THE MAGICAL PALACE by Kunal Mukjerjee Page B

pleats are even,’ she said.
    I got down on all fours at once, adjusting the length of the sari.
    ‘It is even,’ I said, dusting my knees and elbows and readjusting my collar.
    ‘Thank you, Rahul. Am I looking pretty?’ Ma preened in front of the full-length mirror of the almirah, knowing she looked smashing. ‘Come here, stand next to me.’
    I did. A boy of thirteen with fine features and the beginnings of a masculine chin and jawline and large eyes stared back at me. His hair was carefully arranged with a curl resting on his forehead. He wore a light-brown shirt with a high collar and dark drainpipe pants. He looked remarkably like Rajesh Khanna, I thought. I pouted my lips and tilted my head to one side, just like him. I was pleased with what I saw.
    My mother smiled at me, and I said, ‘Ma, you always look pretty. Just like Sharmila Tagore.’
    She giggled self-consciously, patting the bun piled high on her head. ‘When you grow up, all the girls will come after you, asking you to marry them. You are a lucky boy.’
    ‘What if I don’t want to get married?’ I asked, feeling no excitement at the thought of being chased by girls.
    ‘Oh, you silly boy!’ My mother laughed. ‘What an absurd question! Everyone has to get married. It is the normal thing to do. Come on now, your father will get upset if we delay any more.’
    I wanted to tell her so badly that I was not like everyone else. That I was different from the boys in my class. That I might have been doing something really wrong. And that I did not want to get married. But I was sure she would not understand. This was not like the time when I had refused to play cricket with the other boys and she had arguedwith my father to let me stay at home and help her in the kitchen. This time, she was clear about what was normal and what was expected of me. I turned away from her, feeling very alone.
    We quickly walked to the car and I tumbled into the back seat next to Rani. My father was at the wheel, looking annoyed. ‘Oho, Mr Late Latif,’ he snapped irritably. ‘Always late. I don’t understand why you can’t be like your sister.’ His jaw tightened and he started the engine.
    As we drove out on the long driveway—always dark and covered by a canopy of trees—I sat at the edge of my seat my head close to the window, ready to watch the sentries enact their ritual as we left the palace. They looked like toys from the veranda. I loved the way they would spring to attention every time we passed, their rifles held upright, the bayonets gleaming, a warning to the world to stay out. No one was allowed to enter the Mint House unless they were visiting us because it was a secured area.
    As we drove towards Mallika’s house in Banjara Hills, we crossed the secretariat building, tall and imposing. The Khairatabad neighbourhood sundry store and café, named Café Irani, was filled to the brim with the Saturday late-afternoon crowd. The traffic was crazy and cars drove by ignoring lanes and traffic lights. Scooters and motorcycles only added to the confusion, and cycle rickshaws and bicycles continuously rang their bells. Stray dogs expertly waited for the right moment to cross the street and cows moved placidly in the traffic, their expressions inscrutable. As we approached the main road that led to Banjara Hills, the traffic thinned out and cars drove in a more disciplined fashion. The crowded neighbourhoods around Mint House had smaller houses and flats, crammed together.But as the roads widened, stately trees lined more elegant neighbourhood streets. Peepul, gulmohar and neem trees towered high above, blocking the light from the sun. Soon, we were climbing up the steep roads of Banjara Hills. As we got close to the house, we saw lots of cars in the driveway. The gates were open and the chowkidars, in their navy-blue uniforms, were on guard as always. My father parked a little distance from the house and we all had to walk a steep path to the house. Finally, I