Page 7 of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur

Before she leaves, I hand her the barrettes that Malik sent for Rekha and bundle the candied lemons and rose petals along with some walnuts from my pantry in a cloth bag. She tries to resist taking it, but I fold her hand around the bag, keeping my hand on hers until she nods.

3

MALIK

Jaipur, State of Rajasthan, India

At Samir Singh’s house, I’m greeted by an old gateman in a khaki uniform—not one I remember from before—who asks me to wait under the mango tree while he announces my arrival for dinner. I watch him totter down the gravel drive toward the stately house, his white turban bouncing lightly on his head. I’ve been in Jaipur for a month now. Before that, I hadn’t visited the Pink City since I was eight years old. Back then, waiting outside houses like this one for Auntie-Boss to finish applying henna to one of her society ladies was a regular part of my day.

The Singh property is much as I remember it: freshly watered rosebushes, their deliciously scented blossoms large, dense and bloodred. The desert heat has not yet scorched Jaipur’s gardens; there will be ample time for that in the coming months. Even so, the Singh house—made of fine marble and stone and shaded by large neem trees—will stay cool. Frangipani vines, gracing each terrace of the two-story mansion, invite visitors to admire the fragrant flowers, their soft yellow centers spiraling into a fan of white petals.

Thechowkidarreturns and asks me to go straight through the house to the backyard.

As I approach the front veranda, I make note of the servant to one side of the house waxing a Mercedes sedan. Next to it stands a gleaming Rolls-Royce, which has been freshly washed and polished. The Singh-Sharma company must be doing very well indeed; the car I last saw Samir driving was a Hindustan Ambassador, a nod to post-independence made-in-India policy designed to promote the manufacturing of goods in India, including automobiles.

On the veranda, a neat array of shoes to one side of the front door reminds me that I must remove my own. I step out of my loafers, polished to a high shine, as I’d been taught to do at the Bishop Cotton School for Boys. Like my private-school classmates, I never wear socks. When I step through the wide front door into a quiet foyer, I stop a moment to take in my surroundings. I’ve never beeninsidea home as grand as this, though I spent many an afternoon outside homes I might have found to be as grand, or grander, had I been invited in. But at the time, I was just the boy who came with Lakshmi; the scrappy assistant, known only to the household’s gatemen, gardeners and servants.

On the wall to my right hangs a large tiger skin, the spoils from one of Samir’s shoots with the maharajas of Jaipur or Jodhpur or Bikaner. I wonder what Nimmi would think. She, who has guided sheep and goats through the Himalayan gorges with an eye out for predators like tigers, leopards and wild elephants, might think the killing of such animals for sport unnecessary, even cruel.

On the opposite wall, next to the wide staircase fashioned from pink Salumber marble, a large photo shows Nehru, the late prime minister, standing with Samir and Parvati and several others—official-looking men and women—in front of a government building. I know from Auntie-Boss that Parvati Singh is particularly proud of her past association with our government’s effort to strengthen Indo-Soviet relations.

Would I want to live in a house as imposing as this? Dr. Jay and Auntie-Boss’s bungalow in Shimla is comfortable, and welcoming. Walls and floors of wood, not marble. Cozy nooks where Lakshmi writes her letters or reads books that she borrows from the Shimla library. My next thought surprises me: Where would Nimmi and the children and I live?

Would that ever have occured to me before I came to Jaipur? A month of being separated and I’m thinking marriage? I have to shake my head to clear it.

I continue through the foyer, past the open French doors at the back of the house. I see an expansive green lawn and the many wrought-iron chairs and tables, dazzlingly white, placed in various configurations. The chairs are empty, all save one. A man in a fine linen shirt sits facing away from me. The thinning hair, graying now, tells me that the man is Samir Singh, surveying his domain. I call him Uncle, not because we are related, but from custom and respect. His arm is raised, his hand jiggling the half-full glass of ice and amber liquid.

“Welcome,” he says. He doesn’t turn around.

I drop into the chair beside his own and offer him my hand. He grasps it firmly.

“Uncle,” I say.

I have always found his presence reassuring. He is not a handsome man, nor particularly tall, but people feel looked after in his presence, and protected. I would rather be in Shimla, staying close to Nimmi and her children, or reading by the fire with Auntie-Boss and Dr. Jay. But if I have to be in Jaipur, I’d just as soon be with Samir.

He looks tired, the pouches under his eyes more prominent, the creases along his mouth deeper than they were a dozen years ago.

“I trust you had a good trip from Shimla.” He nods at his glass. “Join me?”

I smile. “Sure, why not?”

He calls to a servant in a white uniform and turban, who is watering the petunias and marigolds along the high stone wall at the back of the property. Light from the setting sun makes the shards of glass along the top of the wall sparkle like emeralds. The servant drops his hose and walks into the house.

Samir sips his drink and studies me with those striated brown eyes of his, so much like the marbles we used to play with on the street. “Has that boarding-school education finally turned you into aPukkah Sahib?”

This is the reason I’ve accepted his invitation to come see him. For twelve years, Samir Singh paid my tuition at the Bishop Cotton School for Boys. My crisp white Oxford shirt, the long sleeves of which I roll upward from my wrists, my slim trousers, cuffed at the ankles, are evidence of that education. Unlike the shapeless half-sleeve shirts and baggy pants that other Indian men my age wear, I’ve adopted the more tailored look of a private-school uniform. I even sport a flat Swiss watch, a gift a wealthy schoolmate gave me in exchange for bourbon I was able to supply him for his birthday party.

Samir’s reaction to me is similar to the one that Kanta Auntie and her husband, Manu Agarwal, had a month ago, upon my arrival from Shimla. When I showed up at their bungalow—far more modest than the Singh estate—Auntie’s eyes went wide with admiration. She quickly brought me inside for a closer look. Manu, quieter and more reserved than Kanta, laughed at her speechlessness—so unlike her—and moved forward to shake my hand. I had not seen either of them in the twelve years since I’d been away. Kanta and Auntie-Boss sent photos and letters to each other every week or so and had long conspired to have Manu take me on as an apprentice before I ever learned of it. Lakshmi had hoped I would live with the Agarwals during my stay in Jaipur. But having boarded at an all-boys school where privacy was a scarce commodity, I wanted my own space. So Manu Uncle had kindly arranged for me to stay at the smaller of two guesthouses, separate buildings on the perimeter of the Rambagh Palace grounds.

Now, surveying Samir’s lawn, I tug at the sharp crease along one of my pants legs and laugh. The grass is cool under my feet, and it feels good to stretch my toes. I notice Samir is also barefoot. The servant returns with a small tray, offering me a cut-glass tumbler of scotch and ice. As I take it, I say, “Think I can pass for anangrezi? With this?” I gesture to my face, the color of my skin not unlike an overcookedchapatti.

Samir chuckles as our glasses clink. His pale wheat complexion could pass for a Brit. He takes a long swallow.

It’s more than the color of my skin that will keep me from the ranks of the privileged. Long used to serving rather than being served, I affect a deference in my bearing that’s hard for me to shed. I suppose the upper classes might suss me out sooner or later, but that doesn’t really bother me.

Samir lowers his voice so the servant in the yard cannot hear us. “I have strict orders to call you Abbas while you’re here in Jaipur.”

The memory of that day makes me smile. Auntie-Boss was filling out my school enrollment form shortly after we’d moved to Shimla. She had marked my age as eight, an age I preferred, though neither of us knew how old I really was. She asked me for my full name to put on the form.

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