Civil Lines

by Radhika Swarup

Ajay made a show of studying the menu, and as I tutted, he finally raised his head. ‘I’ll have the chole bhature,’ he said, looking at me with a pleased smile.

  ‘Chole bhature?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied and then, signalling to the waiter, he ordered a large dish of ice cream for dessert.

  I grunted. ‘I thought you were going to order a snack. And here you are, ordering a full blown lunch.’ He smirked, and I spat out, ‘We have a busy day ahead of us.’

  He turned to our gawping audience. He raised an eyebrow, gave a martyr-like shrug. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said penitently. ‘As you say, ma’am.’

  The coughing fit restarted, Ajay’s food arrived, and he began slowly, and pleasurably, to tackle the mountain in front of him.

  I showed Maya and Sonia the articles Benjamin sent me, and they both enjoyed the writing. ‘It’s good,’ Maya said to me. ‘Are you sure there is no catch?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She looked uncertain, potentially worried about my having second thoughts about our breakup. ‘I’m sure,’ I insisted. ‘There’s no catch.’

  Ajay saw the by-line, and asked Maya who the new contributor was. ‘Oh,’ she said hurriedly, ‘That’s Siya’s Benjamin. He’s doing us a favour.’

  ‘Siya’s Benjamin,’ Ajay repeated, his eyes glued to the page. ‘He writes well.’

  XIV

  Everything turned us skittish; the delays with supplies, the troubles with sponsors, arguments within the team. Everything felt like an omen, and it often seemed to us that The Satirist was doomed to fail again. Things took too long. The news cycle changed, and monthly magazines were out of date the minute they went to print. More online news sites were being launched, and print media proprietors reported falling sales and lower profits. We were sure the launch wouldn’t happen, were sure we would come across an unforeseen obstacle, were sure Raja Singh wouldn’t make an appearance, and though we carried on preparing, we prepared with an eye on failure. Then all at once, and all too soon, the end of the month arrived.

  The house was ready, the tent in the garden had withstood the previous night’s rains. ‘It’s a good omen,’ Tasha-di proclaimed. ‘Rain always bodes well.’

  Shanti cooked all day. She sliced onions, prepared chutneys, fried kebabs and samosas and pakoras, and though I worried she had too much work to do, she had a broad smile on her face. ‘It’s just like the old days,’ she said. ‘Parties all the time.’

  ‘But it’s just you to shoulder the work now,’ I said. ‘You must be tired.’

  ‘Get me an army of help once the magazine begins bringing in money. Besides,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘Pradeep’s bride will be helping out in the kitchen soon.’ After the bulk of her prep work was finished, Shanti changed into a green silk sari.

  ‘This is nice,’ Maya said. She fingered the fabric, admiring the softness of the silk, ‘Is it new?’

  ‘I bought it for Pradeep’s wedding.’

  ‘Then why,’ asked Maya, ‘are you wearing it today? It will smell of food on the day of the wedding.’

  ‘It is auspicious to wear new clothes for an important occasion,’ said Shanti, wiping away a tear. ‘And just you try and tell me that this magazine doesn’t belong a little to me too.’

  This was always Shanti’s way. She would ceaselessly take care of us, minding our manners and our worries, and then, when we least expected it, she would launch into hysterics worthy of a film heroine. ‘Yes,’ Maya said shamefacedly, and I quickly nodded. ‘Yes, of course this magazine belongs to you too.’

  The party was full of people I didn’t know. There was no Raja Singh, which was as expected, but there were journalists Maya, Sonia and Ajay had known in their working lives, and though I, as head of marketing, was at the door to greet everyone, it was usually one of the others who introduced me to our guests.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ Ajay pointed out, and as I burnt red, he added, ‘I’ll stand here by you and help identify people for you.’

  He was wearing a suit, a proper buttoned up charcoal grey herringbone affair he paired with a pinstripe shirt and gleaming camel coloured shoes. He looked well, and what was worse, he knew it. He preened, a little like a peacock, flicking invisible specks of his sleeve, and checking his collar to make sure it remained stiff. His hands constantly rose to his hair, and as he turned to me, I said, ‘No, that’s fine, Maya can help me. The founders should both be at the door.’

  But Maya was running around with a dozen chores. People she hadn’t seen for years—ex-colleagues, potential collaborators—all wanted to talk to her, and her attention was fleeting. ‘You’ll be fine, Siya,’ she said, ‘Ajay will take care of you.’

  He smiled then, and lowered his gaze to his sleeve. Another imaginary speck was discarded from his suit sleeve, and he put his arm around my shoulder, ‘Come,’ he said, gesturing to the empty doorway. I remained rooted to my spot. I knew my lower lip jutted out, just as it always had as a child during moments of displeasure. All in the family knew to watch out for it. Often, I’d hear them mouth to one another, ‘Siya’s in one of her moods again,’ which only served to infuriate me further. Ajay smiled gently, and held a hand out. ‘How bad can it be?’

  People were arriving by the minute. Ajay, now stationed next to me, pointed out key guests, and I had to admit that I was impressed by the turnout. Several high-ranking journalists were there, editors and publishers and commentators and media grandees, including some TV news presenters I recognised. The system worked well. Ajay first introduced them to me and then led them to Maya, but what struck me most was the party’s interest in Maya. ‘She was always such a promising writer,’ said one guest, ‘I’m so excited to see what she does next.’

  Puneeta arrived early in the evening. She wore a suit, the pencil trousers in her outfit tight, and had her hair up in a high ponytail. She was more attractive than I remembered, her features chiselled and accentuated with make-up, and I saw she made an impression on Ajay. ‘This,’ I said, smiling sweetly at him, ‘Is the manager of the hotel I’m speaking to about sponsorship. She’s also a gifted writer.’ Puneeta had sent me some of her articles, and they were good. Good, I thought, no they had been better than that. She had been able to draw an image of a place in a few lines. ‘She has a gift for description,’ I gushed, and as she coloured, I added, ‘I’m sure we would welcome a “Delhi Beats” column.’

  Puneeta smiled gratefully. ‘That’s so great to hear.’

  ‘In fact,’ I added, ‘Ajay here is a keen photographer. Perhaps the two of you can go out on assignment together.’

  I spotted Maya talking to someone familiar. It was a man of around forty, tall and slim and balding at the crown. I was sure I knew him, but for the life of me I couldn’t place him. Maya looked completely engrossed in the conversation, and I decided against sending Puneeta her way. ‘Why don’t the both of you go and discuss things further,’ I said to Ajay, and as he opened his mouth to complain, I added, ‘and when you see Sonia, be sure to introduce Puneeta to her.’

  ‘But you need me here,’ pointed out Ajay, and I shook my head.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ I said, ‘and all the journalists have already arrived. I’ll survive.’

  They went then, the suited pair, into the garden, and I was soon joined by Sonia. She wore her hair up in a bun, and matched her trousers with a simple white shirt and a long, gold necklace. ‘You look lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said smiling, and I could see she was moved by the compliment. ‘My uniform for years has been Mummy clothes. The simplest salwar kameezes, or tee-shirts and whatever comfortable trousers I can schlep around in. I know this outfit must seem simple to you.’

  ‘It doesn’t. It’s lovely.’

  ‘I haven’t worn anything like this in years.’

  I put my arm around her. Her enthusiasm was palpable. ‘It’s a good turnout, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I was always on board, but tonight I feel certain that we can make something of this magazin
e.’

  All of a sudden a trim figure entered, and I knew Raja Singh had arrived. I watched as he approached, anxious to greet him, but he appeared in no hurry. His gait was leisurely and his eyes flitted through the crowd.

  ‘What’s he even doing here?’ Sonia asked. She began to tell me that Raja Singh was a titan of Indian industry, that he had parlayed a hefty property inheritance into an investment empire that spanned media, entertainment and the internet, and I remembered that Maya and I had judged it best not to tell the team about our meeting with the great man. Sonia whooped with her nerves. ‘He’s Delhi royalty, Siya. He’s the king maker.’ She spoke in an awed rush, but even then, by the time she was finished, Raja was upon us. She smiled broadly, ‘Sir, what an honour it is to see you here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ He hugged Sonia. ‘I’m always happy to support local business. And an all-woman editorial team is an initiative worth supporting.’ He turned to me with a smile. ‘And I’m always happy to support my friends.’

  Raja Singh had been spotted. Several people came up to him, shaking his hand, congratulating him on his latest investment. Soon he was thronged.

  Sonia tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Stay here,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll go get Maya.’

  Raja had a booming voice, and he spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘As I told the Prime Minister,’ I heard him say before someone else exclaimed and I lost the thread of their conversation. I considered backing away. Here was the cream of Delhi’s intelligentsia, and I felt more than ever like an interloper. Raja saw me and held his hand up, signalling me to stay. ‘Yes, well,’ he told a greying news anchor. ‘Let’s catch up over a drink. But now,’ he said, his hand on my back, ‘I was just about to congratulate this young lady.’

  ‘Sir,’ I began, as several others looked expectantly in my direction. ‘We’re so honoured you came.’

  Raja Singh smiled. ‘It’s nothing.’ His was a wide mouth, generous and full of warmth, and he enveloped me in a hug. The air was close, the crowd thronged, and I felt short of breath. ‘We’re pretty much family.’ I smiled and he carried on, ‘Rupa and I really were great friends.’

  ‘Sir,’ I said, taken aback by his warmth. I could see Sonia nearby, watching over our conversation and keeping a lookout for Maya. Ajay approached her with Puneeta and introduced the two. He headed over to my side, and then held his hand out to Raja, ‘It’s so good to see you, Sir.’

  Raja nodded benevolently. ‘I was just getting to know this lovely young lady.’

  Ajay nodded. ‘Sir knows everyone in the media. TV, radio, online, you name it, he’s helped set it up.’

  Raja beamed. ‘You’re being too kind,’ he said. ‘But listen, Siya Sharma,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I meant what I said.’

  ‘Yes Sir.’

  ‘Your mother was a dear friend.’ He handed me a business card. ‘I’m sure The Satirist will be a great success.’ I thanked him for his wishes, and he said, his voice sombre, ‘But if you are ever in need, of advice, or funding, of anything at all, just remember you can call on me.’

  I thanked him again. He looked at me for a long, unblinking moment, then nodded, ‘And now,’ he said to Ajay, ‘are those kebabs I smell?’

  I saw Maya again a few moments later. She was running from person to person, and held a full glass in her hand. She hadn’t eaten all day, busying herself instead with the preparations, and I knew she would collapse the moment the last guest left. But I saw how consumed she was with her role, and as I looked around the room, watching Tasha-di mingle with people she hadn’t seen in years, I knew we had been right to resurrect The Satirist.

  Shanti, handing out plates in one side of the room, would have said this was Ma looking out for us. She was there in the magazine, in the letters she had left for us to find, in the work clothes she had always treasured, and in the tea stain that refused to shift from the room that had played host to all her hopes. Shanti would have said this was our true inheritance, the magazine that was bringing meaning into all our lives. She would have been wrong, of course, and sentimental and superstitious, but for a moment, the thought brought tears to my eyes.

  Ajay soon returned. ‘What were you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pimping me off to that silly woman.’

  I leaned back against the wall. The trickle of guests had slowed down, and I could see things were beginning to wind down. The food would soon run out, all but the most determined drinkers would decline their next offer of a refill. One by one, people would return to their lives. I smiled. ‘I thought the two of you would get along.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, enraged. He pushed up the sleeves of his suit, and ruffled his neatly coiffed hair. ‘You really thought I’d get along with that airhead?’

  I patted down his sleeves. ‘Careful now,’ I said slowly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Puneeta. She’s attractive, and she’s capable.’

  ‘She’s all gloss and no substance,’ he sniffed. ‘Typical marketing professional.’

  ‘Careful,’ I said. ‘I’m a marketing professional.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking at me through squinted eyes. ‘Well, exactly.’

  Mr Seth was next in. He hugged me, and I said, ‘It’s so good to see you, Mr Seth. I only run into Vivek now.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to miss this for the world. My two favourite girls launching a magazine; of course I was going to come to the party. Did you know,’ he said, leaning in conspiratorially, ‘Vivek wanted to come to this thing tonight.’ He reached for a passing waiter and took a samosa straight off the plate. ‘You stay and sweat in the shop,’ I told him. ‘What business do you have at this party thrown by my girls?’

  ‘Very right,’ I replied. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ I meant my words. Mr Seth had been a background motif all my childhood, always ready with a sweet, always soothing with a kind word on days when Ma was angry with one of us.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, turning to business, ‘I heard my son has been asking for money to display your magazine?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. I had been presumptuous too, palming him off with free advertising, but the old man was shaking his head.

  ‘I’ve told him,’ he said. ‘He’s not too old to be scolded by his father.’ I giggled. ‘Now, listen. There will always be a prime spot available for your magazine for as long as you want it. I don’t want to think about payment until you start to make money.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I hugged him. ‘And there will always be a free advertising space available for Seth Supplies as long as the magazine is in operation.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘Well. Next time, don’t worry about Vivek. If you run into any problems, come straight to the boss.’ Mr Seth swiped a kebab off another tray, and thumped his chest. ‘Come straight to me.’

  XV

  I woke up in the middle of the night with a realisation. The person Maya had been in such deep conversation with was the boyfriend of her college days. Older, a little stouter, and with markedly less hair, but it was definitely Kunal.

  I closed my eyes and tried to return to sleep, but it was no use. The image of the man kept returning to me; a tall, well-dressed figure with a hand tucked into his trouser pocket. He had been the same at university, though I had been more in the habit of observing his night-time shadow than his person, and though I tried to focus, and though I tried to think of reasons why a man talking to Maya wasn’t necessarily her old boyfriend, I had no success. My heart rang with certainty. It was Kunal. It was! I had barely been able to get a look at his face, but I knew it was him. He had stood upright, ramrod straight, and I thought of that shadow I had seen night after night when Maya had first gone to college.

  I closed my eyes. There it had always been as Maya dashed the flower from behind her ear, vigilant and utterly still, like a pool at night, a shadow that was only disturbed once my sister was safely back indoors. A picture emerged of the evening that had just passed, the noise
of the tent, and its heat, and Maya, her colour raised, paying rapt attention to the tall, still figure she spoke to. Her hands rose constantly to her hair, which she fanned out over her sari and then smoothed behind her back. She smiled, she tilted her head, she played with her hair, and in all her motion, I was convinced she wasn’t registering a single word that was said to her. Her colour was higher than I had ever seen it before, a little like she was in the grip of a fever, and I smiled happily.

  I looked at my phone. It was past three in the morning. In a few hours, Sonia and Ajay would arrive to conduct a debrief. The magazine would be officially launched at eight; our plan involved going to the various retail outlets stocking the magazine to highlight the publication. A press release would be issued during the day in the hope that it would be picked up by one or more of the conventional news agencies. A newspaper Sonia had worked for had promised to carry a small report on the launch. A reporter had been sent to the launch party, as had a photographer, and we hoped this morning’s newspaper would carry a mention of The Satirist.

  I knew it was going to be a long day, and I knew I needed to get back to sleep, but I rose from my bed. The winter chill slammed against me, and it took an effort to carry on. The house was dark. There was no light from within the house, and none from the street outside. The lamp posts that guided the neighbourhood’s security were shielded by the thick curtains Shanti drew in the evening, and I tiptoed quietly in the silence. I progressed through memory, and at Maya’s door, I paused before I entered.

  This had been me all my childhood, running from night terrors into my sister’s bed. She would turn sleepily towards me, pat me on the back and lull me back to sleep. Now, though, I watched her restful face with something approaching pride. This was a discovery I ached to share with her. I wanted more than anything to wrest an admission from her that it had been Kunal she had been speaking to, but I didn’t disturb her, mainly because I was scared of being proved wrong. I got into bed next to her, and as she shifted to make room for me, I heard her sigh. I might have been mistaken; the person she spoke to might not have been Kunal. She might have coloured from the crowds and their heat, but for the moment, as she drew me in to the warmth of her embrace, I knew I could rest safe in the belief that it had been her old boyfriend she had been speaking to.