THE MAGICAL PALACE (41 page)

I woke up with the deafening silence ringing in my ears. Today, I was to leave my magical palace.

‘Rahul, come and eat breakfast. It is not the usual kind. I made some special treats for you,’ Ma called gaily to me.

I lay in bed, unable to respond.

‘Cheer up, Rahul,’ Rani said, her voice sympathetic. ‘We will have an exciting life in Bombay, just wait and see.’

‘I think the change is too much for him,’ my mother told my father.

‘There is so much to look forward to Rahul. New friends, new school, new home. Look how excited we all are about the possibilities of the future!’ Baba was trying to cheer me up, but I turned away, sick at heart. Nothing could comfort me. ‘It is all right.’ I heard Baba trying to reassure Ma. ‘He is still a child. He will soon be distracted by something else.’

When I went out to the veranda, the trucks were gone. Only the empty driveway stretched into the distance, long and lonely. The birds too were silent in the summer heat. But the koel kept calling, louder and louder, more plaintive each time, reaching impossibly high notes. It did not stop all afternoon. And yet, the crows, sparrows, finches and
parrots were nowhere to be seen. Had they left already, like the bats?

When I entered the palace through the portico, there was no one around and my footsteps sounded loud and hollow in the emptiness. I heard a peal of laughter coming from somewhere. It was Rani. She and my mother and they were talking excitedly.

‘You will see the ocean for the first time! We will go to Juhu Beach and eat pau bhaji. You will love it! And then there is the Marine Drive. It’s called the Queen’s Necklace because it glimmers like one at night …’ Ma was excited.

‘And then there are all the actors and actresses. My friends at school said that you can see them shopping, just like real people! Rahul, imagine what fun it will be to finally meet Rajesh Khanna.’ Rani tried to include me in the conversation when she saw me.

I turned away, incredibly sad. I was going to be losing my palace, my friend. All the treasures of Bombay could not replace Mint House. I was not scared at the thought of a new life. I now knew how to blend in, and Rani and I had made a pact and I would never be alone. But I was miserable at the thought of leaving Mint House, my home, the one place where I had always felt perfectly comfortable and safe.

‘Rahul, I have put out your clothes for the train ride on your bed. Everything else has been packed. Be ready to go at seven this evening.’ My mother had taken care of everything as usual.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in visits from a stream of family friends from the Bengali Association and workers from the Mint, all of whom were coming to bid us farewell. I was overwhelmed by the number of people who showed
up. The people from the Mint brought gifts and flowers, sweets and photographs, mementoes of appreciation for my father, the Mint Master, who was going to expand the Mint, ensuring better jobs, promotions and prosperity for the workers. I saw the tears of gratitude and pain that they shed as they said goodbye. The vacuum left by my father would be hard to fill—he was greatly respected and admired by the people working under him.

Everyone was rejoicing in the expansion plan and the benefits to the community. No one, it seemed, cared about the trees, birds and animals that lived there. Rani and my mother were busy putting the gifts away and saying goodbye. They looked sad, as did my father, but they were also excited at the thought a new life in Bombay. I knew at that moment I could not explain how I was feeling to anyone but Colonel Uncle. But he was gone as well.

Seeking solace, I went to the gulmohar tree and sat in my secret place for the last time. The wind was warm and brisk and there was silence all around. I laid my cheek against the rough bark and closed my eyes, taking in the moment as the faint tremor in the trunk from the branches swaying above went through me. I wanted to store this moment forever in my memory.

I walked around the palace grounds one final time. The papaya grove, the mango grove, the lake, the dhobi ghaat, the guava trees, the banyan tree, the servant’s quarters, the lawns, the thicket of trees with the empty baya nest … Everything was still, shimmering in the late-afternoon heat. I breathed in the summer scent.

‘Rahul, Rahul!’ Rani called.

‘What?’

‘Come on, slowpoke! It’s time to leave. The taxi is here.’

I glanced around one last time. ‘Goodbye,’ I said to my friends.

I went back to the palace. The last bags were gone.

I looked at the sitting room, so forlorn and empty. ‘Don’t leave us,’ the walls whispered as I turned to leave. I went to the nearest wall and kissed it. The plaster was cool and smooth against my lips. I felt the walls breathe against my face as they sighed slowly. My hands stretched out, my fingers gently stroking the wall, wanting to imprint in my memory this last impression.

‘Hurry up, Rahul!’ Rani cried.

‘Let him be.’ Ma’s voice was stern. Her tone became gentler as she said to me, ‘Rahul, beta. Come on now. We will be late for the train.’

‘Goodbye, Mint House,’ I murmured. The walls moved against my fingers, I felt them sigh once more and reach out to me …

And then I was in the taxi. It slowly backed out and we drove towards the gates. The sentries clicked to attention. I looked at them. They stood erect, looking straight ahead, but tears were streaming down their faces.

I looked back at Mint House. It was already in the distance but still looked gigantic to me. And then it was lost in the canopy of trees …

14

Sunday Evening. San Francisco.

I could not see the fireplace or the flames through the tears which spilled from my eyes and coursed down my cheeks. I brushed them away angrily, wishing that Andrew could not see my pain.

‘Oh, baby,’ he whispered. ‘Come here, honey.’ He held me as I gave way to the pent-up tears and emotions that had been bottled for years. I did not speak for a long time. ‘There, there, baby,’ Andrew softly crooned to me through it. ‘Let it go, let it go …’

I could feel his skin through the soaked T-shirt as my sobs finally subsided.

The door bell rang.

‘Shit!’ I jumped up. ‘They must have arrived. The girl Anu and her uncle from San Jose. Fuck! I forgot to tell them not to come. Damn!’

‘Do you want me to go into the other room?’

‘No. Please stay here.’

I ran into the bathroom, splashed water on my face and looked into the mirror. I looked like a mess. I ran my damp fingers through my hair, trying to tame the unruly curls but gave up.

I opened the door to the apartment. A very Bengali-looking gentleman stood there. He had greying hair and a thin moustache and his pants were pulled well up to his chest. He looked impatient, like an aggravated Binesh Kaku. I instantly felt a surge of childish fear of being chastised by him, but a moment later, that fear was relegated to the past, where it belonged. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, folded my hands and said, ‘Nomoshkar, Mr Ganguly.’

The gentleman nodded and walked in. The girl with him indeed reminded me of Mallika. She had the same sparkling eyes and smile and an easy spring in her stride.

‘Hi, I am Rahul,’ I said smoothly, as I had said many times before to many girls that I was supposed to meet.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling shyly.

‘Please, have a seat. What will you have? Tea, coffee or a soft drink?’

Mr Ganguly looked around the room, taking in the framed Herb Ritts posters and the modern furniture. His eyes lingered briefly on the dresser covered by framed pictures of Andrew and me. His heavy framed glasses glinted at me as flames from the fireplace danced on the lenses. He looked at Andrew, who was still standing by the fireplace where I had left him.

‘Oh nothing, we are all right. Please do not take any trouble,’ Mr Ganguly said and his niece echoed his sentiments.

After a very brief exchange of pleasantries, Mr Ganguly got to the point. ‘So, your mother knows my sister in Bombay and thought it would be a good idea for you two to meet. This is my niece, Anu.’ he said, gesturing towards the girl.

I felt the old and trite responses at the tip of my tongue. I knew exactly how to make small talk and lead the meeting in the direction I wanted it to go. I knew how to manipulate and make promises and end the evening on a good note, before I sent a note to my mother. It was always the same note, telling her what a nice girl she had sent, but I really felt that she and I were not compatible and that she was too modern or too old-fashioned or too shy.

However, today, instead of seeking refuge in subterfuge, I said, ‘Mr Ganguly, I am sorry to have wasted your time. You see, my mother does not know that I am … I am … gay. Andrew here …’ I looked around. Andrew had left the room. ‘Andrew!’

Andrew walked in, looking tense.

‘Mr Ganguly,’ I said softly, ‘I am terribly sorry to have wasted yours and Anu’s time. Andrew here is my life partner. I have not told my parents yet, and that is why you had to come here for nothing …’

‘But … but …’ Mr Ganguly stammered, perplexed, and I watched his face grow mottled. He finally pulled himself together. ‘Chhee, chhee! How can you behave like this? You belong to a respectable family. We are not just Indians, we are Bengalis! We have a duty to maintain our parents’ good name in society. So this is what you have learnt in America! To be perverted …’ He started shaking with his outrage.

‘Mama …’ Anu said and moved towards him.

Mr Ganguly dismissed her with a wave of his hand. ‘So this is what you young boys do when you come here,’ he continued. ‘I am sorry I ever set foot in your house. Wait till I tell my sister in Bombay. Don’t think you can hide this dirty secret any longer!’ With that, he turned and marched out of the door, waving at Anu to follow him.

Anu silently mouthed a ‘sorry’, her face a picture of chagrin, her hands raised to her mouth in horror. The door slammed shut and I heard their footsteps recede down the corridor.

I sat down on the sofa, my face in my hands, overcome by the events of the past few days. Andrew sat next to me and hugged me, his eyes wet. We sat like that for a long time, silent and pensive. Then Andrew stroked my head and whispered in my ear, ‘Rahul, you must write this story. Others need to hear it.’

I shook my head. All I could think about was the email I had to send my mother that night. An email that was long overdue.

15

Six Months Later. San Francisco.

I sit at my desk, my shoulders aching and stiff from the hours of typing on my laptop. I am finally at the end of my project. I start a new page and type the word ‘Epilogue’.

Epilogue

I have never returned to Hyderabad, the city of my magical palace. We moved to Bombay, I got busy with school and new friends. Years went by, college followed, things changed …

I hear that Mallika lives in London now, with Salim. Binesh Kaku finally accepted her marriage to Salim and they visit each other every now and then—nothing changes arrogance like old age and infirmity. I have never seen Mallika since that fateful, stormy night, though, and my mother and I have never spoken about it.

Ranjan and I sporadically sent each other cards for the holidays while we were still in school. And then that petered out too. Ma tells me that Shubho’s marriage to Anamika ended in a divorce and he has not remarried.

Colonel Uncle moved to Montepulciano to be with Claudio. His picture sits on my desk even as I type this, his message is imprinted deep in my heart. I still plan to visit him one day, if it is not too late.

Many years after I left Hyderabad, I finally realized that, to follow one’s heart, one has to break the rules sometimes, just like my mother, Mallika and Colonel Uncle did. And sometimes, one has to leave and go far, far away.

Sometimes, when the wild wind from the Pacific Ocean comes tearing across the foggy city where I live, I forget that I am not in Hyderabad any more. In the middle of the night, when the rain pelts the windows and makes the door to the balcony shudder like a tortured soul hammering and begging to be let in, I sometimes rise in my sleep and say ‘Kaun hai?’ I open the door, expecting to see a woman, her head covered, drenched in the rain, just like that fateful night when we broke all the rules. But there is nobody there. Only the wind asking questions.

Andrew walks up behind me and massages my shoulders. It feels good and I breathe out in relief. The apartment is warm and filled with the smell of onions, tomatoes and garlic. Andrew is making his special pasta sauce, just like Colonel Uncle used to. He hugs me, leans close to my ear and whispers, ‘Baby, dinner is ready.’

Acknowledgements

Like most works of fiction, the creation of
My Magical Palace
was a journey. I was the traveller and my destination was a moving target which went through a series of metamorphoses.

The only constant in this journey of non-stop change has been the support and encouragement I have received from several communities, friends and family members. They have held the space for me to create the novel you hold in your hands today.

My thanks and gratitude to:

My parents Durga and Parijat—who taught me to live with passion and nurtured my interest in books from the start. I am blessed to inherit their passion for writing and their faith in my ability to fulfill my aspirations.