Three Bargains: A Novel (26 page)

He rushed to the small side table and filled a glass with water. “Drink this,” he said, placing the glass in her hand. Of all the words he imagined he would first say to her, these were not them. She took a couple of fast sips.

“I’m fine,” he said, “I escaped. I’ve been waiting, trying to find a way to see you.” He smiled, wanting to take her face in his hands, to kiss her, but she still took sips of water. Her hair came loose, hiding her face.

“I know we didn’t have time to think,” he continued. “But we can work this out. If we face them together, we can tell them that we want this. Then how can they say no?”

She did not respond. “I know you’re surprised,” he said, and moved in closer, but she shifted slightly. The covers tightened around her swollen middle, halting him. He pushed away the sudden feeling of awkwardness. “But I’m here now. I can take you right away. We don’t need them. We can go wherever you want. Back to Mussoorie, or down south—to our town like we’d planned. Live there without worry or fear. I can take care of you . . . of both of you . . .” He stumbled over his words; talking of the baby was confusing. “We can go anywhere . . .”

Her face crumpled, and she covered it with the sheet. Her shoulders shook.

“Please, don’t cry,” he said. “Let’s leave right now.”

She looked up at him. Her cheeks flushed, and she spoke softly, as if with great effort. “Madan, Madan, always so confident. You thought you’d inherit the kingdom, and now you want to live in castles of air with your princess.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “Even if I wanted to get out, there’s no way out.”

“Of course there is. Listen to me.”

“I’ve had time to think too, Madan, lots of time. Time was all I had while I was locked away, confined by my father to my room at home. Only allowed out for short walks in our garden with my mother, or with one of my brothers. None of them talking to me. I’ve had plenty of time, and I realized that in trying to get away from one prison . . .”—her hand swept her stomach—“I locked myself in another. It’s useless to fight them, men like my father, like Avtaar Singh, because either way, they always win.”

“Don’t say that. We’ve talked about this, we know what to do. Come with me and it’ll be okay. I promise.”

“It was all talk, Madan. Why did we only talk? Why didn’t we leave when we could? Because we knew. In our hearts, we knew there was no escape. But we didn’t want to admit it to each other. They have us when they want us, and they discard us when we’re of no use. Look at you. Look at what they’ve done to you.” She slumped down with despair, as if unable to bear the sight of his tattered clothes or the weight of his empty pockets.

“The baby—”

“Don’t worry. They have an answer to this problem too.” She smoothed her hand over the hump of her stomach. “It’ll be over soon. Tomorrow. Pandit Bansi Lal is taking care of it.”

Pandit Bansi Lal? Madan’s mind was reeling. How had Pandit Bansi Lal come into the conversation? Had he missed something she’d said?

He hadn’t realized he’d stepped back until she spoke. “Yes,” she said dully. “Run, get out of here. If they catch you this time, they won’t leave the job half done.”

She laid her head down, turning back to the window, shutting her eyes once again. “Go,” she commanded. But Madan stood there, unable to peel his eyes away from what he had desired for so long. He stood there like his mother did in front of Minnu memsaab and his father had in front of Avtaar Singh, head bowed, eyes wanting, forever the servant.

At the hostel, everything was as he had left it; no cyclone had come to sweep away the remnants of his life. He got into bed. He would sleep now. All he need do was make time pass. That would take care of the pain, until he couldn’t easily remember what had caused it, or who. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to sleep.

His body, however, took only so much rest, and by the early hours of the morning, while it was still dark, he awoke with a rage he had not felt for so long. He wanted to hurt someone, see the blood flow, and feel the familiar yielding of skin and bone as it surrendered to his fist.

He grabbed the sides of the bed’s smooth wooden frame and squeezed it hard. He squeezed until he was out of breath, and then, when he sensed the scream about to rip from him, he let go. His breathing slowed, and soon it matched the measured breaths of the person in the bed across from him.

He would go to Gorapur and collect his mother, grandfather and Swati. His mother may not have forgiven him, but she had come to terms with him before. She always frightened them into thinking that there was no other place for them but Gorapur. That was no longer the case. He could take care of them, and to hell with everyone else: Minnu memsaab, Trilok-bhai, Rimpy, Dimpy. To hell with Avtaar Singh.

He felt the wet trickle on the side of his face. He wiped the tears away angrily, refusing to let any more fall.

When the tea stall opened, he got a cup, sipping the foamy top, savoring the strong cardamom aroma. The market was beginning to stir. He would grab something to eat and go to the bus stand. Should he wait for evening before he caught the bus to Gorapur so no one would see him? No, he was going to go now. He couldn’t wait any longer.

He downed the last sip and saw a bus pull into the stop. The bus that went to the hospital. Before he considered further, he was on the bus, on his way to Sheetal Family Hospital. He wouldn’t go inside. Just take a walk around and get the next bus back. When he disembarked, a car pulled up, and through the window he recognized the pugnacious face of Pandit Bansi Lal.

What was he doing here? He waited, giving the pandit time to go inside. Then he followed. At the reception area, there was someone else at the desk.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Jyoti Kishan,” he said.

The lady looked puzzled but checked the register. “She’s checked out.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I meant Family Singhal.”

The lady looked down at her register again and he began to walk toward the double doors.

“Wait—” he heard her say, and he turned, giving her a reassuring smile. When he turned around again, Pandit Bansi Lal was standing in front of him, the double doors swinging slowly shut.

For someone who looked like he saw a ghost, Pandit Bansi Lal recovered quickly. “You! You. Like a cockroach you appear in every crack in the wall. I thought we saw the end of you. I should have known Avtaar Singh would not go through with it.”

Madan started with surprise. Pandit Bansi Lal assumed Avtaar Singh knew he was alive. But the pandit caught on. “Oh! So Avtaar Singh does not know. So he thinks that you’re already food for the crows. We can take care of that right now.”

He opened his mouth as if to give a shout. The gesture propelled Madan forward. He was going to gouge the man’s eyes out; he would cut him into little pieces and feed him to the stray dogs outside.

But Pandit Bansi Lal halted him with his walking stick, thrusting its tip into Madan’s chest like a sword. “What’re you going to do? Attack me? Here? An old pandit?” His mouth dropped as he made a sorry face. “Wait—I shouldn’t have stopped you. It would’ve been such fun to see what they’d do to you, but we’ll see soon enough.”

Madan flicked the walking stick off his chest.

Pandit Bansi Lal’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Not even God can save you now, not even God. You have done something that exceeded even the reach of Lord Yama.” He thrust his other arm forward, and in its crook Madan noticed a small bundle trussed up in a light blue cotton fabric. Pandit Bansi Lal shoved it under Madan’s nose.

“What?” Madan stepped back. Was Pandit Bansi Lal handing him something? What did he want him to do?

Pandit Bansi Lal cast his walking stick aside with impatience and peeled back the corner of the cloth.

Tiny and scrunched, fingers like toothpicks, hands fluttering near its mouth, a small round face lay within the folds of the fabric, whispers of hair swept over the top of its head and arched over its closed eyes.

“Is this . . . ?” whispered Madan.

“The wages of your sin, boy, the wages of your sin.”

A long, satisfied smile curved up Pandit Bansi Lal’s face and the baby opened its mouth, letting out a shrill howl. Pandit Bansi Lal shouted, “Help! Help! Trilok-bhai! Get an orderly.” He shouted to the lady at the desk, “Call the police! This boy’s wanted . . . Help! Help!”

The sound of racing feet thudding heavily on the linoleum floor goaded Madan into action. For now, he had to run. He ran through the parking lot, out the gate and to the bus waiting at the stop. He jumped on, not caring where it took him. As the bus pulled away, he saw two orderlies rush out, scanning the road up and down. He found a seat and sat shivering, unable to think.

The bus lurched over a pothole, jolting him back to the present. Soon everyone would know he was alive, even Avtaar Singh. He had to find a phone as soon as possible. He got off at the next stop, found a PCO booth and called Jaggu at the mechanics garage.

As soon as Jaggu picked up he said, “It’s me.”

“What happened? Why’re you calling?” Jaggu was alarmed.

“I don’t have time to explain, but they know I’m alive.”

“What? How? You went there, didn’t you? You’re in Karnal.”

“Jaggu, what d’you want me to say? You’re right. I can’t come back. Please, I need you to get my mother to call me. I have to talk to her.”

“She won’t—”

“Tell her anything,” Madan said. “Just make sure I can talk to her. I will call back in an hour.”

Madan returned to the hostel to collect his duffel bag. He would tell his mother to pack up what she needed and take the bus to Karnal. He returned to the PCO and called again.

“Ma?” he said into the phone.

After a moment she spoke. “What do you want?”

“Ma, I know you’re angry with me, but please, listen.” He spoke quickly but firmly, telling her his plans, feeling that if she heard how he would take care of everything, she would relent. What was her alternative? “You can’t stay there, Ma. Avtaar Singh will never allow it. We’ll go someplace safe, where we can all be together. Ma?”

“I can’t believe you came from me,” she said, no hint of expression in her voice. “You have caused me nothing but grief.”

“Ma, but Avtaar Singh—”

“Avtaar Singh! Avtaar Singh! If he wanted to do something to us, he would have done so by now. Even then, I’ll take my chances with him. Swati already owes him her life. But you. Listen carefully. Get away from us. Get so far away that we can’t hear you or smell you or ever see you. You are dead to him. And as for me, I’m really cursed now because I never had a son.”

Silence, and then the crackle and hum of the phone connection, and over the static Jaggu was saying, “Madan? Are you there? Give her time. She’s still upset. Madan? Madan, are you there? At least call and tell me what you’re going to do . . .” Madan barely heard Jaggu’s fading plea before he placed the phone back on its rest.

He paid the telephone operator, but stood uncertainly around. “You need something else?” asked the operator.

“I need to get out of town,” said Madan.

“Number five bus, goes straight to the train station,” mumbled the man into his cash register.

There was not much of a line at the station’s ticket booth.

“Where to?” asked the man behind the iron bars, impatient when Madan did not answer. “Come on,” he said. “Amritsar, Delhi, Meerut, Lucknow, Patiala, all these trains are leaving soon. Where to?”

“Delhi,” said Madan, “third-class seat.”

“One-way or return?”

He slipped the money under the bars. “One-way.”

Madan found a seat by the window. By the time they left, several men fresh from the fields and at least two noisy families crowded into the remaining space in the compartment big enough for six. The train pulled away with a high whistle and soon the fields of sugarcane and wheat were rushing by him. An hour later, people started opening up their tiffin-boxes of food, families settling around each other for dinner.

Madan concentrated on the disappearing landscape outside his window. Released by Avtaar Singh’s impervious order, death was everywhere in Gorapur, its distinct, rancid smell tracking him down, seeking him out. When he had shaken hands with Avtaar Singh for Swati’s life that first time, it was Madan who had stipulated the conditions of the exchange. This time, Avtaar Singh had set the terms of the bargain, leaving Madan with no options, no means or ruses to tip the deal in his favor. He had to run if he wanted to survive Avtaar Singh and his thugs.

The shadow of the train moved alongside like a dark, gloomy twin. The swaying silhouettes of people sitting atop the train eerily changed the train’s elongated, reflected shape. Unable to afford a ticket, they’d scampered onto its roof for a free ride. He counted at least twelve people above his train car.

He’d seen this before, read about them in the newspapers when there was an accident, when they had failed to duck low enough for an oncoming tunnel or failed to see it altogether because their eyes were shut against the strong winds, or it was too dark, or . . . who knows? No one could ask them. Swept off into the rivers below, their mangled bodies washed up quickly, as though even the waters were eager to get rid of them.