Chapter 1: Ishan

# Chapter 1: Ishan

## The Seven Women in Red

The marble floor was cold under her bare feet as she found the first position.

Seven.

There were seven women in Nakhlau Itr wearing red dupattas. Seven women browsing the glass shelves of his family's perfume shop in Aminabad, and one of them; one of them was Nandini, the woman who had answered his notice.

Ishan Farooqui adjusted the brass cap on the sandalwood attar bottle and studied the crowd through the haze of incense smoke that his Abbu insisted on burning at the threshold. Oud-scented, from a stick that cost ₹45 and that his Abbu bought in bulk from Mohd. Iqbal's shop in Chowk, twenty sticks for ₹400, the bulk buying being the Lucknawi shopkeeper's insurance against running out of the sacred, the sacred that was smell, the smell: thing that announcedNakhlau Itr to every person who walked down the narrow lane of Aminabad Market.

The notice had been his cousin Faizan's idea. Faizan, who was twenty-eight and who considered himself Lucknow's answer to every romantic crisis, had suggested, had insisted, actually, with the characteristic insistence that cousins deployed when they believed they were saving you from yourself — that Ishan put up a handwritten notice on the shop's bulletin board and a small classified in the Amar Ujala:

Kathak dance partner needed for Lucknow Mahotsav competition (December 14-15). Female, 25-35, basic rhythm knowledge sufficient. No professionals please — beginner preferred. Contact: Nakhlau Itr, Shop #47, Aminabad Market, Lucknow. Ask for Ishan. The attar drop was cool on her wrist, a single cold point that slowly warmed to her skin's temperature.

The notice had gone up eleven days ago. The Amar Ujala classified had run for three days. The responses had been: four phone calls (two from women, one from a man named Pappu who wanted to know if he could enter the women's category, one from his own mother who had seen the classified and wanted to know why her son was advertising for women in the newspaper), seven WhatsApp messages, and one handwritten letter that had arrived in the shop's postbox: the postbox, the old brass slot in the door that nobody used anymore because WhatsApp had replaced the post office the way the post office had once replaced the messenger on horseback.

The handwritten letter was from Nandini.

Dear Ishan,

I saw your notice at the shop. I am interested in the dance partnership. I should warn you, I have never danced Kathak professionally. I learned from my Nani until I was fourteen and then stopped. I am now twenty-nine. I work as a data analyst at Tata Consultancy Services, Gomti Nagar. I can practice on weekday evenings after 7 PM and on Sundays.

I will come to the shop on Saturday, November 22, at 4 PM. I will wear a red dupatta so you can identify me.

Nandini Tiwari

The letter had arrived on Monday. Today was Saturday. Today was the day.

And seven women were wearing red dupattas.

Ishan was not a detective. Ishan was a perfumer: a third-generation attariya, the son of Waseem Farooqui and the grandson of Haji Nooruddin Farooqui, who had opened Nakhlau Itr in 1971 with ₹2,300 and a copper deg that he had carried on a bullock cart from Kannauj, the perfume capital of India, eighty kilometres southwest of Lucknow, distance between the factory and the mark, the eighty kilometreset, between the making and the selling, between the rose fields and the customer's wrist. The ghungroo were heavy around her ankles. The brass was cold at first, then warmed.

Ishan was thirty. He had turned thirty six days ago, the birthday, unremarkable except for the phirni that his Ammi had made (the phirni being the Lucknawi Muslim birthday dessert, the dessert that his Ammi made every year in the same clay bowls from Chinhat, the clay imparting the earthy taste that no steel or glass could replicate, flavour of — the earthy tasteLucknow itself: clay, rosewater, saffron, cardamom, the four ingredients that defined the city's palate).

He was tall. Six foot one, which in Aminabad Market meant that his head was visible above most of the crowd and that the shop's doorframe required a slight duck, the ducking: tall man's habit, the habit of a body that had learned to anticipate low ceilings the way a cat anticipated closed doors. His hair was black, thick, combed back with the coconut oil that his Abbu applied every morning ("Baal chamkenge, beta", the hair will shine, the instruction that was father's grooming philosophy, the philosophy of a generation that believed coconut oil cured everything from dry hair to failed marriages).

He wore what he always wore in the shop: a white cotton kurta, pressed, the pressing: his own work (the iron, a Bajaj dry iron, ₹790, purchased from the Sahara Ganj Mall's Croma outlet three years ago, the purchase, one of exactly four times Ishan had entered the mall, the mall, the newLucknow that coexisted with the old Lucknow of Aminabad the way a skyscraper coexisted with a mosque: uncomfortably, necessarily).

The shop was small. Twenty feet by twelve feet. Glass shelves on three walls, the shelves holding 147 bottles of attar, the 147: the current inventory, the inventory rotating with the seasons (in summer: vetiver, jasmine, white musk; in winter: oud, sandalwood, amber; year-round: rose, the rose — the constant, the constant because Lucknow was the rose, the rose was Lucknow, the rose attar called gulab being the city's signature scent the way chai was Indore's signature taste). His fingers on the glass bottle were delicate, the glass smooth and cool under his touch.

The floor was black and white marble, the same marble that the shop had been born with, the marble that Haji Nooruddin had chosen in 1971 because the marble was the Nawabi aesthetic, the Nawabi: the style that Lucknow performed: everything must look like a palace, even a twenty-foot perfume shop in a market that sold everything from gold to groundnuts.

Ishan scanned the seven red dupattas.

Woman One: at the rose attar shelf, lifting bottles, sniffing, replacing. Age: approximately fifty-five. The fifty-five being evident in the hands: the hands having the particular thinness that fifty-five-year-old Indian women's hands acquired, the thinness of reduced collagen and decades of washing and cooking and the desiccation that hard water produced. She was shopping. She was not Nandini.

Woman Two: at the counter, paying. Ishan's Abbu was wrapping her purchase in the shop's signature tissue paper — the tissue paper being ivory with a gold border, the gold border being the Nakhlau Itr brand, the brand that Haji Nooruddin had designed and that Waseem had maintained and that Ishan had not changed because changing the tissue paper was the kind of sacrilege that got you disinherited in a family of perfumers.

Woman Three: near the entrance, browsing the display of ittar samplers, the samplers — small glass vials containing 1ml each, priced at ₹50-₹150, the samplers: shop's gateway drug, the drug that converted browsers into buyers, the conversion rate being approximately 34% (Ishan tracked this in a notebook: the notebook (perfumer's analytics), the analytics that TCS's data analysts would recognise as primitive but that functioned: date, sampler purchased, follow-up full bottle purchased yes/no, the yes; 34 out of every 100). The marble floor was cold under her bare soles. She shifted her weight. The cold followed.

Women Four through Six: a group, clearly together, clearly tourists (the tourist identification: phone cameras; three phones, all pointing at the attar bottles, the photographing (tourist's primary activity in A)minabad, the photographing replacing the purchasing, the replacing: the Instagram economy's effect on traditional retail: why buy when you can photograph?).

Woman Seven: sitting at the wooden bench near the window. The bench that Haji Nooruddin had installed for customers who wanted to sit and smell, traditional attar-buying ritual, the sitting and smelling, the ritual: sit, extend your wrist, let the perfumer apply the attar, smell, wait thirty minutes for the attar to develop on your skin, smell again, decide. The ritual requiring time. The time requiring the bench.

Woman Seven was sitting on the bench with a laptop.

A laptop. In a perfume shop. The laptop: a silver HP, the HP — the laptop that TCS issued to its employees (Ishan knew this because Faizan worked at TCS Gomti Nagar and Faizan's laptop was identical, silver HP, the sticker on the back reading "TCS Property: Asset ID" followed by a number).

Woman Seven had dark hair, dark, long, pulled back into a low bun that sat at the nape of her neck, the bun (working woman's hairstyle), the hairstyle of a woman who spent nine hours at a desk and who did not have the time or the inclination for the elaborate styles that Instagram suggested, the suggestion: rejected in favour of the practical: tie it up, forget about it, work. The rose petals yielded between his fingers, soft and bruised, releasing oil that slicked his skin.

Her red dupatta was draped across her shoulders: not arranged decoratively but placed functionally, the way a scarf was placed: for warmth. The November warmth being the Lucknow November warmth, which was not warm at all, November in Lucknow being 18-22°C during the day and 10-12°C at night, the night's cold being the careful cold that the Gangetic plain produced: damp, bone-reaching, the kind of cold that cotton dupattas did not defeat but that cotton dupattas were worn against anyway because the wearing was the gesture, the gesture of defiance against the cold.

She was working. She was typing on the laptop with the speed that data people typed, the speed of someone whose fingers spent eight hours a day on keyboards and whose fingers had achieved the fluency that musicians' fingers achieved on instruments, the fluency (automation of thought into action), the thinking becoming the typing without the intermediate step of consideration.

Ishan walked to the bench. He walked the way he walked through the shop; slowly, deliberately, the way his Abbu walked and his Dada walked before him, the walk. Perfumer's walk, the walk that said: I am not in a hurry. Perfume is not in a hurry. The rose takes six months to bloom. The attar takes twelve hours to distil. Nothing in this shop moves quickly except the customer's credit card.

"Nandini?" he said.

She looked up. She looked up from the laptop the way people looked up from laptops, with the delayed focus of a person returning from the screen's world to the physical world, the return requiring a second of adjustment, the adjustment that was eyes recalibrating from the screen's brightness to the shop's dim lighting (the shop, which was deliberately dim, the dimness: attar shop's atmosphere, the atmosphere that Haji Nooruddin had designed: dim light, oud incense, glass shelves, the combination producing the hush that perfume shops maintained, the hush. Sensory environment that allowed the nose to work without the distraction of bright light and loud sound). Her dupatta's border was rough with zari embroidery. She felt the metallic threads against her collarbone.

"Ishan?"

"Haan."

"Assalamu alaikum."

"Walaikum assalam. Aap Nandini Tiwari hain?"

"Haan."

The confirmation. The confirmation, the meeting, the meeting that the letter had promised and that the red dupatta had signaled and that the laptop had identified. The meeting between a perfumer and a data analyst in a perfume shop in Aminabad Market, Lucknow, on a Saturday afternoon in November.

He sat on the bench next to her — the bench, which was wide enough for two, the two (bench's capacity), the capacity that Haji Nooruddin had designed for the husband-wife pair who came together to choose an attar, the pair: traditional customer, the traditional customer being: the husband who paid and the wife who chose, the choosing, the wife's domain because the nose was the wife's authority and the authority was not questioned.

"Aap ka khat mila," he said. I received your letter.

"Maine khat isliye likha kyunki: kyunki WhatsApp pe toh sab likhte hain. Khat se pata chalta hai ki insaan serious hai ya nahi."

I wrote a letter because — because everyone writes on WhatsApp. A letter tells you whether a person is serious or not. The copper deg was warm to the touch, the metal holding the heat of the distillation.

The reasoning. The reasoning, which was data analyst's reasoning. The reasoning of a woman who understood that the medium was the message, the message of the letter: I took the time to write by hand. I bought an envelope. I found a pen. I wrote your address. I walked to the postbox. Each step was a deliberate action. Deliberate action is seriousness. Seriousness is what a dance partner requires.

"Aap ne likha ki aap ne Kathak apni Nani se seekha tha."

You wrote that you learned Kathak from your Nani.

"Haan. Nani: Savitri Devi Tiwari. Woh Kathak ki teacher thi. Banaras mein. Birju Maharaj ke style mein nahin, Jaipur gharana mein. Lekin woh Lucknow aa gayin thi shaadi ke baad. Mujhe chaudah saal tak sikhaaya. Phir unhone; phir woh nahi rahi."

Nani, Savitri Devi Tiwari. She was a Kathak teacher. In Banaras. Not in Birju Maharaj's style; in the Jaipur gharana. But she came to Lucknow after marriage. She taught me for fourteen years. Then she; then she passed away.

The passing, the reason for the stopping. The stopping, the fourteen-year-old's response to the grandmother's death: stop dancing. Stop the thing that the grandmother taught. The stopping, which was the grief's expression, not tears, not mourning, but the cessation of the practice, connection to the dead, the practice, the connection, severed by the death and the severing: performed by the living as the act of mourning: you taught me this. You are gone. I stop. She extended her wrist. His fingers steadied it. The contact was brief, dry, precise.

"Mujhe bhi seekhna hai," Ishan said. I also need to learn.

"Aapko Kathak nahi aata?"

You don't know Kathak?

"Nahi. Mujhe koi bhi dance nahi aata."

No. I don't know any dance.

"Toh, toh aapne competition mein entry kyun li?"

Then. Why did you enter the competition?

The question. The question — the reasonable question, the question that a data analyst would ask, the question that had a data-driven answer and an emotional answer, the data-driven answer being the wrong answer and the emotional answer being the right answer and the right answer that was one thatIshan did not want to give because the right answer was about Zoya.

"Lambi kahani hai," he said. It's a long story.

"Mere paas time hai. Mera laptop charge hai. Aur aapki dukaan mein bench hai."

I have time. My laptop is charged. And your shop has a bench.

He smiled. The smile, which was, the smile, which was the first smile, the first smile between them, the smile that the bench produced, the bench that his grandfather had built for husband-wife pairs and that was now holding a perfumer and a data analyst who were going to dance together at the Lucknow Mahotsav if Ishan could learn Kathak in twenty-two days.

Twenty-two days. Twenty-two days to learn a dance form that took fourteen years to learn from a Nani in Banaras.

"Chai peeyengi?" he asked. Will you have chai?

"Kahwa chalega? Agar Aminabad mein kahwa milta ho."

Kahwa would be nice. If you can find kahwa in Aminabad.

Kahwa. The Kashmiri green tea with saffron and almonds and cinnamon, the kahwa; particular request of a particular woman, the particular woman that was kind who did not order the ordinary, the ordinary that was masala chai that everyone ordered, default — the everyone, the default, rejected by this woman in favour of the specific, the specific: kahwa. The bench wood was smooth under her palms, polished by decades of customers sitting and waiting.

"Aminabad mein sab milta hai," Ishan said. You can find everything in Aminabad.

He sent Raju, the shop's helper boy, fifteen, from Barabanki, ₹200/day plus meals. To the Kashmiri shop three lanes over, the shop run by Bashir Lone, who sold dry fruits and kahwa and Pashmina shawls and who would prepare two glasses of kahwa for ₹60 if you told him it was for Nakhlau Itr, the telling, code, the code that Aminabad's shopkeepers used: this order is from a neighbouring shop. The neighbouring shop's customer is a potential customer. Serve well. The network serves itself.

Raju returned in seven minutes with two glasses of kahwa in earthen kulhads; the kulhads being the traditional drinking vessel of North India, the vessel made of baked clay, the clay imparting the same earthy sweetness that his Ammi's phirni bowls imparted, the earthiness that was constant, the constant, which was: clay. Lucknow was built on clay. The clay was in everything: the cups, the desserts, the buildings, the earth.

Nandini took the kahwa. She held it with both hands — both hands wrapping around the kulhad, the wrapping, which was cold's response: the hands seeking warmth, the warmth: kahwa's first gift(the second gift that was taste, the third that was saffron's colour, the colour, amber, the amber, the colour of attar, the colour of the shop, the colour of the afternoon's light through the glass shelves).

She sipped. She sipped and her face changed: relaxation that hot beverages produced in: the change cold weather, the relaxation of the jaw and the shoulders and the forehead, body's surrender to the warmth, the relaxation. The kahwa kulhad was rough clay against her lips, the rim uneven, handmade.

"Achha hai," she said. It's good.

"Bashir bhai ki speciality hai."

"Toh: lambi kahani?"

So — the long story?

"Haan. Lambi kahani."

He took a breath. He took the breath that storytellers took before beginning, the breath that filled the lungs with the air that would carry the words, the words that would carry the story, the story: Zoya.

"Ek ladki hai," he began. There's a girl.

"Ek ladki hamesha hoti hai," Nandini said, and the smile that accompanied the sentence was the smile of a woman who knew that all long stories began with a girl, the knowing; universal knowledge, the knowledge that data analysts and perfumers and everyone in between possessed: all long stories began with a girl.

He told her.