Jai Chakrabarti - A Small Sacrifice for an Enormous Happiness: Stories

From his balcony, Nikhil waited and watched the street as hyacinth braiders tied floral knots, rum sellers hauled bags of ice, and the row of elderly typists, who had seemed elderly to him since hed been a boy, struck the last notes of their daily work. Beside him on the balcony, his servant, Kanu, plucked at the hair that grew from his ears.

Keep a lookout for babu, Nikhil shouted to Kanu. Ill check on the tea.

Kanu was so old he could neither see nor hear well, but he still accepted each responsibility with enthusiasm.

The tea was ready, as were the sweets, the whole conical pile of themthe base layer of pistachio mounds, the center almond bars that Nikhil had rolled by hand himself, and on the top three lychees from the garden, so precariously balanced, a single misstep would have upset their delectable geometry.

When he returned to the balcony he saw Sharma walking up the cobbled lane, his oiled hair shining in the late-afternoon light. The typists greeted him with a verse from a Bollywood numberSharmas boxers jaw and darling eyes reminded the typists of an emerging movie starand Sharma shook his head and laughed.

Kanu limped downstairs to let Sharma in, and Nikhil waited in the living room while the two of them made their way up.

And what is the special occasion? Sharma asked, eyeing the pile of confections with a boyish grin.

Nikhil refused to say. He allowed Sharma to have his fill, watching with satisfaction as his fingers became honey-glazed from the offering.

Afterward, when they lay on the great divanhand-carved and older than his mothers ghostNikhil breathed deeply to calm his heart. He feared the words would be eaten in his chest, but hed been planning to tell Sharma for days, and there was no going back now. As evening settled, the air between them became heavy with the sweetness of secrecy, but secrecy had a short wick.

My dearest, fairest boy, he said. I want our love to increase.

Sharma raised his eyebrows, those lines thickly drawn, nearly fused. Who better than Sharma to know Nikhils heart?

I desire to have a child with you, Nikhil said.

Nikhil had trouble reading Sharmas expression in the waning light, so he repeated himself. His fingers were shaking, but he took Sharmas hand anyway, gave it a squeeze.

I heard you the first time, Sharma said.

A rare cool wind had prompted Nikhil to turn off the ceiling fan, and now he could hear the rum sellers on the street enunciating prices in singsong Urdu.

He touched Sharmas face, traced the line of his jaw, unsure still of how his lover had received his news. Likely, Sharma was still mullinghe formed his opinions, Nikhil believed, at the pace the street cows strolled.

Nikhil waited out the silence as long as he could. Listen, he finally said. The country is changing.

A child diapered by two men, said Sharma. Your country is changing faster than my country is changing. What about the boys from Kerala?

They had learned about a schoolteacher and a postal clerk who had secretly made a life together. Unfashionably attired and chubby cheeked, they seemed too dull for the news. A few months ago, locals threw acid in their faces. Even in the black and white of the photographs, their scars, along the jaw, the nose, the better half of a cheek. Ten years since man had landed on the moon, and still.

We are not boys from Kerala. We are protected.

No ruse better than a woman in the home, Nikhil had argued over a year ago, and eventually Sharma had agreed to a marriage of convenience. Kanu, who had loved Nikhil through his childhood and even through his years of chasing prostitutes, had arranged for a village woman who knew about the two mens relationship but would never tell.

Nikhil rummaged through his almirah and returned with a gift in his hands. You close your eyes now.

Oh, Nikhil. But Sharma did as he was told, accustomed now perhaps to receiving precious things.

Around Sharmas neck, Nikhil tied his dead mothers necklace. It had been dipped in twenty-four carats of gold by master artisans of Agra. Miniature busts of Queen Victoria decorated its circumference. A piece for the museums, a jeweler had once explained, but Nikhil wanted Sharma to have it. That morning, when hed visited the family vault to retrieve it, hed startled himself with the enormity of what he was giving away, but what better time than now, as they were about to begin a family?

Promise youll dream about a child with me.

It is beautiful, and I will wear it every day, even though people will wonder what is that under my shirt.

Let them wonder.

You are entirely mad. Mad is what you are.

Nikhil was pulled back to the divan. Sharma, lifting Nikhils shirt, placed a molasses square on his belly, teasing a trail of sweetness with his tongue. Nikhil closed his eyes and allowed himself to be enjoyed. Down below, the rum sellers negotiated, the prices of bottles fluctuating wildly.

Afterward, they retired to the roof. Their chadors cut off the cold, but Nikhil still shivered. When Sharma asked what the matter was, Nikhil kissed the spot where his eyebrows met. There was another old roof across the street, where grandmothers were known to gossip and eavesdrop, but he did not care. Let them see