THE MAGICAL PALACE (2 page)

‘Wait, there’s a lot to this story, and I haven’t got to it yet. And no, we weren’t royalty, but I did have the privilege of living there because my dad was a government servant,’ I said. ‘The palace had two storeys and forty rooms …’ It was going to be hard for Andrew to understand how different my childhood had been from his; he had grown up in a tree-lined suburb in the Midwest.

I put on a kettle of water on the stove and then curled up in my favourite armchair, just like I used to in Hyderabad, except that this one was bigger. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and, like the vision in my dreams, my magical palace appeared before me, so clear that I could reach out and touch the wrought-iron gates, see the sunlight glinting off the bayonets of the sentries who always stood at attention, warning the world to stay out.

‘It was like a jewel in the midst of the thirty-acre grounds,’ I continued. ‘Tall pillars lined the facade and
there was a large portico tiled with marble. The palace was surrounded by orchards, woods, a wading pool, a lake, ancient trees and all kinds of birds and animals. I had lived in the palace since I was born. It was the only home I knew. I wish you could have seen it …’ I swallowed the lump in my throat because Andrew would never see my magical palace. ‘So much happened that year, but the palace never lost its magic.’

‘How did your family end up living in a king’s palace?’

‘Because of my father’s job. Even though there were several myths surrounding the palace, I know for sure that it was built for the fabled Nizams of Hyderabad in 1880. It lay unused for several decades until the Indian Government decided to use it as officers’ quarters.’

‘The Nizams?’

‘The Nizams were one of the fabled dynasties of India, known for their incredible wealth. Here’s something that might interest you: in the 1940s, the Nizam was featured on
Time
magazine as the world’s richest man.’

‘Wow. That’s incredible. So you got to stay in this guy’s palace?’

‘No, probably his great-great grandfather’s palace. But they never lived in it. There’s a fascinating legend about why it was abandoned before anyone moved in.’

‘Lucky you,’ Andrew said, and I breathed a sigh of relief that my story had caught his fancy and the tension between us had lessened palpably. ‘Can’t imagine what that would be like,’ he continued. ‘I grew up in a small house on the outskirts of Cleveland. Wasn’t the palace falling apart after being abandoned?’

‘Actually, most of it was in decent condition. But yes, part of it lay in ruins. Anyway, when the government
took possession of all property owned by kings after Independence, it renamed the palace Mint House. They cleaned the place up and made it the official living quarters for the Mint Master—the person in charge of the India Government Mint. My father was the Mint Master, and so we lived in the Nizam’s old palace. As far as I was concerned, it made me a prince.’ I laughed, and Andrew chuckled. But the kettle started whistling, its strident sound harsh in the fog-muffled afternoon, breaking the mood.

‘Tell me about your childhood,’ Andrew said, his tone growing serious again. ‘From what little you’ve told me, you were a happy kid. Then why are you so tormented? Sometimes, you know, I feel like a stranger is sleeping next to me. At least you’re lucky you didn’t have to deal with living in two homes and being used as a pawn by your parents! God, I hated how things changed after their divorce.’

I took the kettle off the stove and poured myself a cup of tea. ‘When I was growing up, the only people who got divorces were film stars and models. We were middle-class folks and divorce was just another word for a loose woman. Growing up, we didn’t know even one divorced couple. All our friends lived in families that remained intact despite the fact that not all the marriages were happy. Our parents had all had arranged marriages—no one questioned the system.’ I paused, my mind running through my perfect childhood and family experience until I turned thirteen. ‘My father was a patriarch, you know. Born and raised in West Bengal. Which means he was very traditional and very strict—not a fan of western influence. He was absolutely clear about what we were supposed to achieve in school and later in life, and negotiating with him about these things was not an option.

‘My mother, on the other hand, was quite easy-going and very sophisticated. She was an independent and modern-thinking woman, but she kept her ideas to herself and avoided getting into arguments. On one thing, both of my parents agreed: they expected nothing less than top marks at school from my sister Rani and me.’

‘Sounds rough,’ Andrew said.

I laughed and continued. ‘Rani was, even then, poised, clever and very quick-witted. We argued and fought endlessly, and she always won by some means or the other. She defended me fiercely from the outside world, but when the two of us spent time together, she completely dominated me. I guess the fact that she was two years older made her feel all confident and assured—she was, I’m afraid, a bit of a know-it-all.

‘Mr Banerjee was my father’s best friend. And his wife, Mrs Banerjee, was my mother’s confidante. Their daughters Mallika and Shyamala were close friends of me and Rani.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Is this all too confusing?’ I asked.

‘A little—I don’t know who these people are. But go on.’

‘When I was growing up, there wasn’t the kind of money in India that there is today.’

‘It’s kind of hard to think of India as anything other than a major world player,’ Andrew said.

‘Well, everything was quite different in those days. I mean
everything
. There wasn’t much money and India was not engaged in world commerce in any way. No call centres or outsourcing operations! Society was segregated. People of different religions—or even different castes—were not supposed to marry each other. If they crossed those lines,
there were severe consequences. And some things haven’t changed—we still have honour killings.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. But that’s another story. Basically, the India of my childhood was a different world from the India of today. Anyway, let me tell you how it all began, the end of paradise in my magical palace …’

And so I began my tale of a time and place that exist no more.

2

April 1973. Hyderabad.

‘Pay attention, Rahul!’ A resounding slap on the side of my head accompanied that whip-like warning as Mr Swaminathan glared at me. My ear and head throbbed with pain.

I was in the seventh class, and it was my first year at my new school. And, as usual, I had been daydreaming about Rajesh Khanna, the famous matinee idol. In my mind, I was watching him in
Anand
, the film that started it all for me. Rajesh Khanna had never looked as fine as he did in
Anand
. He pouted and did this irresistible thing with his eyes, looking away and gently tilting his head towards his upraised hand in a move that kept his fans rapt with joy. I loved that moment—and in my private fantasy, it was just the two of us, in the gardens of my home, under the gulmohar tree. He moved closer and I leaned against the trunk, eyes closed, waiting to feel his warm breath against my cheek and the soft brush of his lips, before I pulled away in mock dismay, just like the heroine.

Mr Swaminathan’s voice, however, snapped me out of my reverie. The close-clipped, military moustache that lined his upper lip shone from the thin layer of perspiration that
covered his face. Though he was of medium height, his deep voice and terrible temper made him seem larger than life. On that day, his tie appeared to be too tight around his neck and his face seemed to swell with the heat and his rising irritation. Fearful, I shrank back in my chair as he stood in front of me, grimly smacking the ruler against his palm.

The classroom we were sitting in was a beautiful one, intricate Islamic designs painted in arches around the walls. Mahatma Gandhi smiled beatifically down at us from a gold-framed oil painting at one end of the room, as did Jawaharlal Nehru from a similar frame at the other end. The ceiling fans rotated lazily, almost as if in slow motion. The hot sun blazed outside on the baked earth. A sparrow flitted from branch to branch of a jamun tree, its mouth open, occasionally emitting a distressed chirp. A fly buzzed at the window, trapped in the hot room, and the low hum of its wings filled the room, tormenting us. The playground was deserted. The building that housed the senior students shimmered in the afternoon heat, its scalloped arches etched in light and shadow in the merciless sunshine. No students were visible anywhere, for we were all trapped in class. Only two weeks of the school year were left and I could not wait for them to be over. They would be followed by the exams. And then the summer vacations would begin— days of freedom and the time to watch lots of films. But Mr Swaminathan had slapped me into harsh reality. Shaking off my sense of disorientation, I tried to focus on what was happening in the classroom.

I took a quick look around. The boys in my highly competitive class, dressed in neat khaki pants and white shirts, with blue ties looked alert, delighted to have a diversion. I tensed with frustration. They were older,
already adolescent, and picked on me endlessly. I was a year younger than my classmates since I had been given a double promotion when I was transferred to this historic school, built for the princes of the various principalities and members of the court of years gone by. I was the star student of my class and they were enjoying my punishment.

‘Rahul? I will repeat the question one more time. How is the state government different from the central government? What in the name of God are you thinking about, boy?’

Confused and dazed by the stinging slap delivered by Mr Swaminathan’s hand, I wanted to shrink from the view of my classmates. In horror I heard my voice say, ‘Rajesh Khanna …’

Ranjan Bose, the boy I thought was my best friend, could not repress a snicker.

‘Did you just say Rajesh Khanna?’ Mr Swaminathan’s voice was icy. Apparently I had said the name loud enough for the entire class to hear. ‘My, my,’ his voice was scathing, ‘so obviously film stars are more important than the civics class.’

My stomach knotted in confusion and humiliation. A few muted titters rose in small waves behind me.

‘Silence!’ Mr Swaminathan’s voice thundered and the class fell quiet.

‘Stand up and hold out your hands,’ Mr Swaminathan barked at me.

I stood up slowly, fearing the punishment. Rajesh Khanna had deserted me. I held out my hands. Swish! The ruler came down, slicing the air in an angry arc, followed by another smack and yet one more. I swallowed my pain, trying to hold on to my pride and not cry out. My ears
burnt with shame as the rest of the boys in the class laughed softly, unable to keep their pleasure at my humiliation to themselves. The ignominy of my punishment was worse than the burning brands of pain left on my hand. I fought to keep the hot tears that threatened to spill out from coursing down my cheeks.

Mr Swaminathan, fortunately, seemed satisfied with the punishment. Perhaps he was feeling somewhat compassionate because it was almost the end of the class. Or maybe he had to finish teaching the last chapter before the end of the session. He continued his lecture, his voice droning on: ‘The Panchayat seestem is the seestem of village administra-yay-shun, by yelected villagers.’ His strong South Indian accent drilled into the summer afternoon. The students soon forgot about me. Now that the entertainment was over, they all had a glazed look in their eyes.

I looked out of the window. In the distance, the football fields looked lush and green. The welts on my palm sent daggers of pain shooting up my arm, reminding me that I needed to pay attention. I reluctantly tried to focus on the lesson, hoping that the rest of the class would finish without any further incident. Without thinking, I looked over at Amit, who glanced back at me.

I felt another surge of embarrassment at having been humiliated in front of my hero. Amit was fifteen and the captain of the cricket team. He had won countless matches for the school and never made fun of me like the other boys did. I wanted him to pick me to be his friend, but naturally, I never dared to approach him. Instead, I watched him wherever I could—at cricket matches, at elocution competitions, at football games. I would hang around,
hoping to be able to say, ‘Hi, Amit!’ and get his attention for a brief moment before he turned around to laugh at what his friends said.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. The headmistress, Mrs Joshi, swept into the room, looking grim.

The entire class went silent at once.

‘Follow me to my office please, Amit.’ Mrs Joshi’s voice was deathly cold.

Taken aback and curious, we wondered what she could possibly want. Her calling the class hero out like this did not make any sense. Amit looked surprised for a moment, but then he shrugged. As he stood up, his chair scraped the stone slabs of the floor, sounding unnaturally loud in the silent classroom. His khaki pants were bunched up and wrinkled at his knees in the heat and his white shirt was crumpled, the tails escaping from the back. He placed his notebook and pen on the desk and followed Mrs Joshi out. So did Mr Swaminathan. As soon as the door closed behind them, all the boys started talking.

All around the room, everyone was speculating about why Amit, the class idol, had suddenly been called to the principal’s office. Was he in trouble?

Suddenly, Suresh Khosla got up, looking very pleased with himself. I was not surprised; he always rejoiced in the misfortunes of others. He cleared his throat. ‘Silence, boys,’ he said grandly, clapping his hands to get our attention, ‘I know what has happened.’ With a sly grin on his face, he said, ‘Amit wrote a love letter to Rohit. Rohit showed it to me after football practice. And I told Mrs Joshi.’

As soon as Suresh had said this, there was a huge commotion. ‘Arre, yaar, Amit is a bloody homo!’ several of the boys shouted indignantly. I did not understand what it
meant or why everyone was getting so upset. The class got quiet again when our geography teacher walked in.

‘What is a homo?’ I whispered to Ranjan. He looked at me with scorn, delighted by my ignorance. Lips curling, he spoke in a patronizing voice: ‘Amit wrote a love letter to another boy. Of course he is a homo. It’s not normal.’ Grimacing, he pretended to vomit.