The Weight of Heaven (35 page)

bitterness in his voice. Careful, he said to himself. This man is your

employee. No point in telling him too much.

“Yah, I know the boy. Seen him around the marketplace with

his mother. A sunny nature he is having.” Gulab paused. “What is

making that old fool jealous, sir?” he asked. His voice was casual,

almost disinterested.

But the simple question unleashed Frank’s pent-up frustration.

“I am. Can you imagine? The idiot is jealous of my friendship with

his son. Thinks I’m going to steal him or something.”

“You should.” Gulab’s voice was smooth, almost seductive.

“Excuse me?”

“You
should
steal him. Take him with you to America. Give him

a good life. Over here, sir, he will just rot.” Gulab lowered his voice.

“Plus, sir, parents are mixed marriage. And for many years now,

they are living in this house, away from the village people. The boy

will face much difficulties as he gets of marriageable age. No one

will want his daughter to marry a mongrel.”

Frank flinched and felt his temper rise. As if he’d read Frank’s

mind, the older man held out his hand in front of him to deflect the

blame. “That’s not my opinion, sir. I’m just knowing the mentality

of these villagers.”

He nodded, to let Gulab know that he understood. But his mind

was elsewhere. With a start, he realized that for the last few months

whenever he’d imagined Ramesh five or ten years from now, he’d

imagined him in America. Seen him as an American boy. He had

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 5 3

told Ellie so often about how this boy could be MIT-bound with

just the right support that he had begun to believe it. The thought of

Ramesh remaining in this tiny hellhole of a village, dropping out of

school to work some miserable job, remaining a bachelor because no

illiterate, ignorant villager thought he was worthy of marrying his

vacuous, illiterate daughter and taking care of his worn-out mother

and ingrate father as they aged, filled Frank with despair. For months

now, he had believed the story he had spun for himself, a story that

had him rescuing the boy from his fate, plucking him like a flower

and transplanting him into fertile soil, where he could bloom. But

Gulab’s succinct words had robbed him of that illusion, and he now

had to imagine Ramesh as the villagers saw him—as a boy of dubious pedigree, the product of a transgression most of them frowned

upon. If there was anything special about the boy that caught their

attention, it was not the fact that he was sharp and warmhearted

and gifted. It was the fact that his Hindu father—an orphan boy

who they had raised on the crumbs of their charity—had married

a nonlocal Christian girl whose own family had disowned her over

this dishonor.

“These people are idiots,” Frank said, the venom in his voice

surprising even him. “I thought Ramesh only had that fool in the

kitchen to contend with. I didn’t know there was a village full of

them.”

“You should take him, sir. To America, I mean. Give him a good

life there.”

Frank made a face. “And what do I do about his parents? They

give me shit if I ask to take him to the beach for a day. He’s supposed

to go to the States with us for ten days over Christmas. From what

my wife tells me, getting Prakash to agree to even that was like pulling teeth. I can imagine what his reaction would be if—”

He stopped, halted by the dismissive sound Gulab made, a cross

between a hawk and a hiss. “Forget them, sir.” In a distinctively

Indian gesture, Gulab brought all five fingers together and then

2 5 4 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

made them fly apart, as if he was discarding something. “They are

nothing. I can make them disappear.”

“Huh? What do you mean, disappear?”

Gulab’s dark eyes fixed themselves on Frank for a full moment. In

that moment, Frank remembered what Gulab had once told him—I

have killed men with my bare hands. He shivered. But before he

could say anything, Gulab smiled, a slow, secretive smile. “When

you are ready to take the boy with you, sir, then ask me. I will tell

you what I mean.” His voice was low, mesmerizing, and Frank felt

suddenly sleepy and dull, as if he was being drugged by Gulab’s

seductive voice. A vein throbbed in his forehead as Gulab held his

gaze. He shuddered and looked away, disturbed by what he saw in

Gulab’s eyes.

He yawned and shook his head, feeling the spell cast by Gulab

break as he did so. “Okay. Enough of this crazy talk,” he said, forcing his voice into a lightness he didn’t feel. “We’d better get down

to work.”

Gulab was immediately formal. “Of course, sir. Lots of papers

for you to sign.”

They worked for about twenty minutes, and then Frank heard

Prakash’s nasal voice in the doorway. “Soup is ready. Shall I bring

out?” Looking up, Frank saw that although Prakash was addressing him, he was looking at Gulab as if transfixed, his eyes wary

and fearful. He’s petrified of Gulab, Frank thought. This bastard

must’ve terrorized him when they were boys. And despite himself,

his heart filled with pity.

“Just leave it in the pot,” he said. “I’ll warm it up when we’re

done.” He was about to ask Gulab whether he wanted something

cold to drink when he stopped himself. Somehow, he knew that

asking Prakash to serve a Coke or a Limca to his old nemesis would

be more than what the cook could bear. Beside, some instinct told

him to keep his head of security at arm’s length, not to let the man

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 5 5

forget his place too much. Even as small a gesture as offering him a

drink would signal a familiarity, a collegiality, that he was not willing to confer on Gulab.

“You can go home,” he told Prakash, his voice less harsh than

it usually was. “Go get some rest.” Out of the corner of his eye, he

saw Gulab’s head shoot up, but when he looked over, the man was

looking at the papers in front of him, again.

“As you wish,” Prakash said and turned away.

“He’s a good cook,” Frank said after Prakash had left. Even to

his own ears, the words sounded defensive, as if he was trying to

justify his earlier kindness to Prakash.

Gulab’s eyes were flat. “There’s a saying in Hindi. It means, the

shit of even a chicken feeds flies. Even
bevakoofs
have their virtues,

sir.”

Frank laughed. “Never heard that one before.” He turned back

to the stack of papers. “Okay. Let me go through these to see what

else needs my signature.”

He had barely read two letters when he looked up and saw

Ramesh walking on the stone wall between the front lawn and the

beach. Gulab spotted the boy at the same time and made to get up

from the chair. “Some ruffian on your property, sir,” he said. “I’ll

go chase him away.”

“Leave him be,” Frank said. “That’s Ramesh. He lives here.”

“Yes, of course, my mistake,” Gulab began, but Frank wasn’t

paying him any attention because Ramesh had spotted the two men

and was now running barefoot across the lawn toward them. “Hi,

Frank,” he panted as he came up to them. “Can you play basketball

today?”

It felt wrong to have Gulab witness his interactions with the boy.

He wanted to cover Ramesh’s innocent, open face from the other

man’s probing, all-seeing eyes. “Not today,” he said curtly. “I have

to work right now, Ramesh. We can talk later, okay?”

2 5 6 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

“Okay,” Ramesh said, but Frank could tell he was hurt. It didn’t

matter. More important to get this boy away from Gulab Singh and

his watchful gaze. “Bye,” he added. “Go on, now.”

Ramesh ran away, looking back once but never breaking his

stride. The two men watched as he hopped back on the wall and

then jumped onto the sand on the other side. “Sweet boy,” Gulab

said. His tone was neutral. “He calls you Frank? Not sahib or sir?”

“My wife doesn’t like formality.” He had almost said servitude,

but knew that Gulab would think of that as a weakness on Ellie’s

part.

The man smiled. “Americans. Informal people. When I was in

Virginia, same thing. Very informal in dress and speech.”

“You were in America? When?”

“When I was in the service, sir. Special training mission, with

the American government.”

Frank thought for a moment. “You were in Virginia? Working

with the CIA?”

Gulab turned his head so that he was gazing at the sea. “Secret

work, sir. Even my mother-father didn’t know where I was for three

months.” He proceeded to tell Frank what had taken him to Virginia, but the tale was so convoluted and Gulab used so many acronyms that Frank was unfamiliar with that he soon grew tired of

trying to keep up. He had no idea if the man was telling the truth.

Everything that he was saying sounded incredible, but Frank knew

enough about politics to know that governments got away with

what they did because they counted on ordinary citizens dismissing

events as being too incredible and implausible. He looked pointedly

at the papers in front of him, and Gulab, attuned to his every nuance,

stopped abruptly. “Anyway, sir. This is all past. Old history.”

Picking up his pen, Frank started going through the papers.

Gulab handed him more to read and sign. At one point, he went into

the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. “Drink, sir,” he said.

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 5 7

“Water important in this heat.” While Frank worked, the other man

leaned on the railing of the porch and stared at the sea.

The stack had gotten considerably shorter by the time Ellie came

home. They both heard the doorknob turn and Ellie say, “Hon?”

Shit, he thought, she’s home a lot sooner than I’d imagined.

“Over here,” he yelled. “On the porch.”

Ellie walked in, her face flushed from the heat. She was removing her straw hat as she walked in. The smile on her lips froze as she

spotted Gulab, who had risen from his perch on the railing. “Oh,”

she said stiffly. “I wasn’t expecting—”

“Hello, memsahib,” Gulab said.

She did not acknowledge Gulab’s greeting. Frank felt his face

flush, embarrassed by his wife’s rudeness. Ellie turned to face Frank.

“Why are you working on a Sunday?”

“I was only signing some papers,” he said, willing her not to

create a scene, not to come across as a hen-pecking wife in front of

Gulab. To his relief, she turned around to leave.

“Nice to see you again, memsahib,” Gulab said, but she didn’t

respond.

“She’s annoyed that I’m working,” he said, trying to gloss over

Ellie’s inexplicable rudeness.

Gulab’s face was impassive. “Of course, sir.”

The man left a half hour later. Frank escorted Gulab to the door

and then walked into the bedroom where Ellie was lying in bed,

reading. “Hi,” he said. “How did breakfast go?”

“Fine,” she said, looking up from the book she was reading.

“Why’d you let that awful man back into our house?”

“I told you. I wanted to get a jump start on things.”

She rolled on her side and sat cross-legged behind where Frank

was perched on the bed. Reaching over, she began to rub his shoulders. “We stopped at the market, and I purchased a few things for

Ramesh to distribute as Christmas gifts to folks in Ohio.”

2 5 8 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

“You did?”

“Yeah, I figured it would be awkward for him to not participate

in the gift exchange.”

He turned around and kissed her. “You’re wonderful.” He rose

from the bed. “I think Prakash has made us some chicken corn soup.

Want some?”

“Sure. I’ll be there in five minutes. I just want to finish this chapter. Oh, by the way. Nandita wants us to go to the Shalimar for tea

this afternoon. Wanna go?”

“Sure.”

He went to the kitchen to heat the soup, his heart lighter than it

had been in days. He knew Ellie was not thrilled about going home

for the holidays, but he now dared to hope that perhaps having

Ramesh with them would be good for her, also. He caught himself

whistling as he placed the pot on the stove.

Some part of his brain kept wanting to stray to the strange exchange he’d had with Gulab, wanted to try and decode the man’s

evasive but vaguely sinister words. But he forced himself to focus

on the steady, quiet flame of happiness that Ellie’s gift-buying spree

had lit in his heart, much like the blue flame of the gas stove that he

had just turned on.

Chapter 23

Prakash tried lifting the pot from the stove but couldn’t. His hands

were shaking too much. Even though the
badmaash
Gulab had been

gone for several hours and Frank and Ellie were out for the afternoon, he still felt the man’s vile presence hanging like black smoke

over the house.

Too much. He was being asked to put up with too much. First

there was the American trying to take over the life of his son. And

now he was letting into the house the man who had darkened his

childhood, a bully whose hands had never failed to curl into a fist

when Prakash was around. Every child in the village had feared

Gulab, who was a few years older than most of them. But most children had a father or a mother to protect them, to grab Gulab by his