Three Bargains: A Novel (35 page)

Madan laughed, slinging the boy over his shoulder like a sack of wheat. Arnav giggled as he bumped along upside down on the way back to his room, forgetting the cake entirely. Madan helped his son back into bed. “Stay,” Arnav ordered, and so Madan lay down as well.

“Do you want me to read this book?” Madan said, picking up a Hardy Boys novel from the pile on the bedside table.

“It’s so boring,” Arnav said with hesitation, knowing how that attitude exasperated his father.

“How about this one?” Madan asked, but Arnav was shaking his head and reaching over to remove a coffee-table book on Formula One race cars.

When Madan was Arnav’s age he recalled the sense of wonder he had felt when putting letters and words together, and his amazement at how a few systematic rules could make numbers work magic on a page. That his son had no regard for the marks he got in school and the books and the learning so freely thrown at him baffled Madan. Preeti had stopped working soon after their marriage, but she was still a teacher and she drilled and pushed Arnav to achieve decent marks at school. “He lacks interest, not aptitude,” she would say, trying to comfort Madan.

On the bed near Arnav was a red racing car with a knobby remote control panel, a recent gift from his parents. Arnav always got a gift on Madan’s birthday. It was more fun for Madan that way. Madan and Arnav had spent all evening until the sun went down racing the car around the swimming pool perimeter, making it flip back and forth and screech around corners as if they were tearing around the Monza racetrack. After, they had jumped into the pool with their clothes on, and he had thrown Arnav in the air as the boy shrieked with delight.

Some hours later, Madan held the cake knife aloft, its sharp blade glowing in the candlelight. The buzz of conversation was dying down and he could sense the guests waiting for his move, rows of white teeth gleaming at him expectantly. Smiling gamely, he slid the knife through the rectangular sheet of cake, through the delicate roses piped around its border and through the scrawling script
Happy Birthday
. Clapping broke out, someone started singing “Happy Birthday” and others joined in, but the song petered out as Preeti sliced off a sliver of cake and brought it to his lips. He took a bite. A melody from the baby grand piano wafted out from the house, and their guests converged on him, men shaking his hand, ladies kissing his cheek.

Back in Madan’s study, Ketan-bhai raised his glass to Madan in salute, and Madan raised his in return. On the table next to Madan was what appeared to be Lego pieces from Arnav’s playroom. But this was no toy. It was the first model of Jeet Megacity, created by their architectural firm, and depicting what was turning out to be the largest solar city in northern India. Just above Jeet Megacity, a blue dot, labeled
Gorapur
, cowered in the shadow of his glitzy new development.

It galled Ketan-bhai that Madan had never been to see the Jeet Megacity site. “How can you stay away?” he asked. It was not easy. Madan wondered if Avtaar Singh, out of anger, pride or churlishness, kept away as well. Or had his curiosity led him there? Madan held off Ketan-bhai, saying truthfully he was waiting to see the finished city in all its brilliance. Until then, he had plenty to do here in Delhi.

His birthday was not the occasion he was waiting for. No, his daydreams were of the opening ceremony that would mark the official start of Jeet Megacity, now less than a year away—unless, of course, Avtaar Singh caused further delays. With the assistance of one of Preeti’s event planners, Madan had laid out every detail to ensure the occasion would amaze and impress the locals. A Bollywood dance troupe and a well-known playback singer would entertain the crowds, while schoolchildren sang nationalistic songs and politicians talked about job creation and how every corner of India was becoming part of the twenty-first century. There would be free food and soft drinks and, at nightfall, fireworks.

Madan knew he was overdoing it, but he wanted the world’s attention to be on Jeet Megacity during the speeches and ribbon-cutting, so that even those who didn’t attend would learn about Madan Kumar’s triumphant return, standing there on the stage with his wife and son, his influential friends and allies praising him for creating the city of the future.

“Did you see the message from Ghosh?” Ketan-bhai called out to Madan as Madan passed by his office the day after the party. Ghosh was the current project manager of the site. “We have a problem at Jeet Industrial.”

Turning his laptop toward Madan, he clicked the tab. Pixel by pixel the images uploaded.

The sister project to Jeet Megacity and a largely classified venture, Jeet Industrial City was to be the commercial hub of the development. There would be no place here for smoky, decrepit factories. Instead, industries of information technology research and the manufacturing of silicon chips were going to provide jobs for Jeet Megacity’s population for years to come. The process of acquiring land for construction would begin soon.

Ketan-bhai began scrolling through image after grainy image of growing and angrier crowds of men in loose white turbans and women in bright saris. Landowners and farmers, furious that their land was being taken over. Madan was sure Avtaar-Singh had stirred them up. “My God,” said Ketan-bhai at the parade of images.

At the end of the row of pictures was a short, fuzzy clip taken from a mobile phone. Ketan-bhai pressed play. “I’m not sure I want to see this,” he said. In the video, a man, a native of Gorapur by the look of him, was standing tall above the others, shouting and whipping up the mob. “Who will reimburse you for the investments you made in your land? Your livestock? Your house?” the man was shouting to the mob, who echoed him. Madan couldn’t make out all the words, but he watched and listened as, all of a sudden, a short, deafening bang drowned out the man’s words. The camera angle swung to the right. Two cars had driven up. Young men sprang out holding shotguns. “I wonder who they are,” Ketan-bhai said. Madan’s stomach clenched. He was pretty sure he knew who they were.

The video turned scratchy with the sounds of running and shouting and gunshots. The images became dirt and grass, the ground appearing to move as the videographer retreated quickly. Ketan-bhai and Madan watched as the video blurred. But then the camera regained focus and zoomed in. Madan could make out a young man, one of the ones who had arrived in the cars, being dragged away, a large dark area above his eye at his temple as if there were a dent in the side of his head. They watched as his companions lifted him into a car and both vehicles screeched off, chased all the while by Avtaar Singh’s men, who did not let up.

Madan heard the beeps of a phone ringing. Ketan-bhai was calling the project manager, Ghosh.

“Who was the young man? The one who was hurt?” he asked when Ghosh picked up. His gaze met Madan’s with surprise, and he repeated, to confirm what he had heard, “Sourav’s nephew?

“What was he doing there?” Ketan-bhai asked. “What do you mean, he’s been assisting us? Did Sourav send him?”

Madan watched Ketan-bhai’s frown grow deeper as he listened to the voice at the other end. “On whose authority?” Ketan-bhai asked Ghosh. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

There was only one answer to both of Ketan-bhai’s questions: Madan.

“I see.” Ketan-bhai finished his conversation. He had grown still, the usual animation of his expressions drained away. He told Ghosh to remain available and they would get back to him.

“You must think me a fool,” Ketan-bhai said when he disconnected.

“Something had to be done,” Madan said. “The holdups were costing us, and—”

“Sourav’s a scourge. People like him don’t live by a code or have any regard for anyone but themselves. Whatever the change in his circumstances, he’ll always be a provincial gangster at heart. So will his family. It’s why I didn’t want to get involved with him. Nothing good comes of it.” He considered Madan without anger or condemnation, but he could not hide his distress. “No, you must think me a fool for believing you were different.”

Stung, Madan stood up, his chair sliding backward. “This is who I am. You know it. You may have shut your eyes and ears to it, but you knew from the first day you met me. I haven’t changed.”

“You are mistaken. I saw a different man. A man who chose to help others even when his own life was in danger. A man who saw his wrongdoing for what it was, and rectified his mistake regardless of his pride. A man who I learned was a true brother by my side when we faced our biggest challenges. That was the man I saw, and the man I know. And I’ll go to my death believing so.”

“I’ll speak to Sourav to see what happened,” Madan said. “You’re giving this incident more importance than it deserves. By tomorrow we’ll make sure everyone would’ve forgotten about it.”

“Ghosh says the protesters will be back for the opening ceremony. You’ll be in the news then, but not how you intended.”

When Madan first came to Delhi, he hadn’t known if he was going to stay or move on, and there were days when he didn’t know where he would sleep or what he would eat. What he knew beyond doubt was one day he would find a way to return to Gorapur. The big announcement for Jeet Industrial City, along with the ceremonial laying of the first brick, was on the agenda during the opening ceremonies for Jeet Megacity. He could not allow any detours or disturbances to stop Jeet Industrial City from rising up from those fields and forever changing the landscape of Avtaar Singh’s world.

“I will take care of it,” Madan assured Ketan-bhai again. Madan got ready to leave his office.

“It’s true we’ve staked a lot on Jeet Megacity,” Ketan-bhai said. “But your partnership, your friendship, means more to me than any damn piece of land or investment. Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?”

Madan shook his head without hesistation.

“Look who’s here.” Madan’s assistant ushered Arnav in and, dropping his school bag by the door, the boy clambered onto the chair next to him. There was a half day at school, and as Arnav had no tennis lessons or playdates, he was going to spend the afternoon with Madan.

All morning Madan had tried to contact Sourav, but he did not pick up his phone, so Madan dispatched a couple of the office drivers to track Sourav down at one of his various places of business. He was glad for the distraction Arnav offered, as he waited to hear back about what had happened to Sourav’s nephew and if there was any fallout from the protests.

Arnav launched into a tale of some boys from school, and Madan listened with half an ear, his attention on the emails popping up on his screen. His phone rang and, seeing it was Ghosh from the Jeet Industrial project, he lifted his finger to his lips, cutting off Arnav midstory. It was a long phone conversation, followed immediately by another one, and many minutes later he glanced around to see Arnav absentmindedly kicking his chair.

“What is it?” Madan asked.

“Will I have to do this?” Arnav asked. “When I grow up? Talk on the phone, read files all the time? Mama says this is going to be mine.”

Yes
, Madan wanted to say.
I am doing this for you.
But that was not the answer Arnav was looking for. It was a hard notion for a boy who knew nothing, after all, of the darkness in Madan’s past and who lacked the slow, burning patience Madan had needed to build this future. A boy who longed for nothing more than to hurtle down the track of life like one of those race cars he loved.