THE MAGICAL PALACE (22 page)

‘Team, beware of Ellora’s tricks,’ Shubho warned us. ‘Their tactic in the first half of the game was to tire you out. You all spent a lot of time running. Now is the time when they will try to score a goal, hoping that you will not be able to defend your positions as well as before. They will play dirty. Be careful.’ With that last cautionary remark, he stopped and dismissed us. We ran out to the field to join the Ellora team.

As I walked up, I saw Suresh Khosla looking at me and licking his lips, the tell-tale sign I had come to know so well.

The second half was played much more offensively by the Ellora team, which played on our side of the field from the moment the whistle went off. No matter how hard we tried, we could not be on their side of the field long enough to score a goal. Our team was beginning to feel the pressure of playing on the defense. We were almost at the end of the game. Time was running out and we would have to score soon if we were to win. Please, please, please let us win, I silently prayed.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I saw the ball flying towards me. One of Ellora’s players had missed his block.

‘Pass, Rahul, pass to Vishal,’ I heard Shubho yelling at me from afar. I did not have time to think. I ran to the football and blocked it with my foot. I was just getting ready to pass it to Vishal when I saw Suresh Khosla coming towards me. He stuck his foot out, trying to trip me. In a moment, he was almost upon me. I could hear his breathing and see his nostrils flaring as his lips curled up in a sneer. I turned and passed the ball—not to Vishal but to Shubho—to outwit Suresh, who collided with me a moment too late. I felt the wind knocked out of my lungs as his foot tangled with mine. Both of us fell to the ground, the impact hitting me like a wall.

As I fell to the ground, I heard a roar. Then I heard the referee’s whistle blow loud and clear, marking the end of the match. I was still lying on the ground, trying to get away from Suresh Khosla. I could smell his sour sweat and his fetid breath and felt revolted. My knees were burning from the scrapes I had got when I fell and my body felt bruised all over.

They won, they won, I thought despondently, too miserable to even try and get up again. And then, I felt a pair of strong hands grip my shoulder and pull me up to a sitting position.

‘Rahul, you did it! You passed me the ball and I scored a goal!’ Shubho’s face was close to mine, his eyes shining with excitement. And then the rest of the team was upon us, shaking us, rubbing my back, slapping it. They hoisted Shubho on their shoulders and marched around, singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. I could not believe it. I had passed the ball to Shubho—and we had won!

‘I did it, I did it!’ I proudly proclaimed to my family when I got home that evening.

‘Did you score a goal?’ Rani asked.

‘No, but I passed the ball to Shubho Dada with seconds to spare. Without my help, he would never have scored. Thanks to me, Ajanta house won the cup!’

Rani looked impressed.

‘Just passed the ball but did not score a goal?’ Baba was happy but not impressed. ‘At your age, I was the football captain of our team. I hope you will make me even more proud next year. Now don’t forget to pay as much attention to your studies.’ He squeezed my shoulder. ‘I know you will always be a son I can be proud of. After all, you are
my
son!’ He smiled at me and then returned to the
Hyderabad Chronicle
editorial. I smiled back uneasily. I knew he would not be proud of me if he found out what Shubho and I had been doing together.

The next day, I walked by Suresh Khosla and his gang sitting on the lawn at school. They looked up, but did not say anything. However, I did not trust Suresh. I knew he was just biding his time. He would have his revenge sooner or later.
But I felt less threatened in class as the teasing ceased. Instead, Suresh and his friends picked on poor Arun Malhotra—a small, slender boy, who bore their taunts silently, too scared to respond and too terrified of football to ever dare to play it. I knew how he felt and was sorry for him.

With the football match over, evening practice ended and the students turned their attention to the tests and exams. I no longer got to see Shubho like I had become used to and missed him terribly. All I wanted to do was be with him again. At times, I toyed with the idea of writing him a love letter, but then the terror of what would happen if it was found would paralyse me. All I could do was spend as much time as possible close to the seniors’ building in the hope that I would see him again.

‘I have some news from Shyamala,’ Rani whispered to me in bed, a couple of weeks after the match.

I felt a rush of guilt. I had been so caught up with my life that I had thought little about Mallika. The rest of the year stretched barrenly ahead with her gone, with no trips to her home, no films to watch and no secret trysts to meet Salim.

‘Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi have settled on the boy they found a few weeks ago. They will be setting a date for the wedding,’ Rani said.

‘How does she know? Is she sure? Mallika Didi would never agree to a marriage with someone else.’ My voice rose a few octaves with my panic.

‘Shh … be quiet.’

Rani’s information was proven correct when, that evening, she and I were sitting down to an early dinner.
Our parents would eat later and were now talking in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

‘Binesh Dada and Anjali Didi have found a suitable boy for Mallika,’ Ma said.

‘Who is the boy? Have his parents met her already?’ Baba asked.

‘Anjali Didi called me earlier today. They found a good match through her relatives in Calcutta. The boy’s name is Sanjib and his parents live here, in Hyderabad. They travelled to the tea estate to see Mallika, who agreed to marry the boy. The cards will be sent out soon.’

I heard the news with a heavy heart.

‘Well, I am glad that this terrible matter is getting settled finally,’ Baba said. ‘What a terrible thing to do! That girl has caused her parents so much sorrow. I hope the wedding takes place before people start gossiping, especially that Mrs Khosla. When are we going to meet the boy they have chosen?’ he asked.

‘After the next Bengali Association meeting next week,’ replied Ma.

There was no one I could talk to about this, except Colonel Uncle. So I went up to see if he was back. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer and the padlock had fresh cobwebs on it. Colonel Uncle had not returned. I slowly walked back down, consumed by questions. Where was Salim? Was he back in college? Had his parents disowned him? I wanted to go to his parents’ house again in Lakdi ka Pul and contact him. I could not forget his sorry broken and bruised figure the last time we had seen him, even though I wanted to remember him the way he was when I first saw him—handsome, debonair, with eyes filled with love for Mallika.

As the second round of tests came around, I was very nervous. I had not been doing well in my algebra homework.

‘Glad to see you are studying hard,’ Baba said one day when saw me chewing on my pencil, deep in thought. ‘We are Bengalis and have a fine tradition of excelling in everything. Some of the finest poets, artists and writers have come from Bengal. I am so glad you have started playing sports. But make sure you do not neglect your studies. You have to be competitive. The world is a hard place and life is full of struggle. You must do well in school so that you can get a good job.’

Unfortunately, as I had expected, I did badly in algebra. Seeing the results, my father sat me down for a talk. I shrank from the signs I knew so well—the frown, the tightening lips, the clenching jaw. ‘Look at Shankar,’ he said, frustration and worry written on his face. ‘He is a gardener. Do you want to be a gardener? That is what you will be. You will be like him, tilling the ground with your trowel, while others drive by in their expensive cars to their offices. What will all my friends say? You have to do better at school. If you don’t, I will send you to boarding school.’

‘But I don’t want to go to boarding school. I want to stay here, at Mint House …’ My voice trembled and I tried to steady it, wanting to sound mature.

‘Achha. Then make sure you do well at school. No more distractions.’

I was out of danger for the moment. But with that one threat, Baba had effectively squashed all plans I had of going to the movies. The latest Rajesh Khanna film was released with much fanfare that week, but I did not dare
say that I wanted to go watch it. I had to do well in algebra and maintain my top position in class.

The following week, we were at the Bengali Association’s monthly Durga Puja Committee meeting when Mr Roy Choudhury asked me, ‘So, Rahul? Do you still want to be a film star?’ His tone was slightly mocking.

‘I want to be an astronaut or an aeronautical engineer,’ I announced. The words ‘aeronautical engineer’ sounded important and impressive.

‘Very good!’ Mr Roy Choudhury’s voice was more encouraging this time.

My father patted my shoulder appreciatively. I made a note to myself to say the right thing in the future and not share my personal opinions. ‘Rahul is on his way to being the captain of the football team next year,’ Baba declared. ‘Like a true Bengali, he has taken to football,’ he proudly announced to Mr Roy Choudhury.

But football practice would have to wait until next year. The days were growing shorter and we could no longer practise late into the evening. I did see Shubho from time to time, but aside from a cheerful hello and occasional pat on the head, he showed no signs of the special familiarity we had experienced together. It felt as if he was treating me just like his younger brother’s friend, nothing more—and it hurt each time it happened.

After we came back from the Bengali Association meeting, we dressed up for our visit to Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi’s house. My mother wore a blue sari with a thin gold border and tiny roses embroidered all over it. ‘Hurry up, Rahul and Rani,’ she said as she put on her make-up.

‘I hope Mallika Didi will be there,’ I said.

‘No, she is not, but she will be back soon,’ Ma said. ‘We
are going to meet the man she is engaged to marry. His name is Sanjib. He will be your future jamai-babu.’

A stunned silence fell over Rani and me. I wanted to say that I hated my future brother-in-law and wished Mallika and Salim could be together, but then all our secrets would be out in the open and Mallika would get into even more trouble.

‘Mallika Didi really likes this boy,’ Ma said, looking at my crestfallen face. ‘That Muslim boy is not important. Your Anjali Mashi said that Mallika Didi is very excited about this boy, Sanjib.’

I wanted to tell her about the letters I had read, but dared not. My mother believed what Anjali Mashi had told her. I felt a surge of anger against this boy who would be married to Mallika, who was doing it because she had no other way out.

‘Rahul, dress nicely.’ My mother’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘Wear that new Rajesh Khanna shirt your father bought you from his last trip to Bombay. And Rani, wear that new salwar–kameez. The purple one. We are going to meet Mallika Didi’s in-laws-to-be. You don’t want them to think that Mallika Didi’s friends don’t dress well for a special occasion, do you? Sanjib is an engineer. You can ask him questions if you like and let him know that you want to be an aeronautical engineer.’ Ma was trying hard to get us excited about meeting Mallika’s husband-to-be.

‘So what does Sanjib look like?’ Rani asked. ‘Have they met already?’

‘Yes, Sanjib and his parents just came back from the tea estate in Assam. They met Mallika there. She likes the boy and so do her parents. I am so glad that she has agreed to this.’

‘I wish Salim and Mallika Didi could marry.’ I blurted out, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Ma came over to my side. She held my hand and led me to a chair. She sat down and made me sit next to her. In a very gentle and loving voice, she said, ‘You must not mention Salim in front of Sanjib or his parents. If you do, there will be trouble for everyone, even your Mallika Didi.’ Her voice took on a more urgent and pleading note: ‘Promise me, Rahul, that you will not mention Salim. Head promise, like you do in school?’ She put my hand on her head.

That amounted to a promise which, if broken, would kill my mother. I reluctantly said, ‘All right, I promise.’

‘Good.’ Her voice held a note of relief. ‘Rani, will you promise too?’ she asked my sister.

‘Of course, Ma, I promise,’ she said.

I dressed with care for the occasion. I arranged the curl on my forehead and wore my new Rajesh Khanna shirt. Then Rani and I plotted in whispers in the back seat to not become friends with Sanjib at any cost.

Soon, we pulled into the driveway of Mallika and Shyamala’s house and the chowkidars opened the gate. I looked at them, hating them for what they had done to Salim.

‘Bloody basket,’ I muttered, using some of the worst words I knew.

‘Not bloody basket,’ Rani corrected me under her breath, suppressing a giggle. ‘It is bloody bastard, but don’t say that in front of anyone. It is a very bad word.’

‘Fuck … shit …’ I murmured. Rani stifled a snort and poked me hard in the side, warning me to keep my voice down.

Shyamala opened the door for us. She was dressed in a
lovely churidar–kurta and looked taller than usual in high-heeled slippers. Her hair was pulled back from her face and her eyebrows were knotted in frustration. As my parents walked into the sitting room, we fell behind.

Shyamala urgently whispered to us, ‘They are here. Mallika Didi has said yes. You know, don’t you, that when Salim came here, Baba was so angry that he had the chowkidars beat poor Salim up.’

‘Shyamala, Rani, Rahul … come in here. You can play later. Rahul and Rani, meet Sanjib, your brother-in-law-to-be,’ Binesh Kaku interrupted us before Rani or I could say anything.

We dragged our feet to the sitting room.

The first person we saw was an elderly gentleman, dressed in formal Bengali dhoti–kurta, the border of the fabric a classic rust-coloured pattern. He had a greying moustache and heavy, black-framed glasses. A heavyset lady sat next to him. She was dressed in a cream-coloured silk sari with a heavy red border. Her hair was combed neatly into a bun and she was wearing a red bindi but no make-up. They looked like my father’s relatives who lived in Calcutta. I felt out of place and overdressed.