THE MAGICAL PALACE (16 page)

‘I hate Binesh Kaku. I hate Baba. They think they own us,’ Rani burst out, her voice trembling with anger and helplessness.

‘Why can’t Mallika Didi be with Salim when she loves him so much? He is not like the rest of them, cruel and violent. I wish Binesh Kaku would just meet him once. Or if Baba met him, he could talk to Binesh Kaku,’ I said, even though I knew that it was just wishful thinking.

‘Sure. And then we will all live happily ever after. Grow up, Rahul! Life is not a fairy tale. Our family is not like Ranjan’s. He and Shubho Dada are so lucky. But they are boys and can do anything they want. Can you imagine how horrible it will be if I am married off to a greasy, conservative Bengali smelling of mustard oil? A man who expects me to cook and feed him and his parents? I will run away on my wedding night if that happens,’ she said defiantly.

We laughed in spite of ourselves. But we knew we were powerless in this game. Our parents decided our futures and determined who could love whom. I knew Mallika
enjoyed going to her grandmother’s tea estate. She had told me many times about the verdant hillsides and the colourful tea pickers. Most of all, I liked to hear about the elephants that roamed in the forests nearby and occasionally made an appearance. She had once seen a cow elephant and her baby and, for me, the next best thing to seeing it was hearing her describe it. But this time, it was different. Mallika had been sent there against her will.

‘When we visit Shyamala, we will find out what really happened,’ said Rani, still mutinous and angry. ‘Did you hear what Baba said about me? I will not marry some idiot in an arranged marriage.’

We visited Shyamala that weekend. The house did not feel the same without Mallika. Shyamala and Rani did not gang up on me. We were all drawn together for the moment, united in our concern for Mallika.

‘So when did they send Mallika Didi away?’ Rani asked as soon as Anjali Mashi had gone to the kitchen.

‘Come upstairs, we can talk there,’ Shyamala said, leading the way up to the same room where a few weeks ago Mallika had shown us her billet doux, the rice paper crackling with promises of love.

We walked in and she shut the door, bursting into tears. ‘It was horrible,’ she said. ‘Ma showed Baba the letters and he found out that the boy she was seeing was Salim. They asked Mallika to stop seeing him and she refused. Baba slapped her once, then again and again. I have never seen him so angry. He has not slapped us since we were children. Ma was crying. Mallika did not say a word. All she did was sob. They dragged her to her room and locked her in. A day later, they unlocked the door and went in to talk to her. An hour later, she came out. She looked like stone as she went
with Baba and Ma to the train station. Baba went with her all the way to Assansol.’

We listened in horror. Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi were like our parents—it was difficult to imagine them being so cruel. It seemed as if this situation had somehow changed them into monsters, full of anger and hatred.

‘What happened then?’ I asked.

‘I asked Ma why Mallika Didi could not marry Salim,’ Shyamala continued. ‘She said because then no one would marry me and people would look down on our family forever. As if I want to be married off to some stupid man they choose! I will run away when I am older.’ She sounded very determined.

‘I will too,’ Rani said unhesitatingly.

‘Mallika Didi gave me a letter for Salim. She asked me to give it to you both. Do you think you can find a way to get the letter to him?’ Shyamala asked.

‘Where does he live?’ Rani enquired.

‘Close to Mint House. In the Lakdi ka Pul area, just past the Khairatabad market, which is near your house. His uncle is a mullah in a mosque in your neighbourhood, maybe even the mosque behind Mint House.’

‘Maybe his uncle can help Salim and Mallika Didi,’ I said hopefully.

‘Don’t be stupid. Muslims are much more conservative than Hindus are,’ Rani said impatiently.

‘Anyway, make sure Salim gets the letter, all right?’ Shyamala persisted.

‘I am not sure …’ Rani sounded a little doubtful.

‘Of course we will give it to him,’ I said, interrupting her. It was unthinkable that we could not do this for Mallika. ‘We will find a way.’

‘Okay then, here it is,’ Shyamala said, bringing out a letter in an envelope from under the mattress, where she had hidden it. Rani tucked the letter inside her blouse.

We went home, sobered by the gravity of the situation. I did not dare talk to my father about it. We all pretended that nothing had happened and Rani and I avoided mentioning Mallika in front of our parents.

Oh, how I missed Mallika! There would be no one to stand up for me if I got into trouble at school again and when Rani and Shyamala made fun of me. The sky grew dark that evening and inky black clouds with violet fringes piled up in the sky, turning crimson as they were touched by the fingers of the setting sun. The air was heavy and moist. The monsoons were very close now and I could smell them in the night air as I sat on the veranda that night. I knew we had to get the letter to Salim as soon as possible. He would find a way to rescue Mallika, I felt sure of that. But how would we get the letter to him? We had never left the palace alone before and never gone to Salim’s house either. Even if we figured it out, the only time we could go on our own was on a Saturday or Sunday, when the Mint was closed in the afternoon and our parents were enjoying their afternoon siesta.

A purple-blue bolt of lightning illuminated the garden for a second, followed by a violent, thunderous crack that resounded all around. It was a fitting start to the last monsoons I would witness at the palace.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of rolling thunder coming from far away. I ran outside to the veranda to take a look at the sky. It was still mostly clear, but a few
wispy patches of grey indicated that this could be the day the rains started. I gobbled down my breakfast because I wanted to make sure that I was outside when the first drops of water fell. But the morning dragged on and soon it was lunch time.

‘Ma, when will it start raining?’ I asked.

‘A watched kettle never boils, Rahul. You would do well to stop waiting for it to rain. It will happen when the time is right. Just like everything else. Here, take this chapati I just made. Put some butter on it and some sugar like
this
. I loved it when I was a young girl. Here,’ she said, handing me a roll of freshly made chapati, sweet and salty and warm with the melting butter oozing from one end. Ma always knew what to do when I got impatient. I took the roll and went outside and walked to the lawn.

As I took off my slippers and felt the warm, dense grass under my feet, the sky grew dark. The air became heavy and humid as it settled like thick molasses over everything. The rumbling of clouds got louder as the rain approached. The sky grew blacker by the minute and the wind picked up.

I walked further out, to the middle of the lawn, stirred by the promise of the wild display of nature. The deluge was always preceded by a few moments of calm. Even the usually raucous crows were silent, the koel had stopped its feverish call and the sparrows were hiding in the rafters of the servants’ quarters, their feathers puffed up.

A deafening clap of thunder reverberated through the sky, shaking even the old banyan tree. The trees trembled as their leaves rustled and shook. The rumbling increased, the clouds roaring like angry lions as clap after clap rolled through the skies. The thrill of joy and danger that the monsoons brought with them stirred in me strange feelings
of passion. Random bursts of raindrops fell and the wind whipped my hair into my face, stinging it.

My mother was insistent that I get back into the palace, her strident voice calling for me: ‘Come inside, Rahul!’

But I stayed out in the garden for as long as possible.

‘Come in before you catch a cold and fall ill,’ Ma screamed. I lingered outside a little longer, savouring every drop of rain that fell into my open mouth and upon my upturned face. Finally, I turned to go back into the palace.

‘What will happen to the nest of the weaverbird? Will the babies die?’ I asked Rani as I ran back. She was sitting on the veranda, enjoying the spectacle nature was putting on.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she retorted. ‘It is only the rain. The birds are used to getting wet.’

‘I want to go check anyway!’ I shouted as I started to run to the weaverbird’s nest. It was being buffeted by the strong winds, but I was relieved to see that it looked as if it would weather the first rains. And then I saw it. A little baby weaverbird—dead, on the ground, its head stretched out and its beak open. The beak was still yellow around the edges and the early feathers looked like quills. It had to be the weaverbird that Ranjan had shaken out of the nest. I ran over with a cry of horror and knelt down to take a closer look. Thousands of ants were pouring out of the hollow sockets where its eyes had been. I stayed there for a couple of moments, overcome by sadness and anger. I wished I had never shown the magical treasures of my garden to Ranjan, who had proved to be so cruel. I bit my lip and willed myself not to cry.

And then the rain came down hard. By now, the entire garden was soaked. I was wet too, even though I had reached the shelter of the veranda.

The rooms were dark in this weather, the gloomy skies blocking out light from the cavernous spaces of the ceilings. The palace was so solid, so well-built, that even in the worst storms there was never a leak in the ceiling or walls. I wondered what it felt like to live in Colonel Uncle’s apartment upstairs and see the approaching storm from above the treetops.

‘Change your clothes now or you will catch a cold.’ My mother was not willing to negotiate. I reluctantly followed her indoors and changed into dry clothes. The steady drumming of the rain on the window panes was rhythmic and hypnotizing. I heard a song by Mohammad Rafi on the radio wafting in from the sitting room, bemoaning the unreliable and deceitful weather: ‘
Aaj mausam bada beimaan hain …
’ A fitting song, I thought.

The phone rang late in the afternoon. My mother answered it.

‘Anjali Didi, how are you?’ she enquired. ‘And how is Mallika?’ A crack of thunder startled us. Then Ma said, ‘It’s only to be expected that she is angry and upset. Well, remember that boys and girls today are not as obedient as we were. They have a mind of their own nowadays.’ The tea kettle started whistling and she hurriedly said, ‘Anjali Didi, we can discuss all of this when we meet next.’ She was about to hang up, but Anjali Mashi’s response kept her at the phone. ‘Yes, it is a difficult time, but I am sure you are doing what is right for the family and for Mallika too. Our children need guidance from us. Someday she will thank you for this. Start looking for a suitable boy, it could take some time.’

‘Ma, why is Mallika Didi getting married so soon? Why can’t she choose the person she wants to marry, like people
do in America and England?’ I asked when she finally put the receiver down.

My mother looked perplexed for a moment. Then she said, ‘You know how you have rules at school?’

‘Like not talking in class?’ I answered.

‘Yes, like not talking in class. If there were no such rules, there would be disorder and noise all day long. The teacher would not be heard and the students would not learn anything. Similarly, there are rules in our society.’

‘Why do we need rules that tell us who can marry whom? Why can’t anyone marry someone of their choice?’

‘That is the way our society is set up, Rahul. Remember you studied about the caste system and how each caste performed a certain role in the ancient times? Well, people in those castes did not marry each other. They stayed within their groups. The parents arranged the marriages of their children.’

‘Did you have an arranged marriage too?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Did you want your parents to arrange your marriage for you?’

‘I did what was expected of me,’ Ma said. She looked pensive for a moment and continued, ‘And now I have the two most precious jewels of my life, Rahul and Rani.’

I looked at her, not quite sure what to make of her answer.

‘Do not talk about this to anyone, understand?’ she said again. ‘Anjali Mashi and Binesh Kaku are doing what is best for Mallika and their family.’

I wondered what Mallika was doing in the tea estate in Assam. I could see her in my mind’s eye, lovelorn and sad, her hair blowing behind her, torrential rains falling in
bursts as she walked through the colonial mansion, singing ‘
Na koi umang hai, na koi tarang hai, meri zindagi hai kya, ek kati patang hai
…’ It would be just like Asha Parekh in
Kati Patang
, singing about the absence of joy in her life because it was just like a kite floating aimlessly in the sky, at the mercy of the wind.

Suddenly, I thought of Colonel Uncle. I wondered if his parents had tried to arrange a marriage for him. After thinking about him for a bit, I decided to go upstairs, treading the spiral staircase more confidently this time. The raindrops stung my bare legs as I climbed the slippery wrought-iron steps. The trees swayed in the wind, the branches bending this way and that. The bats were not out yet, even though it was twilight. Perhaps the strong winds and tempestuous night was keeping them indoors. I gingerly stepped over a broken branch, trying not to slip and hurt myself this time.

Colonel Uncle’s room was brightly lit, a sliver of light shining on the wet terrace. I hesitated at the door and then decided to knock. At first, no one responded to my polite knocking. Then I knocked harder. This time, I heard his familiar, deep voice say, ‘Kaun hai?’

Not waiting for a response, he opened the door, holding a wooden spoon and wearing a black silk dressing gown with Japanese cranes flying across it. A delicious smell of garlic and tomatoes cooking wafted through the open door.

‘Hello, Rahul.’ Colonel Uncle’s expression rapidly softened from the hard frown he had been wearing when he opened the door.

‘Hello, Colonel Uncle. May I come in?’ I asked, careful to use the tone I used when I wanted to enter a classroom at school.