THE MAGICAL PALACE (9 page)

‘Where did you go?’ Rani whispered to me furiously.

‘Oh, just to the bathroom,’ I lied. Rani grunted and turned her attention to the screen.

Mallika was gone for a long time. Meanwhile, the plot took many twists and turns. Just when we were sitting up in our seats for the final showdown, Mallika returned. She was beaming and held a large, white envelope in her hands. ‘Sorry, I had to talk to my friend,’ was all she said softly as she settled into her seat. She clutched the envelope and I heard paper crackling inside as the lovers united at the end of the film. I wanted to be like the sexy moll, I thought, living a life of danger and sin with complete confidence.

‘So, did you like the film?’ Mallika’s soft voice broke into my thoughts. We were walking back to the place where her
father had dropped us off, her arm comfortably hooked in mine.

‘I wish you hadn’t missed the fun parts,’ I said, feeling happy that Mallika was asking for my opinion. ‘It was very good. I really like Rajesh Khanna and Bindu. Do you think, if I went to Bombay I could go meet them?’ I asked, the words tumbling out.

Mallika looked at me, ‘I am sure you could …’

Rani caught up with us. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she asked suspiciously.

Mallika laughed. ‘Nothing,’ she said. Proud of our special bond, I smiled.

Ahead of us was a family of four—parents with a son and daughter. I thought nothing of them at first, but there was something very familiar about the broad shoulders of the boy and the tilt of his head. I hurried closer to get a better look, leaving Mallika behind. Walking with his mother, father and sister was Amit Puri.

‘Amit, Amit!’ I shouted.

Mr and Mrs Puri stopped and said something to Amit.

‘Hi, Amit, how are …’ I could not complete my question.

Amit turned around to look at me. His eyes were vacant. A flicker of memory seemed to ignite for a moment, but then he looked confused and his mouth opened slightly.

‘Beta, this is Rahul, from your class.’

Amit looked at me and uttered my name. It came out thick and slow. ‘Raahuul,’ he said, ‘Raahuul.’ He looked around helplessly, unable to say more.

‘Remember Rahul from your class? Say something to him, beta,’ Mr Puri said gently. His eyes were filled with so much sadness that I wanted to cry.

Amit looked at me with the same empty expression and
clutched his father’s hand like a lost child. I stared at him as the smile faded from my lips. What had happened to his smile and laughter, his exuberance and confidence? I could barely recognize the stranger in front of me.

‘Amit is not feeling well,’ Mr Puri said to me quietly. He was trying to lead Amit away, but he just stood there, staring at me. Mr Puri looked years older than the last time I had seen him. Mrs Puri was wiping her eyes with the end of her pallu and Amit’s sister held her mother’s hand in silence.

‘Come, beta,’ Mrs Puri said finally, her voice a whisper as she put her hand in Amit’s and turned from me, leading him away. Amit walked off in a slow shuffle. He never looked back.

Mallika, who had been standing a little way off, came up to me and asked, ‘Who is that boy? Does he go to school with you? He seemed so disoriented—is he all right?’

I kept quiet, sick at heart. Where was the Amit I used to know? Is this what had happened to him after shock therapy? Would he be like this for the rest of his life? I wanted to tell Mallika everything that had happened to Amit, but I did not know how. How could I ever explain my fear that I would end up like Amit?

‘I don’t know. I thought he was someone I knew from school, but I was mistaken.’ I lied for the very first time to Mallika.

Rani and Shyamala had already reached Binesh Kaku, who was waiting for us to catch up. He looked hot and annoyed. ‘Hurry up and get in,’ he said. We tumbled into the car. The others talked endlessly about how much they had enjoyed the film while I sat quietly, in shock.

‘How was the film?’ my father asked me when we got
home. It was twilight outside and the chirping of the birds in the banyan tree was deafening.

‘It was so much fun!’ Rani replied as I mumbled something and left the room. I could not pretend that my outing had been fun. I sat on the veranda steps, trying to rid myself of the haunting image of Amit, the terror that I too could suffer the same fate. I sat there until night covered the palace with her mantle of darkness.

After dinner, the phone rang. I was curled up in my favourite armchair, reading a book, when I heard my mother answer the phone.

‘Four-six-five-three-zero,’ she said. ‘Oh, Anjali Didi. How are you?’ She paused and listened for what seemed like a very long time. Then she said, ‘Anjali Didi, you must not listen to gossip—especially from Professor Khosla’s wife. Mallika is in college now and I am sure she has a lot of friends. Drinking coffee in the cafeteria does not give a girl a bad reputation. Our Mallika would never do anything to embarrass the family. I am sure these boys are just friends.’

I edged towards the dining room. I wondered if Mallika’s secret had been discovered. Ma lowered her voice and I could not hear what she was saying next. As I walked towards the dining room, I saw her looking around to see if anyone was within earshot. She saw me approaching and spoke fast, her voice urgent and pleading: ‘No, no. Please do not say anything to Mallika about this kind of gossip. And do not tell Binesh Dada anything. He will do something rash. Children these days have their own will. You need to handle this carefully if you suspect that she is mixing with a boy …’ As I entered the dining room, she swiftly changed the subject. ‘Oh, Anjali Didi, I cannot wait to taste the patali-gur sandesh you make,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will ask
Rahul’s father to take us to your house on Saturday night.’ The sandesh that Anjali Mashi made from milk and date-palm syrup was legendary in the Bengali community.

I wanted to warn Mallika about the conversation, but I did not know exactly what Anjali Mashi had discovered. I thought of Mallika and Salim in the theatre and felt very afraid for them. It was sickening to think that Mallika, like Amit, might be helpless to protect herself.

I dreamt about the film that night. Mallika was the heroine. She was in great danger and I was unable to help her. Even Rajesh Khanna could not do anything. In the end, I saw her lying in a pool of blood. Surrounding her were little shreds of bat skin, mixed with blood and pieces of ripped veil. I woke up in the middle of the night, screaming.

‘May I invite Ranjan to spend the day tomorrow?’ I asked my father as he sat at the dining table to enjoy a leisurely Saturday morning, which was never complete without tea and Britannia Marie biscuits.

‘Only if you score higher marks than him in the exams this year. Are you going to?’ he asked. ‘You were admitted to class IX instead of class VII at your new school because we all had high expectations of you. I don’t want anyone to say my son did not come first. Understand?’

‘Yes … yes, of course I will … I will come first in class, baba,’ I replied, praying that I would come first again.

‘Did I ever disappoint my parents? Never! You must not disappoint me. Achha, I will call Ranjan’s parents and arrange it.’

A ‘Day Spend’ with Ranjan was a great way to start the summer vacation. It was the name we had given to the day
my friends would visit and spend with me. It was a rare treat.

Ranjan’s family was also Bengali, but very modern and lived in a large house in Banjara Hills, the enclave of the very wealthy. They travelled to Europe frequently and, like many Bengali Christians, they were very westernized. My family on the other hand, was more traditional and followed Bengali customs despite being so far from West Bengal. I was quite envious of Ranjan’s family even though his parents—especially his mother, who was a psychiatrist— were very strict with their sons.

Later that morning, the phone rang. It was Ranjan with good news—he confirmed that he would be coming for a Day Spend the next day. I badly wanted to ask him about Shubho, but was scared he would think it odd. I could not think of asking anything that would sound casual—when the boys were making fun of Amit, I had seen a different side of Ranjan and I was wary.

‘Ranjan is coming for Day Spend tomorrow. Will you make something special for lunch?’ I asked my mother.

‘Of course, I will,’ she said. She was very fond of my best friend.

The rest of the Saturday dragged on. I woke up unusually early on Sunday because I was so excited that I could not stay in bed. Once I’d brushed my teeth, I went outside to the garden.

It was a cool morning and the air smelt of freshly moistened earth, typical of a Hyderabad summer in the palace. Dawn had just broken and the sky was still streaked with fingers of pink. The garden was blanketed in a heavy layer of dew. The lawn sparkled, moisture catching the early rays of light, and birds twittered in every tree. My mother
would say that they tried to get their song out to the world before the heat of the day silenced them.

When I ventured back into the palace, my parents were sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper in silent companionship. The teapot sat between them.

‘Scoundrels! Bastards!’ my father suddenly muttered angrily under his breath as he banged his fist on the table, sending a spoon clattering to the floor.

‘What is it?’ my mother asked, frowning at him to be quiet and watch his language around me.

‘Why don’t those bloody Muslims stop this? The mosque in Khairatabad, which is next to the old Vishnu temple, wants to expand on the empty plot of city-owned land and the Hindus claim that the land is the site of an ancient temple that was destroyed a few hundred years ago. Why do they have to stir up trouble? Why can’t they build the mosque somewhere else? That whole area is sensitive enough as it is. Do we really need more strikes, processions and workers’ unrest? This country is going to the dogs.’ Flinging down the
Deccan Chronicle
, he walked away, swearing under his breath.

‘Ma, why is Baba upset?’ I asked. He was often irritable and impatient, but rarely used bad words in front of me.

‘He is upset because he will have to deal with labour issues in the factory if there are fights between Hindus and Muslims,’ She sounded tired.

‘Why do they fight?’

‘It has been going on for many years and has never stopped, Rahul. You are a teenager—almost a grown-up now. I will tell you about it someday,’ Ma said. I caught a glimpse of anger and sorrow in her eyes before she veiled them and poured a cup of tea for me. This was typical
of her—she never showed her distress in front of her children.

‘Have some tea, Rahul. Don’t worry yourself with any of this so early in the morning. Always think of harmonious things at the start of the day. Besides, you need to get ready for Ranjan,’ Ma said after a while.

I sipped my ginger-and-cardamom tea and watched the garden wake up.

Seized with a desire to walk through the lawn in my bare feet, I took off my slippers. The sensation was heavenly as the icy drops of dew tickled my toes. At the far end of the lawn, I stopped at the lake and looked up at the walls of the mosque. Through the high slits in the wall, I could see the bluish-green colour of the fluorescent tube lights. The voice of the mullah wafted over my head through the loudspeaker: ‘Allah ho Akbar …’ From another direction came the sound of bells ringing and early morning bhajans from the Hindu temple. Calls to the faithful mingled harmoniously in the quiet of the morning.

I wanted everything to be perfect for Ranjan’s visit. I made my way over to the ruins to see if the anthill had grown. It was much larger than the first time I had noticed it years ago. Streams of ants poured out of it onto the rust-red cone made up of grainy beads of mud. I walked through the garden, checking to see if there were any mangoes lying on the ground from the last storm. Overhead, the sky had turned bluish gray, getting brighter by the minute. The early-morning sun peeped in from over the palace walls, over the secretariat building, its rays bathing the dewdrops on the leaves of the trees with reddish-gold light.

Breakfast was a hurried affair. Ranjan showed up at ten on the dot. His parents were very punctual. His father,
Mr Bose, was at the wheel, dressed in white pants and a golfing shirt. His cap was perched jauntily on the side of his head. He looked like the men in American magazine advertisements—like a young Arnold Palmer. I found myself wishing that Shubho was there too. I flushed with excitement as I remembered his good-natured teasing and an almost physical need to touch him rose in me.

Rani and I ran up to the car. ‘Nomoshkar, Uncle,’ we said, greeting Mr Bose.

‘Have a good time,’ he said genially, dismissing the three of us as he continued making small talk with my parents. Rani, Ranjan and I ran into the palace.

‘What would you like to do first—play Monopoly or go outside to the garden?’

Ranjan looked undecided, so I made up his mind for him—though I would regret my rashness later.

‘Let us go outside now,’ I said. ‘It will be too hot later. We can play Monopoly in the afternoon.’ I was anxious to show off my palace gardens and did not want to wait.

‘Go ahead. I will join you boys later,’ Rani said.

We proceeded to the neem tree that grew in the courtyard among the ruins. Ranjan had always liked climbing it. Neem trees grow really tall, with thick, green leaves with jagged edges and a dark-brown bark. The sweet and musky smell of the fruit that looks like lemon-yellow grapes wafted up from the earth. I looked at the makeshift seat I had made last summer. It looked barely large enough to allow Ranjan and me to sit on—a year ago, it had seemed so big and sturdy.

We climbed high up, swaying with the branches. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the feeling of being in the arms of the tree. I knew that as soon as I looked over the wall the spell would break—I would no longer be living in an
enchanted palace that needed guards and had no world outside it.

But break the spell we did. Parting the thick fronds of the neem, we peered at the giant iron beams and girders spanning the cavernous roof of the open factory shed outside the palace walls. We stood precariously on tiptoe to see the corrugated metal roofs, large metal pulleys, hooks and machinery that would slide back and forth, accompanied by the occasional mechanical clank. The factory had many buildings where thousands of workers were employed. That was the world of my father—of his grown-up life and activities broken into phases by the daily sirens. The days of my world here, in my magical palace, were also marked by these sirens, the bhajans from the temples and the mullah’s call for prayer.