Darshan (28 page)

The following morning Manmohan and Mohan went outside and surveyed the clearing. The call of roosters and the barking of dogs in the distance broke the eerie quiet in the wake of the storm. Manmohan’s boots sunk into the mud as he staggered toward a group of employees who had gathered at a messy pile of logs strewn next to the flatbed trucks. Kicking away branches and other jungle debris, he called Onkar over.

“Are the trucks all stuck?” he asked his old friend.

Onkar nodded. The humidity seemed to have aged him. He was wrinkled, like fingertips soaked too long in water. “The wheels are sunk in. We are trying to figure a way to get them all out and moving again.”

Manmohan absently kicked the tire of one of the flatbeds. “We can lay down a path of two-by-fours out to the main road. There is a stack of them there to start.” He shook his head at the state of the lumber they had treated before the humidity, all soaked and bulging.

He turned at the sound of men calling out from behind him, two officially dressed Fijians, their small afros like fluffy halos.

“Is everything all right?” he asked them, thinking they had been stranded.

“The bridges are out,” the short one replied, panting slightly from his exertion through the mud.

“Yes, I thought so. The river was full of debris.”

“
All
the bridges are out,” the other said. “We need wood.”

The shorter one spoke, glancing around, making assessments. “We have been advised that while the other mills of the island suspended business in the days before the storm, you continued to log. We understand that you have a large supply of pine,” he gestured to the piles of logs around the clearing. “We will take it at a fair price.”

“Of course.”

“We need you to prioritize this over all other commissions for lumber and wood,” the other continued, “but there are also a large number of houses and shops that have been ruined. They should be second on your list.”

Manmohan nodded and gestured at his trucks. “If you can send your own vehicles, I have dry lumber in storage. I can have more by the time you get here. By then, hopefully my own trucks will be out of the mud.”

As the officials turned to leave, the shorter one said, “We will get the paperwork for your contract later to you in the week. We have commissioned others, but their supplies are low. You are now our primary supplier.”

As the two officials turned to leave, Manmohan saw that Mohan, who had already joined the mill workers to start organizing a team for laying the wooden pathway, had stopped and was looking at him. His son grinned and shot him a thumbs-up before bending his knees to lift a two-by-four out of the mud.

~   ~   ~

Good fortune twinkled in the candlelight along the deck railing that curved all the way around to the front of the house. Manmohan murmured a silent prayer of thanks into the dusk settling over the mill. The months since the flood had been very good.

Junker Singh was with him. His friend leaned his forearms on the railing, the rings on his thick fingers glimmering against the flame of the candle nearest. “I have never seen such a big fuss,” he said.

Manmohan chuckled. “It is not yet over.”

The day had been both chaotic and momentous. The government had just proclaimed Suva Fiji’s first city. Residents had paraded through the streets lauding the growth and prosperity of a place that had once been a clump of mangrove fields and a small row of shops but now had a downtown composed of three- and four-story buildings. For the first time, Manmohan had seen Fijians celebrating openly with the many Indians of the island. He marveled at how enthusiastically they shared in the festivities. It was an acknowledgement that although Indians had taken over much of the island’s business, the growth of the city was a success they all shared. The natives had put on a great display of their culture rarely seen in Suva. They walked over hot coals and ate fire, and village chiefs invited Indians of the city to sit in yaqona circles, in which coconut shells fashioned as cups were filled with grog and passed around to drink.

Like Junker Singh, Manmohan was already exhausted by the day, his head a little light from the grog. But the party for the Diwali new year, which this year happened to fall on the exact same day, was just beginning. “We are getting old, Pali,” he grinned at his friend.

“You are old, not me.”

The chatter within grew louder. Guests were still arriving to the main house: Satnam, Priya, Karam, Vikram, and Baba Singh. And Manmohan had invited his nearest neighbors Dev, Kalyan, and Paandu, and their wives, as well as his favorite mill workers—Onkar, of course, but also Chandan, Sabar, and Vasant. His closest friends from the city were also coming: Upinder Balil, who owned Motherland Books, and Raj the sundry shop owner.

“I suppose I should go in soon,” Manmohan said. “But it is such a nice night.”

“What was that jazz record you once told me about?” Junker Singh asked. “Ellson, or what is his name? He was a duke I think.”

“Duke Ellington.”

“That is the one. I tried to find another copy of that LP, but I never could.”

Manmohan nodded. “I suppose I should have pulled it out for tonight.” He thought that maybe it was time for it again. “I do not know much about jazz, but that duke used to make me feel good, lighter somehow.”

Junker Singh looked amused, slapping his paunch like even Duke Ellington could not make him lighter.

“Maybe I will remember it for next year,” Manmohan murmured.

“It does not matter, ji. Your wife has set a fine mood without this duke.” The mechanic indicated the candles lit around the main house and the few flickering out in the clearing. “October is my favorite month, Diwali my favorite holiday. She has made it even better.” He straightened. “I am off now to find your wife so I can kiss her hand.” He grinned. “Then to find mine so I can kiss her lips.”

Manmohan laughed.

Junker Singh pointed at the mill. “It is quite an accomplishment.” He clapped Manmohan on the back. “Happy New Year, ji.” And then he disappeared into the house with the other guests.

 Manmohan tapped the railing with his fingers, smiling. He gazed into the darkness at the shadow of the new diesel tank that stood aloft on its iron frame, at the used flatbed he had recently bought to replace his old one.

Satnam joined him, clearing his throat in the doorway. “Happy Diwali,” his brother said, stepping out onto the deck.

Manmohan’s smile faded and he nodded curtly. “To you as well.”

“Do you remember how we used to celebrate in Barapind, before Bapu came back?”

“No, I do not.”

Satnam leaned his bottom on the railing between two candles, crossing his arms. Manmohan saw that he was very thin. He had not noticed that before. His brother’s turban seemed too large for his head, and his thick beard made his cheeks look out of proportion with his sunken eyes.

“I think you do remember,” Satnam said quietly.

Manmohan sighed and with one last tap of his fingers on the wood, turned to go inside.

“We used to scare the other villagers at night,” his brother said, “the ones who wandered to the river to lie down in the reeds doing sexy things. We used to pretend we were animals. Do you remember how hard we laughed?”

Manmohan regarded his brother. “Is it really so important now?”

Satnam shrugged. “No, I suppose not.”

Manmohan went inside the house. He did remember. They had even managed to anger the frogs—or scare them—into silence. He had always liked that, the silence, and also the glint of the moon on the water through the reeds. Baba Singh had been away in China. They had not even known who he was.

As he muttered
sat sri akal
to a number of people gathered in the living room, Jai pushed her way through the small crowd. “Gharwala, have you seen Darshan?”

“No, not since he was with you when you were lighting the candles.”

“I cannot find him anywhere,” she said.

Having overheard, Raj the sundry shop owner approached with his teenage daughter, Lehna. “Darshan is with Mohan. I saw them outside as I got here. They were coming in from the clearing.”

Manmohan smiled at his wife. “Nothing to worry about.”

“But what were they doing in the clearing at this time of night?” she said with irritation. “The party is here. It is pitch dark out there. There are not enough candles.”

Manmohan frowned.

“Can you please go get them?” she asked. “Darshan wanted to help pass around the sweets. I promised him I would not forget.”

“Excuse me, ji,” Manmohan said, shaking Raj’s hand and smiling at Lehna. “I will be right back.”

Shaking several more hands, he made his way toward the front door and went outside. He surveyed the dark clearing, searching for his sons. The stairs sounded hollow beneath his feet as he descended. “Mohan, Darshan?” he called out from the bottom step. “Your mother is passing out sweets.”

He waited, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mohan? Darshan?”

A hushed, urgent voice came from somewhere underneath the house. “Be big and brave,” the voice said. “It is not so bad.”

Manmohan ducked slightly so that his turban would not rub against the underside of the house’s floorboards. People were moving around upstairs, the light through the boards dancing shadows across the darkness. “Mohan? Is that you?” He spotted them near a stilt close to the front staircase.

Darshan sniffled and whimpered. “Bapu,” he said, holding out his hand, “I got burned.”

“Come, both of you. Let’s get out from under here. It is too dark for me to see anything.”

In the light of a candle Manmohan assessed the small but severe and already-blistering burn on Darshan’s index finger. “How did this happen?” he asked.

Mohan shrugged sheepishly, palms up. “I took him for a walk to see the lights on the other side,” he said. “He touched the metal net of one of the lanterns.”

“It hurts,” Darshan said, crying.

“You should have watched him more carefully,” Manmohan said. “He is only five. He does not know any better, but you are supposed to.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Bapu. It was an accident.”

“Mohan,” Manmohan said evenly. “You have been such a responsible young man lately, and it has been good to have you home and see such positive changes, though I cannot yet say with confidence that there is no other motive for this newfound wholesome behavior. Why would you take him into the jungle at night without telling anyone?”

“But I did not think I had to. We were just looking at the lights. There was no harm.”

“And yet, see what has happened? While you are here under the house, worried that you will get into trouble, his finger is in pain and might get infected.”

Mohan’s eyes widened. “I did not realize.”

Lifting Darshan in his arms, Manmohan began to climb the stairs. “You have a history of just disappearing, of not listening. You cannot expect me to forget that overnight. Your mother was scared.”

Mohan sat heavily on the lowest stair.

In the kitchen, Manmohan soaked a towel in the water basin and applied it to his son’s wound. The boy winced, but he stopped crying.

“What is the problem?” Satnam asked, strolling into the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hand.

“Just a burn.”

“What happened?”

“Mohan.”

“Mohan burnt him?” Satnam asked, astonished.

“Not on purpose. He simply did not think.”

“Where is he?”

“Outside, hopefully considering his part in all this.”

His brother left quietly, but Manmohan was too distracted to notice. It was the last he saw of Satnam at the party. When everyone had gone home after the new year, Manmohan discovered that his brother and Priya had taken Mohan with them to the outer islands. Jai had found a note from his son that read
I am living with Satnam Chacha now.

~   ~   ~

What Manmohan really wanted to do was stalk the house in a rage. But he could not lose his composure in front of the children, so instead he fumed quietly, his teeth clenched as he slammed the door of his World War II truck, twisted in the handbrake to release it, and headed toward the Suva docks to commission a boat to take him to see his brother.

He rumbled down the makeshift loose-lumber driveway that they had kept since the flood. The planks settling and unsettling under the weight of his rolling vehicle sounded clunky, and the clutch smelled faintly of burnt rubber as he headed toward the main road.

It was well past one in the morning when Manmohan reached Satnam’s. His brother’s house was a long way on foot from the smaller island’s dock. “Satnam, where is my son?” he called out, pounding on the front door.

He noted with distaste the manicured perfection of the yard. It was too dark to see clearly, but he had been here before and knew that every single leaf had been arranged. He always hated that, preferring nature have some say.

The door swung open. Satnam held a candle in one hand and a mango in the other. He had not changed out of his clothes or removed his turban for the night. In the flicker of the single flame he appeared like a sick old man. “You will wake everyone,” he said.

“Where is Mohan?”

Leaving the door wide open, Satnam casually backed inside. He took a seat on his couch. It was upholstered in that peach-colored fabric that Priya loved. Setting the candle on an end table, he bit a hole in the mango’s skin, then spit the skin piece into his palm. He began sucking the mango pulp through the hole.

“Where is my son?” Manmohan asked again, refusing to enter. “I am taking him home.”

“You treat him like a fool,” Satnam replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“Sometimes he acts like one. But I am his father, and I decide how to treat him.”

“I know what it is like, to see a father hurt his son simply because he refuses to understand him.”

“And you know him better?” Manmohan scoffed.

“I do. We talk.”

“You behave as though I have done something wrong. But you have no right to judge me, just because you have always been so important, just because you were never held accountable for your mistakes.”