Page 15 of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur

Again, he turns to me, his gaze intense again. “Do you bat or bowl?”

This change of subject is so abrupt I look up from my lamb and stare at him. I’ve always loved cricket. Back when I lived in the bowels of the Pink City, I was always organizing games with the neighborhood boys, and we played hard and rough. At Bishop Cotton, where we played with official bats and wore spotless uniforms, I learned a more formal, refined version of the game.

Suddenly I’m wary, though I can’t say why. “Both. Depending.”

“On what?”

“On what’s needed.”

Ravi shows me a generous smile, and the dimple on his chin deepens. He picks up his beer glass and clinks it against mine. “Abbas Malik, allow me to welcome you to the All-Rounders Club. We will definitely have you out for a game, sometime soon.”

While the busboys clear the dishes, Ravi excuses himself, stands and walks over to the far side of the room, where the young waitress is wiping wine glasses with a white cloth. He leans close and whispers something in her ear. She giggles and shrugs. Ravi looks at the proprietor, standing near the door, who nods. Ravi returns to the table and taps two fingers on its surface. “Listen here, old chap, I have to run an errand. My driver will take you back to your office.”

He flashes one of his brilliant smiles at me, then grabs some sugared fennel seeds from a bowl on the table. He puts them in his mouth, to sweeten his breath, then winks at me and walks back to the waitress.

So far, Manu has rotated me through the engineering, design, and construction departments. Now he’s assigned me to accounting so I can learn the financial side of the business.

Hakeem is the accountant for the palace facilities department. His domain is a stuffy, windowless office shoved into one corner of Manu’s operation. At the far end of the floor are Manu’s and the chief engineer’s offices as well as a glass conference room. In between sit the secretaries, estimators, draftsmen, junior engineers.

I could have drawn a picture of Hakeem before I ever met him: a rotund man sitting behind his desk, wearing a neat black skullcap, whitekurtaand black vest. His glasses have thick black frames. I could have predicted that he would run a finger under his trim mustache when he’s agitated, which is what he does the moment I step into his office.

“Uncle,” I say, “I’m Abbas Malik. Mr. Manu asked me to avail myself of your good teaching.” I smile humbly. “Thank you for taking me on.”

Hakeem sits, a small Buddha, within the circle of his table lamp. He studies me through those thick glasses, his eyes as large as an owl’s, and strokes his mustache. I look for a chair, but there is only one—Hakeem’s—and he is sitting in it. The shelves lining the walls are filled with large cloth-covered ledgers, each neatly labeled along its spine. The shelves take up most of the space in the room and fill it with the smell of dust, musty fabric and old glue. On one spine I read “1924,” which, given Hakeem’s age—he must be in his sixties—might be the year he started working here. The old man makes a noncommittal noise and adjusts his glasses on his nose. “You will not eat in here. Yes?”

I fight the urge to smile. “Of course, Uncle.”

“Or drink. Yes?” Was ending every sentence withyesanother of his tics? I decided to follow suit.

“Yes.”

“These books are important. They must be kept spotless. Yes?”

“Yes.”

He scoots his chair to one side so the ledgers in the bookcase behind him become visible. “These are the most important ones. Yes? In this one,” he says, pointing, “we keep records of the supplies we buy to remodel or construct a new project. And in this one,” he says, pointing to an adjacent ledger, “we record all the monies we owe to suppliers and contractors. Accounts payable. The next one is a list of money owed to the palace. Say reimbursement for returned materials. Or rental of palace facilities by others. That’s accounts receivable. The fourth is the account of what and how much we have already paid for the project. There are four ledgers per year.”

I can’t help myself. “Yes,” I say.

He lowers his chin and looks at me over the top of his glasses. He strokes his mustache. Finally, he says, “Yes.”

Hakeem has to stand to pull a hefty book off one shelf. He opens it and turns it so that I can read the entries. Pointing to one column of text written in Hindi, and another that contains only letters of the English alphabet, he says, “See this?” Pointing to the English column, he says “W-T S-N-D. Stands for white sand. Yes? A kind of shorthand for the item, which saves time. I created these abbreviations. If I had to write the full name of every shipment ordered or received, I would be doing nothing else, and I have many other responsibilities. Yes?” Again, he adjusts his glasses and looks at me as if I might be about to challenge him.

I nod. This is a man who takes pride in his work. I try to look impressed—Iamimpressed—and I decide, for now, it’s better if I keep my mouth shut.

Hakeem tells me to spend the afternoon memorizing the abbreviations because I’ll need them when I’m recording purchases.

Every time I go to dinner at Kanta and Manu’s house, it’s hard to believe that the twelve-year-old boy bending down to touch my feet is the same Nikhil I used to carry in my arms and whose tummy I used to tickle when he was a baby, back when I lived in Jaipur. When he straightens, I’m surprised that Niki is now only a few inches shorter than me and that he’s going to be taller than either of his parents, who are standing behind him in the open doorway to their home. Kanta puts an arm around her son, smiling proudly, welcoming me to another dinner at their home, chatting happily about the latest test Niki has aced. Manu Uncle is more reserved. He waits until his wife has finished talking to acknowledge me and return mynamaste. Out of respect for them and because they are like family to Auntie-Boss, I address them as Auntie and Uncle.

Their old servant Baju brings the tea tray. He and I trade a look; I know sharp-eyed Baju recognizes me from my days as Lakshmi’s little helper, someone who could never hope to be invited to sit at the family dinner table. And that’s how it would have been if not for my Bishop Cotton education.

Baju is followed by Manu Uncle’s mother, waddling from side to side in her widow’s starched white sari, sandalwood rosary beads dangling from one wrist. She’s frowning at me, probably wondering how it is that Auntie and Uncle seem so happy to see me when she doesn’t remember me at all. It’s no wonder. Not many people recognize the scruffy boy behind my polished exterior.

With Kanta’s mother-in-law in the room, we stay on safe subjects, chatting about Shimla’s weather, how fresh the air is there, compared to here. Kanta’ssaassays she regrets not being able to get to the foothills of the Himalayas as often as they used to. Kanta and I exchange looks. I know the real reason she and Manu haven’t visited Shimla in years: the stillborn baby boy she delivered at Lady Bradley Hospital. Not even their adoption of Radha’s baby, whom they named Nikhil, could erase that painful memory.

Kanta talks about people we both know in Shimla—like the steadfast tandoorirotimakers on the pedestrian mall—and one of Radha and Boss’s favorite places, the Shimla library, an old haunt of Rudyard Kipling’s.

Later, after Manu’s mother leaves the room to do her eveningpuja, Kanta and I stand on the front veranda. Niki is practicing bowling for his cricket game in the yard. Manu is giving him pointers.

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