Three Bargains: A Novel Page 3

  The light spilling out of Avtaar Singh’s office illuminated the area outside. Madan’s father entered on Avtaar Singh’s command and as the door swung shut he heard Avtaar Singh say, “Is that your son again, Prabhu?”

  Madan stood still and stiff outside, hoping that he had not got his father into trouble. Just when he thought it was safe to shift his weight, the door opened again.

  “Go inside,” said his father. “Saab says you should wait there. I’ll be back soon.”

  He held the door open with his body and Madan inched his way forward. It banged shut and he turned around to see his father was gone.

  Every detail he consigned to his mind about Avtaar Singh seemed magnified at this second meeting. He towered over his desk, more immense, his mustache more plentiful and his eyebrows two bristly lines over eyes that searched Madan like he was the keeper of some unknown treasure.

  Avtaar Singh swiveled in his chair from behind his desk. “Come in, come in. How’re you liking Gorapur, boy?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “Pandit-ji, I want you to meet this boy. Say hello to Pandit Bansi Lal.” With a wave of his hand, he indicated the elderly man sitting on a faded blue sofa along the side of the room.

  Madan turned to the man in the crisp white kurta and flowing dhoti. He joined his hands together and bobbed a quick, “Ram, Ram.” The balding man continued to look toward Avtaar Singh, as though Madan’s entrance were an imaginary puff of wind.

  “This is Pandit Bansi Lal,” Avtaar Singh announced. “If you want to live in Gorapur, better take his blessings. We all fear the special connection our pandit-ji has with the Almighty!”

  Avtaar Singh’s laugh boomed through the room and Pandit Bansi Lal closed his eyes, murmuring, “Hari Om.” Madan stood stranded in the middle of the room, between the two men.

  “Sit, sit,” said Avtaar Singh, and Madan gratefully slid to the floor beside the sofa, the pandit’s feet an arm’s length away.

  “This is Prabhu’s boy,” Avtaar Singh was saying. “Can you believe it? When I first laid eyes on him, I couldn’t imagine he was from that man. I have not seen the wife yet, but the boy doesn’t look at all like that ugly goonda.”

  Pandit Bansi Lal was using his pinkie finger to intimately explore each of his nostrils, examining his nail every time it emerged from the orifice.

  Unsure how to react to the two men, Madan focused his attention on a large photograph garlanded with jasmine flowers on the wall behind Avtaar Singh. This must be Avtaar Singh’s father. His gaze wandered to the other picture on the facing wall, of a long bumpy-shaped object crisscrossed with lines, pins inserted here and there. After staring at it for a long moment, Madan realized that in his nervousness he had failed to recognize the map of India.

  “You know, Pandit-ji, sometimes one has a feeling,” Avtaar Singh went on. He leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head. “From when I myself was very young I learned that what I feel here”—he rubbed his lower belly—“works out for the best here”—he pointed to his head.

  “When I first saw this boy . . . there was just something . . . something.” Feature by feature, he scrutinized Madan, then sighed, deep and loud. “Sometimes I think it’s foolishness . . . but you . . . I’ve heard you talk about it before, Pandit-ji.”

  Pandit Bansi Lal’s eyes flickered in Madan’s direction.

  “You tell us of other lives we may have lived. People we may have known, who we may have battled with or cheated or . . . loved. Who will call on us in this life, with familiarity?”

  Madan and Pandit Bansi Lal exchanged an involuntary glance, both perplexed by Avtaar Singh’s stream of thought.

  “For once I think you may have said something of use to me, Pandit-ji.” Avtaar Singh was animated again, a grin spreading across his face. “You know me. When I come to a decision, when some idea gets ahold of me, I find it hard to shake. So, what do you think?”

  “About what? This servant boy?” Pandit Bansi Lal said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

  “Who is servant and who is master? Who decided this, Pandit-ji? Your God? When you said you needed a new temple, that God would be pleased with one that rivaled Lakshmi Narayan Temple, I spent lakhs to build it. You took payment for each prayer I sent to him. I paid thousands and thousands for pujas and havans. I needed one thing, and for that I gave plenty, whatever you asked. Why, Pandit-ji, it’s like you’re my banker for God. So tell me, why does he not give me a good return on my investment?”

  “You’re in a mood today, Avtaar Singh. God has been kind to you, count your blessings. You have two beautiful daughters and Gorapur would be a village of dung houses if not for you. And look at Minnu-ji. I just saw her yesterday, so pious, and beautiful with her new haircut.”

  “Yes, yes.” Avtaar Singh became pensive again. “That fucking Princess Diana haircut.”

  “Boys like these are as plentiful as seeds in a pomegranate, Avtaar Singh. You want a charity case, I will bring you a deserving one. This boy is nothing.” To Madan, Pandit Bansi Lal’s shrill, rising tone sounded like Swati’s when she whined about something.

  “I give you enough money as it is,” Avtaar Singh said. “I do not need you to bring out some poor soul as another avenue to milk me.”

  “Avtaar Singh, what are you saying? I’ve only done what you wanted me to do. This boy”—he grimaced—“is as good as any other.” Pandit Bansi Lal glared at Madan like he was a fly buzzing too close to his daal.

  “Of course, you know best,” Pandit Bansi Lal added. Madan felt a cold, bony hand encircle his upper arm and shake it. He looked up into the priest’s eyes, which were now directing God’s fury at him.

  “Go and touch saab’s feet, boy. You’re lucky such a great man noticed you.”

  How long until his father returned? All these words shooting overhead confused him. And on top of that, this pandit was angry. If Ma heard he had upset a man of God he would get a red backside, and he hadn’t even done anything.

  “Go and touch saab’s feet,” Pandit Bansi Lal repeated, pulling Madan off the floor and smiling at Avtaar Singh, his grip on Madan’s arm getting more and more painful. He shoved Madan toward the desk, but before Madan could bend down, Avtaar Singh stopped him. He pulled up a chair. “Sit here,” he said.

  Madan tentatively placed his bottom on the seat.

  “Be comfortable,” encouraged Avtaar Singh. “Do you like pinnis?”

  Avtaar Singh reached across the desk to an uncovered rectangular box and offered one to Madan. Lying in the waxy paper lining were two rows of the roundest, fattest pinnis he had ever seen, tawny brown, sugar glistening on their surface and almonds peeking out like nuggets of gold.

  Madan nodded, though he could not recall if he’d ever had one. Avtaar Singh shook the box again in an impatient offering, but before Madan could reach for one, the door swung open and his father entered, dragging another man in with him.

  Seeing his father’s stupefied stare when he saw Madan sitting next to Avtaar Singh, on a chair, no less, he tried to smile to show that it was not his idea.

  The blubbering of the man hauled into the room by the collar of his shirt broke the momentary silence and diverted both their attentions.

  Avtaar Singh leaned back in his chair again. “Mistry, Mistry, what were you thinking?” he addressed the man, whose mouth was a smear of liquid red. There were gashes and cuts all over his exposed arms, and his shirt hung raggedly. “You were here for a short while but we thought you were one of us, Pandit-ji and I.”

  Realizing that Pandit Bansi Lal was sitting on the sofa, Mistry launched himself out of Madan’s father’s grip and prostrated himself in front of the priest. Unable to see clearly through his puffy, swollen eyes, he lay on the cold floor a little off-center to Pandit Bansi Lal’s feet, and when he spoke it looked like he was pleading with the sofa.

  “Have mercy, Pandit-ji. You are a man of God, have mercy.”

  Pandit Bansi Lal grunted with distaste and loo
ked away. “It’s not in my hands,” he said, his eyes sliding from Avtaar Singh to Madan. “It’s Avtaar Singh-ji’s decision.”

  “Mistry, let us not waste any more time and any more of your blood,” Avtaar Singh said. “You’ve wasted enough time by trying to disappear. Now, Pandit Bansi Lal gave you the money, and not a small amount. You promised to get him that land in Jind. Land that you said belonged to your family.” Avtaar Singh paused. His eyes skimmed over to Madan, giving him a tight smile in acknowledgment of Madan’s intense gaze.

  Then, as though amazed by a sudden turn of events, Avtaar Singh continued, “Pandit-ji went there a few days ago to find no such land exists. What is there is already owned by some other people! How can that be? Can you tell me?”

  Avtaar Singh closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he looked at Mistry with the fondness he had bestowed on Madan a moment ago.

  “How I wish Pandit-ji had consulted me on this land deal before he went off on his own.” His voice became firmer, and Madan drank in the love, disappointment and surprise flitting across Avtaar Singh’s face. “But he did it without consulting me. He wanted to strike out on his own. He used his own money. He forgot that to benefit us all we need to support one another.”

  Everyone turned to look at Pandit-ji, and even Mistry, now awkwardly up on his elbows, looked at the priest with reproach.

  “Now what I wish to know is where did Pandit-ji get all that money?” The silence lengthened till a bubble of blood popped near Mistry’s mouth.

  “But wait . . . no. Pandit-ji is like my father and I will not question my father about the depth of his pockets, even though they’ve been filled mostly by me. No—” Avtaar Singh exhaled, shrugging his shoulders as though apologizing for his words. “The bond between Pandit-ji and me will outlast all of you and all your children. To cheat Pandit Bansi Lal is to cheat me. So, we need that money back, Mistry. Fifty thousand is no small amount.”

  Avtaar Singh gave a discreet nod. Madan watched his father pull Mistry around and slap him hard. Flecks of blood flew into the air. Madan recoiled, though he was too far for it to reach him.

  “Prabhu, Prabhu,” Avtaar Singh chastised gently, “all this blood, let him talk at least.”

  Removing the piece of cloth hanging around his neck, Madan’s father wiped Mistry’s mouth.

  “Speak freely,” Avtaar Singh said.

  Madan could feel the expectation in the room and knew that Mistry would speak, for there was no other way for him to leave this room.

  “My . . . my brother lives near Budha Khera Village—”

  Before he could complete his sentence, Avtaar Singh said to Prabhu, “Take him out and get all the details.”

  Madan watched his father tow the man out, his slack legs dragging behind him.

  In the remnant silence Madan squirmed in his chair, and the movement seemed to bring Avtaar Singh back to the present, and to Pandit Bansi Lal, who stood up and rearranged his white dhoti around his legs.

  “That is a lot of money, Pandit-ji,” said Avtaar Singh.

  “Oh, Avtaar Singh, there will be much good done with this money. Yes, of course, I was thinking . . . yes, I will build a small ashram, where people can have a peaceful place to be near God.”

  He gathered his sling bag and Madan sensed he was anxious to leave the room. “I’m so grateful. You’ve done a big thing for us. Tomorrow I will do five thousand and one satyanarayan pujas for you and your family . . .” He was nearly at the door now.

  “You’re right, Pandit-ji, to think of doing some good with the money.” Avtaar Singh swung his chair toward Madan.

  “This boy”—he placed a hand on Madan’s shoulder—“can read English, Pandit-ji. Lived in the village all his life, but picked up English.” Pandit Bansi Lal gave a disbelieving laugh.

  “It’s true,” Avtaar Singh said. “I’ve seen it myself. Shall he read something for you?”

  “No, no . . . of course not. If you say so, it must be true.” Pandit Bansi Lal’s hand was on the door now, ready to push it open.

  “You know that school I started a few years ago, Gorapur Academy near Ambala Road?” Avtaar Singh said. “You know it, you are there for Children’s Day every year,” Avtaar Singh went on calmly, as though he were not speaking to the pandit’s back. “We need a student like this, someone who will make a name for Gorapur, who will make us known not only in Haryana but all over the country. We should be famous for more than your temple. I’ve been thinking of adding senior classes, renovating the auditorium.” Avtaar Singh smiled at Madan. “And now this young man will be going there soon. Fifty thousand would be a good donation toward his education and would help the school. Ashrams, Pandit-ji, can wait.”

  Pandit Bansi Lal turned around to face them, turned again to the door and then back, struggling with the folds of his pristine dhoti. His eyes bore down on Madan and he recoiled as if a mangy jackal had appeared before him. If there was anything else Pandit Bansi Lal was going to say, it did not see the light of that room. “You are right as always,” was all that escaped his tightly compressed lips, and without another glance, he took his leave.

  Madan tilted back in his chair. He felt like he had run a hundred times to the market and back.

  “Did all that scare you?” Avtaar Singh eyed him, holding the forgotten box of pinnis under Madan’s nose again. Madan did not look down at the box, but at Avtaar Singh.

  The world was full of trembling men. There were the men who trembled in front of his father and then all of them who came here and trembled before this man, even when he smiled at them. This man who sat beside him, their knees almost touching, and his head attentively inclined toward him.

  He picked up a pinni, kept his eyes on Avtaar Singh and shook his head resolutely. “No,” he said, and did not add saab to that.

  “Take another,” said Avtaar Singh, and Madan had a pinni in one hand and another almost to his mouth when his father came back.

  “We got all the information. Looks like most of the money is still there. What should we do about him?” said his father.

  “He will end up in a hospital if we let him go?”

  “Yes, there will be unnecessary questions . . .”

  “Better to finish this business once and for all. Who does he have at home? Anyone to follow up with the police?”

  “Nobody. He’s quite useless. We will take care of the brother tonight, what can anyone say? The inspector can handle any questions . . . if they come up.”

  “Do it,” said Avtaar Singh.

  Madan’s father turned to leave, but not before Madan caught the hard stare as he took in the sight of them still sitting side by side at the desk.

  “Eat, eat,” said Avtaar Singh. Madan bit into the dense sugary flour, chewing slowly, each bite heavy and satisfying. I will never eat anything as rich as this pinni, he thought.

  He smiled up at Avtaar Singh reading some papers on his desk and settled back in his chair. As he worked his way through both pinnis, he didn’t let the faint noises from the other side of the door, of his father at work and a man gurgling away his last breath, interrupt the warm sweetness enveloping him.

  CHAPTER 4

  MA AND MADAN QUICKLY GATHERED SOME MONEY, AND slipped on their shoes. Ma had taken a few hours away from work so they could go to the market to buy Madan’s school uniform. Madan was due to start school on the Monday of the coming week.

  His father had heard of their planned shopping trip for the school uniform and cursed out Madan’s mother. “You think you know better or I know better? I have a job already lined up for him,” he shouted, storming out of the quarters.

  “Ma, I don’t have to go to school,” Madan said, shaken by his father’s outburst.

  But his mother was determined. “Your father will calm down once he gets used to the idea,” she tried to assure Madan. “If you do well, then maybe saab sends Swati to school.”

  Huddled by the stove, Swati shook her head vehemently, her braids bounci
ng off her shoulders. “Na-baba-na. I don’t want Bapu to be angry with me too.”

  Madan might have snapped a harsh retort at Swati, he didn’t need reminding of their father’s bruising hand or dark temper, but the door to their room clattered open, and his father came weaving back into the room, making a beeline for their mother.

  “What’re you trying to do, you witch? You want your son to rise higher than me?” His hands cut through the air. “I will give him one, and he will rise right up to the sky.”

  The bottle in his hand slipped and crashed to the floor. He looked at it in surprise, like he had forgotten he was holding it. “He’s not going,” he roared. “There’s no need for school. I never went to school.”

  Ma started swabbing the floor and said, “He’s your son too.”

  A decisive kick got Ma in the ribs, toppling her over into the tawny pool of spilled drink and shards of glass. Madan wanted to go help her, but fear and Swati cemented to his side kept him in the corner. Unfazed, his mother got up. She wiped her hands, dabbing her dampened sari with a kitchen rag. Before Bapu’s swinging hand got her under the chin, she grabbed his cocked fist, massaging the coiled mess of taut, protruding veins, whispering to him until his roar tapered down to a drunken mutter.

  “Go out with your sister,” she said to Madan without looking at them.

  In a fading shaft of sunlight, their grandfather mumbled softly, his head twisted to the side as if whispering to his shoulder. Swati and Madan waited, as they knew to do, with their backs against the door. Madan wanted to stay close in case Ma needed him. When the grunting and groaning started, Swati slipped her hand into Madan’s, squeezing tight until their father emerged, stretching and yawning.

  Flopping down on a vacant chair, Bapu pulled Swati close into the crook of this arm and asked to see her doll. “Such a beautiful thing,” he said, stroking the doll’s plastic cheek, “like my beautiful girl.”

  There was a dull thump as the doll fell to the ground, landing on its side with its glassy eyes wide open. Their father drew Swati in tighter, pressing her stomach hard against his knee. He traced the rise of Swati’s cheek with his thumb, progressing down past the sweep of her neck to the delicate spread of her collarbones. Standing by his grandfather’s chair, Madan saw her squint to hold back the gathering tears.