Page 13 of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur

From the beginning, Jay was respectful, kind; he listened to my ideas. We worked well together; he would help decipher the tribal languages of the patients so I could administer the appropriate poultice, lotion or food remedy. We got into the habit of having a glass of scotch in his office at the end of the workday (I’d started with chai but eventually switched to his Laphroaig when I discovered that I liked its smoky taste). We started to attend plays at the Gaiety Theater together, hike to Jakhu Temple with Radha and Malik, play cribbage (all four of us are competitive!), and cook together. At that time, Malik boarded at Bishop Cotton School for Boys nearby and Radha was at Auckland House School, both of which Samir Singh funded to atone for his son’s indiscretion.

Then, six years ago, on a fine Sunday evening, Jay and I were returning from a long hike. Radha had moved to France the year before with her husband, Pierre, a French architect she met when she was nineteen and he was on holiday in Shimla. Malik was away, playing in a cricket match in Chandigarh, an overnight trip with his school.

On our walk, Jay and I had been trading proverbs—one of our favorite games—trying to best each other.

“Giving jewels to a donkey is as useless as—”

“—giving a eunuch to a woman,” I said, laughing.

Jay raised his brows in surprise, then smiled, pleased. “Hmm. I was thinkingdancing for the blind, but yours trumps mine.” We were standing on the front veranda of his house, a tiny but comfortable bungalow his aunt and uncle had left him. They’d raised him in Shimla after his parents died.

“Cribbage?” I asked. We usually ended the evening with a game.

Instead of answering, he looked at me for a long moment. I felt my face flush. Then he turned, unlocked the front door and pushed it open, stepping back—just slightly—so that I had to brush against him to enter. When I did, I felt his fingers, as light as breath, on the back of my neck. I stood still, felt a jolt run down my spine, every tendon, every muscle in my body quivering. The last time I’d felt a sensation that intense was the night I’d succumbed to Samir Singh’s charms in Jaipur—once and only once—six years before. That same year Samir had introduced Jay to me—quite by chance—and neither of us could have predicted what happened next.

Jay placed a warm hand on my hip, on the exposed flesh just above my sari. He drew me gently toward him so I could feel the heat of his chest against my back. I felt his lips graze that tender knob at the top of my spine. I let out a soft moan. I couldn’t help myself—it had been so long since I’d been touched this way. So long since I’d trustedanyman. My sister, Radha, had teased me for years:Dr. Jay is smitten with you!But I’d been wary. Having left a bad marriage at the age of seventeen and then finding that I was nothing more than a distraction for Samir Singh, I didn’t want to be made vulnerable again.

Jay pulled on my earlobe with his teeth. “Lakshmi,” he whispered, “we’re not playing tonight.”

No sooner had he ushered us inside the house than I whipped around and kissed him on the mouth, my tongue searching for his, my pelvis, aching, arching toward his. I pressed my breasts against his chest, clutched his buttocks through his trousers. I was surprised at the depth of my want, at the urgency of it. His hands found the hooks on the back of my blouse, undid them.

When Jay pulled away to free me from my blouse, he and I were breathing hard. A lazy smile played about his lips, as if to tell me he had always hoped that this would happen, known it would. And though he’d had to wait, it had.Finally—it had.

Finally.I put my lips against his mouth again, massaged his nipples through his shirt.

He whispered against my lips, “Rumors have been circulating for the past six years about us. Don’t you think it’s time we put an end to them?”

Before the week was out, we’d married, in a simple ceremony at the civil court in Shimla. Radha and Pierre came from France. Malik wore his best suit and his wing-tip shoes for the occasion. (In Jaipur, he had never owned a pair of closed-toed shoes, but private school had changed his tastes.)

Our marriage didn’t change our working relationship. Jay continued as a physician at the Lady Bradley Hospital and remained director of the adjoining Community Clinic. I was in charge of the Healing Garden. Three afternoons a week, I worked with him at the clinic with a nurse and a few sisters, assisting with patients. We eventually sold our bungalows so we could buy a larger home together where Malik could stay when Bishop Cotton closed for holidays and, after he graduated, live with us, if he wished to.

Madho Singh, the Alexandrine parakeet gifted to Malik by the Maharani Indira of Jaipur, had pride of place in our new drawing room and kept watch on all comings and goings. Whatever Malik happened to be doing at the time, I made sure to share his latest news with Madho Singh.

Nimmi collects flowers early in the mornings to sell on the Shimla Mall immediately afterward. Then she comes to the Community Clinic with Rekha and Chullu. She stows her empty flower basket in the toolshed, and while she hoes or plants or waters seedlings, Chullu and Rekha play in the clearing next to the shed. The children are used to sitting quietly by themselves and keeping each other company. Nimmi is a calm, patient mother. If Chullu tries to eat the soil or Rekha starts to pull up shoots, a few soft words from her in their dialect makes them listen. When it’s time for Nimmi to feed Chullu and for Rekha and me to start our Hindi lesson, Nimmi sits near us so she can also see the pages of thePanchatantrabook. The stories are short and beautifully illustrated. Radha and I grew up with these very fables, and now Rekha and Chullu are growing up with them, too. (I wish Radha were here to see us! Like me, she loved teaching the small children at our father’s village school in Ajar.)

Our first story is the tale of the monkey and the crocodile, who start out as friends. But the crocodile’s wife decides she wants to eat the monkey’s heart, so the crocodile invites his friend to dinner. The monkey readily hops onto the crocodile’s back. But on the river, the crocodile confesses that he means to kill him, so his wife can eat his heart. The monkey tells the crocodile he always leaves his heart on his tree and they will have to go back to get it. Of course, as soon as they reach land, the monkey climbs his tree, saving himself, and the crocodile loses a friend.

When we get to the end of the story, I hear Nimmi cough. But when I look over at her, I realize she’s laughing, the corners of her eyes creased with delight! More of a cackle, really, but no matter. It’s the first time I’ve heard Nimmi laugh, and soon enough I’m laughing with her. She moves closer to us and says, “Read it again,Ji.”

Another first! Until this moment, she has never called meJi—a term that’s meant to show respect. Relief floods me. I’m pleased, as I know Malik will be, and smile at her to let her know it. But she’s not looking at me. Chullu has fallen asleep, and she is fashioning a harness for him with herchunni. She slings him across her back.

I start again, at the beginning of the story. Rekha learns quickly. She and I sound out the words together and trace the written words with our fingers. Nimmi holds back, afraid of making a mistake, but her daughter helps her, and she joins us.

Already I’m thinking about the next book I’m going to check out of the Shimla library: a children’s book of Himalayan flowers: blue poppies, purple water lilies, yellow irises. The drawings are colorful and large, and both Rekha and Nimmi are sure to recognize the flowers.

As we read out loud, Chullu continues to sleep on his mother’s back, soothed by the sounds of his mother’s and his sister’s voices.

Now when Nimmi comes to my house to have me read Malik’s letters, she brings the children. She even eats the treats I make for her. I can tell the sugared fruits I serve are lifting her spirits. The loneliness is leaving her, little by little. Sometimes she brings treats to share: a basket of wild ghingaroo berries or a handful of Indian figs or sweet Himalayan apples she’s picked on her way here.

When I begin reading the latest letter from Malik, Rekha sidles up next to me to get a closer look. I think she’s pretending that she’s reading it along with me.

Dear Nimmi and Auntie-Boss,

Now I’ve seen everything! Manu asked Ravi Singh to show me the Royal Jewel Cinema. That’s the big project Singh-Sharma has been building for the palace. Ravi says there’s nothing else like it in all of Rajasthan. It’s a two-story building that takes up the entire city block between two of the busiest streets in Jaipur. He told me he would have liked to model it after the Old Vic in Bristol (as if I’ve seen that!), but the Maharani Latika had just been to America and she wanted more of an art deco design like the Pantages (hope I spelled that right) Theatre in Los Angeles (that’s in California). Architecture of the 1930s in America is still news here in India, I guess. (Boss, aren’t you proud I learned something in my art history classes at Bishop Cotton?)

Here’s what was happening the day we visited the cinema house: two men were installing the name of the theater over the entrance in three-foot highgoldletters; others were painting the outside walls pink, like the color of the old city walls. Then there were masons creating the stonemandalain the front of the building with a blue-and-green peacock at its center—not nearly as good, of course, as the mosaic you designed on the floor of your house in Jaipur, Auntie-Boss.

Then we entered the lobby...Waa! Waa!First, it goes on forever. Second, it’s carpeted in plush red wool and silk. I bet Chullu would love to slobber all over that carpet (ha ha). I looked up at the ceiling and saw the largest chandeliers—different from anything we ever saw at the Maharanis’ Palace—dangling from huge concave circles. Inside each circle are millions of tiny twinkling bulbs. It’s like looking at a sky that’s glittering with stars and planets and galaxies!

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