at her nape. Nanu.

  —Get me another plate, she orders. I wanted daal-chawal only. And you bring me this from those goondas outside? Chi! Chi!

  It’s Nanu! She never spoke to him when he was little – only about him and only when he could hear. She is the only living proof that Devraj didn’t spring as a fully formed businessman straight from the Goddess Lakshmi’s big toe. Nanu, Devraj’s beloved mother. The last Maharani of Napurthala, in the over-preserved skin.

  —But, Nanuji, the servant bows. Gargi Madam wanted you to have the best only.

  —Gargi? says Nanu.

  Her permanently outraged tone hasn’t changed, the vowels are refined, the ‘r’s roll, the consonants over-emphasised as if each one is there to salute on parade. ‘The Imperial croak,’ Jivan used to call Nanu’s voice (and sometimes, Nanu herself); it would earn him a twisting pinch on the back of his upper arm from Jeet.

  —Don’t you take the name of that arrogant ladki in front of me, Nanu says. What has she done right? All these years I’ve been trying to teach her? Nothing. Till today we are still waiting for her to do her duty. You don’t even think her name in front of me, OK?

  —But Nanuji, says the servant. This is what Gargi Madam ordered.

  Across the room a door opens, Devraj strides in, no help needed. The servant sees an exit route, tries to escape. Devraj blocks him, he looks at Nanu – she makes a face, as if to say – he makes me sick.

  Devraj picks up a gold candlestick and hits the servant with it full in the chest. He drops to his knees, Devraj kicks him in the stomach. He falls on his back, spilling white and brown mush across the floor. Devraj brings the candlestick down again, it cuts into his cheek and he comes up splattering red blood, dark food across the white furniture, gristle mixing with flesh as if the man’s face has been cooked on high pressure in sauce. He’s crying out but Devraj does not stop, arm up, arm down, arm up and down. An animal sound comes from the man, he holds up a hand, his blood staining the carpet, spattered across the floor. No one moves. Jivan, watching through the lattice, sees fierce glee on Devraj’s face, it is mirrored on Nanu’s. The old woman claps her hands as if at a cockfight or watching dogs at it, the other servants in the room stand stiff while Devraj goes on and on. The beaten man whimpers; he stops moving.

  —No? Speak! No? Speak! No? Speak! Devraj shouts.

  Move Jon, move, he thinks.

  There is a burst of laughter from the sofa: the candlestick strikes bone. The crack sends Jivan stumbling back down the corridor, turning handles until he finds a jasmine-scented bathroom, with gold taps and a wall of mirrors that reflect him in fives, flushed, dripping, fish with no water, beast with no oxygen, human with no value here.

  Hugging the toilet bowl he vomits JD, makhani, JD, mango kulfi, JD, rice, salmon sashimi, coronation chicken, brownie and five-spiced ribs with corn. It was Devraj, with a candlestick, in the bedroom! He makes himself sick again, head bathed in sweat, resting his cheek where his ass should be, the face of the beaten man swimming in front of his eyes. He retches on his own laughter, tears, on half-digested chunks of whisky-soaked food, until all that comes out is clear, bitter bile.

  §

  WHEN SITA WAS A CHILD, she would beg me to let her stay up for Tuesday Parties. She called herself the hundredth and one knight. Of course, I could not allow her to mingle alone with my boys. Instead I devised a game. Gargi-Radha, stand in line. What is two times two? What is two to the power of five? Subtract thirteen times nineteen from twenty times two hundred and fifty-one. Whoever answered first, correctly and could show their workings, won the right to take Sita to the party. How this game delighted them! Then, How much do I love you? I would ask.

  This much, they would reply, holding their arms out, wide as their smiles. And so, I allowed one of them to take Sita to the party, for one hour only, and on the promise they would not speak to anyone. If Gargi took her, the extra instruction was no dancing. If Radha took her: no eating. For Sita, nothing was out of bounds.

  It is getting dark outside. The scent in the air is of smoke. From burning coal-pots perhaps. I’m cold and tired. Am I seeing things? Above my head an angel is floating. If I reach, I can almost touch its feet. I wonder if it is male or female. I could check its parts but I suppose it doesn’t matter.

  I wonder why no one comes to serve me. Perhaps they know I am beginning to tell my story, and they don’t want to interrupt.

  Now, the most winning stories always have the same cast of characters in one form or another. There is a set of twins, or double-beings, a trainee architect, a father, or uncle, or brother, a desirable sister with no self-control, and of course, incestuous love. There is always a narrator: an old man in a pickle factory, sitting on his chutpoy reading Dickens in the old English language, framed by a picture of the Taj Mahal. The settings are new worlds, the language tricksy. Pah. Making up words and full of side-splitting doubt. What is the value of such stories? Expensive paper and lies.

  My story is a simple one, come closer if you can. The language you understand it in is not the one I am speaking. It contains elements of truth, the genius of ancients, and some more modern influences. It is priceless, and therefore free for all.

  As a young man, I used to travel all over the country, gaining support and strength. I used to take my Godson, Jeet Singh, Ranjit’s real boy, with me, for I wanted him to learn. Sometimes I took my Hundred as companions and guards. But always I was surrounded by stupid fools and sideways types. Government chorwale, Company thieves. Always trying to take something, always wanting something. Always I was giving away something. This is a man’s lot. And what did I get? An embarrassment of daughters. A shame of sisters.

  I admonished them to get up early, sharpen their pencils, wear shined shoes. For the elder two, morning exercise and critical studies: see how the other behaves, watch and report to me. Did they both greet the
ir elders with respect? Did they serve lunch politely and tirelessly? Did they both show modesty and dignity? Girls these days think it’s modern to show their legs, to have sex on movie screens. To shuck off their fertility as if someone else will do the needful. They want to live like men. But what do they know or care for my responsibilities? I warned my girls: above all, remain pure. Do not attempt translation, the most dangerous of all acts.

  While the girls were being schooled, my boys would come to me and say, Bapuji, we worship you. Teach us to become rich in bank and body. They all would say that. And I imparted everything I knew to them. I didn’t have such support when I started out. My father was the Laughing Maharaja of Napurthala, loved his wine and dice and look what happened? Left me with nothing and from that I made all this. And who am I? Gandhiji, Churchill, Reagan, all these men, they are no different from me. My country in my hands.

  There are very few men who can deal with such pressure, such responsibility. That dead fellow down there, he could not fulfil his task without falling. The Company I built sprung from my brain, my heart, my limbs. I took what I learned at my father’s knee, and won myself a string of palaces and car collection to boot. A wife, a shawls business, the threads that weave a myth. There are many ways to occupy. Kashmir. Me, my Company, mine.

  iii

  Vomiting freshens his head. Gold tap running, Jivan splashes his face and rinses his mouth, careful not to swallow. He needs a way out. He tries not to walk in circles, turning, turning until he reaches the chessboard atrium. Through the long windows he can see men swaying to the music, arms around each other, ties loose on their necks. There are crates overflowing with empty bottles and smeared china, towers of used glasses waiting to crash to earth.

  He turns around to see Gargi. Jivan notes the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, the beauty spot high up on her left cheekbone, punctuating her eye. Her arms are full of small, silver boxes. There is a man behind her.

  —Are you OK? Gargi says. You look a bit, I don’t know, vague.

  —Jetlag and partying don’t mix, maybe. I could use a time out.

  She peers at him.

  —Maybe you should go back to Ranjit Uncle’s bungalow. Or I can have something brought for you from there. Although – you didn’t travel with much.

  —That was you? The unpacking?

  She nods like a girl guide winning a badge.

  —Of course. Well, I arranged it. Jeet told me you were coming. I could not believe it. I feel so bad that all these years – I wanted to call you and your Ma for my wedding but my husband Surendra, he’s super conservative. Super.

  She shifts the boxes in her arms, they knock together, remind him she is busy doing, not just being.

  —You’re a doll, he says.

  She snorts.

  —You are, he says. But I’m interrupting something.

  —Ah no, Uppal and I were just organising some tasks for the Engagement Packing Committee. Uppal?

  The man behind her gives a small bow.

  —He’s my right hand, Gargi says. She pauses, looking at him with that kind, appraising smile of hers, as if judging how good he has been. Jivan, she says. You definitely need a drink. I mean of water. Uppal, let Jivan help me with the boxes. You go check in on Radha and report. Jivan, come.

  When Gargi says come, he will. In the gloom, the smooth brown piste of her back is the only clean thing he has seen all night. At every corner she turns and smiles, all he does is follow. The junglewhoops of Devraj’s boys recede as they plunge into the house.

  —It’s good to get out of the scrum, Jivan says.

  —Oh, they’re just messing about, Gargi says. You must have got up to all sorts of bad behaviour in US, no? Little Jivan all at college. What was it like? Girls and partying and all that. You must have some secrets?

  —Sure, he says. My secret is… I don’t have any secrets.

  They reach a door, Gargi opens it. The dark hallway surrenders to a brightly lit white foyer. Five doors lead from it.

  —Where to now? he says.

  —Jivan, just hold these for a second.

  He finds his arms full of boxes. Papier-maché, painted silver and traced with delicate flowers and vines, with leaves and tiny birds of paradise. The kind they sell in the white hippie shops on the outskirts of campus, burning incense among the purple bruises of tie-die sarongs.

  —Careful, the insides are gold-plated.

  He struggles not to drop any.

  She punches a code into one of the doors. It opens to a scene from the monitors in the bunker: a studio space full of Company women, busy packing golden ladoos into more boxes. And over there, putting the boxes into plastic sleeves and over there, tying each one with a Company ribbon and finishing with a deep red seal stuck on. Sita’s name embossed in gold.

  He is relieved of his boxes, given a bottle of Company water and a misshapen ladoo from the reject pile; he walks with Gargi down the rows as she explains each step in the production line.

  —Just one question, teacher-Ma’am,

  —Yes? Gargi says, hands on her hips.

  —Where is Sita, exactly? Jivan says.

  —Come.

  Now he follows her back to the foyer, through another white door and into dark. She claps her hands once, twice. Lights rise on a red velvet cinema, seating only about fifteen in plush chairs. Gargi flops into one, the yellow dress frothing around her. He sits next to her, arms draped over the seat, hands nearly touching hers.

  —It’s soundproof, she replies. No one can hear you scream. Don’t worry, I’m joking.

  —Are you? he says.

  —I just wanted to, you know, catch up a bit. We can do that, can’t we?

  She smiles. Jeet told me about your Ma. I’m so sorry. She was always full of stories. Like the Arabian Nights.

  He wants to crawl into her lap and weep. She is the only person who has said this to him since it happened. Would she let him?

  —She would have loved seeing you like this, he says. Boss lady.

  Gargi’s head goes down.

  —Jivan, I got married. I don’t dance and sing any more.

  Saturday afternoons in the old Company house, watching Gargi and Radha learn with Ma to sing notes and scales; mouth work, throat work, breath work. The sound they produced, Ma said, would begin with release, pass by imitation and move towards art. He and Radha never got past screaming before Ma would send them both away. They would leave Gargi practising, controlling the climb up the ladder of her own voice until she was sweating and hoarse and Ma let her go – to her next tutor, linguistics or accounts or whatever.

  —Ma gave up singing too, when we went to the States, he says. She never publicly performed again.

  —Jivan, that is so sad, she had such a beautiful voice. It was so unfair that you got sent away. But perhaps better for you, no?

  —Gargi, do you really want to talk about this?

  —Sorry, she says. She rests her head back on her seat but her fingers pleat her dress. You know how I spent my day? Packing ladoos. For Sita’s engagement: we are meant to be announcing soon. Fifteen thousand gold-plated Company embossed Kashmiri jewel boxes made by Shi’a artisans, the finest painters and craftsmen, last of their kind. Each box lined with velvet, six perfect, sweet ladoos in each. All for family pride. That’s one thing I thought we would always have.

  An image of the servant’s battered face blooms in his mind and he almost retches again. Nanu on the sofa. Gold hitting bone. Should he spill that he saw Devraj, her father, beating a servant to a blood-spitting mess just because he felt like it?

  —Do you ever get time to watch movies? he says. Shouldn’t you be outside at the kitty party?

  —Ha, ha. It’s not a kitty party, per se. Those are for girls’ afternoons. You want to go back outside, just tell me.

  He shakes his head.

  —No sir. Those guys are animals.

  She shrugs.

  —Like I said, it’s normal Tuesday stuff, Bapuji’s chosen
ones. But what about the girls these days, all Radha’s friends? All they do is go gymming, go to the parlour, get make up, hair and all done, I mean, how do they do that? How do they look like, you know, movie stars all the time? Her hands go to her face and stretch the skin, her eyes become slits and her mouth all teeth. Unaware how graceful her movements are, even doing this.

  He takes her wrists and lowers her arms. She looks like herself again.

  —You aren’t old. Gargi, come on. I know I’ve been gone for years, but even I can tell something is up.

  Will she speak? She looks at her wrists. His hands as her bracelets. Then back up at him. Her eye makeup is a touch crooked.

  —I should get back outside, she says. Party-party, no?

  —Sita’s welcome home party, he says. So I hear. But I haven’t seen her since she was little.

  Gargi slumps in her seat.

  —Right.

  —Is this something to do with Kritik? I was in the security bunker. This afternoon. I saw him after lunch. He shouted at me. Said he was quitting.

  Gargi twists her hands out of his grip and stands up.

  —One afternoon and you think you know everything?

  —No, of course not, he says. Just seems like things aren’t all party-party…

  —OK, fine, Gargi says. Sita’s gone. Her own path, like the liberated woman she should be. But this is India. We don’t go about any whichway, even less so if your family name is Devraj.

  —Slow down, he says.

  —Jivan, did your mother never use the word ‘sharam’ to you? Of course not, why would she? We girls are stalked by shame from the moment we are born. We cry to escape it. Then we are caught.

  —I know ‘sharam’. I am it. Remember? ‘Jivan the back-yard boy’.

  —I never called you that, she says.

  She sits again, puts her palms up on her knees. Her voice becomes soft – almost, he thinks, with defeat.

  —It’s different. You got sent away by default. Sita has gone. By choice.