Esha Dey

Lapis Lazuli

(Translated from the Bengali original by Naina Dey)

Birju sat at the rear as his father pedalled down Johari Road. He was hardly fifteen. A thin line of moustache was barely visible on his face. He had just begun to sit in their ancestral shop in Johari Bazar. It was nearly ten in the morning. The place was crowded with people and vehicles. In the front the Maharaja’s huge motor car was inching its way forward as vehicles on either side voluntarily made way. Suddenly a truck burst out audaciously from a bylane on the right. The motor screeched to a stop. There were vehicles everywhere. Unable to keep his balance as the bicycle abruptly came to a halt, Birju got down with his father. The motor car stood right in front of them. The windscreen was rolled down. Birju beheld a picture all in blue. A thin blue saree draped a fair form. A fair hand couched a fair face. A huge blue stone adorned the forefinger, the gold bordered blue which encircled the face fell lightly over the arm. A slender swan-like throat girdled by a string of pea-sized dense blue beads was visible between the folds of the fabric. A deep blue half-egg adorned a shell-white ear that grazed a pink cheek. Were the eyes blue too? Unaware of himself, a mesmerised Birju began to move forward. A sharp rebuke from his father jolted him back to reality.
--- What are you doing, you impudent scoundrel! Must you stare at the Maharani’s face? I will slap your face in!

A disconcerted Birju quickly stepped back. The Maharaja’s car started up. All the vehicles began to move. Just a few moments. As if independent of every other day, from every other age. A perfect pearl encumbered within the hard resistance of the oyster shell.

Father was still grumbling. During the Maharaja’s rule every car had wooden boards. The female passengers had to travel within completely shielded from view however hot it was. Let alone the Maharaniji herself, could the eyes of any subject of Jaipur alight on any ordinary female of the royal household! Times have changed. The Maharaniji herself has emerged from her purdah and is contesting elections. So what, one has to preserve the honour of the Jaipur royalty. Will it do for Birju, his father, uncles, brothers, grandfather who have been the subjects of Jaipur to forget all such things like everyone else around here? He himself cranes his neck to view the fluttering flag of the kingdom of Jaipur on his way to and from work every day that is, to see if the Royal Prince was residing in the palace or was out of  the city. Even now he would never forget to bow his head in respect before the royal banner. And Birju--- Birju piped in a question to arrest the flow of words,
--- What were those blue stones the Maharaniji wore on her neck, ears and fingers?
One simply had to mention of gems and stones to divert the mind of a jeweller of seven generations.

--- They are lapis. Lapis Lazuli. Haven’t you ever seen them? They are not as expensive as blue sapphires. Maybe the Maharaniji had just taken a fancy to them. Is there any logic behind the whims of kings and emperors? It is not a very popular stone. But it was used widely during the Mughal era. Not much in ornaments, but in embellishing walls. Do visit the Taj Mahal once and see the wonderful lapis work. You don’t find such art nowadays. The kings and princes are gone now, who would appreciate such work?
Birju understood that other than kings and connoisseurs, there were none to appreciate lapis. He had learnt to identify varieties of gems sitting in his shop for years. There were diamonds, emeralds, rubies of course, beside the plainer corals, yellow sapphires, chrysolites; he could recognise the foreign Alexandrine, cornelian and perigot. He dealt in them all. One day a perfect set of lapis fell into his hands, the Lapis Lazuli. A necklace strung with smaller to bigger beads and three egg-shaped stones. Two of them were of the same weight, almost identical in shape. A skilled jeweller could turn them into dainty ear-tops, and the remaining into a finger-ring. Birju gently slid them into a velvet pouch and put them away. He would take them out sometimes. Didn’t an almost exact set bedeck the Maharaniji that day? Birju slowly caressed one of the stones. Veins like fine threads of gold in bright deep blue seemed to make them all the more spectacular. Birju closed his eyes and beheld the beautiful form draped in blue, the left hand on the cheek, blue on the flower-bud forefinger, blue just touching the pink cheek, the marble throat fringed with blue. Did that blue have the same golden hue?

Birju never found an answer, nor did he sell the stones. In any case, there was no demand for lapis in the market however sterling their quality. Father had been right--- where were the patrons? Other than this set, Birju had some unstrung lapis, slightly greyish and cheap objects. The European tourists would sometimes ask for lapis, and he would display them. Would perhaps manage to sell one or two neckpieces, ear tops set in silver. They were the ones who had kept the honour of lapis alive. Otherwise, what was there is business? Though in this very same lane, that is, upon Gopal Jiu Road, Birju’s shop was generations’ old as those of the other traditional jewellers. Transactions of millions took place in this bazaar. Birju had heard of the opulence of the jewellers of Jaipur from his father. They were famed far and wide for their meenakari and stone settings. Besides, gems from the whole of Hindustan were cut and polished here. There was the wedding of the Maharaja’s only daughter. No, Birju had not witnessed it. He was too young then. But he had heard about it so many times from his father, it was as if he beheld everything happening before him. It was ages since a princess got married in Jaipur. What pomp, what equipage, splendid lights, what grandeur! The whole of Jaipur was a veritable fairyland. Kings and princes from neighbouring states and abroad had  assembled. How rich were their attire, dazzling with diamonds, gems, brocade! Maharaniji didn’t visit Mumbai or elsewhere for shopping. She had the princess’s jewellery made in Jaipur itself. Others followed suit. Numberless jewellers were summoned to the palace. Even the aristocratic households of Jaipur began to order ornaments for their women. The Johari Bazaar flourished.

Where were those times! Jaipur was gradually swallowed by India. To Birju, ‘Rajasthan’, ‘Bharat’ were just a few sounds, names without sense, as they were to his father. He had always quipped, “India’s independence is Jaipur’s ruin.” The day it was proclaimed in the newspapers that all of the Raja’s palaces would be opened to the public, father was unable to sleep for two nights, could hardly bite a morsel for two days. He had said to Birju even in his deathbed,
--- Mark me son, Jaipur has two enemies. The Congress and the gujjars.
True, Birju had experienced so in his own life. This gujjar caste knew no farming or skilled work of any other kind. They did mean jobs during the Maharaja’s rule, would keep their heads low under the feet of the upper-class people like Birju. Now they have turned upstarts. Even a self-possessed person as Birju would flare up at the thought of the gujjars. Earlier, they would graze cattle to earn their livelihood. They would create trouble sometimes, but would be flogged into silence. The Congress has given the vote to all. The Maharaja could cast a single vote and so could a worthless gujjar. Besides, there was no fear of flogging any more. Work has taken a backseat. Now a gujjar was preoccupied with only one thought,--- how to inflict damage to Birju and his likes. They are looting the farms. How could Birju manage so much on his own. His son was still too young, the elder three were daughters. He was almost bankrupt in getting two of them married. The Congress had flooded the market with the latest products. There were shops everywhere. There were new gadgets everyday. A mixer today, a vacuum cleaner tomorrow, not to mention the tape-recorders, T.V.s, scooters and motorcars. Yet, look at the condition of the old city! The Hawa Mahal was all broken. The gateway to the city was marked by sandy pink walls and edifices of the Maharaja’s time which stood close to the hills on either side. How intricately designed, how grand were they! At present they were all sun-burnt. Standing erect like decrepit haunted houses. Jaipur itself had changed. Gardens were bereft of flowers, the grass had been uprooted, the fountains were dry. The huge wall-paintings in many of the palaces belonging to the queen have faded away. Only hotels were coming up now. The contractors’ men are scooping out marble from Jaipur’s soil. Tourists have flooded the place during Congress rule. The government functions solely to extract money from the people. Earlier it was the rule of the king. Now it is the rule of the businessman.

Birju felt depressed. He took out the lapis set. He laid them out on the glass counter one by one and began to caress them. How cool were they to the touch! And smooth too. Intense blue, the stones shone. They were beautiful as before. They would remain so. Birju forgot the Congress, the gujjars, his daughter’s marriage, his everyday existence. Birju spent each day in this manner. How many customers visited him anyway? In this lane, only his shop was in such a condition! The signboard was an ancient one. Faded in the sun, rain and dust. The paint had peeled off in places. One could just about read the English letters--- “Prince Jewellers. Dealers in precious stones and gems. Established 1880. Dollar and pound accepted.” Each day while opening the shutter, Birju would think of repainting his shop. It was the same for ten-twenty years. Two or four cheap garnet and crystal neckpieces hung within the showcase. Birju would heave a sigh at the thought of the two shops belonging to his paternal cousins. He was not as fortunate as them. Otherwise why would their ancestral shop be in such dire straits. The fortunes of the shop had begun to dip even when his father was alive. Even then, two or four superior quality diamonds and emeralds would be sold out. Birju himself relied on astrological gems. Corals, chrysolites, moonstone, cat’s eye and uncut emeralds, rubies and sapphires. Nowadays the greedier men are, the greater their sufferings. But here there was no demand for lapis. You couldn’t appease Saturn, Mars, or Rahu the truncated cosmic demon of ruin, by wearing lapis. What a strange irony! This very stone when of a clearer hue would become a precious blue sapphire, the azure gem. But because it was dense and dull, it was a semi-precious stone--- lapis. Valuable only for its looks. Fit only to enhance the beauty of the queen. But that was quite as good; let the lapis live for its charm, Birju’s lifelong companion; an armour to defend him from the new age. He could have sold them away out of greed if he had got a good price. Birju felt relieved as he stowed away the lapis set.

He was then a young man of twenty-two, newly married. He had dangled the lapis necklace before the covered head of his sixteen year old wife Kamini and asked,
--- Like it?

He received no answer. When he tried to put it on her neck, the veiled head had lowered itself further and nodded silently in explicit protest.
--- What will everybody say? I feel shy.
When Kamini became the mother of three, a full-fledged garrulous housewife, Birju had held up the neckpiece before her face once more and said,
--- Like it?
Lifting up the portion of her saree covering her head, she had curled back her lips in derision and quipped,
--- Forget it! Not gold, not pearls, just a bead necklace, and a blue one besides. Fie! Is this the age to wear such things!
Never again did Birju try to cajole his wife with the lapis lazuli. But now every one of his kin knew of his obsession for lapis. His nephews and nieces would refer to ‘Tauji’s Secret Treasure’ or ‘The Queen’s Treasure’ in jest and more besides! And whenever there was a scarcity in the domestic income, the housewife would rail,
--- What kind of a man is this, who cannot do anything worthwhile. He sits pretty with some stones year after year when he could have sold them and earned some money for his children back home. Is he running a business or a storehouse? Etc…

Birju would not utter a word in response to all the ridicule and reproof. Father would regret his reserved nature. How could one woo customers if the shopkeeper was not voluble? One couldn’t sell one’s goods however superior they may be in quality, just by displaying them. And Birju had another big fault--- his short stature and appearance were as plain as his attire. He wore the old-fashioned dhoti-kurta, and they too would not be sufficiently clean on most days. On the other hand, just take a look at his paternal cousins! They were so spruce in their narrow pyjamas, long high-collared kurtas and waistcoats. Their sons went to English schools, spoke brisk English with the foreign tourists. There was his uncle’s son Girija, who was a full ten years younger than himself, yet what a shop did he own! One came upon the two-storeyed shop if one walked a little way down Gopal Jiu Road and turned to the right. The Munimji sat on the durrie in the traditional style in the ground floor. The special showroom was above, entirely surrounded with glass. Sofas, couches, air-conditioners. Girija himself sat here and sold Indian jewellery to the sahibs and memsahibs at exorbitant prices. Rows of neckpieces hung in the showcases--- a seven-tiered necklace of red rubies, blue firoza. A five-stringed neckpiece of green jade, a three-tiered piece in light purple amethyst, a single string of tiger’s eye topaz, mud red cornelian….. and many more. It was a festival of colours. Girija was doing roaring business, was importing assorted stones from other parts of India and abroad. These were cut and polished here itself and then sold. The rubies for instance, were imported from Kenya. Not stones but pomegranate seeds. He had become red with prosperity. Even bought a car. But of course, even Girija’s showcases could not flaunt a lapis set as Birju’s. The lapis has preserved Birju’s honour.

There were just three buyers since morning to noon. In search of the same old stuff--- coral, chrysolite, cat’s eye. They bargained vehemently as if they had come to buy priceless diamonds and gems. It was for nothing that their Mars, Rahu and Ketu, the dragon’s tail were unfavourable. Their very natures were the eclipse itself. Birju’s life was black as coal. He had to finally let the stones go at nominal prices. What else could he do, one had to earn somehow. How could one survive without appeasing the customers! Preparations were on to get his remaining daughter married off. No, Birju cannot manage everything on his own any more. His son Dhiraj has turned seventeen, appeared for the school finals. So many times has Birju tried to cajole him to attend to the shop, to go to the village sometimes to supervise the farm, the cows and the buffaloes. The gujjars were taking away half of the harvest, milk, ghee. He was the one who suffered losses. How long will father survive! It was useless to say all this. When the subject was brought up this morning itself, the mother turned furious. No, the boy will not sit in the shop, will not visit the farm; he will go to college. What kind of an education would he get if he didn’t go to college? Couldn’t Birju see how boys and girls everywhere were getting educated nowadays; some have gone to Delhi, even to England and America. He should look at the sons of his own paternal cousins. This is why they can speak Hindi and English so fluently; talk to the customers, and selling so much stuff this way. And look at Birju; he can’t even speak perfect Hindi. Cannot even utter a sound. This was the reason that his shop was in such dire straits. She would never let the son be like his father. In response Birju had got up and left his food half-eaten. He didn’t even bring along his lunch-box.
--- Here, Tauji. What’s the matter? Why are you muttering to yourself? Are you okay?
Girija’s son laughingly enquired. He would be walking down to the end of the lane. The car would be parked in the main thoroughfare. He would exchange pleasantries on the way.
--- Yes, yes. Everything is fine.
Birju tried to force a smile. He could not confide about his personal affairs.
--- It is almost midday. Have you had a snack? No? Why? Didn’t you bring anything today? Isn’t there anybody to sit at the shop? How surprising. I might as well attend to it, while you go around and have some tea. You look strained.
Sarju hitched up his expensive trousers with both hands to cross the cemented open drain and climbed up the steep stairs to enter Birju’s shop. No, even though he had been to English school and to college, the lad still respects his elders.
Birju met Chandrakant while having kachoris and a cup of tea. He too owned an ancestral shop in the adjacent lane. As they talked about their joys and sorrows how time flew. It suddenly occurred to him that an hour and half to forty-five minutes have passed already. Disconcerted, Birju quickened his pace and returned to the shop. Sarju was behind the counter with the same smiling face. As if it was a daily habit.
--- Tauji, your work has been done.
--- What work?
--- That lapis of yours. I have buyers at a very good price. They will return after a stroll, they said. No, no, they will come surely. I didn’t give it to them since you were away. There, they have gone to see meenakari and kundan ornaments at Tibriwal’s shop. They are not the ones to buy, but let them take a look. The more a customer surveys, the greater our profit. If not today, they will have to purchase tomorrow.
Birju was not the one to be swayed by such irrelevant chatter. His eyes were upon the lapis pouch dangling from Sarju’s hand.
--- What do you mean by saying that you have found customers for lapis? You know that these lapis are not for sale.
--- Oh Tauji, why are you so unnecessarily stubborn? What will you do with them? We are business folk; transactions are our daily livelihood. It is a loss to accumulate goods year after year.
Sarju began to swing the navy blue velvet pouch.
--- I understand my profit better. That lapis is not for sale.
--- Look here Tauji, you must understand. Do you believe that only the Maharani of Jaipur wears lapis? There are other queens too. Here, the customer I have found for you happens to be the princess of Bengal.
Though Birju never went to an English school, he was not so naïve. How could Bengal have a princess! That state never had any kings or princes.
--- Go, go. Don’t jest. Put the lapis away.
--- What madness is this Tauji! You have no sense even at this age. The father of three girls, the youngest yet to get married. Negotiations are on for Parvati’s marriage, isn’t it so? It is time you sell off all the left over stuff and earn some money. They will come handy.
Birju felt increasingly irritated. Sarju was just a nephew. But he lectures his father’s elder brother as if he himself is the head of the family. And then he would repeatedly call him ‘Tauji’ as in T.V. and films. He stretched out his hand to take the lapis pouch but desisted. True, he did need money.
--- Why don’t you just see what a bargain I’ve made. I have settled for a higher price than what it costs in the market. Do you know how much they are paying for a rati? Here, write the bill. Or give it to me, I’ll write it myself.
Birju was about to say ‘no’ but stopped short. If Parvati’s mother came to know --- and she would, by Sarju’s grace--- then it would be impossible for him to remain in the house in the face of her caustic remarks.
--- Look, they have come. The Shehzaadi of Bengal.
Birju beheld a couple alighting the stairs. Very ordinary. A young boy and a girl who looked liked students. Newly married evidently. Have come to Rajasthan on honeymoon. A very plain-looking girl in a blue cotton saree patterned with pink; the boy wore a sports shirt and jeans. Their appearance and attire were of the same sort. Bereft of glamour. Birju’s temper soured.
--- Here, Behenji. Your stuff is ready.
Sarju welcomed them with his sugary smile and handed out the navy blue velvet pouch. The lad was a first rate crafty sort. Stones, lapis besides, what was there to make ready! They are making money simply by moving their loud mouths. The girl spoke up gravely,
--- Do open it a bit, let us see it again. You are asking too much for it.
Oh heck, trying to act the housewife just after marriage! The smile however doesn’t fade a bit from Sarju’s visage.
--- Of course, you will. Why see it once, you can look at it five times, ten times. This is your shop. And for the price? Well, if the stuff is first-rate, the price would be as good. You will not get an equal pair in Johari Bazaar. And what is not to be found in Johari Bazaar is not to be found in the whole of India. Why don’t you try it out.
Taking off the fake mangalsutra from her neck, the girl placed it on the glass counter and then took up the lapis necklace. She began to inspect it minutely. Then she carefully put it on her neck. She had a clear, glowing complexion. The shining blue lapis grains looked pleasing on the firm, young skin, Birju had to admit. The girl now took off the flower-shaped black bead earrings and holding the egg-shaped stones to her ear lobes looked up at the boy.
--- How do I look?
For a moment the boy stood dumbstruck, simply stared at her. The captivated look seemed so familiar to Birju. It was as if the reflection of someone else’s bewilderment.
--- Fabulous! It goes so well with your navy-pink Dhakai, you look absolutely like a model.
--- But aren’t they asking too much for it? She pouted her lips.
--- Do take it darling, your fancy. Besides it would remind us of our Jaipur tour.
A suggestive smile played at the corner of his lips. A crimson hue lighted up her bashful face.
Birju felt a twinge of pain somewhere down his heart. The boy has found what he himself had failed to find all these years--- someone to wear the lapis lazuli. He spoke up at last,

--- Take it, Behenji, take it. How much is it Sarju? Have you made the bill? Two thousand nine hundred seventy five? Okay, you might as well round it off to a full seventy. Here is my card, please come again.