THE MAGICAL PALACE (19 page)

‘Ammijaan, this is Rahul and this is Rani,’ he said, avoiding looking at his mother. ‘They are friends of my good friend Aziz from college. They were on their way home and decided to come and knock on the door. They have been here with Aziz before.’ He turned to us. ‘You will be late. Come, let me take you outside.’

We said our goodbyes as he quickly ushered us out of the room.

‘Khuda hafiz, Aunty,’ both Rani and I said.

‘Khuda hafiz, Munna aur Munni,’ Salim’s mother said, her eyes narrowed and she went back inside.

We walked out of the cool sitting room into the bright afternoon sunshine.

‘Salaam, Salim Baba,’ the rickshaw puller called out, saluting him again.

‘Take good care of Munna and Munni,’ Salim said to him. ‘Make sure they reach home safely. They are my friends.’

I thought about the dangerous mob we had seen as I turned to look at the gate behind us. Salim looked incredibly sad and shocked as he stood at the door, his hand raised to us in farewell. Both Rani and I had been filled with anticipation at the idea of seeing Salim, but now it seemed that he and Mallika would never be together again.

‘I wish Salim would tell his parents about Mallika Didi so that they can go and talk to her parents,’ I told Rani. In the films, sometimes the heroine’s parents did go to the hero’s parents to persuade them to agree to a marriage.

‘Don’t be so stupid,’ she said. ‘Hindus and Muslims can never get married. Remember what Ma said?’

‘I hope we can make it outside Mint House again tomorrow,’ I said.

‘We have to.’ Rani’s voice was urgent. ‘This is the only chance for Salim to write back to Mallika Didi.’

I looked out of the rickshaw. We were back on the bridge, crossing the canal with pigs wading in black slush.

‘Which road shall we take? There are fights at Khairatabad …’ I said to Khan Sahib.

‘No worry, Sahib,’ he said. ‘I take home this.’

We went back through the same slum. As we headed towards the Khairatabad road, Rani whispered, ‘If we get stuck in the mob again, we will get off and run through it. Make sure you hold my hand and keep the money ready to pay the rickshaw puller.’

I put my hand in my pocket and clutched the five-rupee note. A strange burning smell was in the air. It smelt like singed hair. The street was almost empty now. A few policemen were walking up and down. Khan Slahib pedaled as fast as he could, muttering ‘Ya Allah,’ under his breath as he shook his head dolefully, looking at a heap of burnt rubbish.

I saw a claw extending from a heap of burnt cloth. As I stared at it, the form took shape. Gnarled and blackened, it was clearly a hand—the burnt cloth hid a human body.

‘Oh, God!’ I whispered.

‘My God!’ Rani’s voice trembled. She leaned over the side of the rickshaw and retched.

The rickshaw puller slowed down, but I waved him on, anxious to get away. The stench of burnt flesh stayed with us even as we entered the proper Khairatabad Market area. I held Rani’s hand. Both of us were shaking.

Soon, we could see the canopy of treetops and the tall palace walls in the distance.

‘Look, Rani’ I said, pointing to Mint House. ‘We are almost home.’

Rani nodded in relief.

‘Roko, roko,’ I said, asking the rickshaw puller to stop before we pulled up to the palace gates.

He stopped and got off the cycle rickshaw. I gave him the five-rupee note. The rickshaw puller said, ‘No, Sahib, I will not take money from Salim Sahib’s friends. I used to take Salim Sahib to school when he was as old as you. He is like my son.’

‘No, no. That is not right. He must take the money.’ Rani was insistent.

We argued briefly and then the rickshaw puller reluctantly took the money, then pulled away. We were a few hundred feet away from the palace walls.

As we approached the gates, the sentries sprang to attention.

‘You cannot go in there …’ the sentry started to say, until he saw me and Rani, recognizing us. ‘Salaam, Sahib,’ he said in surprise and snapped to attention.

‘Salaam,’ I said and we walked in.

As we neared the palace, I could hear Baba’s voice booming: ‘Rahul! Rani!’

I felt a stab of terror. ‘What will he say if he finds out we had gone by ourselves to Salim’s house?’

‘He won’t,’ Rani replied. ‘Let us run to the far side, to the dhobi ghaat, and pretend we were playing there.’

‘All right,’ I said. We ran to the dhobi ghaat, ducking behind bushes and trees. We saw our father standing in the distance on the back porch of the palace, under the wrought-iron stairs that led to Colonel Uncle’s house.

‘Rahul … Rani …’ he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

‘Coming!’ we yelled back in Bengali.

‘Oh, there you are,’ he said, exasperated, when we finally reached him. ‘Where were you? Your mother is worried sick. She woke up a while ago and has been looking for you the whole time. What were you doing at the dhobi ghaat?’

‘Just playing,’ Rani said.

‘Well, come inside. It looks like it might start raining again,’ he said.

I looked up. It looked like the sky was going to be dark as night very soon. Purple-grey thunderclouds had begun to gather on the horizon. The wind was picking up, leaves and twigs starting to stir on the tennis courts and the stairs leading to the back porch.

‘Thank God it has not rained yet. We would be in such trouble if we were gone in the rain. Baba and Ma would be furious! Can you imagine what would happen if they knew we were almost in a riot?’ I whispered to Rani.

She gave me a look of warning and motioned to me to keep my voice down.

‘Why are you walking so slowly? Your mother is making her special Sunday snacks for us,’ Baba said impatiently, looking back at us. ‘What have you been doing, Rahul? Wash your hands first, they are filthy. Then go help her set the table.

I looked at my sticky hands. The grease from the sides of the rickshaw had stained my fingers and worked its way under my nails.

‘Nothing …’ I muttered and ran towards the bathroom, where I scrubbed my hands and nails.

The storm that night did not bring torrential rains. It was dusty and dry. Over dinner, the mango trees shuddered with dry heaves, waiting with parched impatience. Their branches were heavy with fruit ready to fall.

‘It is time to ripen the mangoes,’ my mother said, ladling out the dal on my plate at the dinner table. My father nodded.

‘Rahul, tell Shankar to be ready at five o’clock tomorrow.’

I nodded as I thought of the mango rooms full of ripening fruit, their sweet smell overpowering. I had been waiting all summer for this time—a time of unbridled pleasure, when I could savour the delights of the different kinds of mangoes in the garden. But after the events of the day, I did not care.

That night, I felt very grown up as I lay in bed. I had gone outside alone without my parents, with only Rani beside me. The world outside was threatening and dangerous, but we had survived the trip. I felt a strange surge of strength and power—a good thing. I would need it.

The next day, we fidgeted about impatiently. The afternoon could not come around soon enough. Rani and I crept out to the back of the house. I opened the smaller door and walked out with false confidence. Rani followed. We did not make eye contact with the men on guard; they were not the same ones on duty the previous day. We hurriedly went around the corner and waited for Salim. I
looked around for a familiar figure, smartly dressed in the usual jeans and T-shirt.

‘Is that Salim?’ Rani clutched at my arm, her voice in a horrified whisper. I looked over to the person she was pointing at. I saw a man in a rumpled kurta–pajama, unshaven, his hair unkempt, dark shadows under the eyes. I was shocked. It was indeed Salim. But gone was the Salim I knew, the confident, upbeat and charming Salim. This Salim looked beaten by life, his shoulders stooping, his face twisted in a bitter grimace. He came closer and then we saw the oozing, purple bruise with an angry-red, split-open mouth in the centre. He winced as he raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His face was covered with scratches, his lip was cut and swollen, crusted with dried blood. His kurta was torn in several places and stained with mud. He looked like a hideous, frightful version of Salim. This was a face that would haunt me forever.

‘Hello, Rani, Rahul,’ he said, his valiant attempt at a smile awkward and painful. His lips barely turned up at the corners and no light touched his eyes. ‘I have a letter for Mallika. Please give it to her.’ His eyes held a look of deep pain and sorrow—he looked like a dog that had been cruelly hurt.

‘Salim, why don’t you tell your father to talk to Mallika Didi’s father?’ I said. Maybe Salim’s father could make a difference.

Salim gave a bitter laugh. ‘My father? Help me? I told my parents yesterday about Mallika. They were very angry. My father threatened to throw me out of the house. I went to Mallika’s house to talk to her father. He came out and had the chowkidars beat me. We had a terrible argument and I left. I spent the night at my friend Aziz’s home. I have not
been home since we fought …’ His voice cracked with pain and he stopped, biting back his anger and tears.

We listened in silent horror and shock. ‘So what are you going to do now?’ I asked. I was in awe of Salim’s bravery. I would never have had the courage to say anything to my father, let alone to Binesh Kaku.

‘I don’t know. Mallika has asked me never to contact her again,’ he said, and the quiet desperation in his eyes frightened me. He took out a letter in an envelope. I heard the sound that I knew so well, as his shaking hands gripped the letter. He put the letter in Rani’s hand and put a hand on each of our shoulders. ‘Help Mallika contact me when she returns, all right?’ His voice broke and he turned away. We watched him walk away, his shoulders hunched over like an old man’s. We watched him until he disappeared into the crowd. He never looked back.

Rani’s hand tightened on my arm. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said. We walked back without another word.

Rani went to her room to hide the letter for Shyamala. I followed her. ‘What has he written?’ I said. ‘I think we need to know what he is planning to do. Maybe we can help him.’

Rani took out the letter with trembling hands. The emotionally charged meeting with Salim had shaken us both.

We both felt the raw torment in his letter. Suddenly, I felt the need to see Colonel Uncle and ask him for help. I went to the back of the palace and climbed the wrought-iron staircase. This time, I paid scarce attention to the terrace, the resting bats or the squirrels that scattered as I tore through. I knocked on Colonel Uncle’s door. There was no sound. I knocked harder, praying for a stentorian voice to say, ‘Who’s there?’ But there was nobody home. Colonel Uncle was not back yet from his trip, I realized with a heavy heart, and I had no one to confide in.

Reluctantly, I went downstairs. I walked around the palace, through the lawn and to the gulmohar tree, and sat down in the comfortable nook by the branches, leaning against the solidity of the tree trunk for comfort. I thought of Salim and his grief and of Mallika—the unfairness of it all was overwhelming. There had to be a way out, but what? No answers came. I wished again that this was a film, a film where Rajesh Khanna would find a way to solve the problem. But there was no Rajesh Khanna here, just us and our parents, who ruled our world mercilessly. Lost in my thoughts, I slowly drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep …

‘Rahul, Rahul, where are you? Ranjan is on the phone.’ My mother’s voice floated across the lawn. ‘Where is Shankar?’

I jumped up with a start. It was probably five o’clock already. I ran to the palace to take the call.

‘Hi, Rahul! We are back.’ I was thrilled to hear Ranjan’s voice after such a long time.

‘Hi, Ranjan. You did not reply to my letter. Did Shubho Dada come back with you?’ I bit my tongue, wishing that I had not blurted out Shubho’s name in such a hurry.

There was a pause. ‘Yes, he is back. He has gone to see Anamika.’

I felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Well, I will see you next week,’ I mumbled. I desperately hoped that Shubho would remember his offer to coach me for the football team.

School would start soon. I felt a sense of excitement as I thought about seeing Shubho again, even though I would hate the end of my freedom once term started. He was going to be the football captain and I could not wait to join the team. I thought of him in the Ajanta House colours, yellow and green, a striking figure with strong legs as he dribbled
the football from one end of the field to the other … A burst of desire rushed through my body.

Shankar was sitting at the back of the palace, under the employees’ bicycle shed next to the back gate. He was smoking a bidi along with the sweepers.

‘Salaam, Sahib!’ Shankar jumped up, throwing the bidi away. It lay next to his foot, sending up a blue-grey plume of foul-smelling smoke.