Three Bargains: A Novel Page 7

  He brought his mother some bread and tea. She waited on the bench. Sitting beside her, he was glad to see she had washed her face and retied her hair.

  “Any word from Avtaar Singh?” she asked. They spoke quietly.

  “No. But he is not going to take your work away. He agreed to that.”

  “And what did you agree to?” Her cup clattered down on the plate. “You agreed to make me a widow?”

  Doubting he had heard her correctly, Madan opened his mouth to speak, but she said, “My one child is like this”—she gestured to Swati on the other side of the wall—“and the other one turns me into one of those cursed women. People will fear even my shadow.”

  Madan stared at this mother, daring her to face him, but she kept her eyes on her cup of tea. “What did you want me to do?” he whispered harshly to the back of her head. “Didn’t you want Swati back?”

  Ma moaned, doubling over. How could she say this to him with Swati in this state? She’d gone mad. Mad. Without Avtaar Singh’s reach and resources they would never have found Swati. She knew that. And Avtaar Singh wouldn’t help them for nothing.

  He grabbed her arm, squeezing until she cried out in pain. He wanted her to take it back. Not make him responsible for her too. Already he couldn’t bear what he had let happen to his sister. She shook her head and cried into her sari. He couldn’t stand to be near her. “Widow or not, you’re cursed either way,” he said, letting her arm go in disgust.

  He slammed the door on his way out. He didn’t care if this was a hospital.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE CHEERS FROM THE CROWD OF KIDS ECHOED AND bounced around the two boys tussling on the playground. Madan watched his own fist swing in a perfect arc and land near the mouth of the boy he had pinned to the ground. He observed with surprise how easily the skin and hard teeth yielded to the punch. The boy, Raju, coughed and spit a mixture of blood and saliva at Madan. Wiping his face on his sleeve, Madan hit the boy again.

  He had been walking across the playground with Jaggu when Raju made some comment. Madan couldn’t remember if it was about Swati or his father or if Raju perhaps said something else altogether. He saw the contorted grin, saw the lips move and then Madan was grinding Raju’s face into the sand.

  He needed to see Raju’s blood to silence the bomb going off in his head. The girls and boys surrounding them whooped and hollered, but the noise was like the whir of an airplane far above. Holding Raju down with one hand, he reached out to Jaggu with the other. “Give it to me!” he yelled to Jaggu, who was trying to pull Madan off.

  “No,” said Jaggu, “are you crazy?”

  Madan lunged at him. Reaching under Jaggu’s trousers leg, he removed Jaggu’s latest acquisition hidden away in his sock. He flicked the switchblade open with a jerk of his wrist and the blade shot out. The knife felt light in Madan’s hand. He held it to Raju’s neck, but Jaggu’s strangled sound of protest made him move it lower down. The kids fell silent.

  He positioned the blade right under Raju’s collarbone and drew a thin long line, a half-moon from one shoulder to the other. Shouldn’t this be more difficult? he thought. To cause damage to someone like this? The blood appeared dark and fast. Liberated from the confines of Raju’s body, it trickled down, quickly absorbed by the sandy ground. Raju screamed, though it probably hurt just as much to make the sound through his lips, now as soft as mango pulp.

  Madan sat back and watched the blood flow, the sight of it finally quieting the rage in his heart. He felt the same freedom. He could breathe again.

  The principal dragged Madan and Jaggu to the factory. The workers snickered as he pulled the boys by their ears to Avtaar Singh’s office. “I was promised,” he huffed, “there would be no such behavior in the school. I was assured I wouldn’t be running a school of goondas.”

  He entered the office, leaving Madan and Jaggu to wait outside. Jaggu hopped around like he had to piss. “Why did you have to use the knife?” he went on. “Just break a few teeth, that’s enough.”

  After the principal left, Avtaar Singh swiveled in his chair and studied them for a few long moments. Jaggu fidgeted. His mouth kept opening like he wanted to say something, but the words disappeared before they hit the air.

  Madan stared straight ahead. What can Avtaar Singh do? he thought. Let him do anything to me, I don’t care. But at the same time he stiffened his legs and held the muscles tightly in place to stop from trembling.

  “Who is this?” Avtaar Singh’s voice startled them both.

  The words tumbled out of Jaggu, though Avtaar Singh had asked Madan. “I’m his friend, saab.”

  After what had happened, Madan couldn’t believe Jaggu was admitting to being his friend.

  “My name is Jaggu . . . Jaggu,” he stammered. “Rani’s son,” he continued, and then shut up, realizing he probably should not have mentioned his mother’s name, in case she got into trouble too.

  “Rani?” Avtaar Singh frowned. “You mean the sweeper woman?”

  Jaggu barely nodded.

  “God help me!” Avtaar Singh bellowed, and a factory worker came running in.

  “Did you call, saab?”

  “No, no,” said Avtaar Singh waving him away. “But it seems the world thinks I’ve nothing better to do with my time than chastise the servants’ children.”

  The factory worker backed out looking confused, but Jaggu sensed an opportunity.

  “Yes, yes, saab, you’re quite right.” He bowed twice in quick succession and pulled on Madan’s arm. They began to back away. “We don’t want to bother you. We’ll go. Saab cannot be disturbed,” he explained to Madan as though Madan were a small child.

  “Wait.” Avtaar Singh’s voice stopped them at the door. “Come back here.” They shuffled back to the desk and Madan couldn’t hide his trembling anymore. “Where did you get the knife?”

  “You know, saab.” Jaggu spread his hands out. “I go here, I go there, and there are some people—”

  “Okay, okay,” Avtaar Singh interrupted. “I see you’re a man of the streets. Go wait outside. I want to talk to your friend here.”

  Jaggu scrambled out, giving Madan a quick, rueful glance. Madan’s stomach rumbled. In all the commotion, he’d missed the lunch his mother had packed. Thinking of his mother made his stomach twist even more. She’d been acting like nothing had ever happened at the hospital, but the way she burrowed into herself, talking to him only when necessary, made Madan wary.

  “Saab,” he said, “sorry, saab.” He looked down at the floor, ashamed of his scruffy shirt, his raw knuckles, his blood-splattered shoes.

  Avtaar Singh tilted his head back. “He said something about your family?”

  Madan nodded.

  “Then why are you sorry?”

  Madan had no answer. He kept his eyes downcast but his mind was frantic. Whatever Raju had said, it was as though he had murmured a spell, cast an enchantment over Madan. His body hummed, but every minute standing here was eclipsing that feeling very quickly.

  He heard Avtaar Singh’s sigh and then he bade Madan to his side, handing Madan a tissue from the box on his desk. Wiping his face, Madan realized that tears had scored through the streaks of dirt.

  “Would you do the same if it happened again?”

  Madan was about to say no. The word sprang to his lips, but when he glanced up at Avtaar Singh, he knew he could not lie.

  “Madan, Madan.” Avtaar Singh took Madan’s hand in his own, his touch soft as he rubbed the dried blood. It came off in flakes. “In life we need to beat up people now and then.” Avtaar Singh leaned in close as though whispering a secret in his ear. “Sometimes to get our way, sometimes people don’t listen and you need to make them see sense. And sometimes . . . to make them feel what we feel.” Madan’s hand was still lost in Avtaar Singh’s own gigantic, fleshy palm. “They will try to do the same to you. But whose fist wins?”

  Their breathing matched in rhythm. Madan blinked when Avtaar Singh blinked; he shifted only when he sen
sed movement from the man in front of him.

  “You’ve been to an akhara? Seen the wrestlers?”

  Madan nodded. A village may not have regular electric power but it will have a wrestling gym, and his village had two. And who hadn’t heard tales of the great Haryanvi pehlwan, Master Chandgi Ram?

  “Every move the wrestler makes has a purpose, whether it’s a twitch of his arm, a shifting of his weight—even when he’s not moving—there’s a reason. Each motion has a consequence in his favor or he’ll not initiate it. If you fight, it should have a purpose, otherwise you’re just wasting time. Do you understand?” No answer was required. When this man spoke, you accepted and you followed. Madan knew that much.

  “Now.” Avtaar Singh tapped the edge of the table. “We’re finally going to add more classes to Gorapur Academy. We’re getting more teachers. I would be very pleased if you were in the first batch to graduate from there.”

  With his hand in Avtaar Singh’s, Madan had no hesitations. He would have set his feet on fire right now if Avtaar Singh asked. “I will do it, saab,” Madan said. “Whatever you want, whatever you say.”

  Avtaar Singh laughed. “You’ve made this promise, boy. Before I could stop you.” He patted Madan’s hand and released his hold. “It will not be forgotten.”

  Knowing he was dismissed, Madan moved toward the door.

  “Wait.” Avtaar Singh stopped him. His laughter was gone. “What d’you think of my factory? You’ve been here a few times?”

  “It’s very big, saab,” he said. “It’s grand.”

  “Do you think you’d like to spend some time with us here?”

  Madan nodded his head vigorously.

  “This work is hard, and demanding. This is not a place for boys who are soft in any way.” He looked Madan over, from top to bottom. “Also, you’re a fighter, ha?”

  “Yes, saab.” But he felt unsure of this admittance, as if he had not fully understood the scope of the question.

  For his part, Avtaar Singh looked like he was concentrating on some difficult problem, trying to work out a complicated equation for which the answer lay beyond his grasp.

  “Tell Ganesh to bring the car around,” he commanded at last. “I’m going to take you somewhere. And . . . tell your friend to come too.”

  Where? What? Baffled by these rapidly changing events, he nevertheless pulled himself together and rushed to comply with Avtaar Singh’s directive. “Yes, saab!”

  The front bench seat of the Ambassador, high and springy and stretching continuously from driver to passenger door, allowed Madan enough space to sit between the driver Ganesh and Jaggu, who was bouncing up and down, happy to have appropriated the window seat.

  “Jaggu,” Madan whispered, aware of Ganesh sitting next to him listening in on them. “You could have been in trouble because of me . . .”

  “What trouble? I’d have got us out somehow.” Jaggu tried to laugh, but it came out like a relieved yip. “Weren’t we like Veeru and Jai in Sholay? You must’ve seen Sholay, at least, everyone’s seen that movie. But I’m Veeru, okay? Because I don’t want to die in the end.”

  Ganesh harrumphed from his side of the car.

  “Listen,” Madan said, interrupting Jaggu’s starring-role fantasy. “Avtaar Singh said we could come here after school, to the factory. He’ll put us on the payroll.”

  “Us? You mean you and me?”

  Madan nodded.

  “How come . . . how did . . . ?” Jaggu shook his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said, bemused by this twist of fate. “Money in my pocket. Do you think I’ll be able to get a new knife?”

  The back door slammed shut, and Avtaar Singh said, “Take us to Guru Gianchand’s akhara.”

  Jaggu cocked a questioning eyebrow at Madan. Why are we going to the wrestling gym? Madan was equally puzzled. The sound of Ganesh’s soft knowing chortle swiftly robbed the two boys of any pleasure of being in the car and going for a ride. Jaggu stopped his fiddling and became very still, his hand reaching out for Madan’s.

  They approached the akhara from off the main highway. The place had an air of remoteness, as if too far to hear a songbird’s call. A low stone wall surrounded a large rectangular pit of red earth. Men dressed in loincloths emerged from a cavernous building with its corrugated roof, its outer walls adorned with a gallery of faded murals of the wrestlers’ patron god, Hanuman. The wrestlers stretched and did push-ups; some oiled their bodies and slapped their forearms and chests.

  When they spotted Avtaar Singh, the wrestlers immediately rushed up to him, touching his feet and welcoming him. They talked all at once, but fell silent when Avtaar Singh spoke, and occasionally they turned to look at Madan and Jaggu standing off to the side near a mud-splattered buffalo tethered to a pipal tree.

  The ground was being prepared for competition, ghee and mustard oil mixed into the mud to tame dust clouds, and turmeric sprinkled over the ground’s surface to disinfect any wounds the wrestlers may happen to suffer. Finally, as a heavy wooden block was dragged across the pit, packing the earth down to a level plane, Avtaar Singh called to Madan and Jaggu.

  “Waheguru,” said Jaggu, remembering God, “what is happening?”

  Madan and Jaggu reluctantly scooted to the edge of the group. The men parted, giving them a clear pathway straight to Avtaar Singh, who stood respectfully next to a man in a white kurta and brown trousers, with lines down his face that said he was old, but his hair was dyed tar-black.

  “Everyone has to learn from someone,” Avtaar Singh said to Madan, “and this is my guru, Guru Gianchand-ji.”

  Madan realized suddenly that Jaggu wasn’t with him anymore, but he knew why Jaggu had finally abandoned his side. This was too much.

  The guru-ji squinted down at Madan. If he could, Madan would have turned and run all the way back to his village. He trained his sight on Avtaar Singh’s feet encased in leather sandals, and held his place. The guru-ji shouted a name out into the crowd and the men melted away, but someone grabbed Madan, lifted him away from Avtaar Singh and he was back in the shade of the pipal tree, and a man with a chest as tight as a drum was removing Madan’s shirt and slathering his body with oil.

  “Are you ready?” the wrestler asked Madan.

  Though the oil was warming his muscles, Madan shivered. “I don’t know . . . I’ve never . . . I don’t know how . . .” Avtaar Singh had been so nice to him a short while ago. He couldn’t understand it. What did Avtaar Singh want? Why was he doing this?

  The wrestler knocked Madan on the head, and he reeled, finding his balance with some difficulty. Though it was not the hardest knock he had ever received, it still hurt, and it shut him up.

  “Just try to remain standing,” said the wrestler.

  The square pit seemed like the largest desert in the world. In only his shorts, Madan could feel the last rays of the evening sun trained on his back. There must be some misunderstanding. He frantically searched the crowds for Avtaar Singh. He could sort out this confusion, and give the order to pluck Madan out of the ring and return him to the sidelines, where he belonged.

  The boy circling before Madan in a blue loincloth was not much older than Madan, and of a similar height and build. He seemed to have been born in this place. Just then, Madan saw Avtaar Singh lounging on a cane chair at the edge of the arena, the corners of his shirt fluttering in the breeze over his sharply creased trousers. With his head tilted back and arms draped lazily on the chair’s sides, he looked as if he were here to watch the clouds float by.

  Madan blinked, swallowing the hot lump of coal burning a hole down his throat. The mist of tears in his eyes cleared. There was no escape from this pit.

  He brought his attention and focus back to his opponent. All he could hear was his breath whistling through him. The boy touched the ground reverently, sizing Madan up. Before Madan could do the same, the boy was upon Madan. Welded by their intertwined arms, they vigorously grasped each other’s shoulders, forming a bridge of limbs. Madan dug his heels in
to the sand and held on, unwilling to release his first solid hold. The crowd called out encouragement or advice from the fringes.

  In a few moments his leg muscles were on fire with the strain of bearing down on his opponent. All he had to do was get this boy on the ground. But it seemed that the boy would take advantage of any small movement, the slightest tremor, and it would end the other way around. The grappling continued. Then the boy slipped under and over Madan, and onto Madan’s back. Madan couldn’t believe it. How had the boy managed it? Hunched over with the boy’s weight, he swayed but remained on his feet. From the corner of his eye he could see a snippet of Avtaar Singh’s shirt fabric, a flash of his mustache.

  “Aargh!” Madan shouted, launching the boy off his back and in Avtaar Singh’s direction. He would show Avtaar Singh that no one put Madan Kumar on his back. The boy landed with a thump and the audience broke out in a scattered applause. Avtaar Singh’s head was turned. He was talking reverently to his guru-ji. He appeared not to have seen Madan’s move.

  The boy bounced back up. All of a sudden the ground disappeared beneath Madan. The boy had flipped him with such ferocity that the crowd expelled an involuntary groan.

  He rolled away, but the boy flew through the air, landing on top of him. Madan pushed off from the ground, lifting them both up, and wrangled into a position where they were grappling side to side, each trying to find an opening to finish the other off. If he’d had but a moment to think before the match, he would have come up with some strategy, some tactic recalled from the many bouts he had seen from the sidelines of the akhara in his village. But there was no time to think now.