“Why not let the courts decide? We should ask the maharani to leave the matter to the legal system.”
Her pained expression tells me she thinks I’m a simpleton. One too dull to understand her logic.
“That isn’t how these things are done. The settlement’s been made. Samir’s company will pay for reconstruction, plus materials. The palace has agreed to pay the costs for injuries incurred.” She moves both piles of cards together, shuffling them and merging them into a single deck. “If it’s a good reference Manu is looking for, I’ll talk to Latika. I’m sure she would have no objections. It’s out of your hands.” Her dark eyes regard me. “Your interference is neither needed nor wanted.”
I decide to take a different approach. “Is Ravi happy working for his father?”
The change of subject jars her just enough to still her hands. “What business is that of yours?” She gently sets the deck back on the table.
“It’s what I would have asked Samir if he’d come to this meeting.” Then it hits me: Did Samir send his wife to confront me? Is he that much of a coward?
“Ravi has a great life and a great future,” she says. “Once Samir retires, he’ll take over the company.”
“Samir is healthy. What if he decides not to retire? At least not soon? Would Ravi enjoy working under his father for a few more years? Or decades?”
Parvati crosses her arms over her chest.
I continue. “Ravi’s lived abroad. He’s known a lot of freedom. Now he’s back, virtually living with his family again, working on whatever projects his father gives him. Have you ever asked him if this is the life he wants?”
She looks at me with a grimace. “We aren’t nomads. We don’t wander, looking for a way to make a living, begging help from other people. We’re not at the mercy of any ara-garra-nathu-kara. Not like your lot.” She spits this last bit out; she might as well have called us good-for-nothings.
When I saw her last, she came to this house—my house—to offer me a bribe. I could have taken the money she was offering if I swore to her I’d never sleep with Samir again. I had no intention of repeating that mistake, and I refused the money—money that I needed, money that might have saved my ruined business. Back then, who was begging who, Parvati?
But I say nothing. I know this woman well. Parvati has the right to be high-handed just so long as she hides behind a curtain of wealth and privilege. I’ve seen her as few others have—when she was powerless—confronted with the sad reality of the philanderer she married and the reckless son she bore. She didn’t have the will to criticize me then.
But I’m not here to open old wounds. The only thing I want is that Manu and Kanta survive this scandal unscathed.
Now Parvati leans across the table, close enough for me to smell the betel nut she’s fond of chewing. Her eyes are blazing. “We have important destinies. We are the ones who make or break this country. My family has responsibilities to make sure people like you have food to eat, a roof over your head. Now you’ll leave my family alone, or you’ll have bigger things to deal with—more significant than whether Manu Agarwal is about to lose his job. And you won’t go spreading lies about my son.”
She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up. “Lock the door behind you.”
With a final scowl at me, she leaves. Through the room’s front window, I watch her driver hold the back door of the Bentley open for her, then get behind the wheel and ease the car out onto the street.
As I take a tonga to the Agarwals’, I ponder Parvati’s certainty; the might, and right, to be imperious is hers, and hers alone. An attitude I thought I had become inured to years ago.
Once I’m inside the Agarwals’ house, Kanta hands me a cup of tea and a lavender-scented envelope. She says, “Hand delivered from the palace.”
I recognize the elaborate handwriting and slide the envelope’s flap open.
Dear Mrs. Shastri (or should I say Mrs. Kumar?):
I was so pleased to hear about your marriage to Shimla’s eminent physician, Dr. Jay Kumar. How lovely it must be to enjoy cool breezes while we, in Jaipur, swelter.
Latika told me that you came to see her. Am I not worthy of a visit, too, my dear? I am old and not as agile as I used to be. Truth be told, the Parisian doctors tell me I have cancer of the uterus. (Ironic, isn’t it? Considering my husband wouldn’t allow me to make use of my uterus even once!)
I decided I would rather pass my remaining years in the country of my birth than in a country where the coffee is divine, but where the cheeses offend my sensitive nose.
Do let me know when you might have a moment free to pay a visit to this old woman and offer me the kindness of a chat and news of Malik and that old rascal Madho Singh.
Warmly,
Her Highness Maharani Indira of Jaipur
24
MALIK
Jaipur
At lunchtime, I slip out of the office to go see the Agarwals. I want to know what Samir Singh told Auntie-Boss. But when Lakshmi arrives, she tells us that Parvati showed up for the meeting.
Baju brings the tea tray into the drawing room. Kanta tells him to take a cup to Manu, who has sequestered himself in his study; he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to hear our conversation. Niki’s in his room, doing homework; Kanta is still keeping him from school. Saasuji is napping.
Lakshmi says, “Parvati is confident Samir was not involved in this.”
Kanta’s adding sugar to her chai. “Well, of course, she would be. She has generations of a family reputation to protect.” She stirs her tea. “I think she believes the Singhs are indispensable to Jaipur. That their family, alone, is keeping the economy afloat. But how would anything get built without the women and men who work as laborers on their sites?” She shakes her head. “It takes two—or hundreds, really—to tango.”
“Do you know I believe her when she talks about Samir?” Auntie-Boss insists. “Where his work’s concerned, he’s honest. Samir would compromise neither his reputation nor his integrity.” She and I trade a look. “His home life is another matter altogether.”
I don’t like to think about how many mistresses Samir has taken over the years. As a boy, I crisscrossed this city delivering the contraceptive sachets that Auntie-Boss sold to him and his friends for their paramours.
Lakshmi continues, “Ravi, however, is different. You should have seen Parvati’s face when I brought up his name. Bilkul rattled. What if Ravi is the one behind this fiasco? What if he’s the one who’s been cutting corners for reasons of his own? Malik has noticed some interesting discrepancies.”
I shake my head. “I still can’t work out why Ravi would risk it. He’s got everything—a comfortable present and an even better future.” I can’t help thinking about Sheela. I’ve tried, and failed, to wipe the images from my mind: her clingy green dress; dark hair, wet from her bath; her seductive smile; the gold powder glittering on her cleavage.
And suddenly—like a ninety-mile-an-hour cricket ball—an idea hurtles through my brain.
In the inner sanctum of Moti-Lal Jewelers, I set the broken pieces of bricks in front of the big man. He’s seated, cross-legged, on his padded cushion while he smokes his hookah. Auntie-Boss is sitting next to me.
Lal-ji had been so pleased to see her, when we first came in, he had almost tripped when he hurried from behind his desk to greet her. She’d brought a gift for him—the hair oil that his wife used to buy from her. (Lakshmi always carries several bottles with her, just in case.)