Page 26 of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur

Ignoring the question, I point to the large portrait in a silver frame, hanging on one wall—a family portrait of two generation of the Singhs. “Great photo,” I say.

The original photo was taken in black and white but then hand-colored so every person’s lips and cheeks are pink, even Ravi’s. In the photo, little Rita is an infant, her eyes lined withkajalfor good luck. She’s looking off to one side, gnawing on her fist. When the photo was taken, Baby hadn’t yet been born.

Sheela glances at the photo but says nothing. She adjusts the large emerald and pearl ring on one of her fingers. “Society says it’s fine for Ravi to have hiswomen—and I use the term loosely.” She arches a shapely eyebrow. “But if I did the same, they’d be outraged.”

She flicks ash from her cigarette into the bowl, again leaning forward, demanding my attention.

I try to keep my eyes on hers.

“It’s not as if I’ve had no offers,” she says. “His clients. Our friends. Men I’ve known for ages. Some of whom would have gladly married me when my parents were entertaining proposals. Now those same men see me as a conquest.” She takes another long drag from her cigarette and releases the smoke from her mouth, slowly. She pouts and raises one eyebrow. “Why do you think that is?”

Her hair is lustrous, shiny from expensive shampoos, her dark eyes fixed on me. The ridge of her collarbone reflects the lamp’s light; a lovely glow. I take my time, observing her, letting her see what I see in her.

“I think you know,” I say.

She has the grace to blush.

I lean forward, extinguish my cigarette in the bowl and stand. I smile at her, apologetically. “I have work tomorrow,” I say, and start to leave the room.

“Before you go...”

I turn around.

She holds her hand out. For a moment, I imagine that she’s asking me to hold it. Then I understand.

I take the matchbox from my pocket and put it in her outstretched hand.

I reach the Palace Guest House fifteen minutes later and go directly to my bedroom. I take off my clothes, dropping them onto the floor as I make my way to the shower. I turn the water on, as hot as I can stand, and let the feeling of it soothe me. Even so, I picture Sheela’s naked breasts, recall the scent of her perfume. Her dark eyes, taunting, or inviting, me. I take care of my erection, feeling shame and guilt, as if I’ve actually cheated on Nimmi. But now I’m home, I’m safe. And when I get in bed, I immediately fall asleep.

10

NIMMI

Foothills of Himalayas, Northwest of Shimla

Chullu is strapped to my back, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of my steps. I’m using my husband’s walking stick on the trail up to the mountains. When I find the rest of Vinay’s flock, I’ll use the crook to herd them, the purpose for which it was intended. My baby’s weight, the bedroll and our few possessions steady me.

I’ve fashioned a smaller walking stick for Rekha from the branch of a poplar tree, and she’s doing her best to keep up. Every so often, I pause to let my daughter catch up to us on the path. When she does, I give her water from my goatskin bag.

We’ve been walking for an hour, climbing gradually through meadow and scrub. We left at first light when a thin layer of frost was still on the ground. Old habits die hard: our tribe always starts out early in the morning, when the temperatures are cooler, so we can walk longer distances without tiring. I can no longer see the city of Shimla, now that we’re in the forest. Without the children and Neela the sheep, who stops constantly to eat along the way, I would be making better time. But the animal is livelier and faring better since we cleaned her wounds.

From Shimla, I had turned northwest, in the direction the children at the clinic had told me to go. It’s the same route our tribe always takes to get to the Kangra Valley, and it makes sense my brother would have chosen this trail. When I arrive at the spot where the children told me they had found the sheep, I stop. I spot the tiny stone temple they told me to look for; it’s the size of an armoire. Hindus have erected many such miniature temples throughout the Himalayas. The path I’ve been on and the one before me are wide enough for ten goats or ten sheep to pass. But directly across from the temple, to my left, is a canyon separating two steep inclines. There, through a small gap, I spot a narrower, rougher trail, lined by boulders and rocks on either side. My instinct tells me that, for his purposes, my brother would have favored this smaller, more secluded trail over the wider, more exposed path. I look for sheep droppings, and when I find them, I poke them with my stick. They are slightly soft, which means the sheep have recently been on this trail. The droppings on the wider path are dry.

Neela bleats. I imagine she’s calling to the other sheep in the area. But there’s no answer. She starts toward the gap. I’m about to follow her when my ears catch the faint sound of hoofbeats. Sound can travel far in these mountains, and the rider may yet be miles away. Even so, I am a woman alone with my children on a deserted path—not something I’m used to. I know this is more dangerous than when I traveled with my tribe. I gently nudge Rekha forward through the gap, then urge her to move faster once we’re on the narrow trail. Chullu wakes up, and I pull a rag wet with my milk from my blouse to quiet him; there’s no time for me to nurse him.

Once we’re past the first few boulders, I look back. From here, we’re partially hidden, and I’m feeling safer. Rekha has gone ahead to keep up with Neela. We continue like this for a while, until I look ahead of me and see Rekha freeze. Her shoulders tense. Has she seen a snake?

I rush to catch up with her. “Rekha!” And then I see what looks like a sack of cloth up ahead. I grab Rekha by the shoulders, turn her round and tell her to stay back. I approach the bundle carefully. Neela follows me, bleating more insistently now.

It’s not a bundle. It’s a body, lying facedown. A shepherd, dressed like most male shepherds: a wool jacket and pants, his head wrapped in layers of cloth. His left leg juts out at an unnatural angle and there’s a large tear in his pants. One foot is bare, the bones flattened as if a giant boulder crushed them. All at once I’m cold and hot.

I squat, feel his neck for a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.

I say a prayer.Please don’t let it be Vinay.

Then I roll him over, gently, faceup. His nose is broken, caked with blood; there is a deep gash across his forehead. His eyes are swollen closed, his mouth slack.

It’s him.

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