THE MAGICAL PALACE (28 page)

Once again, we drove across town to Banjara Hills and I pined for Shubho—I had not seen him in ages. I wished I could go to see him and breathe in his warm male smell again. Feelings of sadness mixed with the excitement of seeing Mallika again as we approached her new home.

Sanjib lived with his parents in a small, charming bungalow. The chowkidar jumped to attention and opened the wooden gate for us when we drove up. It was like stepping into an arboreal haven. The lawn was well-maintained, there were flowers blooming in geometrically precise beds and birds twittered in the well-tended trees. The sun was setting in the horizon and the evening was peaceful here, far from the bustle of the old city. An Ambassador was parked in front of the house.

We jumped out of the car even before it had stopped fully and raced to the door. We pressed the doorbell and I hopped impatiently, ready to ring the bell again. I was waiting for Mallika to come to the door, elegantly dressed as usual. Instead, it was Sanjib’s father who opened the door.

‘Nomoshkar, Ganguly Babu,’ my father said from behind us.

‘Nomoshkar, Uncle,’ Rani and I repeated.

‘Nomoshkar. Arre, why are you standing outside? Come inside. Have some tea. Sanjib, Bouma! Come and see who is visiting,’ he called out to his son and daughter-in-law.

We were welcomed into a sitting room lit with tube lights. The furniture was old but nice. There were lots of pictures of Sanjib in frames—Sanjib as a baby, Sanjib as
a toddler, Sanjib in various stages of growing up, more recent pictures of Sanjib, including a large one of him with Mallika. Her face was decorated with sandalwood dots and she was covered in garlands of flowers as she looked down demurely. I remembered the last time I had seen her, when I had hugged her after the Shubhodrishti, and my heart grew heavy.

The curtains parted and Sanjib came in, looking very severe. He was wearing a white cotton kurta–pyjama and those wretched Bata sandals with thick straps that all Bengali babus wore. He was quiet and respectful to my father as he greeted him, dismissive towards us. The smell of fish frying filled the air, flavoured with the pungent aroma of panchphoron seasoning. Smoke from the incense sticks favoured by all Bengali households, Sugandha Shringar, also wafted through the curtains.

‘How was the honeymoon?’ My father’s voice held a hint of teasing.

Sanjib put his head down, looking embarrassed, and said, ‘It was wonderful, Mesho. We had a really good time. But Mallika was a little tired and ill most of the time. I wanted her to go with me and see the sunrise on Tiger Hill, but she did not accompany me.’ He sounded a little resentful.

‘I think the stress of the wedding and the travelling was too much for Bouma. Sanjib, you must be a little patient with her. After all, she is in a new home,’ Sanjib’s father said.

I could hardly contain my impatience to see Mallika any more. I expected to see her come floating through the curtain, ethereal, light, dressed in another exquisite summer frock, her legs and feet slender and bare, her nails perfectly painted.

The rustle of a sari indicated that Sanjib’s mother was on her way. The curtain parted. A woman came through with her head covered.

‘Nomoshkar, Mashima.’ I jumped up with my hands folded and head slightly bowed.

‘Rahul, Rani!’ The voice was unmistakably melodious. It was Mallika. I stared at her in shock. She looked happy to see us, but spoke in a measured tone I had never heard before. She was wearing a cotton sari with a brightly patterned border. She bent down and touched my father’s feet.

‘Shukhe thako,’ Baba said, blessing her and wishing conjugal peace and happiness.

I was taken by surprise yet again. Mallika had never touched my father’s feet or covered her head before.

She sat down rather demurely near me, her head still covered, the border of the sari framing her beautiful face. She looked like someone else—with her hair severely pulled back, a broad streak of sindur in the parting, her wrists covered with gold bangles and bracelets made of shell. The white of the conch shell bracelets was startling against her smooth brown wrists.

She held out her arms to me and said, ‘Come here, Rahul.’

I reluctantly walked over to this strange, new Mallika and was hugged by her. I was acutely conscious that I was in the presence of strangers. The cotton sari felt hard and starchy on my bare legs, scratching them. Mallika’s body felt foreign, swathed in so much cloth. She held me tightly, as if I were the only connection to the old life she had. I looked at her, but the edge of the sari hiding her face was like a barrier between us.

‘So, how are you, Rahul?’ she asked as I disengaged myself and sat down next to her. ‘Look at you. Growing into a young man already, taller, and all this new fuzz on your face! Are you still reading Enid Blyton books? I miss playing board games with you.’ She sounded strained, unused to having a conversation with me in front of Sanjib and his father.

‘Fine, Mallika Didi,’ I said stiffly as my voice cracked, fully aware that everyone could hear me. ‘I am reading …’

I was interrupted by Sanjib’s voice. ‘Get them some cha, Mallika,’ he ordered imperiously, just like I had heard Mallika’s father order her about.

I wanted to talk to her about everything that had happened—about the mangoes and Colonel Uncle and Salim. But I sat there, not speaking a word, in that sitting room, with Sanjib, his father, Baba and Rani, as Mallika got up and walked with measured steps towards the back of the house, obedient and docile.

‘Tell Sanjib Dada what you want to do when you grow up,’ Baba prompted me, beaming proudly.

‘An aeronautical engineer,’ I said, the words sounding false and hollow.

‘Very good,’ Sanjib said approvingly as he turned to my father to say something about melting metals in the foundry.

Mallika soon came back with a tray in her hands, cups of steaming hot tea, Parle Gluco biscuits, sandesh and masala-coated peanuts piled upon it. Mallika served her father-in-law first, then my father, then Sanjib, and then, finally, Rani and me, following the hierarchy of age. I kept quiet and watched her going through the motions—it felt as though Mallika was there not as herself but acting out the role of a newlywed Bengali bride, with me as her audience.

‘So, Mallika, are you going to finish your last year at college?’ my father asked.

‘Yes, I would love to. Then I can get a job …’ Mallika brightened up and sounded enthused for the first time, but Sanjib cut in and spoke for her.

‘We are thinking of having a child soon. And then Mallika will be very busy. Besides, she does not need to work. By the grace of God, I have a good income.’

Mallika’s face dimmed again. The awkward silence that followed was punctuated only by the clinking of tea cups on saucers as we ate the snacks, with nothing to say.

‘Well, it is later than I realized,’ Baba said suddenly.

I jumped up gratefully and we left after the required farewell greetings.

‘Why was Mallika Didi so quiet? And why was she dressed in that heavy sari?’ I asked my father. ‘She never wore saris at home before.’

‘Bengali brides wear saris. Unless Sanjib allows her to wear frocks or salwar–kameez, that is what she will wear. It is not respectful to the in-laws to talk too much or jump around like an unmarried girl. You must not expect your Mallika Didi to run around with you like she used to. You will understand all this when both of you grow up and get married.’

I looked at Rani’s stricken face in silence.

One evening a couple of weeks later, my father showed up with a large package wrapped in newspaper. We always knew when our freshly tailored clothes arrived because the print would be in Urdu, not English or Hindi.

‘Rani, Rani!’ I yelled at the top of my voice as it broke
with excitement. ‘Our clothes have arrived.’ My voice had started breaking a lot and I could control it best when I spoke in a low tone. I repeated in a lower octave, ‘Our clothes have arrived.’

I tried to undo the knot that held the package, but it got tighter. I started ripping at the newspaper.

‘Please don’t behave as if you have never seen new clothes before in your life, Rahul,’ Rani admonished me, all lady-like as she got a pair of scissors and cut the knot. She opened the package with deliberate and maddening slowness. I could not wait to see the clothes.

Oh, the joy of seeing the Rajesh Khanna jacket—folded and ironed, the smell of new cloth, the newly sewed-on buttons, the stiff collar—was almost too much to bear. I shook out the jacket, held it against my body and ran to the mirror to look. I loved it. It was silky and creamy and elegant, just as I had imagined it. A few bits of thread still clung to the cloth—Hussain Sahib had missed them in his final cleaning—but I didn’t care. I looked at the stitches and the hem—they were perfect! I turned my eyes to the shirts and trousers and was thrilled anew. I could not wait to wear them.

Rani, having abandoned her lady-like manners, was hooting with joy as she danced around the table with her shararas.

‘You better take me to the sari shop,’ my mother said to my father in a mock-threatening voice. He had already received his Puja clothes. They had been sent to him from Calcutta by our relatives. My mother would get a selection of saris—rich silks from South India, finely woven cottons from Bengal or voiles from Bombay—from her favourite shops on Abid Road.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ my father said, playing along.

I generally loved this time of year. Everyone was excited and happy, ready to banter and have fun. The year before, Mallika and I had taken two servings of prasad one day. The prasad was distributed at the end of each day and the portions were substantial. But we had wanted more and had accepted prasad from two different people to get double helpings. At the back of the tent, we had hurriedly stuffed our mouths, choking with laughter.

But this year, despite the new clothes and my excitement about them, I knew that things would be different. In spite of the gaiety and sweets and celebrations, everything had changed. Mallika would be with Sanjib. I would be alone.

11

Sunday Evening. San Francisco.

The log in the fireplace had burnt down to a few dying embers. I had not noticed that the apartment was almost dark. The fog-shrouded darkness outside muffled the rumble of the cable cars. They were running at thirty–minute intervals due to the Sunday-evening slowdown. Shrouded in shadow, Andrew’s face was inscrutable. I looked at him, searching for a sign that he was opening up to me again. But all I could see were his eyes, staring at the fireplace, deep in thought and reflecting the fading light.

‘Let me turn on the lamp. It’s too dark in here.’ I got up and stretched. Andrew did the same. I turned on the lamp in the corner and set the thermostat to heat the apartment.

Andrew went to the bathroom and came out a few minutes later.

‘Want a glass of Pinot?’ I asked, knowing that he seldom said no to his favourite wine.

‘Sure. As long as you have one too.’

I took this as a good sign. Pouring out two glasses, I handed him one and set mine down on a table. I removed the fireguard and put a fresh log in the fireplace. As I blew
on the embers, the dry log caught fire and soon a warm blaze lit up the room. I placed another log on top of the first one, replaced the fireguard and then sat down next to Andrew.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

After staring at the fire for a few minutes, Andrew looked at me. ‘You know, Rahul, it is hard to imagine how women’s lives change once they get married in your country. It is not as if they are being denied education or a fair upbringing. But what is the point of that if it is all going to change after marriage? I mean, giving up one’s profession, education, dreams … is so
unfair
. And then being forced to go live with a man she has never met must be so traumatic. What if the man turns out to be a jerk or have an intolerable personality? Living with strangers and in-laws could be hellish!’

I laughed. ‘Some things are universal. Of course in-laws are tyrannical. That is the pecking order. The in-laws torment the weak new bride. After they die, the no-longer-new bride becomes the matriarch and repeats the cycle all over again.’

The log suddenly crackled with an explosive sound. I jumped, my knee pushing against Andrew’s, and he almost spilt his wine.

‘Whoa … steady!’ he said.

‘Sorry. That took me by surprise,’ I apologized. It was time for me to return to my tale. ‘There is a lot to tell you still …’

October 1973. Hyderabad.

Durga Puja arrived in late October, and I greeted it with mixed feelings. On the day before the formal installation
of the idols, Baba took Rani and me to see the statues of Goddess Durga and her children at the pandal. When we got there, the finishing touches were being applied. The artists were hard at work in the glare of spotlights. Bare-bodied and sweating, dressed in dhotis shortened and tightened around the knees, they were adjusting the hair, jewellery and clothes of the idols. We stared in awe and admiration.

On the first day of the puja, at the installation, the gods were welcomed in a special ceremony at the altar. The festival was too important and too big to be ignored, even for Hyderabad Royal Academy, which was closed for the last three of the five days of celebration.

The first two days of Shasthi and Saptami led up to Mahashtami, which was the main day of worship. On Saptami, I raced home after school and did not have to do any homework. Like most Bengalis, we waited for Mahashtami to go to offer our prayers. On that day, we rose early and, after a quick vegetarian breakfast, went to the site of the puja. There was a pile of slippers and shoes at the entrance to the pandal and we left ours there too. Men in billowing white dhoti–kurtas and women in flowing tussore silk saris with red borders sat on the carpet. The women’s feet were painted with alta, the traditional red stripe of colour that bordered the base of the foot in a thick line. Children in new clothes ran all around as the priest recited prayers.

The sacred chants rose to a crescendo, leading to the Pushpanjali, the offering of flowers to the gods, as the dhakis drummed a hypnotic and pulsating beat on their dhaks. Fragrant smoke from burning frankincense billowed through the pandal. Durga was flanked by her family. Ganesh looked placid and benevolent like his two sisters. But it was Kartik’s sculpted body and handsome face that caught my
eye—I stared at him, at the line of his belt around his slim hips, and then turned my eyes away, feeling ashamed of my desire for an idol.