Three Bargains: A Novel (8 page)

His father did return, four days later. Four days in which Madan and Jaggu went back and forth to school, Madan incessantly discussing his father’s possible whereabouts.

Returning from taking Prince out, the tiny animal cosseted in the crook of his arm, he knew his father had returned by how his grandfather and Swati sat huddled on the bed outside. Swati gently massaged his grandfather’s shoulders as his neck convulsed erratically.

Madan rushed in to find his father lying on his mat, his back to the door.

“Bapu?” His father didn’t move. “Bapu?” He took a step toward him. The familiar rank smell of alcohol hit Madan like a solid wall, making him gag. The sound got a grunt out of his father, and he turned around.

His gaze settled on Madan covering his nose with his hand.

His father squinted. “Who are you?” he said, before turning over again and falling back to sleep.

“You know,” said Avtaar Singh, “you started off as my best man. I usually don’t misread people, but you may have fooled me.”

Madan stared at the back of his father’s bent head, his uncombed hair sticking out in all directions. His father stood in front of the same great desk, hands clasped in front of him, his mumbled apologies worsening Avtaar Singh’s mood. Madan wished to be anywhere but here, but when his father awoke, he had dragged Madan with him to the factory as if hoping Madan’s presence would appease Avtaar Singh in some way. “What?” his father had rasped when Madan resisted. “How come you don’t want to come with me now? Otherwise you’re always keen to go and sit with him.”

“But,” Avtaar Singh continued now, “Minnu memsaab is very pleased with your woman’s work, she’s done a good job with the house, is a good cook, and so I’m hesitant to let you . . . your family go.”

Avtaar Singh swung his chair from side to side. “But what is the meaning of this? Disappearing for days. Work half done. You promised this would end when your family came here.”

He stopped the motion of his chair by slapping his hand on the desk. Madan and his father jumped. “How many chances have I given you?” His father shifted his weight but gave no answer. “This is the last time we repeat this scene, Prabhu.” He waved them away. “Do your collections first, they haven’t been done for these few days. Let’s start with that and then we shall see.”

The machines sounded even louder in the factory once they’d left the quiet office, but before they got too far Avtaar Singh called Madan back.

He held on to Madan’s arm, pulling him closer to his chair. “All through life you learn, from the people around you, what to do and what not to do. A forest is made of many trees, it’s always best to choose the strongest one to lean against. You understand?”

Madan nodded quickly. He was keen to leave, sure that Avtaar Singh’s calling him back must have further upset his father.

Avtaar Singh patted Madan on the cheek. His hand lingered there for a moment, he seemed unwilling to lift it off and allow Madan to leave, but he said, “Good. Go now and see to Prabhu . . .” He checked himself. “Your . . . father.”

Madan accompanied his father on his rounds but Avtaar Singh’s words troubled him. He considered his father again, watched his hands dart out as he collected and counted the money shopkeepers and businessmen owed Avtaar Singh, money they had taken to start their businesses and money they still gave to ensure their businesses kept running. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the notion that the man before him seemed no more than a roadside reed, easily crushed under the weight of any passing bullock cart.

“He built the town, so I guess he deserves some recompense,” his father sneered, slipping another roll of notes in his pocket. “Though of course if they’re doing well they have to give more, otherwise they still have to fork over the standard rate that Avtaar Singh sets when they start out.”

Back at the servants’ quarters, Madan counted the collections and rolled the notes into neat bundles. Swati twirled around the courtyard and Bapu sat on the charpai, watching her through the hazy smoke of his beedi. Swati’s long skirt billowed around her slim ankles and she sang a rhyme to her doll about the shy moon hiding from the morning sun.

“So much money, Bapu,” Madan said. With the final count done, he walked out with his father, who was to deposit the collections back at the factory.

Once outside his father said, “Wait a minute.” He took out the wad of notes from his pocket and separated more than a few hundred-rupee notes, returning the rest.

“Bapu, what’re you doing? Avtaar Singh . . . said not to . . . Bapu?”

His father had to stay out of trouble with Avtaar Singh. There would be no more chances—not for his father and not for the rest of them either. Madan dived for the money slipped casually into his father’s other pocket, but his father held him back with one hand.

“Don’t worry,” his father said. “I have Avtaar Singh’s number—I’ll slip a few of these to Nathu and he’ll cover for me. Your bapu needs to take care of some of his own business right now.” Madan struggled against his grip and he shoved him back against the wall. “What’re you?” his father asked. “His accountant?” He went off down the street in the other direction, away from the factory.

In the days following, Madan’s father appeared and disappeared with the changing angle of the sun. He was with them when he had nowhere else to go, no money to collect, no one to drink with or no games to play in the back rooms of towns far enough for him to be gone for days at a time. Madan couldn’t fathom how his father explained his absences to Avtaar Singh or how long this Nathu would cover for him. Sometimes the Jalnaur gang visited late at night and there were hurried conversations outside. Once, his father returned from these meetings with a bleeding lip.

“Don’t let this end badly,” his mother beseeched Madan, and prevailed on him to keep Bapu in town and in their sight. Madan made every effort to accompany his father wherever he could. He made sure Bapu’s shaving water was hot in the morning and pressed his legs when he was tired in the evening. With Jaggu’s help, he ensured there was enough of his father’s favorite Jagadhari No.
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whiskey at hand to keep him fast asleep and unmoving at night. And when his father’s backhand would send him sliding across the room, he would fight the dread seeping through his bones, and bounce back and begin again.

“Arre baba, how many times have I said it?” Minnu memsaab came bustling in behind Madan as he placed two glasses of cold milk on the center table in the drawing room, bits of chocolate Bournvita floating on the surface like defiant mites. Madan had stirred and stirred, but the powdered chocolate refused to dissolve into the milk. “Coaster, baba, use the coaster.”

Minnu memsaab had never said it, at least to Madan, and Rimpy giggled. Madan replaced the glasses on his tray, found the coasters, and served the girls once again. Though similar in shape and size—they reminded Madan of balls of squishy dough—the twins were easy to tell apart. The girl who always spoke first was Rimpy and the one who agreed with what she said was always Dimpy.

“Yuck, I hate milk,” Rimpy said.

“I hate it too,” Dimpy said, though her glass was already half empty.

“Mama, can’t we have Campa Cola? Milk is so disgusting.” Madan waited near the door, knowing they would soon need something else. They would make him go for more sugar and then more Bournvita and then cream biscuits, unable to settle on anything that pleased them.

“No, no, no, girls,” Minnu memsaab said. “Milk is good for your skin and health.”

Rimpy made a face and Dimpy copied her and they laughed, spilling milk on their skirts. “Madan, napkin!” He scurried to the side table for the napkin box.

He wished he were out with Jaggu. They could have been fishing in the canal, playing cricket or watching a movie if it was Jaggu’s choice, though Madan had come to enjoy the cinema too. He found these evenings when he was required to work in the house interminable, except of course when the girls watched TV.

“Madan,” Rimpy said after their mother left the room. She smiled sly and slow, and Dimpy held a hand to her mouth, holding back a giggle. “We heard a story today, at the temple. About the legend of Shiva and Parvati and . . . Madan. Do you know who he is? Do you know what your name means?”

Madan knew where they were heading. He was going to be the target of a joke he would not understand or find amusing, and that would delight them even more. His mother had told him they were twelve years old like him, but he was sure she had misunderstood, for they acted much younger.

“Do you know who ‘Madan’ is?” Rimpy repeated. Madan shook his head.

“Madan is . . .” They couldn’t contain themselves. “The God of Love! Madan . . . with his bow of sugarcane and arrows decorated with flowers. You know, riding his parrot chariot, helping gods and people fall in love?”

They laughed so hard Madan was afraid they might burst like overfilled balloons. He kept his face blank. He had no opinion on the meaning of his name one way or the other.

But the girls thought it hilarious. They mocked a swoon. “Who’re you going to shoot your arrows of love at, Madan? Who’re the girls you have your eye on? Is there a girl at your school?”

When Madan didn’t answer, they went on, “Or that old woman who sells roasted corn, with her funny eyes?” Dimpy crossed hers. “You’re always there, near her stand.” He didn’t bother to point out that the old lady’s stand was next to his bus stop.

“Oh, Madan, you make me as hot as the coals on which I roast this corn.” Rimpy fanned herself with a magazine. Dimpy clapped in approval.

A commotion from the back of the house hushed them. Minnu memsaab was shouting for his mother. “Durga! Oh, Durga! Go check on your father-in-law, he’s going crazy. I tell you, I won’t have this. Why can’t you people control yourselves?”

His mother came running down from the upper floor and Madan joined her as they both ran toward the kitchen and out the back. They could hear his grandfather’s raised voice, cursing and shouting.

“Son of a pig . . . leave her . . . no, leave her . . . son of a pig . . . help! Who is there to help?”

At the quarters, they came upon his grandfather struggling with his father, who was carrying Swati in his arms. “Let go, old man,” his father said as he tried to loosen Madan’s grandfather’s grip on his waist. Swati swung from side to side as they struggled.

“What’s happening?” Madan’s mother asked.

“I’m taking Swati out, that’s all.” His father panted as he freed himself.

“Don’t let him go, Durga,” his grandfather wept, pawing the ground. “He’s made a deal with that man . . . for Swati.” Outside, Madan caught a glimpse of a man revving the engine of a green car with a missing back light.

“What? What d’you mean?” Madan asked as his father hurried toward the gate.

“No!” his mother screamed. “Please, I beg of you, we’ll manage whatever the problem is. We’ll manage,” she repeated. She lunged for her husband and caught the corner of his shirt, but he twisted her arm, making her release him.

“I’m doing us a favor,” he roared. “In a few years you’ll be the one paying dowry to her groom. Right now I’ve found someone willing to pay me! You should be grateful you have a husband who’s so smart about the future!”