THE MAGICAL PALACE (17 page)

‘Of course, come on in,’ he said smiling. ‘I hope you don’t mind the mess. I am cooking.’

I walked in, full of excitement at being in Colonel Uncle’s apartment again. It was nice and warm, the windows steamed up, and I felt like I had been transported away to a different place altogether. I looked around appreciatively at the clean sitting room, the carefully arranged cushions on the sofa and the shiny, varnished furniture. The rug on the floor was soft and yielding as I walked on it and sat carefully on the edge of an enormous, silk-covered armchair, avoiding the cushions.

‘Sit comfortably, Rahul. Those cushions are meant to be leaned on.’ Colonel Uncle smiled at me.

I shifted back into the overstuffed chair, loving the way I sank into it. I propped my elbows on the arms, feeling very grown-up. ‘What are you cooking, Colonel Uncle?’ I asked, sniffing the air appreciatively. I loved the aroma coming from the kitchen.

‘I am making a tomato sauce for spaghetti, the way I learnt in Italy. Have you ever had Italian food before?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I have not,’ I answered. ‘Rani tells me that only girls should cook, not boys. When I go into the kitchen, she calls me a girlie boy. But my mother has told me that she will teach me to cook if I want to learn. She lets me peel boiled potatoes and mash them to make alu tikia. Did your mother teach you to cook?’

Colonel Uncle looked grave and sighed. ‘No, when I was your age, if I spent time in the kitchen my father would punish me. In Rajput families, men never cook. Only women do. In Rajput culture, the place of a man is supposed to be on the battlefield. I grew up in a family of warriors who used to be in the king’s army some generations ago. The
Chauhans are still famous in the city of Jaisalmer—that’s where I grew up. We lived in a large palace, almost as large as this one.’

‘Tell me about your palace and what you liked to do there,’ I said.

‘I used to love to go to the kitchen to watch the cook make chapatis and curries and roast the spices. The cook, Padma Bai, used to be my nurse and loved it when I helped her in the kitchen. It was our secret. Then, one day, my father’s valet saw me in there, sitting on the floor with the maidservants, cleaning the chaff from the rice and wheat, helping them make balls of dough for the chapatis.’

Colonel Uncle paused as he stirred the sauce on the pot one more time. He put a handful of spaghetti in a pot of boiling water. The stiff sticks of dried spaghetti started sliding into the pot as the boiling water softened their ends.

I sat upright. I knew something was going to happen to him in the story. Just like me, Colonel Uncle was going to be teased for behaving like a girl. I looked at him, tall and upright—his frame strong and proud. His grey hair and clipped moustache were trim and neat. I could see him on the battlefield, wearing a suit of chainmail armour, riding his horse, just like Rana Pratap rode his brave horse Chetak in the history books.

‘That night, my father called me to his room. He was sitting in the men’s quarters of the palace, with his friends. I entered the room nervously. He was smoking a hookah and laughing about something. His face turned to thunder when he saw me. He said, “Only girls work in the kitchen. No son of mine is a girl. Tomorrow, you will be sent to a boys-only military school. Now go, and come back to me next summer—a real man.’ Colonel Uncle’s voice grew soft
with remembered pain as he gazed at a wall-hanging, his mind far away.

‘What did your mother say? Didn’t she stop your father? My mother would never allow me to be sent away to boarding school,’ I said.

He laughed—a strange, bitter laugh. ‘In those days, women could not say or do anything outside the women’s quarters in the palace. I was sent away to Bikaner. I did not see my mother for a full year. When I returned, I never went back to the kitchen. I was forced to spend all my time with my brothers, riding horses and playing polo.’

‘So who taught you how to cook?’ I asked.

‘I learnt many years later, when I lived alone, without servants. And, of course, I learnt Italian cooking from Claudio,’ he said, his face tender as he looked at the photograph in its brown leather frame.

I looked at the picture, at their carefree, happy and smiling faces.

‘This is a recipe he taught me. Would you like some?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Colonel Uncle.’

He placed two mats on the dining table, on either side of the candlesticks, which burnt slowly, their mellow golden light spilling onto the dark wood of the table. They looked like orbs of melting butter. He came back with two plates of spaghetti covered with a red tomato sauce. It smelt incredibly fragrant, just like the tulsi bush in the garden. ‘This smells of tulsi leaves,’ I said.

‘Very good,’ Colonel Uncle said. ‘This is basil, which is often mistaken for a close relative of the tulsi.’ He placed the plates heaped with spaghetti and fragrant sauce on the place mats. Then he pulled a chair out for me at the table. I perched myself on the corner and wriggled until I was
seated properly. Colonel Uncle pushed the chair in towards the table and then sat across from me. I felt like an adult, awed by Colonel Uncle’s gravity. I played with the spaghetti awkwardly. I never knew how to eat noodles, not even when we went out to dinner at Peking Palace.

‘Here, let me show you how to eat spaghetti.’ Colonel Uncle expertly twirled the long strands of pasta on a fork, using a spoon to hold it before slipping it into my mouth. ‘Here, try it now.’

I tried and managed to twirl some of the spaghetti around my fork. It still slipped and slithered, but as I kept practising, I got better.

‘Colonel Uncle, why are you a bachelor?’ I asked suddenly, remembering why I was there.

He looked surprised for a second. He paused and said carefully, ‘Because I did not want to marry anyone.’

‘I do not want to either. But my father says that he will find me a wife when it is time, else I will be a lonely bachelor.’

‘Ah … I see …’ he said quietly. ‘When I was your age, things were different. We were forced to marry the person our parents chose for us. I had to go to Italy during the war. When I left, my parents were already old. When I returned, they had passed away, so there was no one to insist. When you are ready to marry, you can make up your own mind. Remember, no one can force you to do anything. And one can have love in many ways, from many people, so one is not lonely even if one is a bachelor. I have had great love in my life from my Claudio—I still do.’ He looked at the photograph fondly before looking serious again.

‘But my Mallika Didi will be forced to marry someone,’ I said. ‘She loves Salim, but her parents won’t let her marry
him.’ My voice rose and broke, sounding awkward, but I continued. I told him about Binesh Kaku, Anjali Mashi, Mallika and Salim. I told him about her being sent away to Assam alone, a prisoner against her will. I could not stop until I had told him everything—except about Shubho, even though I wanted to and felt somehow that he would understand.

Colonel Uncle’s face hardened, his eyes grew cold and angry. ‘How much fear and suffering for everyone—how unnecessary!’ He was quiet for a few moments and then said in a softer tone, putting his hand on my shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze, ‘Let us hope that your Mallika Didi can follow her heart.’ He paused and added, looking straight into my eyes, ‘Just as you must follow yours, Rahul.’

I did not understand what he meant. I was about to ask him when I heard my sister calling: ‘Rahul, Rahul! Where are you? We are going to eat dinner.’

‘Oh, I forgot about dinner. Ma must be looking for me.’

‘I hope you do not get into trouble for coming here at dinner time without letting anyone know.’

‘Oh, no. I won’t. If I leave right now, I will not get scolded. I am sorry I am leaving in such a hurry, Colonel Uncle.’

‘You may go now,’ Colonel Uncle said, patting me gently on the head. ‘Here, take this chocolate and share it with Rani.’ I slid off the chair in a hurry. ‘I will be going to take care of my estates in Rajasthan for a while.’

‘When will you come back?’ The thought of not having my new confidante around made me nervous.

‘I don’t know, but I will try to come back as soon as I can. You are always welcome here, you know …’

‘Thank you, Colonel Uncle.’

‘You can always come up here and talk about anything. I mean anything. I am here for you, Rahul.’ Colonel Uncle’s voice grew gentle and he swallowed. Then, with a firm pat on my shoulder, he gently led the way out.

I held the bar of Cadbury’s chocolate in one hand and followed him to the terrace. ‘I can go down from here, Colonel Uncle,’ I said. ‘I am not afraid of the stairs any more.’

The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the wind had settled down. Colonel Uncle guided me with his torch over the broken neem branch and over to the top of the wrought-iron staircase.

I held the banister carefully as I stepped down, one foot after the other. The turns of the stair were no longer menacing and strange.

Rani saw me coming down the stairs confidently and was so surprised that she could not say a word. Her mouth dropped open as I walked over to her and asked her airily, ‘Want some Cadbury’s chocolate? Colonel Uncle gave it to me.’

‘You know, strange things happen upstairs. I heard a ghost walking around in chains the other night,’ she said.

‘I don’t believe you. There is nothing there, no ghost or ghoul. Nothing there,’ I answered, feeling brave and adult and angry that I had been so easily fooled.

That night, I could not eat much at dinner because I was already full.

‘You are not eating enough.’ Ma was concerned. ‘Have you been eating before dinner again?’

‘No,’ I lied. Colonel Uncle was my secret. The Italian meal was my secret too. I could not stop thinking about Colonel Uncle and how wonderful he was. If I could be like him, I too would never marry and live in Italy in a beautiful house
and have beautiful European antiques and lots of friends who loved me. I felt sorry for Rani because she was a girl and would be forced to marry someone our parents chose. I would never do that. I would be just like Colonel Uncle, I promised myself.

Later, as the pelting rain kept us indoors, Rani said, ‘Remember we have to go deliver Mallika Didi’s letter this coming weekend. We can go on Saturday when everyone will be taking their afternoon nap. Can you believe it has been almost a week since Shyamala gave us the letter? We need to get it to Salim as soon as possible.’

I took a deep breath as I realized that we had to be successful in our mission and that any mistakes would be disastrous for all of us—Mallika, Salim, Rani and me.

‘We should be able to return in two hours if we take a rickshaw,’ I thought out loud, feeling like a decision-maker. Both my parents loved their afternoon siesta in the hot summer. It would be the perfect time to embark on our mission. Rani nodded.

It would soon be time for the second picking of mangoes. I felt sad at the thought that Mallika was not going to be there, even though she had promised.

‘
Allah ho Akbar
… .’ The mullah’s poignant call echoed through the palace gardens, summoning the faithful to their prayers at sundown. The birds madly chirped their evening song and the normally melodious sound of the mullah’s call made me unexpectedly melancholic. I walked around the mango orchard restlessly as I thought about Mallika so far away from us. What was she doing right now? Once we had delivered the letter to Salim, I would ask him to go rescue
her so that they could run away, just like the irrepressible lovers in
Bobby
. I remembered what Shyamala had said about Salim’s uncle being a mullah—was it his voice that I could hear? I had a mad desire to go running to him. Surely he would understand and talk to Binesh Kaku? Maybe he would go and get Mallika and marry her to Salim himself. I thought of Colonel Uncle. Would he be able to go and help Mallika? But then I would have to reveal my friendship with Colonel Uncle. And if Binesh Kaku got upset with Colonel Uncle, my parents would not allow me to see him any more. There was really no one I could turn to.

I looked up at the mangoes in the trees. They had started to droop low, almost ripe now, their skin splashed with touches of gold. The profusion of ripening mangoes meant that the harvest was going to be truly spectacular.

‘This week is going to fly by as the summer vacation comes to an end, just like it always does,’ I said ruefully to Rani later that evening as we sat on the veranda. The sky was a shade of rich violet, the dark monsoon clouds were piling up in the horizon. I did not tell her, though, that I was so excited about seeing Shubho at school again. ‘I think the mangoes are going to be harvested this weekend.’

‘How are we going to make sure that we can deliver the letter to Salim this weekend?’ Rani asked. ‘You know we always have to be there with Ma and Baba when they go to the orchard with Shankar,’ she whispered and we both looked over our shoulders.

‘Yes, but we always pick the mangoes on Sunday. We will go to deliver the letter on Saturday afternoon. Hopefully, Salim will be home then.’ I took a deep breath. ‘If they find out, Ma and Baba will be so angry! We have never gone out of the palace on our own before.’

‘We have to do it. We have to go. This is the only way Salim will know what has happened. Are you planning to back out now?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said, horrified that Rani thought I would not go. I liked the fact that Rani was depending on me this time.

As the weekend came closer, we both nervously anticipated our trip to Salim’s. ‘Where is the letter? Are you sure you have it?’ I asked, wanting to be sure that we were prepared.

‘Yes, I have it,’ Rani said, walked to the dresser, and pulled it out from the back of the drawer that contained old pens and other stationery. ‘Let’s read it first.’

Rani and I crept to the garden, to the ruins where no one ever visited. She pulled the letter out of the bag and began to read it out loud: