THE MAGICAL PALACE (33 page)

‘But Shubho Dada …’ My voice cracked. ‘I thought …’

‘Thought what, Rahul?’ This was not the genial and happy Shubho I had known and loved. ‘If anyone finds out, we will be expelled from school. What was the name of that boy in your class? The one who was expelled?’

‘Amit,’ I whispered. I was terrified by Shubho’s anger. My world was falling to pieces around me—and I did not know how to stop it.

‘Yes, Amit. His family’s reputation is ruined forever! You should hear my mother talk about him. I have been thinking a lot since the last time you were here. Do you know that people can be jailed for this? Yes. People turn in others all the time. This thing we have … It must stop. Now.’ There was a note of finality in his voice.

I reached out for him again, wanting him to touch me tenderly like he had the last time, but we heard voices and footsteps outside and Shubho moved away from me.

‘Shubho! Shubho!’ It was Anamika.

‘Oh shit!’ Shubho said and pushed me hard behind a curtain that covered an alcove in his room. It was full of
coats. I fell as he pushed me, scraping my knee, and my temple hit the corner of a shelf where his clothes were stacked. Oddly enough, I felt no pain. I was numb with shock. Shubho drew the curtain back and leapt for the door, even as Anamika opened it

‘Hey,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was just coming downstairs. You took too long and we need to go downstairs or they will wonder where we are.’

I heard the door shut and the room fell silent. I waited for a few minutes and then came out of my hiding place. My heart was hammering against my chest and … I hurt, deep inside. I looked into the mirror and saw a stranger. I tried to straighten my clothes and mechanically arranged my hair, covering the cut on the temple. Luckily, only a thin trickle of blood showed. It was already darkening, the tiny droplets of blood congealing. I was feeling a bit dizzy as I turned towards the door and tripped on the dustbin. That’s when I saw it—my carefully made card ripped into pieces and balled up at the bottom of the bin.

I opened the door and walked out slowly, trying not to limp, and went downstairs. Everyone was singing ‘
Happy Birthday, Shubho!
’ I entered the dining room, trying not to draw attention to myself. Shubho was wearing a birthday hat and laughed as he cut the cake. He took a piece and put it in Anamika’s mouth. She squealed with pleasure and broke off a piece and fed it to him amidst much clapping and cheering.

I tried to act as normal as possible, but my heart was breaking and I wanted to cry. A lump the size of a large rock had lodged itself in my throat. I politely refused the cake and any offers of food.

‘What is the matter with you?’ Rani was annoyed that I was acting so strangely.

‘Nothing,’ I muttered.

The evening could not end soon enough for me. Ranjan could never suspect anything, so I put on my best face. Shubho looked at me a couple of times from the other end of the room, but quickly looked away when I caught his eye.

I had never been so happy to see my father as I was that evening. He dropped in as the party was winding down, politely refused Dr Bose’s offer to eat anything and we said our goodbyes and left. I was anxious to avoid Shubho, so I slipped out with my father, putting my hand in his, grateful for my family.

I was miserable that night. Shubho’s anger and fear had been palpable. He was not the charming and carefree Shubho I knew any more, and I struggled to understand it. We would never be close again. Fear was transforming everyone around me. I felt hot tears of sadness and humiliation flow down my cheeks. I knew now how heartbroken Sharmila Tagore had felt in
Amar Prem
when she realized that her love for Rajesh Khanna was doomed.

On Sunday morning, I woke up with an aching sense of loss. I still could not believe that Shubho had been so angry and cruel. After a half-hearted breakfast, I sat in my favourite chair, curled up with a book. I did not want to talk to anyone and just wanted to be left alone. I skimmed the pages of a Perry Mason mystery. Of late, Enid Blyton characters had begun to seem too childish to hold my interest.

‘I used to read a lot of those before I met your mother,’ my father said, glancing over at me to see what I was reading. ‘Aren’t those books a little adult for you?’

‘No, I understand them just fine,’ I answered, anxious to appear normal. ‘Do you have any more Perry Mason mysteries?’

‘I did. I don’t remember giving them away to anyone. I bought at least one a week for a long time, so I know I have plenty of them. If they are anywhere, it would be the box room.’

‘Ogo, shunchho?’ My mother’s voice floated out from the kitchen. ‘Arre! Are you forgetting that there are all kinds of books in the box room? Rahul does not need to see them.’

‘I know. I know. You can read those books when you are grown-up, Rahul. Besides, the room is filthy and has not been used since before you were born.’

‘All right,’ I said, pretending to be obedient but making my mind up to explore the box room. Next to the dining room was the prayer room. A door led out of this room to the box room, but it was bolted shut. However, I was determined. There were books there that my parents did not want me to see. Books for adults only. Maybe I could find something that would explain to me exactly why Shubho thought being a homo was so terrible.

I slowly tiptoed into the prayer room, looking fearfully at the altar. The gods stared back at me, silently accusing me of trespassing. I knelt and bowed, touching my forehead to the ground and gently banging it in supplication. After atoning in advance for the coming transgression, I prepared myself to enter the box room.

It had not been opened for years and dust and age had fused the doors together. I slid the rusty metal bar of the latch out of the slot and, after a hefty push, with a creak of wood and old paint cracking, the doors opened. It was dark inside and smelt of years of stagnancy. As I walked forward,
guided by feeble light coming from the prayer room, dust rose in little puffy clouds making me choke.

I stumbled against a crate in the semi-darkness and fell, hurting the knee I had bruised the night before. I found a light switch at last and got to work opening the crate with a crowbar. It was full of books by authors whose names I recognized—Agatha Christie, Erle Stanley Gardener, James Hadley Chase, Alberto Moravia, Pearl Buck, Charles Dickens, the Bronte Sisters and Oscar Wilde. But there were also other names I did not know. I realized that I had discovered a world that was a window into my parents’ minds.

As I rummaged through the contents of the crate, the partially naked man and woman embracing each other on the cover of one book immediately caught my eye even though it was hidden at the bottom of the crate. I dug it out with some difficulty and turned it over in my hands. It was a very thick paperback, titled
It’s Never Too Late to Love— Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex
, by a Barbara Golding. The word ‘sex’ loomed up at me. I remembered what Ranjan had said about how babies were made—had my parents hidden the book because it was about sex? I wondered who it belonged to. Perhaps Ranjan had been right when he said that our parents did not want us to know about sex because it was a dirty secret.

I looked at the cover carefully. I could not help noticing with excitement the man’s body and how it resembled Shubho’s body, though it was fair instead of brown.

I turned the book over. The back cover said, ‘Barbara Golding is one of America’s earliest sex experts. Find out everything you need to know about sex or making your sex life fun once again. Millions of men and women have found
out how to live healthy and exciting lives after reading this book.’

I flipped through the pages, my heart racing. It was a book about sex and Barbara Golding was an expert on the subject. I had to find out what she had said about homosexuals. Surely an expert would say that it couldn’t be dirty to be a homo? It was with hope that I went to the index. Running my fingers down the list, I finally stopped at the word I was looking for: ‘Homosexuality’. I turned to the page number listed.

Words leapt out at me from the page: ‘Homosexuality is an abnormal condition. Male homosexuals are often effeminate. Parents need to look to see if their children are teased in school for being too feminine or masculine. Boys who are homosexual like to play with dolls, hate sports and prefer quiet activities to active ones. Girls who are homosexual like to play rough sports and do not play with dolls like normal girls do. Early signs of homosexuality are obsession with a friend who is of the same sex and a lack of desire and interest in the opposite sex. It is treatable by electric shock and aversion therapy. Homosexuals live on the fringe and are very unhappy people. Parents are advised to start treating this condition early in childhood.’

I felt physically sick. I had been right to hide it from everyone after all. I had an abnormal condition. My thoughts were in a jumble. I could now understand why Shubho had been so angry. He did not want to be an unhappy person. Would I be given electric shock therapy? Certainly I would be jailed—what shame that would bring to my family! Reading the words over and over again, I felt that familiar sense of despair and terror. Ranjan was right.
The boys were right. I could be expelled for this—or worse. If my parents found out, what would they do? What would their friends say?

I looked through the book and read about intercourse and orgasm and erogenous zones and impotence. I understood then what Ranjan and the boys were so excited about. All the information was very helpful and supportive for men and women who were attracted to each other—heterosexuals. There was no mention of homosexuality anywhere else.

I read the part about homosexuality over and over, then I put the book back at the bottom of the crate. I took the other books that I had carefully stacked and threw them in as fast as I could. I was disgusted with myself and knew now why Shubho had been so repulsed the evening before when I had tried to touch him.

I wanted to leave this horrible, dusty old room. Baba and Ma were right. I should never have entered this room. I knelt on the marble floor, the dust and grit grinding into the cut on my knee. But I could not feel anything other than the frenzied beating of my heart, the blood rushing in my ears. I picked up a pestle and started pounding away at the lid of the crate, trying to seal it again. I forgot about being quiet. I just wanted to get out of there. My knees were shaking so hard that I had to steady myself against the wall.

Finally, when I had calmed down a bit, I bolted the doors behind me and went to the bathroom. I locked the door and looked in the mirror. I saw a dusty figure, covered with cobwebs from head to toe. The blood and dirt on my knee looked painful, but I could not feel anything. I soaked a towel in the sink and started wiping my arms and legs, my hands and face, my knee and my hair, in a slow rhythm. My knee finally stung with pain as the grit and dirt ground into
the open wound, but it did not matter. When I was clean, I went out to the garden.

‘Rahul …’ My mother’s sleepy voice came to me from her bedroom.

‘I am going to the garden,’ I called back to her as I ran out, limping slightly. My mind was still in turmoil. Thoughts raced through it, punctuated by jagged bursts of fear. I sought out my haven of safety, the gulmohar tree, and sat down, leaning against the bark. I breathed deep and slow, trying to regain control over the chaos in my head. As my pulse steadied, I realized that no one needed to find out about me. If I hid my attraction to Rajesh Khanna, Amit Puri and Shubho, no one would be the wiser. I had an abnormality—I simply could not let anyone know about it. I would be good. I promised myself that I would study hard, do well and never, ever, do anything that would expose my secret.

The sound of the pestle hammering the nails into the crate reverberated through my head all evening.

At dinner that night, my father was sombre. I was still thinking about the past two days when my mother said in a serious voice, ‘Are you going to tell the children?’

‘What?’ I was scared that my father had discovered my secrets.

‘Achha … Rahul, Rani …’ Baba looked very serious. ‘The government has decided to expand the mint. Since there is no land available except for the land around Mint House, the ministry in New Delhi has decided that the palace needs to be demolished.’

Everything froze, like in a movie still. Rani’s mouth was
open in shock and I looked desperately for signs that this was a joke. But it wasn’t.

‘I told them that this was a historic building and should not be demolished,’ Baba continued. ‘I was hoping that the Ministry of Archaeology would certify that since this was the Nizam’s palace it should be preserved. But the Nizam did not live here and so it does not qualify. I have asked for a transfer to Bombay. We will know more in the next few months.’

‘But … Baba, what will happen to the palace?’ Even as I said it, I knew that just as I had been powerless to stop what happened to Mallika, what had happened with Shubho, I was powerless to stop this too.

‘What to do?’ Baba’s words were really a statement of complete helplessness.

‘But this is our home! We have lived here for so many years,’ I protested.

‘India needs to have greater manufacturing capability. Otherwise, we will continue to be a backward country like our neighbours. This is the first phase of the expansion. The palace and the gardens will be replaced by the extension and …’ Baba’s voice trailed off as he saw the misery on our faces.

‘When are we leaving the palace?’ I could barely absorb the news.

‘It is only a plan right now. Don’t worry about it. It could be a few months,’ Baba said soothingly. ‘I have started looking at schools in Bombay for you and Rani. We will probably leave before any of this expansion and demolition starts.’ He reached over and tousled my hair, reminding me of Shubho. ‘You can see Rajesh Khanna in Bombay. And all the other film stars too. Don’t you want to do that?’

For the first time ever, I was not excited at the thought of seeing Rajesh Khanna, even in person. I kept eating my dinner and did not respond. My mother did not say anything. Rani was also speechless.