immaculate lawns and a lake, fruit orchards, the driveway and thickets of trees that surrounded the endless carpet of green. Over the years, shrubs and bushes had turned into trees and trees had grown into towering giants that stretched and wove their branches into the ancient canopy above. Behind the palace were the tennis courts, the dhobi ghaats, the giant banyan tree and the guava orchard. And the palace walls were patrolled by sentries day and night.’
‘You lucky bastard! That sounds like a fantasy palace, complete with guards and walls.’
‘Yes, I was lucky—until it all fell apart. So back to my obsession with Rajesh Khanna and the letter …’
3
April 1973. Hyderabad.
I would come home from watching Rajesh Khanna films, consumed with thoughts of him—how he looked and how he smiled—his every gesture a source of endless stimulation. Then, at night, I would lie awake in bed, seized with a nameless longing. Sometimes, I dreamt of him and me together, at home in the palace, sleeping in my bed. I would relive my dream all day and remember with pleasure how his body had felt next to mine.
But after what had happened at school the week before, my love letter to him—once a beautiful missive—had become a curse. I had to destroy it. I would be a ‘homo’ as long as the letter existed.
As I continued on my quest for the letter in the garden, I went to one of my usual hiding places. Looking carefully over my shoulder, I picked up a large rock at the base of a tree and removed a little metal box. I scraped the soil off the box. It was decorated with a print of Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore, the name of the 1969 hit film Aradhana inscribed across the cover. I opened it and took out the letter still in its envelope. I read it once more. The familiarwords said farewell to me, as did my dreams of meeting Rajesh Khanna.
I hid behind the bushes as I tore up the letter, starting at the centre and rending each square into smaller pieces. I struck a match and lit the pile. My writing came alive one last time as the flames curled around each square. Fragments of words—‘want to see you and be with you … dream about spending time with you’—glowed as they disappeared in smoke. After the pile was burnt, I took each little piece and ground it between my fingers. I rubbed the ashes into the ground with my feet. There was no one around. The gardeners and sweepers were on their afternoon siesta.
The deed done, I climbed up the gulmohar tree to my favourite spot, surrounded by a carpet of dry twigs and red-gold flowers. I climbed the precarious footholds with ease and, once high up, I snuggled against the trunk. A koel tried half-heartedly to start its sweet crescendo of calls, but faltered and stopped. A faint wind blew towards me from the mango orchard, carrying with it the tangy smell of its raw fruit. I had destroyed the evidence. For the moment, it felt safe.
Hearing my father call me, I climbed down with a guilty flush. I returned to the palace to see Ahmed Uncle and Shabnam Aunty standing in the portico, ready to leave. They gave me one last hug before they drove off in their Baby Ford.
The shadows of the trees in the garden were long, casting accusing fingers at me. I knew that no one had seen me burn the love letter, but I felt a shiver of apprehension. Birds chirped madly in their last chorus before settling in for the night in the giant banyan tree behind the palace. A large flock of European wood pigeons that lived on thegrounds swooped and climbed the sky in a silent grey cloud as mosquitoes buzzed in a darker cloud close to my head. Thousands of black, flitting shadows darkened the evening sky as bats left on their nightly excursion. I looked up at the upper storey of the palace and my heart beat with excitement. The silhouette of jagged, urn-shaped structures that once supported the decaying frame of a balustrade looked like a broken crown. Behind them, I could see shells of rooms, some without
‘You lucky bastard! That sounds like a fantasy palace, complete with guards and walls.’
‘Yes, I was lucky—until it all fell apart. So back to my obsession with Rajesh Khanna and the letter …’
3
April 1973. Hyderabad.
I would come home from watching Rajesh Khanna films, consumed with thoughts of him—how he looked and how he smiled—his every gesture a source of endless stimulation. Then, at night, I would lie awake in bed, seized with a nameless longing. Sometimes, I dreamt of him and me together, at home in the palace, sleeping in my bed. I would relive my dream all day and remember with pleasure how his body had felt next to mine.
But after what had happened at school the week before, my love letter to him—once a beautiful missive—had become a curse. I had to destroy it. I would be a ‘homo’ as long as the letter existed.
As I continued on my quest for the letter in the garden, I went to one of my usual hiding places. Looking carefully over my shoulder, I picked up a large rock at the base of a tree and removed a little metal box. I scraped the soil off the box. It was decorated with a print of Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore, the name of the 1969 hit film Aradhana inscribed across the cover. I opened it and took out the letter still in its envelope. I read it once more. The familiarwords said farewell to me, as did my dreams of meeting Rajesh Khanna.
I hid behind the bushes as I tore up the letter, starting at the centre and rending each square into smaller pieces. I struck a match and lit the pile. My writing came alive one last time as the flames curled around each square. Fragments of words—‘want to see you and be with you … dream about spending time with you’—glowed as they disappeared in smoke. After the pile was burnt, I took each little piece and ground it between my fingers. I rubbed the ashes into the ground with my feet. There was no one around. The gardeners and sweepers were on their afternoon siesta.
The deed done, I climbed up the gulmohar tree to my favourite spot, surrounded by a carpet of dry twigs and red-gold flowers. I climbed the precarious footholds with ease and, once high up, I snuggled against the trunk. A koel tried half-heartedly to start its sweet crescendo of calls, but faltered and stopped. A faint wind blew towards me from the mango orchard, carrying with it the tangy smell of its raw fruit. I had destroyed the evidence. For the moment, it felt safe.
Hearing my father call me, I climbed down with a guilty flush. I returned to the palace to see Ahmed Uncle and Shabnam Aunty standing in the portico, ready to leave. They gave me one last hug before they drove off in their Baby Ford.
The shadows of the trees in the garden were long, casting accusing fingers at me. I knew that no one had seen me burn the love letter, but I felt a shiver of apprehension. Birds chirped madly in their last chorus before settling in for the night in the giant banyan tree behind the palace. A large flock of European wood pigeons that lived on thegrounds swooped and climbed the sky in a silent grey cloud as mosquitoes buzzed in a darker cloud close to my head. Thousands of black, flitting shadows darkened the evening sky as bats left on their nightly excursion. I looked up at the upper storey of the palace and my heart beat with excitement. The silhouette of jagged, urn-shaped structures that once supported the decaying frame of a balustrade looked like a broken crown. Behind them, I could see shells of rooms, some without
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