Under the Jeweled Sky (27 page)

Jagaan arrived at the guardhouse shortly after sundown. He had had trouble sleeping that morning, the family next to his cramped lodging room making all kinds of racket while he pulled a pillow over his head and tried to shut out the noise. Then, in the afternoon, he had queued for an age at the post office while the man behind the counter took his merry time with each exasperated customer. The night shifts had taken their toll, turning everything upside down until daytime took on the unnatural curve of an unworldly dimension. Nights had become Jagaan's realm, beginning as the sun sank and dusk filled the city, the moon climbing slowly from east to west then sliding out of sight, leaving only the stars whose stories he had long forgotten. And then the blackness would begin to give way to the deepest sapphire blue before fading to lilac, then pink, then orange as the sun stretched wearily over the fog-bound rooftops of the old city.

Bhavat Singh opened the door of the brazier and pushed in a knot of wood.

“It's going to be another cold one,” he said, straightening up and rubbing the small of his back. “But I shall be in bed with my wife, enjoying her heat.” He flashed Jagaan a manly smile.

“How was the day shift?” Jagaan asked.

“The guest from number four left this morning. He came to the guardhouse and gave us a tip. Here's your share.” He took ten rupees from his pocket and gave it to him. “Don't tell Veneet. I'm not giving him any. He never lets on when anyone gives something to him.” Jagaan thanked him and pocketed the note. “Now I'm going home to my family.” He slapped Jagaan on the shoulder. “To spend some time with my wife and children. That son of mine is quite a handful and runs his mother ragged. My wife complains that she works ten times as hard as me just chasing around after him. I told her she has nothing to complain about, although between you and me, I'm glad I'm not the one who has to deal with him all day long.” Bhavat Singh looked at Jagaan's drifting expression and laughed to himself. “You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you? Maybe one day you will be married and have a son and then you'll know what it's like to get home and walk into a lion's den.”

“I too have a son,” Jagaan said quietly. “He is nine years old and has the energy of fifty men.”

Bhavat Singh stared at him, his breath snagging, unable to conceal his immediate embarrassment. “Why didn't you say something?” He put a hand to his head. “Why didn't you tell us you had a wife and child? How could you let Veneet speak to you like that? I would have knocked him out cold rather than hear such insults as a family man.”

“I didn't say I had a wife.” Jagaan went to the brazier and poured himself a cup of chai. Bhavat turned away in discomfort.

“Oh,” he said. “I'm very sorry.”

Jagaan studied Bhavat Singh's face in the reflection of the window. It carried the same expression he had seen so many times before, jumping to the same conclusion. A dead wife, for there could be no other explanation. Not that he had ever explained himself to anyone. Why should he? It was nobody's business but his, and his business was not yet concluded. He had thought that he would never see her again. To his shame, he had given up all hope. He cast his mind back to the day his infant son had first been put into his arms, a well-fed bundle with soft round cheeks and a silken cap of jet-black hair. It had taken his breath away, and he had seen Sophie so clearly in his son's golden face. There was no news of the mother, they had told him. Over the following months, Jagaan had exhausted every avenue he could think of, pestering Mr. Shirodkar, the neighborhood advocate, to send letters to the Red Cross or to the shipping companies requesting passenger lists, all of which yielded nothing. “There is no finding someone who does not want to be found,” his uncle had said to him on the day his son had taken his first steps. Those early years in Amritsar had been the hardest, Jagaan asking himself the same questions over and over. He had had a long time to think about it, and two things carried no doubt in his mind. He loved her with every grain of his being, and she loved him too. He was sure of it. There would be a reason why things had turned out the way they had; it was the will of the gods, so he would wait, just as he had promised to wait for her his whole life if that was what it took. He would wait, and keep faith, and never give up hope.

It was the last Saturday of June this year, another summer beyond hope, and Jagaan had tried hard to think of Sophie less. The sun had been merciless, beating down over the city, the Golden Temple shimmering in the searing heat, molten in the glare. His uncle's workshop had felt like a tandoor, sweat pouring from them as they worked through the morning before abandoning all physical exertion as the sun burned higher and staked its claim on the day. Mr. Shirodkar had seen the notice in the
Times
of
India
. The name he had never once forgotten in eight years, and suddenly there it was, right in front of him, in the newspaper announcements. Mr. Shirodkar had left his house without finishing his breakfast, walking more quickly than any man should in such heat, heading toward number seven Kim Street. He had shown the newspaper first to Jagaan's uncle, Parvesh Gupta the shoemaker, even though Parvesh Gupta could neither read nor understand English, then they had taken it to Jagaan. After kissing his son good-bye, Jagaan had left Amritsar with his family's blessing and half his uncle's life savings.

“Your son is at school?” Bhavat Singh's manner had altered in an instant, his voice now respectful.

“Of course.”

“And…” Bhavat Singh hesitated, unsure of whether he should continue the conversation with this poor bereaved man. “He lives with your family?”

“Yes. In Amritsar.”

“Amritsar?” Bhavat Singh tipped his head in surprise. “You don't look like a Punjabi.”

“And what is a Punjabi supposed to look like?” After a moment, Jagaan smiled. So did Bhavan. They both knew exactly what a Punjabi looked like. A Punjabi looked like Bhavat Singh, and Delhi had filled up with them long ago, after their homeland was ripped in half.

“It's your eyes,” Bhavat Singh said. “I thought you might be of Afghani descent or something like that.”

“No,” Jagaan said. “Although you are not the first person to say so. My father's family came from way up in the north. He always used to say that everyone there could see in the dark.”

“Please accept my apologies.” Bhavat Singh stood before him and put his hand on his heart. “I am deeply sorry for the way we have teased you. I will speak to the others and—”

“No,” Jagaan said. “I would prefer that you do not say anything to anyone. My family is nobody's concern except mine.”

“But…”

“But nothing, Bhavat Singh.”

“Then why tell me?” Bhavat Singh frowned hard, confused by the sudden disclosure and the man's preference to endure the ignorant torment of the other guards, who liked to make him the butt of their jokes. Jagaan smiled softly to himself.

“I have a friend back home,” he said. “A Sikh like you. He is a good man. I suppose you remind me of him a little.”

Jagaan watched from the guardhouse window as Bhavat Singh left for home and thought about the wife he was returning to. She would be busy preparing their supper. He wondered if she had washed her hair today while thinking of him. If she had picked out a colorful sari and dabbed kohl on her eyes. He thought of Bhavat Singh's two children, a girl and a boy, and imagined them together in their home, warmed by a fire, climbing on their father and laughing while their mother cleared away their supper and told them to leave him alone.

A car came through the main gate. It was the man from number four. The man who lived with her and slept in her bed. The man who was rarely home and came back sometimes in the dead of night looking disheveled, skin dampened with whisky. Jagaan turned down the storm lamp, his features shadowing into darkness, and watched as the car slid by and slowed outside her gate.

• • •

Sophie stood by the fireplace, the plain tonic water in her hand jazzed up with ice and lemon, another glass waiting for her husband, laced stiffly with gin. She hadn't worn this dress since their honeymoon, thinking it far too good for everyday use. Earlier that afternoon, after a long lunch with a little too much wine, Tessa had returned home with her, and they had spent almost two hours sorting through Sophie's closet. Finding the dress packed away in layers of tissue, Tessa had gone mad over it and had asked if she might borrow it sometime to give to her
darzee
to copy. The moment Sophie put it on, she had felt cheered, and they had rummaged through her things and had a thoroughly enjoyable sorting-out.

“Darling!” She greeted Lucien with a kiss.

“What's all this?” He looked at her. “Are we entertaining?”

“Yes.” She took his hand and led him to the settee, placing his drink on the table. “I have decided that I am entertaining you this evening. Just the two of us. I've given the staff the night off and told them to go to the pictures or something. Dilip's prepared cold supper for us, so we can eat whenever we like and please ourselves.”

“Thank God for that.” Lucien reached for his newspaper and took a large swig of his drink. “For one awful moment, I thought we were going to be stuck with him over New Year.”

“What?”

“Your father. Now perhaps we'll be able to live in our own house without standing on ceremony and laboring through hours of conversation about flora and fauna.”

“Lucien!” Sophie stared at him. “What a mean thing to say!”

“Oh, do give it a rest, dear.” He opened his newspaper. “You've had your little Christmas theatre, showing us off and giving him a fine display of our life. Now he knows that you're not on your uppers or married to a ne'er-do-well, perhaps he'll leave us to get on with it.”

“That's incredibly rude of you.” Sophie felt heat rising to her rouged cheeks. “He's my father and I want him to feel welcome in our home, because he is.”

“Of course he is, dear, just not too often, please.”

Sophie stood there. He wasn't even looking at her, after all the trouble she had gone to, fixing her hair, spending half an hour on her make-up, placing a perfectly arranged vase of freshly cut flowers by the bed. And here he was, just sitting there, browsing his newspaper, ignoring her in the manner he had honed so well.

“Will you please do me the courtesy of looking at me when I am speaking to you?” she said, her voice low and even. Lucien folded his newspaper, his movements slow and deliberate, before putting it aside. Only then did he look at her, a look that made her want to cry. What had she done to make him behave like this? Had she been so wrong in her assessment of him? It wore her down, day after day, and still she could never see it coming.

“Happy, Sophie?” he asked. “Now that you have my full attention for whatever it is you are about to complain about?”

Sophie allowed herself a moment to compose herself, her heart hammering in her chest. “I am not about to complain about anything.” She spoke quietly, willing herself to stand straight and have it out with him once and for all without the evening descending into another fight. “Although the temptation to do so is sometimes very strong. My father is very important to me and I will not have you speaking about him like that. He is a good man, which is more than I can say for you at this precise moment, and I have every intention of seeing to it that he is properly included in our family.”

“What family?” Lucien picked up his newspaper again. “In case it has escaped your notice, my dear, that is one thing that we appear not to have.” He turned a page, casting his eye over it casually. “I would have thought that you might have been well on the way to producing a child by now.” Sophie stared at him, open-mouthed. “No? Well, I can't say that I haven't given it some degree of effort on my part. Perhaps you should go and see a doctor and find out what's stopping you, because either there's something wrong with you, or you're, well… Let's not get involved in conjecture, shall we?”

“I can't believe you said that.” Sophie felt her insides shrivel. “Of all the awful, terrible, dreadful things to say to me. I am your wife, and you will show me the respect that I deserve.” She felt herself shaking. “Look at me, damn you!”

“Oh, for Christ's sake.” Lucien stood up and threw his newspaper to the floor. “I won't have this. Do you hear me? I won't put up with it.”

“Put up with what?” Sophie followed him out of the drawing room, pursuing him across the hallway as he went for his coat. “I do everything that's expected of me. I run your house and entertain your friends and tell your colleagues how marvelous you are. I trot alongside the DWs like an obedient dog while being dragooned into their pointless do-gooding and petty politics. And I sit here alone for hours on end while you swan around and do whatever it is that you do while I am left here to rot. It's like a nightmare.”

Sophie felt sickened, as though glimpsing an awful moment of clarity, a small patch rubbed into a dirty window through which she could pick out the truth of what went on in the room that lay beyond. She was losing herself, drifting out to sea where no one could hear her cries, longing to feel the safety of dry land, something solid beneath her feet. Her heart was like a wasteland filled with yearning. For years, she had thought that she'd forgotten what love felt like, but she had not. It had embedded itself in her, the feeling of an emotion so overwhelming that it left her unable to breathe. How could this be love, this mournful existence of charades? It was like floating on the surface of life when she wanted to swim in it, to drown in it, to have its water fill her lungs and overwhelm her.

She stood and stared at Lucien. “Sometimes I think to myself that this cannot be happening, that it simply isn't possible that my life has become this, this
thing
.” She threw her hands in the air.