THE MAGICAL PALACE (14 page)

‘Yes, Shubho. I am having a good time,’ I said, finally raising my eyes and looking at him, my breath caught in my throat. He was smiling at me with that same look in his eyes again. This was the look he had given me when he caught me spying on him as he kissed Anamika. ‘I am here with my sister and some of our friends,’ I blurted out, then looked down at my hands again. They were fiddling with the cloth napkin, folding it into various origami shapes. I stole a look at Shubho’s hands. They were strong like his forearms, the nails nice and broad and neatly trimmed. Searching for something to say, I asked abruptly, ‘So, how was your stay in Spain? Are you coming back to our school again this year?’

‘Definitely. Spain was great. They have a great football coach in the school I attended. I made some really good friends in class. I was ready to come back in six months, though.’ He smiled at the memories I had stirred up, a faraway but happy look in his eyes. ‘So, are you going to join the football team when you’re back in school?’ he asked. Then he shifted in his seat and uncrossed his legs and I felt the warm pressure of his shins against my legs. A wave of excitement travelled up my leg to my groin. I was embarrassed and hoped no one could see. He moved his legs so that his knees were between mine, touching my inner thigh. I liked the way his bare knees and legs felt, both smooth and hard at the same time, so I did not move away. Neither did Shubho, as he gently rubbed his knee against me and leaned in a little closer, a mischievous look on his face.

‘Yes, I will join the team,’ I promised, scarcely aware of what I was saying. I felt the familiar, enjoyable sensation in my body and stomach again. Except that it was so much stronger this time than when I would dream of Rajesh
Khanna. I could smell Shubho’s cologne, mixed with the musky scent of his skin. I had a sudden urge to bury my nose in the side of his neck and breathe in deep. I wanted him to hold me … I looked up at him in confusion. Shubho’s lips were slightly parted and he licked them with the tip of his tongue and I could still feel the pressure of his legs against mine. I was not sure at all of what was going on. But I knew that I liked it, even though I was scared that someone would think it shameful.

‘I’m back.’ Anamika was taking her seat again and the sounds and movements of the restaurant flowed back into my silent reverie. Shubho sat up suddenly and I felt a cool brush of air as he moved his leg slowly away from mine.

‘I have to go back to the table.’ I simply wanted to leave. I could not bear to see Anamika fawning over Shubho.

‘All right, Rahul. You are such a lucky bugger. You will break some hearts one day, I tell you.’ Shubho’s confident and hearty laugh echoed around the restaurant as he patted my cheek affectionately with his hand.

‘Bye, Shubho Dada. Bye, Anamika,’ I said, pushing my chair back and standing up quickly as I saw Rani making all kinds of gestures with her hands, asking me to return.

‘Bye,’ they replied.

I walked back, casually pulling my shirt down, my mind a confused jumble of emotions.

‘Gosh, Rahul. We were getting ready to go and rescue you. You looked totally trapped at Shubho Dada’s table. What were you talking about anyway? Girls?’ Rani let out a big guffaw, echoed by Shyamala. ‘Can you imagine Rahul with a girlfriend? Who on earth would go out on a date with someone who spends most of the day climbing trees or playing with earthworms?’

‘Oh, leave him alone.’ Mallika’s voice was firm. ‘Don’t you two have anyone else to pick on?’

‘Oh, sorry, Rahul. I forgot that you are no longer a little boy,’ Rani said. ‘When did you start growing this?’ She stroked my upper lip gently, outlining the peach fuzz that had appeared under my nose and on my chin.

‘Stop it,’ I muttered, suddenly shy.

‘You know, one day you’ll be a man and I will no longer be able to tease you,’ Rani said, her voice unusually pensive.

‘I remember when I started growing the beginnings of a moustache,’ Salim broke in mischievously. ‘Nothing was the same after that.’ He raised an eyebrow as if to mean something, and Mallika laughed.

‘Rahul, we have already decided what we want to eat. Did you even get a chance to look at the menu?’ Salim, gracious and charming, just like Mallika, changed the topic. ‘Bearer,’ Salim said, summoning a waiter.

The waiter arrived. He used a towel to wipe the tabletop and then used a second one to polish it.

‘I will have a masala dosa and a Madras coffee,’ Rani said.

‘Same for me,’ I said, putting down the menu after giving it a quick glance, and settling for my favourite item.

‘Copycat,’ said Rani.

‘You are one too,’ I retorted.

‘Now, now, let us not squabble right now, all right?’ said Mallika.

Mallika ordered idli and sambar and so did Salim. Shyamala ordered vada and a masala dosa. They all wanted Madras coffee as well.

The waiter brought us our food quickly and, in no time, we were tucking in greedily. The chutney made with fresh-
ground coconut was the perfect accompaniment to the crisp dosas.

The waiter then brought out the coffee and then went through the ceremonial pantomime with which South Indian coffee was served. He poured the chicory-flavoured coffee from one stainless steel glass to the next, back and forth, the glasses held an impossible three feet apart, as he expertly transferred the liquid. The coffee grew frothy and, at the exact moment when we were certain he would spill it, the waiter stopped and served it to us. He left his cleaning towel on the table.

We were quiet, each of us enjoying the meal, except for Mallika and Salim, who kept looking at each other and smiling. I thought of Rajesh Khanna and the way he looked at Sharmila Tagore in
Aradhana
.

‘Oh, no!’ Mallika’s panic-stricken voice broke into my food and film-filled ecstasy. ‘Mrs Khosla is here! She will tell Ma and Baba that Salim was here. I knew it. We should have never come here. Baba will be so angry!’ Her face grew pale and she put her head down, trying to hide. Rani and I looked at each other as we thought about how much trouble we would get into as well for providing a cover for Mallika. Mrs Khosla saw us and made a beeline for our table. Salim jumped up and put the towel that the waiter had left behind on his shoulder and started cleaning the table.

‘Madam,’ he said to Shyamala as Mrs Khosla walked over, ‘would you like more kaapi?’ Her expensive silk sari was wrapped around her formidable body and rolls of fat hung from her waist, unable to stay within the confines of her too-small choli blouse. Since her son Suresh went to school with me and her daughter with Rani, she knew us all. She knew Anjali Mashi too because her husband taught
at Osmania College. And of course, she knew Mallika. After all,
her
husband had told Mallika’s father that she was associating with boys. She looked at Salim for a second and then, ignoring him, said in her loud voice, ‘So, how are you all?’ Without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘I took Suresh and his friends out for a treat after a film.
Diamonds are for Ever
, with Roger Moore. I really like Roger Moore—he is so handsome. And then that Sean Connery? Ohh!’ She squealed with enthusiasm and her jowls quivered lustfully for a second.

‘Madam, phor you?’ Salim continued, as he asked Rani the heavily accented question.

‘Mm … nothing,’ she said, giggling. Salim left.

‘Why was that waiter sitting at your table?’

‘Yes, Aunty, we were chatting with him because …’ I began, not really knowing what I was going to say.

‘He knows my …’ Shyamala started at the same time, and then we both stopped.

Mrs Khosla frowned and cut in, silencing us. ‘So you children are here alone? That is very dangerous. Bad, bad things happen to children when they are alone, you know. Do your parents know you are associating with low-class people with no one to supervise you?’

‘Oh, no, Khosla Aunty, I am taking care of them,’ Mallika replied, sounding nervous.

‘So who is actually sitting here?’ Khosla Aunty asked, pointing to Salim’s empty chair, plate of food and glass of water. ‘A friend of mine from school,’ Rani said, just as Shyamala said, ‘Anuradha.’ We looked at each other and shut up in confusion.

Khosla Aunty looked suspicious, unable to solve the puzzle, She turned on her heel, saying very righteously,
‘I don’t understand why your parents let you go out by yourselves and associate with strangers and expose yourselves to riffraff. At least
I
don’t let my children go out alone without me. Anyway, I have to go see my darling sona Suresh and his friends, they are waiting outside.’

We stared at her, unable to say anything more than ‘Namaste, Aunty’ as we realized how narrow our escape had been. Another word from Mr Khosla would have made things very difficult for Mallika. Her father would probably lock her up in her room until he married her off.

As Mrs Khosla left, swaying slightly from side to side in an effort to balance her rolls of fat, her sari billowing behind her and leaving a trail of expensive French perfume, our barely contained mirth could be restrained no longer. We exploded in paroxysms of laughter. Salim came up to the table, grinning broadly as he took his place.

‘Wah, wah, kya acting!’ Mallika said with a small flourish of appreciation to Salim for defusing what could have been a disastrous situation. They sat close at the corner of the table, their hands barely touching but close enough that he could whisper something in her ear from time to time, making her giggle and blush. ‘Meri jaan,’ he said once, loud enough for all of us to hear, and Rani and Shyamala simpered coyly. I loved seeing them at a loss for words. The time-honoured way of addressing one’s beloved was passionate, teasing and flirtatious all at once. Only Rajesh Khanna could say those words with that much emotion to Sharmila Tagore. I felt an ever-growing affection for Salim. I looked over at Shubho’s table to see if he had noticed the small commotion at ours, but Shubho and Anamika were gone. I missed him already. I did not know when I would see him again.

Salim paid the bill. He left first, after handing Mallika a letter that crackled with the sound I knew so well. Mallika looked sad the moment he left, but then brightened up as she felt the letter in her hands. She straightened her shoulders and said, ‘Come on, it is time to go. Remember, this is our secret.’

We walked out, and I was overjoyed to finally be treated like a grown-up, the keeper of Mallika’s confidence.

My father was waiting for us at the wheel of the Baby Ford. We piled in.

‘So, how was the food?’

‘It was great.’

‘The dosas were tasty. Thanks for the ten rupees.’

‘I love my bangles.’

We all chimed in together and Baba laughed as well, unaware of our scandalous behaviour, as we drove to Mint House. It was a happy group that spilt out of the car and onto the portico of the palace.

Shortly afterwards, Mallika’s parents drove up to pick her and Shyamala up and our apprehension returned as the euphoria of the afternoon faded.

‘We have to go soon,’ Binesh Kaku said as they walked up the portico steps and towards the sitting room.

‘So soon?’ Baba would not let them leave. ‘Arre, Binesh, how can you leave without cha and snacks?’

Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi came reluctantly into the living room.

‘Chatterjee Dada, please find us a match for Mallika,’ Anjali Mashi said abruptly.

I was walking very slowly to the dining room, taking my time. I stopped to look under the table by the door, as if searching for something.

‘What? She is too young. Shouldn’t she be finishing her college first?’ Baba said.

‘Well … yes … but you know. A girl’s place is in her husband’s home. We are just raising her to be part of another household, just like you are raising Rani,’ Binesh Kaku said.

‘Actually, Chatterjee Dada, the truth is …’ Anjali Mashi started saying when her husband cut her short.

‘Go help Mrs Chatterjee in the kitchen,’ he barked.

Jolted by the sharpness in his voice, I jumped up, knocking over a picture frame. Everyone looked at me.

‘What are you doing, Rahul? Go inside and play with Rani,’ my father snapped.

I slunk out of the sitting room as quickly as possible, reeling with the news. But before I could tell anyone about it, my mother asked me to set the table in the sitting room. This time, I did not want to serve tea or snacks. I just wanted to get away and warn Mallika, but I would have to do it later.

Anjali Mashi left to join my mother in the kitchen. Her eyes looked puffy and red when she returned and she was quiet the rest of the evening. But my mother acted normal— she was used to the role of peace-keeper.

All of us sat in the sitting room, drinking tea and eating snacks. I watched for any further signs or hints of what Anjali Mashi had been trying to tell Baba, but Binesh Kaku talked politics the entire evening. As always, he dominated the conversation, cutting in whenever Anjali Mashi or his daughters spoke. It was as if no woman’s opinion could really count.

‘Mallika, stay here. We are leaving soon.’ Binesh Kaku commanded Mallika and Shyamala to sit with the grown-
ups as we got up to leave, anxious to regroup and discuss the afternoon’s escapade. It irritated me that we could not go and sit outside on the veranda without his permission. We looked at each other and silently reaffirmed our secret. Little did we know that we would never ever be alone together like this again.

After our guests left, I was helping to clear the sitting room of plates and cups when I heard my mother talking to my father in a low tone. I strained to hear while making noise with the cups and dishes as if I were clearing the table.

‘Mallika is mixing with a boy,’ she said in Bengali.

‘Oh. That is terrible.’

‘He is not a Brahmin. He is not even a Hindu. He is Muslim.’

‘How did they find out?’ Baba asked, sounding incredulous. ‘Are they absolutely sure? Our Mallika is such a good girl!’

‘Well, first of all, Mrs Khosla, the wife of Professor Khosla, mentioned something to Anjali Didi about her husband seeing Mallika talking to boys. Then Mr Khosla himself made a pointed comment to Binesh Dada at the Lions’ Club meeting. When they asked Mallika about the boy she was with in the cafeteria, she denied everything. Anjali Didi searched her bedroom and found a bundle of love letters, written by a boy called Salim. She has not told Binesh Dada that the boy is Muslim and that she has read the love letters. She is scared that he will do something rash.’