I was surprised, actually, to see that this was where Shiba came from, to see, for instance, the retinue of servants at her disposal. It’s not that our household in Karachi wasn’t also run using the labor of servants, but in Shiba’s home, it was like … I don’t know … a whole protocol thing. Like, the chowkidar at the gate saluting us or the maid, Roshan, grabbing Shiba’s suitcase as soon as we arrived. Even for a cup of tea or a glass of water, someone had to be summoned. In Sussex, Shiba lived a simple and independent life. She worked hard at her job and took good care of her home. She subsisted off khichri and pasta and aloo saag that she made herself with ease and skill. I never saw entitlement or snobbery in her before, and the truth is, I didn’t see it now. But I didn’t see embarrassment either—just a very natural easing into her setting, as if she were perfectly comfortable both ways. I tried to follow suit.
My room, the guest bed, was up a winding marble staircase and across the hall from Shiba’s. It was decorated as tastefully as the rest of the house. There was a long-legged bed made of darkly stained wood that held a sturdy mattress, and across from it, a beautiful hand-carved dressing table with a trio of narrow rectangular mirrors atop it—the type where you could adjust the side mirrors to see yourself from all angles. A matching cabinet and wardrobe rounded out the set along with a single elegant bookshelf carrying novels by Hardy and Austen. A Madhubani painting of women tilling a field hung on the opposite wall, next to the long beige khadi curtains that rested on either side of large windows. I put away my things and settled in before returning downstairs where Arjun was shuffling through papers in his study.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving,” Shiba said.
“Chalo then. Let’s start. The others can join us when they’re back.”
We went to the dining room, where the table had already been set. Kumar, the cook, welcomed Shiba warmly when we came in, scolding her for being away for so long. He told her that he’d made her favorite: fish fry and matar paneer, and while we ate, he flitted in and out of the dining room, refilling the roti box and our water glasses as needed.
“Shiba’s been very excited to bring you here,” her father said. “It’s the first time she’s sharing our world with a friend, you know.”
I blushed. “Yes, she mentioned that. Thank you. I’m excited to be here.”
“We’re very careful, you understand, about who we let in. What we’re doing here is so groundbreaking, so revolutionary, that it’s important to guard it carefully.”
“I understand completely,” I said.
“Shiba told me about your finding the email,” he continued. “I hope it did not shock you, my dear.”
I felt a bit embarrassed. I didn’t want him to think that I was the kind of person who went snooping through other people’s emails.
“I hadn’t meant to look. It just sort of—”
“It’s all right. Truth is, Shiba came across the process in a similar way herself. She was only, what, twenty?”
“Thirty,” Shiba corrected.
“And she just had to know what was happening. She somehow made it past my airtight system.”
“Papa, the password was your birthday.”
“Still. And, you know, Anisa, I wasn’t angry.”
“You were,” Shiba said.
“Well. Maybe for a minute, sweetheart. But then I thought, such an enterprising young girl. She not only figured it out but also learned how, when, what, just from a collection of data. And then, once she knew, she didn’t hesitate. She immediately saw its potential. Fearless.”
Shiba beamed at this.
“I see this in you, too, Anisa. I can tell already what a bright young thing you are. Now, what do you think of how Shiba runs the place?”
“It’s amazing, Uncle.”
“Oh, we don’t do those old-fashioned things here. You can call me Arjun.”
I saw Shiba flinch when he said this, and I cringed a little too. I’d never called a desi friend’s dad by his first name before, but I complied.
“Okay … Arjun. I was saying, she runs it like a fortress. Everything is so efficient, so carefully arranged.”
“Not that carefully if she’s leaving emails open for Learners to read.”
“Papa,” Shiba interrupted. “I already told you. It wasn’t like that.”
“Uncle, I mean, Arjun. Actually, that was my fault. I betrayed Shiba’s trust, and I’m sorry.”
“She said she let you into the staff quarters?”
“Yes.”
“That was careless.”
“No,” I said. “No, it wasn’t. I crossed a line. It was right of her to trust me. You both can trust me.”
“I was going to tell her anyway,” Shiba said. “I mean, no offense, Papa, but she’s the first person I can properly talk to about this who isn’t an old man.”
“Who are you calling an old man?”
“I’m serious,” she said. “It’s a load off my shoulders.”
“You have the other staff members too,” Arjun said.
“It’s not the same. I’m their boss. I can’t speak to them the way I can with Anisa.”
“I understand,” he said and looked at me gravely. “But of course, there is a concern about privacy. You can imagine. It is a father’s job, after all, to worry about his daughter.”
“Oh no, Unc—Arjun, you don’t need to worry about that at all.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Because the truth is it’s a comfort to me that she has you. Now, you must have already realized, from what you saw that …” Arjun trailed off as his colleagues entered the dining room. “Oh, look who’s here!”
The men were all in their mid-to late sixties. George, the English man, wore glasses and a light-green linen shirt. David was bald with a thick neck and biceps to match. He was dressed in a teal kurta from Fabindia. And Eric, the American, with his lean cheeks and straight, shiny teeth, was dressed in a polo shirt and chinos.
“Ah yes, Anisa Ellahi,” Eric said as we shook hands. “The new initiate. We’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome.”
“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.”