THE MAGICAL PALACE (40 page)

I left for the garden, searching for the comfort of the gulmohar tree. Climbing up to my perch, I looked around at the limbs covered by leaves. It was too early for the sweet-scented, bright orange-and-yellow flowers. I knew I would never see my tree in full bloom, burning with a sunset-gold fire, ever again.

Everything was changing so fast … It was all falling apart. Angry, I yelled and rocked the branch I was sitting on, back and forth, kicking it in frustration until it creaked in protest. I stopped, ashamed of taking my frustration out on my old friend. I was not looking forward to going back to the palace if my parents were still fighting.

But when we sat at the dining table, it was as if nothing had happened. They had made up.

‘Are you preparing well for your exams?’ Baba asked me as I passed the vegetable curry to him.

‘Yes, Baba, I am.’

‘Good.’ He nodded his head approvingly. ‘Don’t let Ranjan get higher marks than you.’

I thought bitterly of how Ranjan and I were barely civil to each other in class. I would never be able to explain all that had happened in the last year to my parents.

May 1974. Hyderabad.

One evening, as I was studying for my exams, the phone rang.

‘Rahul, get the phone.’ Ma was busy in the kitchen.

I ran to get it. It was Anjali Mashi.

‘Nomoshkar, Anjali Mashi,’ I said.

‘Rahul, where is your mother?’ Anjali Mashi trilled.

Ma came to the phone.

‘Oh, this is such good news,’ she exclaimed. ‘So, she is in Madras now? Did she tell you where she is staying?’ As Anjali Mashi responded, Ma covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered to my father, ‘Mallika is well and in Madras. She is working there and has her own place.’

She returned to the conversation with Anjali Mashi. ‘How is Binesh Dada? Oh, let him be angry. He will come around in time. So when are you going to visit her? Next month? Good. I have told you this before and I will tell you again—destiny must be fulfilled. If she had stayed with Sanjib, he would have killed her. You saw her poor health and depression yourself. Don’t worry, Anjali Didi. Have faith in Ma Durga, she will take care of Mallika. Shyamala is still very young, it is too early to worry about
her marriage. Times are changing. It is not as it used to be when we were young.’

She was happy for the rest of the evening, singing her favourite Lata Mangeshkar songs. Her melodious voice floated through the palace rooms, reminding me of Madhubala in
Mughal-E-Azam
.

Relieved, I went back to study in my room. It would be the last room to be disturbed since I needed to use it every day. Every other room was topsy-turvy. The move had been set in motion. Furniture had been removed and packed by careful hands. My mother had packed the crockery and glassware herself—she had put each egg-shell-thin porcelain dish and cup, wrapped up in newspaper, with great care in the big, sturdy metal trunk. Large crates filled with packing materials and straw lay piled up in the empty servants’ quarters and the carpets had been rolled up. Our voices echoed high up in the rafters in the bare rooms. The hands of the clock were moving, faster and faster, inexorable, towards the day we would be leaving Mint House forever. Each day, when I returned from school, the rooms looked a little emptier than before.

I came first in the examinations again.

‘Congratulations,’ Ranjan said to me in class after the results were announced. He had heard that it was my last day at HRA; he was probably overjoyed that, with me out of the way, he would now be the undisputed king of the class. He had come a very close second in the finals.

‘Thank you, Ranjan,’ I said, feeling wary.

‘Will you write to me?’ Ranjan surprised me again.

‘Yes, I will, if you do.’

‘Of course, Rahul, I will,’ he said. ‘Here, let me write my address down for you. So, who will be living in Mint House after you leave?’

‘Oh, no one. The palace is being demolished. And the gardens too.’

‘What a pity! I will miss all the fun we had during the Day Spend there.’

‘Yes, I will too. Oh, the school bus is here. Time to go.’ I was remembering happier times spent with Ranjan and realized that I would miss him.

I watched the old school bus as it approached, its familiar blue and gold colours bringing a lump to my throat—I would not take this bus again. I looked around me, at the symmetry of the buildings, the scalloped doorways, the clock tower, the carefully tended gardens, the playgrounds and, in the distance, the honeysuckle covered changing room where I had first touched Shubho. I was going to be leaving all of this behind. The pain hit me like a wave crashing through my carefully cultivated nonchalance.

Goodbye, HRA, I whispered in my heart as the bus slowly lurched out of the campus, wheezing as it approached the road. I ran to the back of the bus and stared and stared out of the window until the spires and domes of the school were eclipsed by the gates and walls. A plane getting ready for its final descent roared overhead, the twin propellers making a faint whirring sound that quickly receded.

I looked at the faces of the boys around me. Some were from my class, some from other classes. They were all excited about the school year being over and were chattering merrily. ‘Happy hols!’ they cried at every stop as someone alighted. The months of summer vacation stretched out ahead, a time to have fun, play and relax. For everyone except me. I had already spent the last summer I would have in Mint House and would be in Bombay soon.

‘Happy hols, Rahul!’ my friends shouted to me as I got
off the bus. My schoolbox, battered and dented, bumped loudly against the open doorway for the last time.

As I walked up the driveway, I saw that three huge trucks were parked in front of the palace. The veranda was filled with trunks, crates and numerous cardboard boxes. Men heaved and grunted as they moved the heavy stuff, scraping the mosaic of the marble floors. Many of the packages containing glassware and furniture bore stickers saying ‘Fragile: Do Not Drop’. My parents were directing the operations.

I walked through the palace. It looked and felt forlorn and deserted, the way empty houses always do. The air was heavy with a sense of abandonment. The back rooms of the palace were open today, including the box room. Windows and doors that had not been unlocked in decades were flung wide open. They would never need to be closed again—we were leaving the next day, and the demolition crew would be starting its work the very same week.

I could not bear to hear the hollow echo of my footsteps as I walked around, dragging my fingers along the walls. Memories of my childhood were imprinted on them. On one wall was a picture that I had drawn with a crayon at the age of six. My mother had strategically placed an almirah there, to cover the spot; now, with the almirah gone, the drawing stared sadly at me. On the veranda post were marks made by Ma from when she measured my and Rani’s height every few months … I went to the back of the palace and climbed up the back stairs, taking them two at a time, smiling as I remembered my abject fear of only a year ago.

Colonel Uncle’s door was open and I walked in. The apartment was empty. I went from room to room, shouting,
‘Colonel Uncle, Colonel Uncle!’ But there was no reply. The beautiful ruby-red Persian carpets were gone. So was the bust of Apollo and the kitchen’s gleaming copper-plated pots and pans. I was suddenly gripped by fear that I would never see Colonel Uncle again.

I walked out to the terrace and went into the room of the bats. I looked up but could not see a single one. The smell of bat urine was still fresh. I walked through the dry droppings and rotting, partially eaten fruit, looking for them to no avail. I walked out into the sunshine, the air above the terrace shimmering in the heat. The waxy green leaves of the peepal shivered in the slight breeze and the koel started its fevered call.

Colonel Uncle appeared suddenly. He was wearing tan cotton slacks and a light cotton bush-shirt, holding a brown paper parcel in his hand. His face relaxed into a smile of pleasure when he saw me.

‘Rahul.’ He held his hand out to me. I walked over and took it. ‘I thought I heard your voice,’ he said. ‘I am leaving today. All my furniture has been packed and moved.’

‘Where did it go?’

‘I sent it all to the palace in Rajasthan where I grew up. It will be safe there. I cannot take it all with me to Italy.’

‘Take me with you, Colonel Uncle.’ I clung to him, momentarily forgetting all about my parents and Rani. He was the only one who understood me.

Colonel Uncle smiled indulgently at me. ‘When you are a young man, you will visit me, won’t you?’

‘Yes, I will.’ I was determined to do as I wished as soon as I was a little older. ‘Where are the bats, Colonel Uncle?’ I asked as I remembered the empty room.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I went to the bats’ room and there was not a single one. They should be resting in there, shouldn’t they?’

‘Actually, Rahul, I have not seen them for the last two days. I usually wake up before sunrise and see them flying in as the sun comes up. But not yesterday and today. They must know.’

‘Know what?’

‘That their home is about to be destroyed.’

‘So where are they? Are they going to be all right?’

‘Whoever guides them is taking care of them, Rahul, don’t worry. I remember when I was young … In the hunting season, the deer would hide in the sanctuary of the nearby swamiji’s ashram. He was a devotee of Pashupati—Lord Shiva, the protector of all animals. The swamiji was an old, loving man, covered with ash, and the little children were terrified of him because of the markings on his forehead and the gigantic trishul he carried. But the animals knew he would protect them. Somehow, they know these things.’

I nodded, reassured. ‘So, you will write to me, Colonel Uncle?’ I asked.

‘Of course I will. Here is my address, written on the back of this parcel. This is for you,’ he said, handing the parcel to me.

‘What is it?’ I said, holding the gift carefully.

‘Open it later, when you get to Bombay. And make sure you don’t lose my address.’

‘I won’t, Colonel Uncle.’

He gave me a long hug. When he stepped back, his eyes were glittering with tears. He squeezed my shoulder so hard that I winced. He swallowed hard a few times, then stood upright in a military fashion and gave me a quick nod, as if he were saluting an officer. He turned away and walked
briskly towards his rooms, his back straight and his carriage erect. At the door, he stopped, turned around and waved. Then he vanished into the darkness of his apartment.

As I went downstairs, I felt like I was being torn away from everything I was familiar with. I wanted to run away, right then, away from loss. But I went downstairs instead, for our last meal at the palace—khichuri with fried potatoes—quick food that was easy to make and eat. Food for the times when one’s whole world was ending and a new one was about to begin.

I carefully put away Colonel Uncle’s package with my clothes in the trunk. It would go with us in the train. Our bulky pieces of furniture would take two weeks to reach by truck.

The beds had been dismantled and packed up. So I slept on a makeshift mattress made by my parents that night, my last night in the palace. I looked up at the dark ceiling and the shape of the fan as it lazily rotated, the blades throwing darker shadows on the walls. The bedroom felt like a cavernous shell without the usual furniture.

I had a vivid dream that night. At first, I thought I was in the Salarjung Museum, the rooms full of antiques and valuable bric-a-brac. The carpets covering the marble floors were thick and luxuriant. There were gold-framed paintings on the wall. There was no one around. Then, as I looked at the open door and recognized the portico framed by the gigantic pillars, I realized that I was in the sitting room of the palace. The ceiling was covered with glittering gold leaf. Huge chandeliers hung from it, the rainbow lights casting a rich kaleidoscope of colours on the walls. I wandered from room to room, passing a floor-length painting on the wall. The ornate gold frame held the picture of a handsome
prince with a jewelled turban on his head, his eyes dark and mischievous. He was dressed in rich silks and brocades and the ruby on his turban glittered. It was the same prince, the sulky prince who sat in the carriage as it rolled out of the driveway because his grandmother would not allow him to live there. The prince moved as I did and I realized that I was looking at myself—the painting was a mirror.
I
was the prince. I had always known it, and here I was, dressed in all my finery. As I glided through the palace, I found myself in the box room. But this was no cobweb-covered room with dim lighting. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling sparkled and the murals on the wall were glowing. In the middle of the room sat a familiar box full of books. I opened it, looking for the book that I knew lay at the bottom. I pulled out piles of books by Erle Stanley Gardner, James Hadley Chase, Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare, but there was no sign of the book that I was looking for—the book by Barbara Golding. Instead, at the bottom of the box, I saw a brown-paper parcel, just like the one Colonel Uncle had given me. I knew what it was even before I tore it open. I recognized the sepia print, the cracked brown leather and then the photograph of Colonel Uncle and Claudio. On the back of the frame, written in a bold and strong hand, were the words: ‘To Rahul, the sweet prince of the palace. Think for yourself and you will be strong enough to face the world. And always follow your heart.’

From the veranda, the gates were visible in the far distance, but the sentries were gone. In the garden, the birds were twittering, butterflies flitted from flower to flower and insects hummed in the grass. And then, a huge black cloud arose from the trees. Crows, finches, sparrows, pigeons, peacocks, egrets, wild hens, lapwings, koels and many
other birds—they all rose in a mighty tumult, letting out loud, painful cries. The branches of the banyan shuddered and shook, the palms quivered, the rich canopy above the driveway trembled with the force of thousands of beating wings. Feathers wafted down as the birds flew away in a flurry. Another black cloud emerged from the top storey of the palace. Thousands of bats joined the birds, swooping through the sky and fanning over the palace grounds. And then, all at once, they were gone. The garden grew deathly quiet. The premonition of destruction silenced every creature, every leaf, every blade of grass.