A tear escapes the corner of Kanta’s eye. “Papers based on false information.”
I place my hands on Kanta’s bony shoulders and turn her toward me, gently. “You mustn’t think that way. Niki has the best parents, and the best home, any child could hope for. He’s had more love from you and Manu than he ever could have had from the nannies and governesses at the palace. I will never let anyone take him away from you.”
Her face crumples. She falls against my shoulder, sobbing.
Once again, I find myself promising something I’m not sure I can deliver.
20
MALIK
Jaipur
The next morning the area in front of the Royal Jewel Cinema is crowded. Female laborers in bright cotton saris, their bare feet covered in dust, are emerging from the building. The baskets on their heads are filled with rubble from the collapse. One by one, they dump their loads on the open end of a truck waiting at the front curb, then go back inside the cinema house for more. Men in dhotis are mixing dry cement and water in a wheelbarrow. Others are bringing damaged seats outside to be inspected. Can they be repaired, or do they need to be replaced with new ones? Can the mohair be resewn? Through the open lobby doors, I see a team of laborers erecting bamboo scaffolding so they can start work on the damaged balcony. Plasterers, painters, electricians and plumbers are milling about, their supervisors shouting orders. Women are using jharus to sweep the plaster and dust into containers of all shapes and sizes.
I see Ravi Singh with Mr. Reddy. Ravi, his face pinched, is pointing at the theater manager as Mr. Reddy holds his hands placatingly in a namaste, begging Ravi’s patience or forgiveness. I move out of Ravi’s sight line and quietly approach a woman who’s just coming out of the cinema, balancing a basket filled with cement fragments, plaster, broken chunks of brick on her head.
“Behenji,” I say softly. I call women close to my age “sister.”
The woman slows to look at me, uncertain.
“May I check your basket before you put the rubble on the truck?” I remove a rupee from my pocket and hold it out to her.
She wags her head yes. In the time it takes her to lower the basket to the ground, I put the coin in her hand; it swiftly disappears in her blouse.
Sifting through her basket, I pick a piece of indented brick with no logo that’s three-quarters intact. I also pocket a chunk of cement; it’s also too porous, which suggests the ratio of water to cement powder was incorrect. Manu’s staff has told me more than once that they have to be vigilant with inexperienced laborers who might mix in too much water, which weakens the cement. I put my evidence in the cloth bag I’ve brought with me. Before I left the office, I stuffed the bag with engineering books, a clipboard and a sweater from the office, and use them now to hide the fragments I’m collecting. I help the woman put the basket back on her head, and as I do, I see Ravi coming toward me. I salaam him.
“Don’t do that. You’re interfering with her job and slowing her down.” I can see he’s furious. Is he still sore that I took Sheela home in the early hours of the morning after the collapse? He looks like he wants to punch me in the face.
I smile to show I intend no offense. “Apologies. I thought behenji was about to drop the basket.”
His eyes narrow. “What brings you here?”
“I’m putting estimates together for those theater seats that have to be repaired or replaced.” I casually hang the cloth bag over my right shoulder.
He glances at the bag but makes no comment. “Haven’t the palace engineers given you a list?”
“They have, but I thought it better to come here and see for myself. This is an important project. I want to get it right.” I’m trying to sound earnest, helpful. Otherwise, I won’t get the results I want.
His expression softens, slightly. Now he tries to strike a milder, friendly tone. “Look, old chap, why not come to dinner tonight? It’s been too long. We can talk about this...” He indicates the scene around us. Is he trying not to call it the tragedy and disaster it actually is? “All will be made right in the end. You’ll see. My father knows a lot of people.”
No doubt his father has been busy, on the phone, talking to the palace lawyers, the media and his vendors, doing what he can to mitigate the damage to the reputation of his firm. Now that Samir is picking up the pieces, Ravi can assume a more relaxed attitude.
“What time?” I have no intention of staying for dinner, but at least I’ll have an opportunity to talk to Samir.
“Eight o’clock. Mummi schedules dinner at the same time every night.”
I check my watch; I’ve got time to finish what I need to do.
Back at the palace facilities office, I spend my lunchtime talking to one of Manu’s engineers. He’s single, about ten years older than me, and we often walk to the local street vendors to eat lunch together. After we’ve dug into our palak paneer and chole, I show him the materials I picked up from the Royal Jewel Cinema site.
He looks puzzled. “These are not to the specifications I saw in the documents for the construction of the cinema.” He takes a bite of his aloo parantha and shrugs. “So many of us worked on that project. Maybe the specs changed when I was no longer involved. One of the other engineers may know more.”
But I can’t find one engineer who knows how the specs changed.
At the office, in the final hour of the day, Hakeem keeps me busy. I enter new invoices into the ledgers and reconcile accounts until my head is spinning. By the time the motor rickshaw drops me off at Samir’s house, I barely have the energy to socialize. And there’s every chance I might run into Sheela—something I’d prefer to avoid. (Even though Sheela won her battle for a house of her own upon her marriage, she agreed to the nightly dinner at her in-laws’.)
I’ve no sooner stepped inside the door when Sheela comes out of the drawing room, looking peeved. Her daughter Rita, in a yellow tutu this time, follows her.
“Did Ravi not come home with you?” Sheela makes it sound as if I’m Ravi’s designated minder and have managed to lose him just to spite her. It’s as if the tender moment we shared right after the collapse never happened. The Sheela standing right in front of me, her hand on one hip, is a stranger. Has she forgotten that I helped her take a bath two days ago when she was fragile and alone?
I shake my head in answer to her question.
Tonight, she’s wearing a salwar kameez in a soft moss green that sets off the pink glow in her cheeks. A white chunni, embroidered with tiny green beads, falls gracefully across her shoulders. The fine cotton kameez hugs her breasts and hips and accentuates her flat stomach. The memory of her naked body rising from the bathtub makes me blush. She notices—a smile, or smirk, appears at the corner of her mouth.
I turn my attention to Sheela’s daughter. I squat down until we’re eye to eye. “Who is that, Rita?” I point to the plastic doll she’s holding, upside down, in her fist.
The girl takes cover behind her mother. With some impatience, Sheela tells her to answer when a grown-up is talking to her. Rita sneaks a peek at me from behind her mother and holds her arm out so that I can see her doll—a full-figured woman, about eight inches tall, with blond hair. The doll is naked.
I look up at Sheela, who rolls her eyes. “Ravi’s brother doesn’t have a clue about what to give a little girl. So he sent his niece what he thought was an American Barbie doll. It’s not. It’s a Tessie doll.”