THE MAGICAL PALACE (20 page)

‘Memsahib wants you to come pick the mangoes,’ I said.

‘Achha, Sahib,’ said Shankar, setting off to get his homemade contraption to pluck mangoes.

Soon after, my parents came out to the mango grove where Shankar was waiting. Rani and I were there to participate in the yearly ritual, even though, for the first time, our heart was not in it. The nagging thought of Salim and Mallika’s sadness enveloped me and I stood there, under the trees in the grove, lost in thought.

‘Shankar, let us start at one end of the grove. That one. Good, now pluck the next one, no not that, the one next to it,’ my mother instructed Shankar. I did not know how she knew which mangoes to pick and which ones to leave for later. Each mango had to be picked at the right moment, when the fruit was just beginning to turn yellow. If it was too raw, it would not ripen at all.

‘Rahul, Rahul!’ My mother’s voice startled me. ‘What has gotten into you? Why are you so preoccupied? Just like your father,’ she said impatiently. ‘I asked you to make sure that each bag of mangoes is tied at the mouth so that they don’t spill out later.’

As I tied the bags, Shankar picked the mangoes, patiently going from branch to branch and tree to tree. I missed
Mallika very much and remembered sadly how the last time we picked mangoes, for pickles, she had been there with us.

The mango-plucking operation would take days— this was just the first one. Not all mangoes were picked successfully that afternoon. There were accidents in which the mango missed its intended target—the open bag—and came crashing down to become useless. A bruised mango would always rot.

‘Rahul, call the sentries at the gate to come and help Shankar carry the mangoes to the ripening room,’ Ma ordered me.

I ran to the gate and called out for the sentries who stood at the back gate. I froze. The men were the same ones who had seen us come back unchaperoned when we had gone to Salim’s house. Oh God, please let them not say a word, I prayed silently.

They arrived at the orchard, talking in low, agitated voices.

‘Sahib,’ one of them said, with a deep breath.

‘Yes?’ Baba responded, preoccupied with packing the mangoes properly for transport to the ripening room.

‘Baby and Baba …’ the guard faltered when he saw my pale face. ‘Baby and Baba left Mint House on their own yesterday. It is dangerous out there, Sahib, and anything can happen.’

My father stopped what he was doing. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered me. ‘Rani, Rani!’ he shouted. Rani came running up, looking anxious. ‘Did you go out of the palace yesterday?’ he demanded.

‘Yes …’ we both replied together.

‘Why? Haven’t I told you to never leave the palace on your own?’

‘Yes, Baba,’ I stammered. ‘We just wanted to …’

‘It was my fault,’ Rani said.

Baba turned his wrath on her. Ma was too horrified to say anything. ‘Do you know how dangerous it is out there? You could get caught in a mob riot! Do you know that last week someone threw the severed head of a cow into the Vishnu temple in Khairatabad? There was a small riot yesterday and two Muslims were burnt alive by Hindus!’ He turned to Ma. ‘I told you it was time to send them to boarding school.’

We were speechless, afraid to say anything that would betray our mission.

‘I don’t know why you did this, and at this point I don’t care. But if I ever find out that you put yourselves in danger like this again, I will send you both to a boarding school in Dehra Dun. Now go to the ripening room and lay out the straw beds.’

As we scurried away, we heard him say. ‘This is how it starts. First Mallika has an affair with that scoundrel. And then these children start getting ideas of breaking the rules. I just don’t know what to do. What if they turn out like her and disgrace us?’

‘Do you think you can control them forever?’ Ma snapped back. ‘They will do whatever they want in a few years. Times are changing and things are not how they used to be. I am tired of hearing you and Binesh Dada constantly criticize Mallika and Anjali Didi. I have raised my children well. They can make up their own minds about how they want to live their lives when they grow up …’

We could not hear the words of his heated response as we walked out of earshot.

‘We are so lucky that today the guards changed their shift
right after we saw Salim,’ whispered Rani. ‘If Baba found out that we had gone out twice, he would demand to know why. You heard what Baba said. We will be sent to boarding school far away next time.’

We reached the ripening rooms. Shankar and the sentries had carried the mangoes in bags to the servants’ quarters, where some of the empty rooms had been set aside as mango-ripening rooms. They deposited the bags and left, without making eye contact. Everyone had heard the altercation and all of us were embarrassed.

In the mango-ripening room, on a bed of straw some two feet deep, we placed each mango carefully so as to not touch another. Mangoes that touched each other when ripening would rot. After we had laid all of them out, we covered them with straw. Then we locked the doors to let nature take its course. In the warmth of the bed of straw, the mangoes would ripen, as nature had intended. But we had also set other wheels in motion—Salim would surely rescue Mallika, now that he knew what had happened …

8

August 1973. Hyderabad.

First of August came too soon and, with a flutter in my stomach, I watched the old school bus as it appeared around the corner. The blue paint on the side of the bus seemed to have faded, though it was still the same royal blue. The letters HRA emblazoned in gold were a stern reminder that the new school year had begun. The wheezing bus stopped with a tortured squeal. I stepped on and looked around. The bus was full of students already—some excited and others quiet, all dressed in brand-new school uniforms.

‘Hey, Rahul!’ I took a seat next to Ranjan and smiled. ‘How were the rest of your holidays?’

‘Very good,’ I replied smiling back, suddenly excited about meeting my other friends but also somewhat worried about the curriculum. This year, I was going to start algebra for the first time.

‘Make sure you come first in class this year. I don’t want to hear any nonsense about wanting to be a film star—or no more films for you this year.’ Baba had been stern, his reading spectacles perched on his nose, the newspaper spread out in front of him as he drank his tea. He had overheard me
telling one of his friends, Mr Roy Choudhury, that I wanted to be a film star and was livid that I would even consider this as an option. We middle-class Bengalis had only three career options—engineer, doctor or lawyer. He wanted me to be a decent, upstanding member of society having a respectable career. Just in case I was not clear about these expectations, I was made aware that the stakes were high, even before my first day at school.

But studies were not at the forefront of my mind right now. I was looking forward to seeing Shubho again and spending more time with him alone.

The bus hit a pothole and the jolt flung me from my seat, bringing me back to the present. ‘I had such fun at your house at the Day Spend. Shubho Dada mentioned that you will train to be on his team this year,’ Ranjan was saying as he slammed into me, both of us struggling to stay seated. The bus creaked and shuddered violently as the driver tried to avoid more potholes.

‘Oh, good!’ I could barely hide the glee in my voice.

‘You, of all people, playing football is something I don’t understand,’ Ranjan continued. ‘You have always hated sports.’

‘I am sick of being teased by Suresh Khosla and his gang. I will show them,’ I retorted.

‘You know what they say …’

‘What?’

‘Once a girlie boy, always a girlie boy. Remember what happened in class last year with Amit Puri? Hope nothing like that happens again.’ Ranjan pretended to vomit.

My hands turned icy.

‘Yes, it is better you don’t draw too much attention to yourself.’ Ranjan smirked as if he knew a secret.

‘Can we just forget it? I mean, all that stuff. It will be different this year,’ I snapped.

The bus turned into the gates of the school. The Hyderabad Royal Academy stood in front of us, the domes and spires rising up to the sky, surrounded by freshly mowed lawns and immaculate grounds.

The first day of school flew by quickly as we opened unfamiliar textbooks each hour. The teachers were new as well. Our Anglo-Indian class teacher, Miss D’Souza, was a beautiful, tall and confident lady. She had bobbed black hair and wore knee-length dresses to school with smart, patent-leather pumps.

‘Did you see her legs?’ Suresh Khosla asked Ranjan excitedly at break time, licking his lips in enjoyment.

‘Yes, I did. I would love to look up that frock,’ Ranjan said, his eyes glinting with an excitement I had never seen before. ‘Watch me drop a pen and look up!’

‘That is so rude. Why would you want to do that?’ I said, disgusted.

‘Oh, Rahul, you are too immature to understand these things,’ Suresh said. He and Ranjan laughed, as if sharing a secret. ‘You will understand someday—one can only hope!’ Suresh smirked.

‘Or maybe he will never understand,’ Ranjan quipped. They burst out laughing even harder, digging each other in the ribs and looking at me patronizingly.

A sudden feeling of alienation overwhelmed me. I wondered why they felt this way about Miss D’Souza and got so excited about girls whom I saw just as friends and sometimes as sisters. I did feel the way they did, but only about Rajesh Khanna or Shubho.

The whole week slipped by as I was consumed by
school and homework. Rani and I had not heard anything from Mallika or Shyamala or Salim for a month. All we overheard when we eavesdropped on phone conversations between our parents and Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi was that they were trying their best to find a good husband for Mallika. We dared not ask any questions. Since our escapade outside the palace, we had tried not to provoke my father any further.

‘I wish we could go and see Salim again. Do you think he tried to reach Mallika Didi?’ Rani asked me as we sat down to do our homework. I had just finished the first round of tests.

‘I don’t know. Wish we could find out. Did Shyamala say anything to you at school?’

‘No, she didn’t. She is very quiet these days. She told me she is too scared to mention Mallika’s name at home because Binesh Kaku gets into a terrible mood. All she knows is that they might have found a boy for her. Mallika must be so angry and sad, being forced to get married like this. I would refuse to marry if I were her. I don’t understand why she does not run away! I wish we were old enough to do something.’

‘Oh no! Did Mallika Didi agree?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think they have told her yet. Shyamala wants to warn Mallika Didi, but does not know how.’

We lapsed into an unhappy silence.

Over the next few weeks, we did not go out much because we were forced to study and do homework. I rarely saw Shubho at school since his classroom was in a different building. I did pass him once, on my way to the gymnasium, as he walked by with his posse. I wanted to hang around
him and be his friend, but I did not have any idea of how to go about it. I procrastinated when it came to starting football practice, afraid to draw attention to my lack of talent, but events finally forced my hand.

I had a choice of gymnasium or football. Gymnasium practice was easy. We could spend the entire class running up to the horse and vaulting over onto an overstuffed mattress or climbing a rope. There was no danger of being pushed and kicked by other boys. But the football players made fun of those who attended gym class.

I was on my way to the gym when I heard a taunting voice say, ‘Hey, Rahul, sissy boy! Are you too scared to come and play football? Only girls learn gymnastics. Why don’t you come and play football?’ It was Suresh Khosla, unusually belligerent as I walked to the gymnasium, past him and his friends in their football gear. His podgy and pampered face leaned threateningly towards me. He grew red with excitement as I shrank back from his jibes.

He turned to his friends, licking his lips. ‘Yaar, Rahul must be a homo too, I say!’ He spat. His friends snickered.

‘Oh, leave him alone. Yaar, he is such a sissy. If you tease him any more he will cry,’ one of his sidekicks said, pouting like a girl. The gang burst out laughing.

My body tensed as I feared that I would be expelled like Amit if the teacher heard them calling me ‘homo’. And then I would be sent for shock therapy and become like Amit, a dull, slow-moving person that people stared at. Shubho would never look at me again, except in pity. I had to apply myself to football. I would do whatever was needed to prevent a showdown.

I was nervous as I stood outside Shubho’s class that afternoon. ‘X C’, it said above the door. The senior boys
were bigger than me and I wished that my body was more developed like theirs. Some of them almost had moustaches while others had clearly started shaving. Their voices were low-pitched and manly. The school bell clanged, signalling the end of a period. The teacher sailed out of the door, her sari billowing behind her as she strode towards the teachers’ room, holding a sheaf of papers in her arms.

And then, like magic, he was there. My tongue felt swollen and stuck to the roof of my mouth. Shubho walked by me with his friends, his arms around their shoulders.

‘Shubho,’ I said weakly. He did not hear me. I could not call him ‘dada’ at school. That was an out-of-school practice. The suffixes of respect were used in the Bengali social context; in the context of an English-medium education, everyone was called by their name alone. Just like the personal connection we had shared, they did not belong in school, in the presence of classmates.

‘Shubho,’ I repeated, much louder this time.

He turned around and, disengaging from his friends, walked back to me. His brows moved up quizzically and he flashed me a broad smile. ‘Hey, Rahul,’ he said. His eyes became soft for a moment and my breath got caught in my throat.

‘Shubho,’ I said softly, ‘you said I could start football practice with you this year.’

He threw his head back and laughed, delighted that I was going to join his team. ‘Wonderful, Rahul,’ he said. ‘Report to practice this week. We practice every Tuesday at 5 p.m. If you play well, you can be on the Ajanta team. How would you like that, eh, Rahul?’ He slapped me on the back and rejoined his friends.