Like a court historian recounting the genealogy of an empress, Lajwanti explains the impressive lineage of her employer. 'Her real name is Queen Swapna Devi. But we all call her Madam or Rani Sahiba. Her father was the King of the Princely State of Jamgarh, Raja Shivnath Singh, of the Rathore dynasty. On the maternal side, her grandfather was the King of Dharela, near Agra, Raja Ravi Pratap Singh, who is the original owner of this haveli. When she was just twenty, Swapna Devi was married to the son of the King of Bhadohi, Kunwar Pratap Singh, belonging to the Gautam dynasty, and shifted to Benares, where the family had a mansion. Unfortunately, her husband, the young prince, died within just two years of the marriage, but she did not remarry.
She continued to live in Benares for another twelve years. In the meantime, her grandfather Raja Ravi Pratap Singh died, bequeathing this haveli to her. So she moved to Agra and has lived here for the last ten years.'
'What about children?' I ask her.
Lajwanti shakes her head. 'No. She does not have any offspring, so she keeps herself busy with charitable activities and social occasions. She is probably the richest woman in Agra and very well connected. The police commissioner and the district magistrate eat at her house every week, so you'd better not entertain any ideas about staying here and not paying the rent. If you don't pay her rent on the first, you are out on the second. Better get this straight.'
That evening, Shankar cooks food for me and insists that I sleep in his bed. He sleeps on the hard stone floor. This kindness brings tears to my eyes. The fact that he is also an orphan like me gives rise to a deep bond between us. A bond beyond friendship. Beyond companionship.
Beyond words.
That night it rains in Agra.
* * *
I had to pay four hundred rupees to Madam within seven days so I wasted no time in acquiring the knowledge relevant to my chosen vocation. The fifty rupees I had with me got me admission to the Taj for two days, and Shankar lent me ten rupees for a third day as well. I would hang around groups of Western tourists, listening to English-speaking guides and trying to memorize as many of the facts and figures mentioned as possible. It was not very difficult, partly because I took to the Taj Mahal like a pickpocket to a crowded bus. Perhaps it was in my blood. Mumtaz Mahal could have been one of my mother's ancestors. Or my father might have been of Mughal descent. Anyway, by the fourth day I had picked up enough knowledge about the Taj Mahal to aspire to join the ranks of the hundreds of unlicensed guides in Agra. I hung around the red-sandstone entrance and offered my services to the foreign tourists who came to see the Taj even in the stifling June heat. My first 'clients' were a bunch of young college girls from England with freckles, sun tan, travellers' cheques and very few clothes. They listened attentively to me, didn't ask any difficult questions, took a lot of photographs, and gave me a ten-pound note as a tip. It was only when I converted the note at the forex bureau that I realized I had got seven hundred and fifty rupees, even after deducting the three per cent commission the shop charged me.
Almost enough to pay rent for the next two months!
I shifted to my own room in the outhouse after a week, but in the seven days I spent in Shankar's room I learnt many things about him. I discovered that his language was not just meaningless gibberish. Although the words sounded nonsensical to us, for him they held a peculiar internal coherence. I also learnt that Shankar's favourite food was chapattis and lentils. That he hated aubergine and cabbage. That he had no interest in toys. That he had superb artistic skills and could draw a person down to the tiniest detail, simply from memory. And that, like me, he dreamt of his mother. On two nights I heard him cry out, 'Mummy, Mummy' in his sleep. And I knew that deep within him he did possess the ability to speak more than nonsense syllables.
Living with him must have had a psychological impact on me, because I recall dreaming about a tall young woman clad in a white sari with a baby in her arms. The wind howls behind her, making her jet-black hair fly across her face, obscuring it. The baby looks into her eyes and gurgles sweetly, 'Mama . . . Mama.' The mother opens her mouth to reply to the baby, but the only sound that comes out of her lips is 'Q Gkrz Ukj Hu Wxwu.' The baby shrieks and tumbles from her lap. I wake up, and check whether I still have a tongue.
* * *
