by Alka Joshi
I imagined the fallout from Radha’s pregnancy. The whispers behind my back. Rumors that started first with servants, then spread like wildfire to my ladies. The nervous glances, the barely disguised scorn, the outright scoldings. I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up anywhere. Even shopkeepers in the Refugee Market might refuse to cater to me. I grew more hopeless by the hour, wondering how I would pay Samir back for my loan if my ladies abandoned me.
By dinnertime, I found myself in GulabNagar, the Pleasure District. As in Agra, there was a house here to satisfy every taste, and every purse. First came the tumbledown shacks. Prostitutes with untidy hair and homemade petticoats leaned against the walls, or sat on chairs in open doorways: village girls of ten or twelve, runaways and orphans both, two to three rupees for the asking. Perhaps this was where Hari was spending his days. Helping these girls in a way I had failed to.
Past the shacks stood dignified bungalows, crumbling from age and neglect. Here, women were slightly older, kohl-eyed, hardened. They charged twenty to thirty rupees a night. As I passed, they stared—at my clothing, my hair, my sandals—and turned away. Another do-gooder sent to save them or their children from a fallen life.
Hardly, I was thinking, when I saw a young girl, heavily made up, in front of a red bungalow. Her cheap orange sari couldn’t hide her swollen belly. As I came closer, she turned into a doorway. Was it—it couldn’t be—Lala’s niece? I was seeing things. But it made me wonder what had happened to the two servants Parvati had dismissed.
Soon enough, I came to the far end of the district, to the estates of wealthy courtesans—many of them Muslim. Like my old friends Hazi and Nasreen, these women were trained in the ancient arts of music, poetry and dance. They catered only to nawabs, royals and successful businessmen. They never opened their houses until evening and never to the public. A single night with them could cost a thousand rupees. They wouldn’t have needed someone like Hari to help them; they could afford doctors, specialists. They could also afford to buy my hair oils, skin-lightening creams and, of course, my herb sachets—which Malik delivered monthly.
I kept walking. Half an hour later, I came upon the European District, so-called because the French, Germans and Scandinavians lived here alongside well-to-do Indians. If not at his office or the Jaipur Club, Samir could be found here. Perhaps this had been my unwitting destination all along.
I looked for the trim, white bungalow. It was too small a property to employ a gatekeeper. I let myself into a tiny courtyard bordered by magenta roses. Their heady scent was strongest at this time of the evening.
The steps leading to the veranda were wide and graceful. When I knocked, I heard one of the upstairs shutters open. I stepped back and looked up. A handsome young woman in a georgette sari opened the second-floor window. I smiled and brought my hands together in greeting.
She hesitated. “I’ll come down.”
Soon enough, she was at the door: Samir’s mistress, Geeta.
All of Samir’s women had the same things in common. They were widows of a certain age, neatly coiffed, trim. Women who powdered their faces.
Samir would have thought a garden with only a single variety of flower dull, and his women differed in height, breast size, the shape of their noses, the curve of their lips. Geeta, a widow in her early thirties, was blessed with eyes as large as areca nuts. Her small nose and delicate mouth, pretty but unexceptional, drew even more attention to her eyes. She was holding a book in one hand.
I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”
She looked beyond me to the street, glancing in both directions. “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider to let me in.
“I need to speak to Samir Sahib,” I told her.
“Leave it with me.”
She thought I’d brought sachets.
“I haven’t come for that.” I smiled. “I need to talk to him.”
There was a pause. “He’s not here.”
“Is he expected?”
Another pause. “Later.”
“May I wait?”
She set the book on a table in the entryway. Did I detect a sigh? “Of course. Please.” She indicated the drawing room.
The moment I stepped into the room, I felt as if I might faint. Blood rushed to my head. My legs ached. I leaned against the doorframe to steady myself.
Geeta grabbed my arm. “Hai Ram!” She looked worried. “Are you quite all right?”
I realized I hadn’t eaten all day and that I had fainted at Kanta’s house. I touched the bump on my forehead. “Perhaps I will take some juice. Nimbu pani, if you have it.” I eased myself into a French bergère chair.
“Of course.”
I smiled my thanks, and rested my head against the back of the armchair.
On the fireplace mantel, a clock ticked, then trilled, delicately. It was decorated in an emerald green enamel, and it was much finer than the heavy English clocks many of my ladies favored.
“It’s French,” said Geeta, setting a glass of sugared limewater on the table next to me. “My late husband was a Francophile. The English were never good enough for Jitesh. In the end, he was proved right.” She smiled, revealing charming dimples, and I could see why Samir was drawn to her. She took a seat on the sofa.
I took one sip of my drink, then gulped down the rest; I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty.
“Another?” She stood, but I shook my head.
“Thank you, no. I’m feeling a little... If it’s not too much...perhaps I could lie down, Ji?”
“Are you ill?” She took the glass from my hand. “I can send for someone if you wish.”
“Nahee-nahee. I work too much...and forget to eat.”
I could see she wasn’t happy about it, but she led me upstairs, into a room that must have been guest quarters. There were no photos in it, no paintings or books. The walls were painted a pale yellow. The furnishings, a narrow bed with an ornate headboard and a dressing table, were French Empire. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Unlike the hard jute of my cot, the feathered mattress gave way, and I slept.
* * *
I was awakened by a sharp click. I opened my eyes to see Samir closing the door. He sat next to me on the bed and placed a hand on my arm. His brows were drawn. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
I didn’t know where I was or how I’d ended up here. The room was dark. Was I dreaming?
“What time is it?” I was groggy with sleep and shut my eyes again.
He turned on the bedside lamp and checked his pocket watch. “A quarter past twelve.”
I sighed.
“What’s the emergency?”
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. He brushed the hair away from my forehead to examine the swelling. His face was inches from mine. I could see the copper rim of his irises, their olive centers. How long his eyelashes were! And the feathered lines at the corners of his eyes—deeper now that he was frowning. I reached up to smooth them with my fingers and let my hand linger there. I caressed his cheek, the skin soft but the whiskers rough against my fingertips. I trailed my thumb across his lower lip.
He watched me with a puzzled smile.
I smiled back. He always made me feel safe. He was my comfort, made the big problems go away. Like when the owner of the Rajnagar land didn’t want to sell to a woman, Samir had stepped in and talked him into it. And when he loaned me money for herbs when I first arrived in Jaipur. He was on my side, always.
I parted his lips with my thumb and felt the wet flesh inside. Still looking into my eyes, he licked my thumb with his tongue. When my breath caught, his lips closed around it and he sucked. My belly tightened. I flattened my hand against his chest, feeling the thaka-thaka-thaka rhythm of his heart. The top two buttons of his chest were open. I slid my fingers through the opening and trailed my fingernails on his chest, felt his heart beat faster.
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He leaned closer and brushed his lips along the low neckline of my blouse. My breasts swelled. My back arched. My skin grew warm.
I kissed him. He kissed me back.
I pulled his shirt out of his trousers and dug my nails into the muscles of his back. He undid my blouse, snaking a finger along the elastic of my bra until he found the hooks in the back.
His tongue was warm and wet on my nipples, sending an electric charge between my legs. My entire body hummed—the soft flesh under my armpit, my belly button, the tender place inside my thigh. I pushed Samir to sitting. I lifted the shirt over his head and kissed his nipples. He groaned. So this is how it feels. This is what she feels.
We rolled over on the sheets and I straddled him. Pulling down the zipper of his pants, I stroked him. He moaned and sought my lips. He kissed me hard, and kept on kissing me, his tongue exploring my mouth, my tongue, my neck, the underside of my breasts. He loosened the drawstring of my petticoat so the pleats fell out and my sari unwound around us. Out came my notebook and my pouch, my pocket watch. Samir swept them off the bed. He took off his trousers. His thighs squeezed mine. I pulled on his mouth with my teeth, inhaled his cardamom breath. He turned me on my side and flattened himself behind me, his stomach pressing my buttocks, his lips on my earlobe, my shoulder, his hand stroking the warm skin between my legs, rocking me back and forth, back and forth, like water lapping the riverbank. As he entered me, I could no longer think, only feel pleasure. I no longer felt bound to my body, or to the bed. I felt everything and nothing at once.
* * *
I awoke with a start, unaware I had fallen asleep again. Samir was getting dressed.
For the past hour, I had shut everything out except desire. I hadn’t told him what I’d come here to say.
When he saw me watching him, he smiled and pulled me to standing. He helped me into my petticoat and bra. He hooked the eyes on the front of my blouse.
What I was about to say could change everything between us. Where should I start?
He pulled my sari, wrinkled now, off the bed, gathered it and began tucking it into my petticoat. His movements were sure, exact, as if he had done this a thousand times—no doubt he had. He straightened the pallu across my shoulder and took a step back to inspect his work.
He smiled, leaned in for a kiss.
I put my hand on his chest to stop him. “Samir.”
He cocked his head, bemused.
“There’s something...”
He raised his eyebrows.
When I failed to say anything, he felt for the cigarette case in his trouser pocket, lit a Red and White. I watched as he took a drag and blew out a stream of smoke. Then he sat on the bed and spread his hands in a gesture that said he was listening.
I cleared my throat. “Your son and my sister...have been...” I glanced at the scrambled sheets on the bed and he followed my gaze. “Spending time—together...like this.”
He looked at the bed, then narrowed his eyes at me. He smiled tentatively; he thought I was joking.
“They met at the holiday party.” I pressed my lips together. “She’s pregnant.”
“What? Who?”
“My sister, Radha, is pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
“Radha is pregnant. Ravi is the father.”
“Your sister’s only...”
“Thirteen.”
“But—how do you know it’s Ravi’s?”
It was a reasonable question, though it was maddening to have Samir ask it.
Radha had been so secretive that I, too, had asked myself the same thing. But I saw the way her face glowed when she talked about Ravi; it was answer enough. Still. It was one thing for me to doubt my sister and another for Samir to do so.
“I believe her. But you should ask your son.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” He stood, shook his head and pointed his lit cigarette at me. “We’ve had trouble with servant girls before.”
Servant girls. The words hung in the air. Is this how Samir thought of Radha? Of me?
We’ve had trouble with servant girls before. This wasn’t the first time?
I felt the words in my mouth before I could give them a voice. “Is that why Parvati got rid of Lala’s niece? And Lala?”
He shot me a furtive glance before looking away.
Hai Ram! My body shook with anger. “Is this how you take care of your problems? Remove them from sight? While your son continues to—to—I didn’t believe Radha at first! But she was telling the truth. I—”
“You’re the one who let it happen.” He frowned. “She’s your sister.”
“And your son? Who’s responsible for him?”
He turned away, studied the carpet, smoked. “Can’t you get rid of it? I mean, isn’t that what we pay you for? To take care of this kind of thing?”
Just an hour ago I’d imagined Samir coming to my aid. I’d pictured us working through this together. More fool, me! Of course I’d already suggested terminating the pregnancy. But coming from Samir, it sounded heartless. Is this how I’d sounded to my sister?
I looked down at my hands, rubbed them together. “I offered my sachets, but she said no. She thinks Ravi is going to marry her.”
“Rubbish! He knows better than that.”
“Does he?” I frowned at him. “As is the king so are his subjects?” As soon as I said the proverb, I knew it was true. There had been servant girls in Samir’s past, too.
He avoided my eyes. Ash from his cigarette fell on his shirt, but he didn’t notice. He pointed to the bed. “So that’s what all this was about?”
“This?”
“What we just did!”
“No!” I massaged my temples. “You think I’d come to the home of your mistress to—for this...so you would—what? Make Ravi marry my sister? Give me money to keep quiet?”
He dropped his eyes and released a strangled breath. “Lakshmi, this is all such a shock. I... Marriage is out of the question.”
That’s what I’d said to Radha. I lowered myself, slowly, on the stool in front of the dressing table.
“Have you talked to Ravi?”
I looked up at him. “I think that’s for you to do.”
Samir scratched his neck. “Where’s your sister now?”
“With friends.”
Some of the tension drained from his face. He stabbed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the bedside table. “The Sharmas...”
“The Sharmas.” How ironic. I’d finalized the match between Sheela and Ravi by suggesting a solution everyone found agreeable: Samir would design a house, separate from the main residence, on the Singh estate for Sheela and Ravi. Mr. Sharma would build it. Yet, all the while I was plotting and planning, Ravi and my sister had been—How could I fault Samir for blaming me when I blamed myself?
Samir lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. He sat on the bed once more, facing me. “All right. What do you suggest we do now?”
“Radha won’t agree to an abortion, but she might agree to an adoption. An orphanage is out of the question. You and I know those places are little better than a prison.”
Few Indian families ever adopted; the majority of children stayed in care homes until they came of age. It might have been different if couples didn’t think it was so shameful to admit they couldn’t conceive. “But there is one family for whom adoption is a way of saving face, not losing it.” I pressed my hands together, brought them to my lips. “The palace is looking for a new crown prince to adopt.”
“You mean—”
“The maharaja banished his natural son to England because his astrologer told him to adopt the future ruler. Radha’s baby will be a perfect candidate for adoption because Ravi’s son will have royal blood from Parvati’s side. He’ll be cared for, sent to the best schools, given everything. An orphanage c
an give him nothing. Don’t you want that life, and not the other, for your son’s child?”
He made a face.
“The Maharani Indira is very fond of you, Samir. She trusts you. A word in her ear is better, even, than speaking to the maharaja. She’ll make it seem as if the idea came from her.”
“Ravi is my son. What you’re asking me to do will expose him—”
“He is the father of Radha’s baby.” I glared at him. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice.
Samir’s nostrils flared in anger, whether at me, Ravi or the truth, I wasn’t sure.
“I, too, want the matter to be kept private, Samir. But we need a blood test from Ravi to prove paternity and bloodline. That way, you’ll also know Radha is telling the truth.”
I turned around on my stool. I watched him as I plaited my hair in the dressing table mirror. I knew he was thinking of the Sharmas—whether he could keep the secret from them, how the Singh name would be tarnished if he couldn’t.
And the Rambagh Palace contract? If his clients found out about an illegitimate baby—or if members of the Jaipur Club did—it could jeopardize his livelihood and his very place in society. For a decade, Samir had been my friend and business partner. Always easygoing, jolly. Lifted my mood whenever I saw him. Yet, I doubted now how well I really knew him. Was I looking at the real Samir in the mirror, the one who cared more about his social status than the lessons he was teaching—or not teaching—his son?
He cleared his throat. “If she won’t agree to an abortion, what makes you think she’ll agree to an adoption?”
“She may not.” I shrugged. “But as her legal guardian, I can force the issue.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “And I will.”
I wound my hair into a bun on top of my head and began inserting the pins to hold it in place.
He smoked. “They’re very careful with these royal adoptions. All legal guardians are required to sign the contract. I’ll have to tell Parvati.”
At the mention of her name, the hairpin I was holding slipped and scratched my scalp. I cleared my throat. “Do what you must.”
