THE MAGICAL PALACE (23 page)

‘Nomoshkar, Uncle and Aunty,’ we chorused, folding our hands and bowing our heads slightly in respect. We smiled with our usual familiarity at Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi.

‘Nomoshkar.’ Sanjib’s parents smiled at us.

‘And this is Sanjib.’ Binesh Kaku, resplendent in a silk kurta– pyjama, gestured towards a lanky man. His hair was slicked back with oil and he wore the same heavy, black frames as his father, which made him look much older than Salim and very serious. He was dressed in a white kurta–pyjama.

‘Hi,’ we said to him.

‘Hello,’ he replied dismissively, turning away to say something to his mother.

If this was what engineers were like, no thanks! I would rather be a film star. I could not help comparing him to Salim, so handsome, clean-shaven and bright-eyed. Sanjib’s slow, measured answers and stodgy Bengali personality contrasted painfully with Salim’s quick sense of humour and flair. I decided then that I wanted to be like Salim, the hero in my real-life film.

After a while, we sat down to a quintessential Bengali meal of luchi and alur dom, sandesh and rosogolla. Sanjib ate a lot and was urged to eat even more by his doting in-laws-to-be. I noticed that Binesh Kaku was nervous, almost fawning on Sanjib. I had never known him to be so loudly genial before. Anjali Mashi was charming and gentle as always, but it was clear that they wanted to make a good impression.

‘Shyamala, clear the dishes,’ Anjali Mashi said. ‘Your Sanjib Dada will think your Mallika Didi does not do any housework either.’ Everyone laughed as if this was a big joke. ‘Mallika is a wonderful cook,’ Anjali Mashi added. ‘I am sure she will make Sanjib lots of tasty meals.’ Everyone laughed again. There was an air of gaiety about the table.

‘Rani and Rahul, help Shyamala. I have trained my children to be fully at ease in the kitchen,’ Ma told Sanjib’s parents proudly. ‘Do you cook?’ she asked, turning to Sanjib.

‘No, Mashi, I do not,’ he answered, looking surprised.

Sanjib’s mother said stiffly, ‘A woman’s place is in the kitchen, not a man’s. Cooking will be our daughter-in-law’s responsibility.’

Ma looked annoyed and started to say something, but changed her mind and fell silent.

‘Of course, we have raised our daughters to know their responsibilities. They know to keep the family well-fed,’ Binesh Kaku said.

Shyamala, Rani and I cleared the table and took the dirty dishes into the kitchen. After putting them in the kitchen sink for the maidservant to wash the next day, we crept up to Mallika’s room. We tiptoed inside and shut the door gently.

‘Poor Salim!’ Shyamala’s words tumbled out in a mad rush. ‘He came here to talk to Baba and was beaten so badly. It was horrible—I was so scared for him! You do know what happened?’

Rani and I nodded, but she continued with the painful story we knew so well.

‘I never told you the details at school Rani, but this is what happened. Salim rang the bell and Baba opened the door. I don’t know what he said, but suddenly I heard Baba shouting. He said, “No daughter of mine will marry a Mussalman. Get out of here. How did you ever find the guts to mix with a Brahmin girl? Mallika does not want to see you or hear from you. Do you understand?” Salim said something to him that I could not hear. Then Baba said, “How dare you say you love her and that she loves you? What do you know about our culture and customs?” Baba was shaking by now. I thought he would hit Salim right then and there. Ma and I watched from the dining room, hiding behind the curtains. Then he said, “You scoundrel, I will teach you a lesson.” He yelled for the chowkidars, who came up with their sticks and started beating Salim all over. They pushed him outside the gate with their blows. It was
sickening. Salim kept asking Baba to give them a chance, but he would not listen. I did not know Baba could be so angry. I am scared to do anything to upset him now.’

We listened, speechless.

‘Did Mallika really agree to marry Sanjib? He is so ugly compared to Salim,’ Rani finally said with a shudder. ‘And so boring, with those horrible glasses! Just like a typical Bengali Babu.’

‘Baba and Ma travelled to Assam last week. Sanjib and his parents met them at Didima’s tea estate. I don’t know what happened there. I asked Ma, but all she said was that Mallika liked Sanjib very much and wanted to get married as quickly as possible. The wedding is going to be in a few weeks. Mallika Didi is arriving here next week.’

‘There is nothing we can do.’ Rani sounded defeated. She sat there quietly, her shoulders hunched. Shyamala and I looked at each other helplessly, too dejected to say anything.

9

Saturday Night. San Francisco.

‘You’ve always had nightmares, haven’t you?’ Andrew put his hand on my arm, his eyes soft for the first time since he had left. The bar was quite full now and I could barely hear him.

‘Yes.’ I shrugged.

He stroked the back of my neck. I leaned back, loving the way his fingers massaged my tense muscles. The bartender looked at us and then away.

‘Baby,’ I whispered to Andrew, ‘it’s getting crowded here. Let’s go back to your motel. I want to be alone with you.’ I reached out and played with the down on his chest. He did not pull back. It was a good sign, I thought.

We walked out of the bar and took a taxi to Andrew’s motel. Once we got to his room, we started kissing. I could not believe that I had come so close to losing him. I burrowed my face in his chest and breathed in the musky scent of his skin. We staggered to the bed, intoxicated from the drinks we’d had. I lay on top of Andrew and kissed him long and hard. His tongue tangled with mine with urgency and he rolled me over to get on top of me.

Our lovemaking was short and intense, without our usual
tenderness and foreplay. Andrew’s touch was punishing, his fingers bruising my skin. I did not know what was going on in his head. We finished abruptly, our clothes still on, and then lay on our backs, panting.

‘So,’ Andrew said slowly, sitting up suddenly, his eyes narrowing. ‘Have you told the girl’s family not to come on Sunday?’

‘No … I haven’t,’ I confessed. ‘I was hoping you would come home before I made that call.’

Andrew got up. His shirt was unbuttoned and the trail of blond hair on his chest, trailing down to his pelvis, sent a flame of desire through me. I reached out to touch it.

‘No, stop it.’ He pulled away and wrapped his shirt around his torso. His voice was a whiplash that made me flinch. ‘So, are you waiting for me to come back first so that you won’t be burning bridges by losing both me
and
your fake life? Fuck that.’

‘Andrew …’ I stammered.

‘No, seriously.
Fuck
that. I don’t want you to do this just for me. I want you to do this for yourself. You have a community in this city. It is my community. Your community. Our community. And yet you act like you don’t belong. Like you’re an outsider.’

‘Andrew, all I am saying is that I want you back in my life …’ I faltered, trying to say the right words, but knowing deep inside that he was right. I felt an old knot in my stomach. ‘I just need you to be there. For … support …’

‘But I have been there for the past six months! It didn’t change anything. You didn’t even open up to me until I walked out on you! You know what they say—you can’t sail in two boats at the same time. You have to pick one, you’ll fall into the water and drown.’

I cringed at the harshness of his words.

‘You need to leave now,’ Andrew said, walking to the door.

I stared at him, realizing that things were not going to work out. The familiar pain of losing Shubho suddenly stirred inside me, paralysing me, sapping my strength.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Andrew snapped. ‘I am not coming home until you stop lying—to yourself, to your family. Please go now.’ He held the door open, his eyes averted.

I had hoped that Andrew loved me too much to let go of me. But now I was forced to consider that perhaps I had made him despise me. I walked out, feeling hopeless and helpless, knowing that I may just have lost the greatest love of my life, hating myself for being a coward.

Outside, the fog swirled in thick wreaths around the lamp posts as it came tearing in from over the Golden Gate Bridge and Crissy Field and down to the Marina. I shivered and pulled my jacket around me. Damn this San Francisco summer. Why did it have to be so bloody cold? The street lamps glowed dull amber and the headlights of the cars looked milky. I stood there on the road, feeling that peculiar loneliness that comes with living in America as an immigrant. It is a poignant thing and one lives with it every day because, ultimately, here, one lives alone and dies alone. I wondered why I had bothered to make it my home. Wouldn’t it have been easier in India, where life was pre-ordained and managed by family from birth to death? But in India, there was no place for people like me. The irony of giving up so much only to live a lie in America struck me for the first time.

I did not want to go home alone. The nightmares would come back and I could not face waking up without Andrew’s arms around me, comforting me. I badly needed a drink.

I hailed a cab. The driver was Indian.

‘Bhaisaab, Castro jaana hai.’

He turned around and gave me a look of real concern as we drove up Divisadero Street and neared California Street. ‘Be careful, Sahib. I am telling you because you are desi too and seem like a decent, God-fearing man. Castro is not for good-character people. Full of homos and bad diseases.’

For a moment, I was back in the schoolyard again, being taunted by the other boys as I shrank with terror inside. I lost my temper.

‘Stop the taxi, asshole. Who the fuck are you, calling me a homo?’

I got out of the taxi, shaking with anger and humiliation.

I caught another taxi and was dropped off at the Market and Castro crossing. It was a busy Saturday night. Men strolled arm in arm with each other. A group of young boys in tight jeans and spiked hair stood at the window of the Castro video store, pointing to the window and leering at the covers of porn movies. The Castro Theatre loomed large and stately, its marquee brightly lit.

I was still feeling rattled by my outburst. I needed a drink, I thought again, and walked into Rumours, the first bar I saw on Castro Street.

It was packed inside. The noise was deafening and everyone was trying to talk over the music being played by the house DJ. I stood by the bar, trying to get close to the counter.

The sexy bartender leaned over, bare-chested, his jeans hanging low on his hips. ‘Hey, handsome, what can I get ya?’

‘Black Label on the rocks, please.’

He came back with two drinks. ‘Here, man, one is on the house for a handsome guy like you. Bottoms up!’

He thrust the two glasses into my hand. I swallowed one and slammed the glass back on the counter and gagged as the alcohol trailed a fiery blaze down my throat. I swallowed most of the other drink too in one gulp. My head spinning, I turned around to look at the crowd. Cruisy.

‘Hey, baby.’ A slim young man in a tank top and tight jeans slid over to me. ‘Wanna dance?’

‘No, thanks.’

He shrugged and walked off.

Nursing my drink, I went to the bathroom at the back of the bar. I needed to take a leak. The alcohol had gone straight to my head and I felt unsteady as I made my way through the gyrating crowd. I walked into a stall. The door was pushed open a few moments later. The man who entered was quite handsome in a rugged kind of way. He was wearing Levis and a tight V-necked T-shirt, like construction men preferred, and also had work boots on. I gave him an apologetic smile since I had not locked the door of the toilet.

‘Sorry, I am using the toilet …’

‘It’s okay. I can wait.’ He leaned in as I zipped up. ‘Hey, guy, want some coke?

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a vial. Unscrewing the top, he dug in the spoon and held a heaping mound of coke under my nose. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Please leave and wait to use the stall until I come out.’

‘No worries man. Sure you don’t want a couple of bumps?’

‘Yes. Leave. Now!’ I tried hard to control my temper and the alcohol was not helping. He was pushing my patience.

‘Hey relax, stud.’ Ignoring my request, the man took two deep bumps from the glass vial full of cocaine. He rubbed his gums with his coke dusted fingers. ‘You’re hot, man.’ He leaned over, pushing me against the wall, and tried to kiss me. I pushed back, but he was heavier than me and ground me into the wall.

I felt his rough chin scrape mine as he forced his tongue into my mouth.

‘What the fuck!’ I pushed him with all the force I could muster.

‘Hey, take it easy man. No need to get angry.’

I strode out of the stall, slamming the door behind me.

I made my way to a corner of the bar. I felt dirty and violated. God, what had come over me? What would Andrew say? Flooded by guilt, I walked out of the bar unsteadily, barging into the line of men standing outside, waiting for the bouncer to let them in.

‘Careful, sexy,’ a young man cautioned. I spun away, staggering down Castro Street.

I crossed the street, weaving a little as I avoided the stream of cars going up and down, and sat down on the pavement outside the Castro Theatre. Boys and men looked at me curiously, some with interest. I avoided looking at anyone and, as the buzz of the alcohol subsided, hailed a taxi to go to Club Folsom, where I knew my friend Richard liked to go on Saturday nights. I just wanted to forget all the terrible things that had happened all evening. I wanted to lose myself in music, be with a friend.

When the taxi dropped me off on Folsom Street, a line had started forming outside the nondescript building. As I paid the cover charge and walked up the stairs, I was greeted by a blast of trance and house music. The floor
was packed with men and women dancing with each other. I heard a familiar voice call my name as I left the coat check.

‘Hey, Rahul, how’s it going?’ Richard was shirtless, smiling broadly at me. ‘Where’s Andrew?’

‘Oh, we’re having some trouble. I don’t know if we’re together any more.’ I looked at the floor, miserable and alone, wondering if I should have just gone home and tried to sleep after taking a few pills to knock myself out instead of coming to the nightclub.