Three Bargains: A Novel (10 page)

“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.

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.

T
HE 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 sensed 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.