Three Bargains: A Novel (14 page)

“Look who’s here today,” Avtaar Singh said to Madan, indicating the man sitting next to Pandit Bansi Lal on the sofa. Madan acknowledged Ved Prakash, the legislative assembly member from their area, who usually visited Avtaar Singh when he was under pressure to follow through on one of his many election promises. He would come to Avtaar Singh to see what he had permission to do and how best to do it. The elections were coming up and Madan assumed that Ved Prakash was probably hoping for a repeat of the landslide victory Avtaar Singh had orchestrated for him the last time around. Descending on the polling booths on election day, Avtaar Singh’s men had no trouble persuading the arriving voters that it was better to go back home. Then, while Feroze and the others held the election officials at bay and the police kept watch outside the polling booths, Madan and Jaggu, electrified with their inclusion in the electoral process, stuffed the boxes with bunches of ballots premarked in favor of Ved Prakash.

There was much celebrating after Ved Prakash’s win, especially by the politician himself, who promptly announced to everyone present that he would name any future sons after Avtaar Singh. No one paid much heed to the inebriated sixty-four-year-old politician’s rhetoric, since he was already a father to four grown children. But nine months later, as promised, he produced a son who was duly named after Avtaar Singh, and it went down on Ved Prakash’s curriculum vitae as one of the only promises to his constituents he had ever fulfilled on his own volition.

“Ved Prakash comes with interesting news,” said Avtaar Singh. “You know the land near Jobal? It seems Kishan Sood’s son has returned from Bombay and he wants his father’s land.”

“No one owns that land,” Ved Prakash cried out as if he couldn’t help himself.

“All land is owned by someone,” said Avtaar Singh impatiently to the politician. “If you had taken care of this with the father we would not have to deal with the son now.”

A large swath of fertile agricultural land encompassed the Jobal area and, as with much of such land directly around Gorapur, farmers paid a yearly fee to Avtaar Singh in exchange for tilling the land. Aware of only the rudimentary facts of the land’s murky provenance, Madan nevertheless knew this parcel of earth held a mythic importance to Avtaar Singh, for tucked in a small corner was Guru Gianchand’s akhara.

“Many years ago I wanted to buy the land where the akhara sits so I could gift it to Guru Gianchand,” Avtaar Singh explained. “That bastard Sood would not sell. Offered him cash, offered him land on the other side near Jagadhari. It was like he wanted to start a fight with me. So I accommodated, and took that land and the rest of his property around it. Ved Prakash told Sood he was going to claim the land for the government . . . What did you say it was for?” he asked

“Hydroelectric power plant,” whispered Ved Prakash.

“And my boys went to his house and gave Sood a more personal message from my side. He disappeared from town with his family after that.”

“It was the subdivisional magistrate,” said Ved Prakash. “He was supposed to issue the papers in your name. If I ever see that motherfucker again . . .”

“This is a small thing,” said Pandit Bansi Lal, consoling his friend. “Avtaar Singh will take care of it.”

“I shouldn’t be taking care of small things!” Avtaar Singh banged his hand against the desk. “All you had to do was to arrange for the title in my name.”

Though Madan was enjoying Pandit Bansi Lal’s discomfort, he was anxious to share the information he had recently gleaned from his friends at Monty’s Taxi Stand. “They were talking about a visitor staying at Dawn Guesthouse,” he told Avtaar Singh. “The man wanted a taxi to the financial commissioner’s office.”

“Ha?” Ved Prakash perked up. “Why? What does that mean?”

“Arre! He doesn’t know anything,” Pandit Bansi Lal consoled the worried politician. “He’s just a child. Don’t worry about what he says.”

“I—” Madan spat out, half rising from his chair. Avtaar Singh’s firm squeeze on his shoulder silenced him. Swallowing his resentment, he turned to Avtaar Singh, but refused to meet his eye. He understood why people like Ved Prakash associated with someone like Pandit Bansi Lal, but he could not understand why Avtaar Singh entertained the pandit, no matter how long their association or Avtaar Singh’s religious convictions.

“Pandit-ji,” said Avtaar Singh, “I give more credit to Madan’s word than anyone else’s in this room. I’ve told you this before.”

Though he knew he shouldn’t, Madan shot Pandit Bansi Lal a smug look. Avtaar Singh tut-tutted, but Pandit Bansi Lal got up, whipping his cotton wrap around him. “Avtaar Singh-ji, this is the respect I get after all my years of service to your family? This is how an old friend is treated? Because of this . . . of this—I am going,” he said with finality. “Ved Prakash-ji, if you want to stay, then stay, but I will not . . .”

“What?” said Ved Prakash, looking overwhelmed and confused by the words firing like loaded cannonballs through the room.

“Sit,” said Avtaar Singh. “Sit, Pandit-ji. Why do you get upset so easily? No one means any disrespect. If you feel Madan has insulted you in some way, he will apologize.”

Madan felt the focused gaze of Ved Prakash, Pandit Bansi Lal and Avtaar Singh on him while the other men in the room looked on.

Avtaar Singh looked pointedly at Madan, so he said, “Sorry,” under his breath and at the same time Pandit Bansi Lal said, “Really, I’m above these little things but sometimes . . . sometimes—” he sat back down like he had said all he wanted to say.

“Good,” said Avtaar Singh. “Financial commissioner’s office means he’s going to file a complaint. He could name all of us.” His gaze flitted over the worried men on the sofa and then came to rest on Madan.

Madan had come to learn that Avtaar Singh was a man who was never alone. Whether it was by design or because of his busy life, his men or his factory workers, his wife, his children, his friends or someone or other from the town orbited around him at all times.

And then there was Madan.

Madan, whom Avtaar Singh called for every morning when he took his first sip of tea and whom Avtaar Singh demanded stay on his right side and on his left, whichever way he happened to turn, until he was back in his bed at the end of the day.

Madan looked around Avtaar Singh’s office at the strong-armed men, the high-ranking politician, the influential pandit. After they took their leave, and the machines shuddered to silence and the crickets began their own musical labors, he would be back here with Avtaar Singh.

Madan would pour him a glass of Chivas Regal and get himself a Campa Cola, for he never drank alcohol in front of Avtaar Singh, and they would discuss the pros and cons of all sorts of business matters. Avtaar Singh would talk about land or real estate he wanted to acquire, or ask Madan about school and studies, and these days they were thrashing out the details on the new factory Avtaar Singh wanted to open.

When Avtaar Singh was done, they would drive home with the windows rolled down, Avtaar Singh sitting up front with him, the deserted streets making it seem like there was no one else alive but them.

Madan sat among these men here, went out on jobs with them, but now and again he saw flickers of confusion when Avtaar Singh solicited his opinion, giving it consideration before making a decision. It made them wary of him and unsure of his position among them.

When he had brought this up with Avtaar Singh, he was told, “You and I have to be sure of no one but each other,” answering and ending any further concerns about the matter on Madan’s part.

Madan knew what Avtaar Singh needed from him. “I’ll take care of it, saab,” he said.

Everyone started filing out and as Madan got up, Pandit Bansi Lal addressed Ved Prakash. “See what I told you? Avtaar Singh-ji will take care of it, he takes care of all of us . . . even those who should’ve long ago been dumped at some roadside truck stop.” He murmured the last part so no one but Madan, passing by him, heard.

Madan contemplated turning back and confronting the pandit. But it would elicit the same lecture from Avtaar Singh.
He’s only an old pandit, set in his thoughts and ways
, Avtaar Singh would say.
What can he do to you? You’re the one who is young; you need to control your temper.

He saw that Pandit Bansi Lal was at Avtaar Singh’s side, conversing rapidly, and for now it seemed best to go ahead and join the men outside.

He left a message for Jaggu to meet him later at home, and they all piled into the car and headed for Dawn Guesthouse. Earlier that day, Jaggu seemed excited about something. “Wait until tonight,” he had told Madan, when Madan caught him whispering with Feroze.

Now Feroze was sitting next to him, humming, and when he caught Madan looking at him he said, “So you’re meeting Jaggu tonight?”

“Yes, that’s the plan,” said Madan.

Feroze laughed and Madan noticed Gopal and Harish grinning as well. “What? What’s going on tonight?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Feroze, refusing to meet Madan’s eye and smiling all the while.

Dhiru Sood was finishing a cup of tea in the front lawn of the guesthouse. When Madan and the boys entered, he looked up curiously from his newspaper, and it was not until they were standing before him that comprehension dawned on the young fellow.

He stood up with a start, and reached down as if to touch his toes. It was then that Madan noticed the small boy playing by his father’s feet. Dhiru Sood picked up his son and turned toward the house. On the front steps a girl in a red frock played with some dolls. Dhiru Sood ushered the boy up the stairs and shouted to someone to take the children and lock the door. Witnessing the flurried activity brought on by their presence, a mixture of anger and weariness overcame Madan. Dhiru Sood’s father must have enlightened his son about the consequences of pursuing the ownership of their land and to the dangers that awaited him in Gorapur. And here was Dhiru Sood bringing his whole family along like they were going on holiday somewhere.

“So many people for me?” Dhiru Sood said. There was a time to be sarcastic, but Madan wasn’t sure for Dhiru Sood’s sake if this was the time.

“Get in the car,” said Feroze.

“Why don’t we talk here?” Dhiru Sood asked. But they pushed him out through the gate to the waiting car.

Dhiru Sood tried to hold back a tremble and look friendly when they shoved him into the middle of a storage shed made of hastily erected brick walls and a tin roof in the middle of some placid fields. Sacks of grain piled in high mounds at the entrance hid them from prying eyes. They had debated where to take Dhiru Sood, but their favorite spot on the canal was too far and no one wanted to drive back to the factory, so the shed ended up being their chosen spot.

“Boys, you have to understand. I have the title papers; the law is on my side. This is not done,” Dhiru Sood said, his tremble sabotaging his show of bluster. “Let’s go home, and I will not tell anyone about this.” He folded his hands, asking for clemency. “This is just a misunderstanding.”

“What about the going to the commissioner’s office? Ha? Just a misunderstanding, ha?” Feroze said, punching Dhiru Sood on the side of his head.

“Please, I have small children,” Dhiru Sood pleaded. “I don’t want any trouble. I am happy to reimburse Avtaar Singh for the land. Please tell him I am ready to offer him anything he needs. In fact, why don’t you take me to him and I’ll tell him myself?”

Madan had had enough of this man. If Dhiru Sood knew that Avtaar Singh would come after him, then why had he gone forward? Wasting everyone’s time with unnecessary meetings and actions. And why did they always mention their children? Like having children was a defense against bad judgment.

He popped Dhiru Sood right in the mouth and the men cheered because not only did it shut him up but two teeth fell to the floor. Someone punched him in the gut and Dhiru Sood tried to talk again but went limp, collapsing to the floor. They began to kick him, rocking Dhiru Sood with the ferocity of their attack.

“Please . . .” begged Dhiru Sood.

“Let’s do this quickly,” Madan said. He wanted to be done and out with Jaggu. The men paused, their panting filling the shed, and looked to Madan. He knew they were waiting for him but he couldn’t lift his hand to ask for a knife or a gun. Under his heel, he could feel the beat of Dhiru Sood’s heart but all he could see was the small boy clinging to his legs, the braids of the little girl swinging in the air when her mother swept her up and away.

A racket at the entryway forced their attention to Gopal, who had dashed out to the car and returned with a big grin and a plastic bucket swinging in his hands. Something inside the bucket was slamming against its sides and emitting an alarming growl.

“Stand back,” Gopal said, placing the bucket down in line with Dhiru Sood, who was trying to rise but for the shaking of his legs and the agony of his beating. The bucket moved on the floor from the force of the crazed animal inside. Carefully, Gopal kicked the bucket to its side, aiming its mouth at Dhiru Sood. The lid fell off and out shot what looked to Madan like a large grayish yellow rat.