Read Online THE MAGICAL PALACE by Kunal Mukjerjee - Free Book Online Page A

him a headache. Even though we were sent to school to be educated in English, our fathers did not like us listening to western music. But Mallika was in college and was a good student—also very stubborn—so she had her way.
    After she had regained her composure, Mallika looked at me and smiled. ‘Are the girls being mean to you again? Don’t mind them. Let us play Snakes and Ladders.’ She pulled out the game and rolled the die.
    We enjoyed our game. Mallika chatted with me about school the whole time. She loved to read just like me, and asked, ‘What book are you reading now?’
    ‘Enid Blyton’s The Five on Kirrin Island Again ,’ I replied.
    ‘I love that book.’ Mallika’s eyes lit up. She reached over and put her hand on my cheek, gently patting it. ‘Would you like some dal, rice and butter?’ she asked.
    I had an insatiable fondness for hot, steaming rice, heaped with fragrant, freshly made tuar dal—the flavour of the dal mingling with that of the Basmati rice—and the best part was a dollop of Amul butter melting on top.
    ‘Why don’t you wait here while I get you a plate of dal and rice?’ Mallika said to me. I nodded, not really wanting to deal with the annoying girls as Mallika went downstairs.
    I thought of the letter that Mallika had put away so hastily. I got up from the foot of the old, teak bed and went around to the headboard. One end of the pillow was folded under where Mallika had hastily hidden the letter. I pulled out the crumpled letter and saw the words, ‘My dearest, darling Mallika’, written on top, followed by pages of declarations of undying affection and devotion. I quickly scanned it. There were references to trysts at different places in Hyderabad and even on campus at Osmania College. On the last page, I saw the inscription, ‘Your dearly beloved, Salim’. Then, as I heard footsteps, I stuffed the letter back under the pillow and ran back to the other side of the bed and picked up a mystery novel lying on the end table. I stared at the writing on the pages, but could not read a word. Mallika was seeing a boy. His name was Salim. And Salim was a Muslim name. Mallika was having an affair with a Muslim boy. It was frightening enough that she was breaking the rules that all good Bengali girls were supposed to follow by seeing a boy, but this was crossing the one line that no Hindu family would stand for. What would Binesh Kaku and Anjali Mashi say if they found out? I knew that if Rani had a boyfriend my father would never tolerate it. In my parents’ and Mallika’s parents’ world, dating was considered to be sign of a ‘loose character’. Only ‘fast girls’ dated and others gossiped about them.
    With the exception of Ahmed Uncle and Shabnam Aunty, we had no Muslim family friends. Throughout the years, I had heard people say bad things about Muslims—that they were dirty and cruel, ate beef and didn’t like Hindus.
    ‘Here you are, Rahul.’ Mallika was at the door, the plate of food in her hand. She sat with me while I ate with great relish.
    As soon as I had finished eating, Anjali Mashi’s voice floated up the stairs: ‘Mallika, Shyamala, come help me take the food and tea out.’ We heard the clinking of cutlery and crockery from the kitchen.
    Anjali Mashi smiled at me with great affection when she saw me. ‘Rahul, you grow taller each time I see you. Soon you will be taller than all of us, just like your father. May the Goddess bless you.’ Her heavy, gold bangles chinked as she embraced me. I beamed. Dressed in the traditional Bengali style, Anjali Mashi wore a large, red bindi on her forehead and her sari was looped in from the front with the household keys tied to the end of the pallu. She never followed the hairstyles and fashions of actresses like my mother; instead, she wore her hair down, oiled and fragrant.
    We helped bring the food out to the dining room. The boring meeting was over and the president, the secretary, the treasurer and other