The Centre(57)

“How was the gala?” Arjun asked them.

“Well, this one here bid an extortionate amount for a pair of glasses,” Eric said, gesturing toward George.

“Not just any glasses,” George said. He pulled a leather pouch out of his briefcase and from it, extracted a pair of delicate copper spectacles. “Now, believe it or not, these once belonged to the great Bahadur Shah Zafar himself.”

He ran a finger down the ornately carved copper frame of the spectacles and then held them up to the light, so we could see the gleam of the gorgeous green lenses, before informing us that the lenses were actual slices of genuine emerald.

“Wow,” I said, my eyes widening.

He put them on. They were so small that they made his head look comically enormous.

“Do I dare ask how much?” Arjun said.

George tutted and shook his head. “The money was for the children.”

“For the museums,” Eric corrected. “The gala was raising money for the museums, not the children.”

“Oh yes. The museums then.”

I wanted to try on the glasses. To see what the world would look like through a pair of emeralds, but I was too shy to ask. George gingerly put them back in their pouch and turned to me.

“Well, congratulations are in order, my dear,” he said. “Few are let into the fold, you know.”

“Thank you. I’m excited to learn more. Shiba told me the four of you came up with the idea for the Centre at university?” I asked.

“That’s exactly right.”

“You must have been so young. Still in your twenties.”

“In many ways, the mind is at its ripest then, don’t you find?” David said.

“Does that mean it’s all downhill for me?” I joked.

“Not at all, honey,” Eric said. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you? That could only mean you’re on your way up.”

“We’ve heard you’ve already made great strides,” Arjun said. “Shiba was telling us about your translations.”

“Oh, yeah. Thank you. It’s not a big deal.”

“We’re actually writing a book ourselves,” David said. “That’s one of the things we’re working on this week. Collating our research and experiences to make a kind of testimony, or maybe a guide.”

“I thought it was all meant to be secret.”

“Of course,” he said. “But it is important to think about what we leave behind.”

“One must always consider legacy,” Arjun added.

“Absolutely,” David said. “A comprehensive account, for posterity.”

“To contextualize. Historicize,” George added, and the other three nodded.

They seemed to me a kind of four-limbed being occupying one central brain. How wonderful it must be, I thought. To have such a brilliant mind and then join forces with others on your level. It must make you feel fairly invincible.

“It’s important,” Arjun continued, “for people to know one day where it all began. For them to know what is possible if you dare to imagine it.”

“And for the children,” George said. “Let’s not forget the children. This will all be in your hands one day, won’t it, when we’re ashes and dust?”

“Yep,” Shiba said, taking a bite of her fish and smirking slightly. “That’s true.”

“But like, how secret is it, exactly? Shiba mentioned that only the handful of employees at the Centre know,” I probed. This idea, I have to admit, flattered me somewhat. “But your families must know what you do, right?”

“George’s family knows,” Eric said, winking at George and waving a fork in his direction.

“My wife does, yes. She is … intimately familiar.” George chuckled.

“You see, George married one of the Storytellers,” Eric said.

“Jessica,” George said. “That’s her English name.”

“Oh … wow.”

“It’s quite wonderful. It also means, you see, that we’ll be able to remain together, in a sense—”

“George,” Arjun interrupted. “We’re not quite there yet.”

“Oh yes. I’m sorry.”

“No,” I said eagerly. “Please, continue. What were you going to say?”

“I think they want to give you the grand tour first, isn’t that right?” George said.

“Yes,” Arjun confirmed. “Anisa, how would you like to see where it all began?”

“I’d love that.”

And so, after dessert of fruit and rasmalai over conversations about art and literature and the “state of India today,” Shiba, Arjun, and I left the others chatting around the dinner table and walked past the kitchen—where Kumar was now bent over the countertop next to the stove, eating his own dinner—and through the creaking back door. There, between the main house and the servants’ quarters, we came to a cottage.

“We had this built specially as our workspace,” Arjun said, leading us in.

The cottage was made up of three or four rooms. The first was an office space, most of which was occupied by a large wooden table with two cane chairs on either side. The surface of the table was covered with files and folders, along with an archaic-looking desktop computer. Other smaller tables dotted the room. There were piles of papers on most of the surfaces, and filing cabinets covered two of the walls. The other two walls were lined with bookshelves that held row upon row of technical-looking volumes, similar to the ones I’d seen in the Centre’s library. I grazed my fingers over their spines. Some of their titles verged on indecipherable: Advanced Anatomical Gradations in Universe 25, The Pacification of the Gnostic Mind, A Practical Guide for the Worldly Quixotic.