Three Bargains: A Novel Read online

  Minnu memsaab had never said it, at least to Madan, and Rimpy giggled. Madan replaced the glasses on his tray, found the coasters, and served the girls once again. Though similar in shape and size—they reminded Madan of balls of squishy dough—the twins were easy to tell apart. The girl who always spoke first was Rimpy and the one who agreed with what she said was always Dimpy.

  “Yuck, I hate milk,” Rimpy said.

  “I hate it too,” Dimpy said, though her glass was already half empty.

  “Mama, can’t we have Campa Cola? Milk is so disgusting.” Madan waited near the door, knowing they would soon need something else. They would make him go for more sugar and then more Bournvita and then cream biscuits, unable to settle on anything that pleased them.

  “No, no, no, girls,” Minnu memsaab said. “Milk is good for your skin and health.”

  Rimpy made a face and Dimpy copied her and they laughed, spilling milk on their skirts. “Madan, napkin!” He scurried to the side table for the napkin box.

  He wished he were out with Jaggu. They could have been fishing in the canal, playing cricket or watching a movie if it was Jaggu’s choice, though Madan had come to enjoy the cinema too. He found these evenings when he was required to work in the house interminable, except of course when the girls watched TV.

  “Madan,” Rimpy said after their mother left the room. She smiled sly and slow, and Dimpy held a hand to her mouth, holding back a giggle. “We heard a story today, at the temple. About the legend of Shiva and Parvati and . . . Madan. Do you know who he is? Do you know what your name means?”

  Madan knew where they were heading. He was going to be the target of a joke he would not understand or find amusing, and that would delight them even more. His mother had told him they were twelve years old like him, but he was sure she had misunderstood, for they acted much younger.

  “Do you know who ‘Madan’ is?” Rimpy repeated. Madan shook his head.

  “Madan is . . .” They couldn’t contain themselves. “The God of Love! Madan . . . with his bow of sugarcane and arrows decorated with flowers. You know, riding his parrot chariot, helping gods and people fall in love?”

  They laughed so hard Madan was afraid they might burst like overfilled balloons. He kept his face blank. He had no opinion on the meaning of his name one way or the other.

  But the girls thought it hilarious. They mocked a swoon. “Who’re you going to shoot your arrows of love at, Madan? Who’re the girls you have your eye on? Is there a girl at your school?”

  When Madan didn’t answer, they went on, “Or that old woman who sells roasted corn, with her funny eyes?” Dimpy crossed hers. “You’re always there, near her stand.” He didn’t bother to point out that the old lady’s stand was next to his bus stop.

  “Oh, Madan, you make me as hot as the coals on which I roast this corn.” Rimpy fanned herself with a magazine. Dimpy clapped in approval.

  A commotion from the back of the house hushed them. Minnu memsaab was shouting for his mother. “Durga! Oh, Durga! Go check on your father-in-law, he’s going crazy. I tell you, I won’t have this. Why can’t you people control yourselves?”

  His mother came running down from the upper floor and Madan joined her as they both ran toward the kitchen and out the back. They could hear his grandfather’s raised voice, cursing and shouting.

  “Son of a pig . . . leave her . . . no, leave her . . . son of a pig . . . help! Who is there to help?”

  At the quarters, they came upon his grandfather struggling with his father, who was carrying Swati in his arms. “Let go, old man,” his father said as he tried to loosen Madan’s grandfather’s grip on his waist. Swati swung from side to side as they struggled.

  “What’s happening?” Madan’s mother asked.

  “I’m taking Swati out, that’s all.” His father panted as he freed himself.

  “Don’t let him go, Durga,” his grandfather wept, pawing the ground. “He’s made a deal with that man . . . for Swati.” Outside, Madan caught a glimpse of a man revving the engine of a green car with a missing back light.

  “What? What d’you mean?” Madan asked as his father hurried toward the gate.

  “No!” his mother screamed. “Please, I beg of you, we’ll manage whatever the problem is. We’ll manage,” she repeated. She lunged for her husband and caught the corner of his shirt, but he twisted her arm, making her release him.

  “I’m doing us a favor,” he roared. “In a few years you’ll be the one paying dowry to her groom. Right now I’ve found someone willing to pay me! You should be grateful you have a husband who’s so smart about the future!”

  “But she’s just a child,” his mother sobbed, down on her knees, hands folded, pleading. “Just six,” she kept repeating, “Just six.”

  His father left with Swati huddled in his arms as Ma screamed, “At least fear God!”

  But his father had made a deal. And right now twenty thousand rupees danced in front of his eyes like the women of Grindlay Road.

  “Madan, do something,” she shrieked, turning to him.

  “Bapu,” he said, his legs trembling, his voice barely audible from his constricted throat. He ran after his father. His father swung around to face him, and Swati’s arm reached out.

  “Madan-bhaiya?” she said, her eyes glazed with confusion.

  He tried to grab her hand but his father thrust her into the car, leaping in after her. “Go! Go!” he shouted to the driver. Madan pushed in after them. His father’s flailing kicks caught him in the groin, sending him sprawling onto the road. The door slammed shut and the car shot forward. Madan scrambled after them, running till his side hurt. It wasn’t until the car disappeared behind the fumes and traffic that he realized he would not be able to catch up to them.

  His mother was still on her knees with her head in her hands, gasping for air as she wept when he returned home. His grandfather had crawled under his bed.

  “What’ll we do?” His mother looked up at him. “Madan, I don’t . . . what’ll we do?”

  Madan reached under the bed and helped his grandfather out. He went inside and got a glass of water for his mother. He forced her to drink when she pushed it away. When she was done, he pulled her up and wiped her tears with the edge of her sari.

  “We’ll go to Avtaar Singh,” he said.

  They met Avtaar Singh in the dining room, the mutton curry and rice prepared by Ma a short while ago steaming in front of him.

  “I heard,” Avtaar Singh said. Madan and his mother stood before him with heads bent.

  If only he had leaned forward a little more, Madan thought, he could have grabbed hold of Swati’s hand. He should have run faster, maybe he could have caught up with the car. Or blocked his father from leaving the compound. Take me, he should have said. But that plea would have been of no use. He held no value to his father.

  Somewhere, Prince yapped and the sound of voices floated into the room from another part of the house. Madan’s bent head began to feel heavy. How far until his head bowed low enough to touch the floor? The patterned marble swam into focus and it did not seem too far to fall.

  With great difficulty, he lifted his head slightly. Rimpy and Dimpy passed by the dining room window, chatting, their heads thrown back with laughter. There were some fathers who would never give you cause to bow your head in front of anyone. And there were some who would leave you like a skinless goat hanging from the tree outside the butcher’s shop.

  “A girl as young as that, he must have got a good price,” Avtaar Singh said, mixing the curry into the rice.

  “Anything you can do, saab.” Madan’s mother sobbed. “You can take my pay; we will work for free for as long as you want . . . we just want our girl back.”

  “Selling a child, even for marriage, is illegal. We may need to involve the police. Are you ready for that?”

  His mother sniveled, but Madan’s head snapped up.

  “He can go to jail, saab,” he said, as his mother choked back a surprised cry.
“Or you can do whatever you want with him.”

  Avtaar Singh stopped chewing and considered Madan. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and smiled.

  “Durga, go get me some onions and a bowl of curd to go with this.” He sat back and waited, his gaze fixed on Madan.

  His mother stopped crying, her eyes darting from Madan to Avtaar Singh. “Go,” he said again in the way that made men quake. “I will talk with Madan.”

  Madan heard her back out of the room, the door shut and Avtaar Singh said, “There should be no secrets between us, Madan. My trust and my support can be very beneficial to you, and your family. I know what I know about your father. But”—he paused—“what are you willing to tell me about him?”

  “Ma needs . . . she wants to keep her job.” Madan said first.

  “That’s fine,” said Avtaar Singh.

  Madan held out his hand, and Avtaar Singh looked at it, surprised. Madan wanted to let Avtaar Singh know he was serious. There was no one else who could help them find Swati, and if he was going to expose Bapu’s treacheries, he wanted some gesture from Avtaar Singh that he would not go back on his word.

  “What’s this?” Avtaar Singh said. Madan swallowed but kept his hand extended. He hoped Avtaar Singh wouldn’t think it childish or take offense, but to seal this bargain between them, Madan had nothing else to offer but a handshake.

  “Such a gesture is not really needed with me,” Avtaar Singh said, giving Madan’s hand a firm solemn shake nonetheless, “but I hope, boy, that this will be the first of many dealings between us.”

  Madan couldn’t imagine what else he would ever possess that Avtaar Singh would need, but for now he was overflowing with information. He told Avtaar Singh about skimming the money from the collections, and Nathu who covered it up, the Jalnaur gang and the gambling debts, and the drinking that made his father so happy yet so sad.

  It didn’t take very long. The list of his father’s sins was short but ran deep. Avtaar Singh was quiet once Madan finished. The door opened and his mother came in, placing the bowls on the table.

  “We will find her,” said Avtaar Singh to his mother. “I’ll send someone right away.”

  She fell to Avtaar Singh’s feet. “God bless you, saab. For the rest of my life I will pray for you every day, for all your wishes to come true. God bless you.”

  Avtaar Singh waved her away. “Save your prayers, Durga.” He smiled over her head at Madan. “Madan has given me what I need.”

  They waited. Unable to endure his grandfather’s big rolling tears and his mother’s stifling despair, Madan hung out about town with Jaggu, or spent time throwing stones into the muddy waters of Western Gorapur Canal. In the evenings, he went to the factory gate, waiting for Avtaar Singh’s men to emerge. We’ll come to you when we have something to report, they said, you don’t have to come every day. But Madan found he couldn’t stop.

  A long week later, as farmers plowed the last stubble of basmati to make room for the winter wheat, there was a knock on their door past eleven at night. “Durga? Durga? They found your girl. Saab said to take you to the hospital.”

  Tumbling off their mats, hurriedly fixing their clothes, Ma and Madan opened the door to Avtaar Singh’s driver, Ganesh. “Saab said to take you to the hospital. The car is ready.”

  “Hospital? Hospital? What happened? Why the hospital? Why didn’t they bring her home?” Following Ganesh out, Madan’s mother tripped over her sari. Madan grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling but she shrugged him off.

  Only the streetlights warmed the darkness. Reaching to open the car, Ganesh turned around. “You are a good woman,” he said, “and I’m sorry for your girl.”

  “What do you mean?” Madan asked Ganesh. “Have you seen her?”

  “All I saw was blood. You need to be prepared.”

  Outside the hospital, Madan saw a few of Avtaar Singh’s men loitering about, and after dropping them off at the entrance, Ganesh went to join them. “I’ll be here in case you need me,” he said.

  In the waiting area, another of Avtaar Singh’s men was talking with a nurse. He beckoned them over. He was a young man, with eyes a strange shade of milky light green. He introduced himself as Feroze.

  “This is the girl’s family,” Feroze told the nurse. “They’re from Avtaar Singh’s house.”

  Like Ganesh before him, he said, “I am outside if you need me.” They followed the nurse down a long corridor, the subdued lights casting a sickly glow on the whitewashed walls. The empty corridors echoed with their footsteps and Ma’s constant keening. As they neared the door to Swati’s room, Madan felt his breath leave him. His muscles seized up as if to prevent him from going any farther. The nurse opened the door, putting a finger to her lips, then they were in the room.

  “We are waiting for the doctor,” the nurse said. “Avtaar Singh-ji called him personally.”

  The bed in the center of the room looked like no more than a pile of white sheets. Ma let out a shriek, throwing herself on the bed, pushing the sheets aside as if she were trying to dig Swati out of a deep well. Madan could not see Swati on the bed. Tears burned in his eyes for this horrible trick played on them, bringing them here and promising them Swati.

  “Stop!” The nurse pulled his mother away, and now Madan glimpsed his sister, uncovered by Ma, a thin line etched into the dip of the bed. A nurse cleaned her face with cotton balls that turned quickly from white to black, but they did not erase the odd dark tint of her skin or the black, puffy holes of her eyes. A kittenlike mew escaped when the nurse dabbed at her swollen, chapped lips.

  A smell rose from her, of rotting apples, cloying and acidic, with an underlying whiff of shit and dirt. She wore a ragged T-shirt, crusted with blood. It fell off her shoulders and reached past her knees. It was a man’s T-shirt.

  His mother had slipped to the floor. Gazing sightlessly up at the bed, she beat on her chest with her fists and wailed silently. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  The doctor came in, patted Ma on the back and said he needed to examine Swati. Then he would talk to them. The nurse hustled them out, placing them on the bench outside the room. After the nurse left, Ma slid down to the floor again. She resumed her silent crying. Madan left her there and walked down to the end of the corridor. A row of windows looked out into a yard. He wanted to kick them all in, one by one.

  When the doctor came back out, Ma scooted forward from her place on the floor and grabbed his feet. “My child, Doctor-saab?”

  He pulled Ma up by her arm. “Stand up, woman,” he said. “If you can’t manage yourself, how will you manage your girl?” He was no longer the calm, steady man who had entered the room. “Do you know who did this?” he asked, his pen clicking an angry tap-tap on the clipboard.

  Madan’s mother whined and hit her head with her hands. Madan didn’t say anything. The doctor looked over his glasses at them. “The nurse cleaned her up for now,” he said, “but she will need many stitches, maybe an operation. To repair her.” He paused as if giving them a chance to ask a question, but Madan couldn’t think of anything. “In a case like this I usually have to inform the police, but Avtaar Singh has stopped me.”

  “My girl, Doctor-saab. Her life is in your hands.” Madan’s mother attempted again to reach the doctor’s feet, but ended up hanging off his knees. Madan pulled his mother off the doctor, and she swayed limply in his grasp.

  “Go wait with your child,” said the doctor. “I’m going to check on an operating theater.”

  His mother went inside, but Madan couldn’t go in just yet. He ran down the corridor, catching up with the doctor by the doors. “Doctor-saab?” The doctor didn’t hear him, or ignored him, so he said a little louder, “Doctor-saab, please.”

  “What is it?”

  “Saab, what is wrong? Why the operation?”

  “What does it matter, boy? You won’t understand. But be assured we will do our best.”

  “No, Doctor.” Madan couldn’t let it go. “Please.” He wanted to know
the details, know what the doctor had seen and construed and diagnosed. He needed to hear it, to understand what exactly she had forfeited, what she could not reclaim ever again.

  “I have to call for another doctor. I may need help.” The doctor made as if to move on, but Madan grabbed onto his sleeve.

  The doctor looked from his sleeve to Madan. “What do you people do for Avtaar Singh?”

  “My mother, she is the maidservant.” He willed the doctor to overlook his too-short pants reaching to his ankles and his faded checked shirt, and just tell him.

  “Well, listen carefully, boy,” the doctor said after a moment. “Whoever did this to her? This man? Because she is so small, everything is torn. You understand what I mean?” Madan could only nod.

  “This area”—he pointed to between Madan’s legs—“is like when you grind the meat for keema.”

  Orderlies rolled a stretcher past them, the patient in a nest of wires and tubes. They moved aside to let them pass, but the doctor continued without a break, as if anxious to unburden himself.

  “And you got the smell? That means an infection. There are rope marks on her wrists and ankles and she went to the bathroom on herself many times. It’s not so good for her wounds.” He paused, allowing Madan to take this in. “Do you know her blood type?”

  Madan shook his head.

  “Of course you don’t,” said the doctor. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I need to check if we have the type of blood she needs. If she is torn all the way to her stomach, it’s even more serious.”

  He patted Madan on the shoulder and left quickly. Madan returned to the room. Swati was now out of the old T-shirt and in a clean blue hospital shift. Their mother was sitting by the bed, her head resting by Swati’s hand. The nurse was applying an ointment to the bottom of Swati’s feet.

  She noticed Madan watching her. “Cigarette burns,” the nurse said. “Poor girl, maybe she tried to run.”

  The sky turned blue and gold by the time the doctors finished with Swati. They had stitched her up, trussed her in bandages and pumped her full of medicines and antibiotics. There were no damaging intrusions to her stomach or bowels. Lucky, the doctors claimed, she escaped the fate of other young girls like her who were doomed to defecating in a bag for the rest of their lives. Her luck, in Madan’s opinion, was probably because the man’s cock was too small.