Where the Peacocks Sing : a Palace, a Prince, and the Search for Home

84 Pages·2013·1.15 MB·English

by  Gee

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To my family:
the Gees of Los Angeles,
the Singhs of Old Delhi,
and Ajay and Anais of Mokimpur and Atwater Village
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Epigraph

Prologue
Part I
1. Fear of Flying
2. Searching
3. Meeting Ajay
4. Good-bye High Life, Hello New Life
5. Rebirth
6. Castles in the Sky and Other Useless Places
Part II
7. The Journey Begins
8. Delhi Earth
9. So Close …
10. High Spirits
11. The Trophy Room
12. Gods and Water
13. The Oiling
14. A Wedding at the Palace
15. Christmas with Hindus
16. Servants and Masters
17. Haveli Rich, Cash Poor
Part III
18. Hong Kong Luxury, Indian Soul
19. Resurrection
20. The Kitchen
21. Amusing the Singhs
22. The Garden of Truth
23. The Singhs in America
24. The Wedding
25. At Last, the Taj
Epilogue

Photos
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Author’s Note
To write this book I called upon my journals, letters, and e-mails, as well as
relied on interviews with my family members, friends, the Singh family, and,
most importantly, my husband, Ajay. Some of the events might be out of
sequence or compressed, and I changed names and identifying details in the case
of a number of characters.
I am certain that many people in my life would have told this story
differently. But my desire was to recall the emotional truth of this period of my
life—along with its drama, wonder, and humor. I believe my memories, however
subjective and faulty, have their own story to tell.
Most of my friends who have heard my story say it’s just like a fairy tale. I
have to agree. And on good days, I tell them I still feel as though I’m living that
fairy tale.
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
—Matsuo Bashō
Prologue
I often wonder when India and its fabled palaces first seized hold of my
imagination. But I remember when I was about eight, or maybe nine, I saw my
first such royal residence. Not in the flesh (or stone, as it were) but in a book at
the library. I still remember lifting the heavy cover of a big picture book,
flipping the thick pages, catching sight of a dome here, a tiled courtyard there,
archways and fountains, an orchard of swaying palms, and then suddenly
floating into this alternate universe.
These sprawling homes lay in the desert like heavy, jeweled necklaces
scattered along the sand, and they shimmered under a bright, never-setting sun.
“India, Land of a Thousand Palaces,” the caption read. Just for a moment, I
allowed myself to wonder what it would be like in those great rooms and quiet
hallways—the tiled passages, the chandeliers casting off light like diamonds
flung into the air, the scent of potted lilies and gardenias wafting from the
courtyard, and the kitchen smells of fresh ginger, coriander, and white pepper
filling a dining room so big it echoed when you spoke. Just for a moment I lived
there.
But my mental escape into those images didn’t last for long. I remember
being called away from the book by one of my siblings. I took one last glance at
the cover—a maharaja and his maharani standing in front of their sprawling pink
palace—and then gently closed the cover of the tome.
It was time to go home. Home to our yellow stucco house with the berry
bushes lining the front and the unruly hedge along the steep, cracked driveway.
Back to the blare of the living room television and six brothers and sisters
squabbling over eight pieces of pizza. Back to tin TV trays and a threadbare
embroidered-silk sofa and the encyclopedias and worn toys and boxes of navel
oranges stuffed randomly into every corner. Back to a life I never quite felt I
belonged to and yet was so deeply formed by.
What I realize now is that while I walked away from that book, and that well-
born Indian couple and their refined home, the power of that image never really
left me. It stayed deep somewhere in the folds of my brain, guiding my choices,
forcing me off certain paths and down other roads. One glance at the glossy
photographs in a library book and I was led down cool stone floors, through
halls redolent of jasmine and cardamom, and into a secret room, a palace, a
destiny. And just like that a whole life begins.
*
It would be years and years from that moment before I would truly learn
about these grand houses of Northern India, beyond merely giving them an
admiring look. For two centuries, from the late 1700s to the mid-1950s, graceful
homes known as havelis lined the streets of Delhi. They ranged in size from
impressive manors to mini palaces, depending on how many stacks of rupees
one’s family had stashed in its vaults. At first, havelis were reserved for Indian
aristocrats or British dignitaries. But before long even those who had no title but
who ran flourishing businesses—trading rubies and sapphires, for example—or
those who wielded political influence built status-boosting havelis for
themselves.
These houses had deities, peacocks, and lotus flowers carved into their
wooden doors. They had scalloped window frames, gold-leafed ceilings,
multiple kitchens, ballrooms that echoed when the servants swept and wiped the
marble floors. They had waterways that snaked like the Venetian canals through
the property to cool and beautify the gardens. And like a feudal manor, each
haveli had its own distinct society, housing not only an entire family but also
servants, artisans, musicians, vendors, and priests who devoted their lives to
running the house.
The owners of these palaces envisioned their grounds as walled utopias.
There were tropical courtyards fragrant with blossoms, private orchards of
jamun, chiku, and mango trees, and kitchen gardens swelling with eggplant,
bitter gourd, and honeydew; there were marble fountains and stone benches,
horse stables and goat sheds. Family cows and buffalo provided fresh milk; hens