Three Bargains: A Novel Page 5

  “It was the same with everything. He would cry for ice cream and then complain it was too cold. A girl he would lust after, who he couldn’t live without, would turn out a whore.”

  His grandfather farted, lifting a buttock away from Madan. “I used to say, ‘Watch out, he empties himself of happiness too fast.’ It’s your grandmother’s fault, of course. She gave him visions of grandeur, giving him the name of God. I tell him that everywhere I go I meet someone named Prabhu. Prabhu here and Prabhu there. Don’t think you’re so special.”

  “Where do you go, Dada-ji?” Madan asked. He had never seen his grandfather step a foot out of these quarters. His grandfather grunted and leaned back again.

  Soon they heard footsteps and Swati came into the courtyard of the servants’ quarters with a tall stainless-steel tiffin-box. She helped their mother at the house, doing small chores mainly for Avtaar Singh’s twin daughters. “Madan-bhaiya,” she said, her slender fingers working her scalp, her head bobbing back and forth, “I want that—makes your hair smells like flowers after a bath.”

  Other things on the list she wanted were pink lipstick, a doll with yellow hair and long legs, miniature clothes that went with the doll, pillows to rest her head on, colorful hair clips that snapped shut with a click. Leaning forward, she regaled Madan with her findings, lowering her voice as if she were furtively plotting a takeover of the main house for shampoo. Madan knew all he had to do was hear her out. To Swati, listing these things held the same joy as acquiring them.

  She skipped into their room and fetched three steel plates, spreading them out on the ground in front of the bed. She unloaded the bowls of steaming hot food from the tiffin-box compartments.

  “Teeth, where are my teeth?” their grandfather asked.

  Swati retrieved the dentures from under the bed, picking them out of the glass of water. “Open,” she said, one hand cupping their grandfather’s chin. He let her slip them in.

  They began to eat and Swati said, “That man was asking Ma about your day at school.” She hunched her shoulders and flexed her arms in front of her chest to convey the strength and size of Avtaar Singh. “He also asked if she’d seen Bapu.”

  So Avtaar Singh hadn’t seen him around either. Ma would be more worried now that Avtaar Singh had mentioned it. Maybe this was going to be Madan’s first and last day of school. He pushed his plate away, his appetite gone.

  “Don’t worry about your father,” his grandfather grunted through mouthfuls of aloo baingan. “Children should not worry about their parents.”

  Madan wished his mother was back from the main house. He wanted to find out what she said to Avtaar Singh to explain his father’s disappearance, and also tell her about the kids who laughed at him and the teacher who sounded like a loudspeaker. Swati began clearing away the dirty dishes. His grandfather shuffled off to rinse his hands at the water pump.

  “Your father will be back,” his grandfather said. “No one else in the world can stand him.” He laughed and hit his chest to release a captive burp.

  Madan was not so sure. “He’s emptied himself of his happiness with us, Dada-ji,” he said.

  CHAPTER 5

  “

  WAKE UP. PLEASE, WAKE UP.” SWATI SHOOK MADAN.

  “What? What is it?” Half up on his elbows, the sleeping mat stuck to his back, Madan turned in the direction of Swati’s voice.

  “There’re some men outside,” Swati said, her eyes wide with fear.

  Madan heard muffled voices through the slightly open door. “They’re asking for Bapu,” Swati whispered. Wrapping his covers around her, he went to the door, peeking through the slender opening. His grandfather was in quite a state.

  “Is this any time for decent people to be out? I ask you . . . bastard!” his grandfather yelped. “I ask you, I ask you . . . bastard!”

  “We aren’t here for trouble,” a calm voice said from the entrance by the outer wall.

  “Forget him, forget him, he’s an old man,” he heard his mother say.

  His grandfather came trundling past, flapping his arms. “This is the time to sleep . . . bastard, disturbing . . . bastard . . . I ask you, is this the time to sleep?”

  “Get him under control,” said the man’s voice again.

  “Look, I’ll tell my man you were here. Go, please,” his mother said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  Ma sounded frantic. Pushing the door open, Madan stepped out. In the pool of the streetlight, he made out two men. They looked like they were out for a celebration; both wore crisply pressed pants and the one speaking to Ma had a scarf tied jauntily around his neck. The man behind him used a palm-sized switchblade to clean under his nails.

  Madan went out to his grandfather and guided him back to his bed, helping him lie down. “Only want to sleep, I ask you . . . bastard, I ask you . . . bastard,” his grandfather mumbled before quieting down and turning toward the wall.

  “Tell Prabhu we were here, he knows where to find us. Tell him,” the man added, “that big debts need big repayments.”

  “I will, I will,” Madan’s mother said, “but now go, go. If the big saab knows you’re here, then we’ll all be in trouble.”

  The man’s gaze traveled up and down the length of Ma’s body, lingering on her bosom. Madan started forward, but Ma’s hand stopped him. The man smirked, not lifting his eyes off her. He yawned and then said, “Prabhu, of all people, should know the consequences of unsettled debts.” Both men turned and left, but Ma and Madan didn’t move until the sound of their footsteps faded.

  They returned to their room, past his grandfather hunched in his sheets, now fast asleep. Inside, Madan asked, “Why are they looking for Bapu, Ma?”

  His mother turned around and gripped his shoulders. “Listen, don’t tell anyone about this.”

  “Who’ll I tell, Ma?”

  “If Avtaar Singh finds out such goondas were at our door . . . his door . . . we’ll be on the streets in no time. Thank god Bahadur and Ganesh didn’t come out of their rooms.”

  “But Ma . . . that man, he was looking at you like . . . like . . .”

  “That’s nothing! What do you think will happen to us if we’re on the streets?” She twisted the end of the sari in her hand, a helpless gesture that irritated Madan.

  “Where is he?” his mother muttered to herself. “Why won’t he come back? Hai Ram, without him, who’ll protect us?”

  He tried to reassure himself as much as her. “Ma, he’ll come back. He brought us here. Got us all of this . . .” He gestured around the room.

  “And his vices will make it disappear like this.” She snapped her fingers. “Where will we go if Avtaar Singh throws us out? What will we do without your father? You might survive somewhere, but think of your sister. What will happen to a young girl like her?”

  She took out an incense stick and lit it in front of a picture of Ram and Sita pasted to the wall. Her chest heaved and she rubbed it, breathing hard.

  “You’re scaring Swati,” Madan said. He went to his sister and put his arm around her. They lay down on their mats. Swati sidled next to Madan until she was right alongside him. Soon they fell asleep to Ma’s prayers going on into the night.

  The bell rang and Madan and Jaggu made their way to class. They had met by the school gate, Jaggu waving and whooping when he saw Madan. They walked through the sandy courtyard into the long building of the school, past the picture of Avtaar Singh and to their classroom, where Master-ji was waiting, ruler in hand.

  “Take your seats quickly, quickly,” he bellowed. “I don’t have all day for you children.”

  As the day progressed, Madan found it harder to concentrate, his mind on the visitors from the night before and his father’s mysterious whereabouts. He found himself staring down at his open notebook as the teacher’s voice droned on. The blank lines ran from end to end and he wondered when he would get a chance to write on them. He yearned to fill in those lines, to alter the austere white paper so it would be more than
a blank sheet.

  He reached for his pencil, his hand hovering over the notebook, considering what he would write. A resounding crack reverberated through the room. The sound came from his hand that a second ago held the pencil, which was now on the floor in two jagged pieces. Pain shot up his arm and made his eyes water.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Master-ji towered above him, the ruler raised once again. “Have I given permission to write yet?”

  Tears pooled in Madan’s eyes. He blinked rapidly like his grandfather did when trying to control an onslaught of jerks and spasms. He shook his head in apology and forced his eyes to dry up under Master-ji’s livid stare.

  “What were you thinking?” Jaggu shook his head as they walked to the bus stop at the end of the school day. Madan shrugged, not wanting to explain what had come over him.

  They hopped on the bus, stepping on toes as they made their way down the crowded aisle.

  “Is this any way to ride? Smelling people’s armpits?” Jaggu asked, sitting down in an unoccupied seat near the back of the bus. Madan grabbed on to the overhead rail.

  “Now, in an Ambassador, like Avtaar Singh’s girls—that’s the way. Sitting in a car with the windows up, inhaling only your own breath again and again.” Jaggu grinned up at Madan. “Don’t you think?”

  Madan nodded. Avtaar Singh’s twins, Rimpy and Dimpy, darted in and out of their gleaming gold car all day, the darkened windows sealing them in and away from the rest of the world as they went to school and visited friends.

  The bus swung sideways and came to a stop. They hurriedly disembarked before it lurched away. They walked past the corner dump, its low walls barely containing the piles of garbage that spilled out, providing a family of pigs with a sumptuous feast.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be coming back to school,” Madan said before he could stop himself.

  “Ha? Why?”

  He had not meant to say anything, but since Jaggu asked, he spoke hurriedly, eager to say everything aloud so it was more than bewildering images in his head—about his father and the visit of the men the night before, of Ma and her fears that they would find themselves without a job or a home, and particularly without Bapu.

  “Those men sound like they’re from the Jalnaur gang,” Jaggu said at last, stepping into the entrance of the servants’ compound. “They do it all—cards, hashish, women. If your father is mixed up with them, that’s not good.”

  “How do you know about this gang?”

  “I’ve walked every road of this town since I was this big”—he pointed to his knee. “I think my mother’s swept every house at some time.” He shrugged. “I pick up on things; I keep my ears clean and open.

  “Your mother’s right to worry about Avtaar Singh finding out about your father,” Jaggu continued. “Gambling and women! And the Jalnaur gang on top of that. Avtaar Singh wouldn’t like it. He does many things, but he doesn’t like that sort of drama.”

  “Do you think my bapu will come back?”

  “He may, he may not. You never know with fathers. Mine left when I was two, and he never came back.” Jaggu held up his palms to show the inevitability of it all.

  “Fathers,” he said, bending to sip straight from the water pump spout and encouraging Madan to do the same, “are strange, a puzzle, and I for one have never understood them.”

  His father did return, four days later. Four days in which Madan and Jaggu went back and forth to school, Madan incessantly discussing his father’s possible whereabouts.

  Returning from taking Prince out, the tiny animal cosseted in the crook of his arm, he knew his father had returned by how his grandfather and Swati sat huddled on the bed outside. Swati gently massaged his grandfather’s shoulders as his neck convulsed erratically.

  Madan rushed in to find his father lying on his mat, his back to the door.

  “Bapu?” His father didn’t move. “Bapu?” He took a step toward him. The familiar rank smell of alcohol hit Madan like a solid wall, making him gag. The sound got a grunt out of his father, and he turned around.

  His gaze settled on Madan covering his nose with his hand.

  His father squinted. “Who are you?” he said, before turning over again and falling back to sleep.

  “You know,” said Avtaar Singh, “you started off as my best man. I usually don’t misread people, but you may have fooled me.”

  Madan stared at the back of his father’s bent head, his uncombed hair sticking out in all directions. His father stood in front of the same great desk, hands clasped in front of him, his mumbled apologies worsening Avtaar Singh’s mood. Madan wished to be anywhere but here, but when his father awoke, he had dragged Madan with him to the factory as if hoping Madan’s presence would appease Avtaar Singh in some way. “What?” his father had rasped when Madan resisted. “How come you don’t want to come with me now? Otherwise you’re always keen to go and sit with him.”

  “But,” Avtaar Singh continued now, “Minnu memsaab is very pleased with your woman’s work, she’s done a good job with the house, is a good cook, and so I’m hesitant to let you . . . your family go.”

  Avtaar Singh swung his chair from side to side. “But what is the meaning of this? Disappearing for days. Work half done. You promised this would end when your family came here.”

  He stopped the motion of his chair by slapping his hand on the desk. Madan and his father jumped. “How many chances have I given you?” His father shifted his weight but gave no answer. “This is the last time we repeat this scene, Prabhu.” He waved them away. “Do your collections first, they haven’t been done for these few days. Let’s start with that and then we shall see.”

  The machines sounded even louder in the factory once they’d left the quiet office, but before they got too far Avtaar Singh called Madan back.

  He held on to Madan’s arm, pulling him closer to his chair. “All through life you learn, from the people around you, what to do and what not to do. A forest is made of many trees, it’s always best to choose the strongest one to lean against. You understand?”

  Madan nodded quickly. He was keen to leave, sure that Avtaar Singh’s calling him back must have further upset his father.

  Avtaar Singh patted Madan on the cheek. His hand lingered there for a moment, he seemed unwilling to lift it off and allow Madan to leave, but he said, “Good. Go now and see to Prabhu . . .” He checked himself. “Your . . . father.”

  Madan accompanied his father on his rounds but Avtaar Singh’s words troubled him. He considered his father again, watched his hands dart out as he collected and counted the money shopkeepers and businessmen owed Avtaar Singh, money they had taken to start their businesses and money they still gave to ensure their businesses kept running. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the notion that the man before him seemed no more than a roadside reed, easily crushed under the weight of any passing bullock cart.

  “He built the town, so I guess he deserves some recompense,” his father sneered, slipping another roll of notes in his pocket. “Though of course if they’re doing well they have to give more, otherwise they still have to fork over the standard rate that Avtaar Singh sets when they start out.”

  Back at the servants’ quarters, Madan counted the collections and rolled the notes into neat bundles. Swati twirled around the courtyard and Bapu sat on the charpai, watching her through the hazy smoke of his beedi. Swati’s long skirt billowed around her slim ankles and she sang a rhyme to her doll about the shy moon hiding from the morning sun.

  “So much money, Bapu,” Madan said. With the final count done, he walked out with his father, who was to deposit the collections back at the factory.

  Once outside his father said, “Wait a minute.” He took out the wad of notes from his pocket and separated more than a few hundred-rupee notes, returning the rest.

  “Bapu, what’re you doing? Avtaar Singh . . . said not to . . . Bapu?”

  His father had to stay out of trouble with Avtaar Singh. There would be
no more chances—not for his father and not for the rest of them either. Madan dived for the money slipped casually into his father’s other pocket, but his father held him back with one hand.

  “Don’t worry,” his father said. “I have Avtaar Singh’s number—I’ll slip a few of these to Nathu and he’ll cover for me. Your bapu needs to take care of some of his own business right now.” Madan struggled against his grip and he shoved him back against the wall. “What’re you?” his father asked. “His accountant?” He went off down the street in the other direction, away from the factory.

  In the days following, Madan’s father appeared and disappeared with the changing angle of the sun. He was with them when he had nowhere else to go, no money to collect, no one to drink with or no games to play in the back rooms of towns far enough for him to be gone for days at a time. Madan couldn’t fathom how his father explained his absences to Avtaar Singh or how long this Nathu would cover for him. Sometimes the Jalnaur gang visited late at night and there were hurried conversations outside. Once, his father returned from these meetings with a bleeding lip.

  “Don’t let this end badly,” his mother beseeched Madan, and prevailed on him to keep Bapu in town and in their sight. Madan made every effort to accompany his father wherever he could. He made sure Bapu’s shaving water was hot in the morning and pressed his legs when he was tired in the evening. With Jaggu’s help, he ensured there was enough of his father’s favorite Jagadhari No. 1 whiskey at hand to keep him fast asleep and unmoving at night. And when his father’s backhand would send him sliding across the room, he would fight the dread seeping through his bones, and bounce back and begin again.

  “Arre baba, how many times have I said it?” Minnu memsaab came bustling in behind Madan as he placed two glasses of cold milk on the center table in the drawing room, bits of chocolate Bournvita floating on the surface like defiant mites. Madan had stirred and stirred, but the powdered chocolate refused to dissolve into the milk. “Coaster, baba, use the coaster.”