THE MAGICAL PALACE (11 page)

My heart was beating hard as I ran to get my slippers. I could hear Rani’s voice: ‘Rahul, Rahul, where are you?’

‘Rahul, I’m leaving. Thanks, and we’ll chat soon,’ Ranjan’s voice called out and I heard Mr Bose say goodbye to my parents. I could not bear to see Ranjan and Shubho right then. A minute later, I heard the Fiat start up. It turned around in the driveway and made its way out towards the main gate. I watched the tail lights grow dim and finally disappear. A faint smell of the exhaust smoke wafted across the garden as I made my way back to the palace.

That night, as I lay in bed, I kept thinking of Shubho and the way he had looked at me. I wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. I ran my fingers over my lips and wondered if Shubho’s lips would be soft and yielding like mine or firm and hard. I wondered if his face would gently scrape mine and felt my groin harden again. Then I thought about Ranjan. If he ever found out about my feelings for his brother, he would make my life miserable. This was dangerous territory and I would have to be very careful not to let anyone know how I felt. As I thought of how Suresh Khosla and his gang would mock me and make sure that Mrs Joshi humiliated me, I felt hopeless. I thought about Shubho again and felt an unbearable craving to touch his body, to be close to him. I had never felt such longing before.

5

Saturday Evening. San Francisco.

‘I don’t want to keep talking on the phone. Let me tell you the rest in person,’ I said as I poured myself a glass of water. ‘Want to meet for a drink?’ I wanted to see Andrew with an urgency that was almost physical in its intensity.

‘Okay,’ Andrew said after a few moments of silence. ‘But I just want to hear the rest of the story. I am not coming home with you. Not that easily.’

‘Let us meet at the Tunnel Top on Bush Street,’ I said, trying to contain my excitement. ‘They make the best cocktails and it’s not too noisy. I’ll continue my story there.’

I got dressed in a hurry. Though Andrew had warned me, I was determined to bring him back. I reached the Tunnel Top in half an hour. I had walked, not wanting to lose my parking space in Russian Hill. I figured we could take a cab home if I could manage to pacify him somehow. And then I waited for the longest twenty minutes of my life.

‘Expecting someone?’ the bartender asked me with a knowing smile.

‘Uhuh.’

I stood up when Andrew walked in. He looked as strained and miserable as I felt. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the
cheek, turning away from my mouth. I hugged him, but he stiffened and I stepped back, feeling rejected.

‘What will you have?’ I asked after a moment.

‘A Manhattan.’

I ordered two Manhattans.

‘You look like hell,’ he said.

‘So do you.’

We raised our glasses.

‘To no more secrets,’ Andrew said with a grim smile.

I nodded silently, feeling a deep anxiety at the thought of spending a night without him.

May 1973. Hyderabad.

I woke up with a start the day after Day Spend—Rani was shaking me hard.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ she said rudely.

I groaned. I had been dreaming about Shubho in the garden. We were snuggling high up in the gulmohar tree, hiding from Ranjan and Rani in a game of hide and seek. It was the perfect revenge after Ranjan’s behaviour and Rani’s complicity in excluding me from the swings. I blinked as I adjusted to the harsh morning light.

‘Today is mango-pickle-making day. Mallika Didi is coming. Don’t you want to get up and get ready?’

I sat up, excited at the thought of seeing Mallika. I quickly brushed my teeth and started to get dressed. It was cool inside the palace, even though I could feel the heat building up when I went out to the veranda.

Mallika arrived just after lunch.

‘Sorry I am late,’ she said as she got out of the car, smoothing her clothes and shaking her hair out. She was
wearing a flowered skirt and a blouse, her slim shoulders and arms glowing in the sun. Her beautiful fingernails were polished ice-blue and she looked elegant and cool even on such a hot day.

‘Those hooligans are making trouble again,’ Binesh Kaku said irritably to my father as he prepared to drive off. ‘We were stuck at a blockade set up by the police in the market. A crowd of some twenty people was about to get into a fight, but the police managed to stop it. After almost half an hour, we were finally allowed to leave. We got here by making a detour around Khairatabad market. More Hindu–Muslim tension. I saw the police throwing a couple of goons into the van. They had been threatening a Hindu flower-shop owner and then people took sides and it turned ugly. The Muslims want to build a mosque extension on the holy ground of an old Venkateswara temple. Just out to make trouble. Nothing has changed after all these years.’

I thought about Salim. He would never be part of such a mob, but our parents wouldn’t believe that. Mallika looked devastated.

‘Let us go to the mango grove and spot the best mangoes to pickle,’ Rani said. She linked her arm with Mallika’s and walked off with her. I followed them quietly. Binesh Kaku’s outburst had cast a shadow on our day.

One of the most stunning features of the palace was the mango orchard. The orchard had various old mango trees. Some of them were almost eighty years old, with mighty, gnarled trunks and many, many branches. Each winter, the branches would be bare, but in spring, tiny, pale peppermint-green leaves would grow in great clusters. Soon, miniature white flowers would appear, blossoming and then turning
into little green knobs that would grow into full-grown raw mangoes in the summer.

There were many varieties of mangoes in the garden because, after all, it was a garden fit for a king. ‘Phalon ka Raja’—the King of the Fruit—my mother called the mango, using a description that had stood the test of time.

One variety was the sinduri mango, of a rich shade of green. The point where the fruit was attached to the branch, had a sprinkling of bright, vermilion red (sinduri), as if someone had taken a pinch of the powder and dusted the end with it. And then there was the Alfonso, considered by connoisseurs to be the best for sweetness and flavour and named after Alfonso de Albuquerque, who established the Portuguese colony in Goa. Perfectly shaped and bright gold in colour, it was like a topaz that stood apart from all other varieties of mango.

It was still too early to pick mangoes for ripening, but it was the perfect time to capture their tartness in pickles.

‘Rahul, go call Ma and Shankar so that we can pluck the raw mangoes,’ Rani ordered.

I sped off obediently to find Shankar, our gardener.

‘Ma, Rani wants you and Shankar to come to the mango grove,’ I said, breathless. My mother was busy drying stainless steel pots and mixing oils and spices in preparation for the pickling.

‘Go and stay with the girls. I will be there soon with Shankar,’ Ma said.

I ran back to the mango grove. As I got close, I heard a loud squeal of joy.

‘Really?’ I heard Rani exclaim. ‘How romantic! Have you told anyone yet?’

‘Shhh … No. No one knows. If Baba and Ma find out, it will be terrible.’

I slowed down.

‘So, is Salim handsome?’ Rani asked excitedly.

‘Mm … he is very handsome, just like Shashi Kapoor,’ Mallika said.

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘At Osmania College, in a political science class.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘About three months. He writes me love letters all the time. I have to hide them carefully from everyone. I am in love with him. I want to marry him,’ Mallika said shyly and yet with defiance.

‘Are you crazy? He is a Muslim. You know they will never agree to a love marriage, let alone marriage to a Muslim! You just heard Binesh Kaku talking about them. He will disown you. That is, if he does not kill you first.’

‘I know, I know. I wish these fights over the temple had not broken out. It is going to make it even harder for Baba to accept us. I don’t know what to do. I only know that I cannot live without Salim.’

‘I can’t even imagine what my father would do if I fell in love with a Muslim boy.’ Rani shuddered. ‘He would be so furious! And your father has a much worse temper than mine. What if he goes to Salim’s house and tells his father and they have a fight? He will forbid you from seeing him. He would arrange a marriage for you with someone right away. And can you imagine what all your relatives in Calcutta would say about your family?’

‘I know, I know. But I am in love with Salim, Rani.’ Mallika sounded desperate. Looking around her, she said, ‘We better stop talking about it in case someone overhears us. I will see him again tonight at the film theatre when I go with you and Rahul.’

I wished they would include me in their confidence. I thought about Amit again. It was useless to fight our parents who were so powerful and ruled our fates.

They fell silent when they noticed me and then started talking loudly about mangoes. Shankar and my mother arrived soon after.

Shankar had two vertical lines, joined together at the base, like the letter ‘U’ painted on his forehead to symbolize his devotion to Lord Vishnu. He untied a little bundle tied around his waist and offered us prasad. The laddoos were sweet and crumbly. I raised the prasad to my forehead in reverence before eating it. Rani, Mother and Mallika did the same.

‘Did you go to the temple?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, baba. I went to the temple today. We took an oath to protect our temple and defend it against the Musalmans who want to take over the sacred ground. We have to fight for Lord Vishnu.’ Shankar looked determined, his nostrils flaring with pride.

‘You have a young wife and children, Shankar,’ my mother said with concern. ‘Don’t get involved in Hindu– Muslim riots. If anything happens to you, what will happen to them?’ She softened her voice and said, ‘Let politicians and religious leaders fight their own wars. In the end, it is always the women and children who suffer.’

‘Memsahib, I have taken an oath to fight if we have to. Please don’t worry about me. Vishnu Bhagwan will protect me and all his devotees from those who wish to defile his holy temple.’ Shankar bowed his head with due respect, but his chin was set. ‘We will teach them a lesson if they do not stop trying to take over our holy land.’

Rani looked at Mallika and raised her eyebrows. I went and held her hand in silent support.

‘Where should I start, memsahib?’ Shankar dusted his hands and rubbed them in preparation.

The mangoes used for pickles would have to be raw— but not too raw, or the milk in the mango would make them too caustic. And they could not be too ripe, or the flesh would no longer be milky white but yellow. Shankar had put together a clever little contraption. He had a long pole—tall enough to reach most of the top branches of the tree. A scythe blade was attached to the top and he was able to operate it by tugging on a rope that was tied to it. When he found a mango to pluck, he used this device to cut the stalk so it would fall into the bag attached below the blade.

My mother directed the entire operation with a confidence formed from years of pickle-making. Mangoes with blemishes, those that had been partially eaten by birds or mangoes that had fallen to the ground were unsuitable for pickles. As the afternoon wore on, we went from tree to tree, picking a few specimens from each.

We got to the trees with the chusnis or suckable mangoes. These were long and thin and had large seeds. But they were incredibly sweet and full of fibres. They were no good served in slices—the best way to eat them was to roll them between your hands, making the flesh soft and pliable, then biting an end and sucking all the juices out. A little pulp came out as well, and at the end, the mango looked like a withered breast, drained of milk.

After the bag was full, we stopped. Ma took some mangoes from the bag and put them in Shankar’s tunic, which he was holding out from the waist.

‘Shukriya, memsahib.’ Shankar left, holding the bundle of mangoes to his waist.

‘Mallika Didi, will you promise to come to the ripe mango harvest?’ I asked, prompted by a sudden premonition. I did not know why, but I needed an assurance from her.

‘Of course, Rahul. I promise.’ She put her arm around my shoulders and kissed me on my forehead.

We walked back to the kitchen where the annual event was about to begin. Bengalis have their own style of making pickles. The mark of a good cook is one whose pickles never go mouldy. ‘Aachar bichar’, goes an old Bengali saying— meaning that pickle-makers need to be careful and judicious.

The kitchen had high ceilings and the walls were dark with soot from years of cooking. Large windows let in air and light and opened onto the veranda and one could see the servants’ quarters beyond. But these were empty now, since we did not have any live-in help.

There were a number of rooms next to the kitchen: storerooms, pantry rooms, box rooms and laundry rooms. The kitchen itself was large and could hold many stoves. Counters lined each side and there was a large table in the centre. The bag of mangoes lay on the table.

My mother prided herself on her pickling success. ‘I have never made a pickle that went bad or grew fungus,’ she boasted. ‘All right, children. First of all, I want you to wash your hands well and dry them carefully. Water is anathema to pickles, to be avoided at all costs. Mallika Beti, come and help me with the mangoes. Wipe them carefully—there is no need to wash them.’

Mallika reached for the bag that had been carefully placed on the table. She took the mangoes out and wiped them. ‘Mashi, how do you want them cut?’

‘Well, let’s see. For the two savoury pickles, slice them like this, along the seed. Cut the two sides into cubes and
don’t peel the skin. Be careful not to eat the raw mango, or you will get boils. For the sweet pickle, slice the mango like this, in long slices. I will make mango chutney with the seeds later. Rani, why don’t you take these small mangoes and dry them carefully? I will pickle them whole. And Rahul, sit here and clean the chaff out of the cumin and sesame seeds.’

Cumin, coriander, fenugreek, bay leaves, cayenne pepper and other fragrant spices lay in small mounds on a dry, stainless steel thali. My mother poured some mustard oil, dark and pungent, into a kadhai and it soon exuded raw mustard fumes.