Three Bargains: A Novel (20 page)

I
T WAS EARLY, THE SUN BUT A PROMISE IN THE HAZE, WHEN
Madan got to the factory after his time off. A few of the overnight workers were stirring, but the giant machines, usually deafening with their clatter, were quiet. The familiar aroma—a cocktail of kerosene, smoke from nearby cooking fires and fresh wood shavings—made him want to embrace every bit of the factory.

The night watchman, looking heavy-eyed, saluted as he walked by. Madan made a mental note to check on him some night in case he was sleeping on the job.

“What are you doing here so early?” The car door slammed and Avtaar Singh emerged from the Contessa, Ganesh yawning in the front. Madan didn’t know what to say. He was worn out, seized by an excruciating restlessness that filled the space of his days. He could hardly sleep, and found trouble following any conversation. Thankfully, Avtaar Singh didn’t wait for an answer.

“Let’s have tea,” Avtaar Singh said, heading straight for his office.

Madan wanted to run up and hold him close, inhale that sophisticated cologne so out of place in these crude settings and have Avtaar Singh reassure him that nothing had changed, that it never would. Avtaar Singh always knew what to say.

Madan sent the watchman to the dhaba down the street with a couple of rupees and the tall glass tumbler kept especially for Avtaar Singh’s tea, for while he enjoyed the foamy sweet dhaba tea, Avtaar Singh did not trust the cleanliness of the glasses the dhaba used.

When the tea arrived, Madan placed it on Avtaar Singh’s desk, retrieving from the side console the box of Marie biscuits. He lit the incense stick under the portrait of Avtaar Singh’s father and then took his seat across from him.

“So, what’re you doing here so early?” he asked again.

“Nothing, saab. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Some problem with collections? With the boys?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Hmm,” said Avtaar Singh, taking a sip. “I was thinking . . .” Avtaar Singh leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Madan waited.

Avtaar Singh sighed and opened his eyes. “What was I saying?”

“You were thinking of something, saab.”

“Yes, yes. You know Rimpy, Dimpy. They want to go out of town for a while . . . Mussoorie or someplace like that.”

Madan nodded. The twins had brought up the idea of a trip to Mussoorie with him as well, saying, “We want to go somewhere. Gorapur has nothing, only movies and buffaloes.” Madan had left the confines of Gorapur a few times when driving Avtaar Singh to nearby towns for work and once to Delhi, and it was never more than overnight. Leaving Gorapur always left him drained and on edge, impatient to return. He was happiest here, and never saw the sense or the reason for wanting to spend time in places with unfamiliar bends in the roads and people who did not know who you were.

“Anyway,” said Avtaar Singh. “I’ve been thinking about it. Memsaab would like to go as well, they all want a change.” He gave a disbelieving laugh and Madan smiled too. Neither could imagine being dissatisfied enough with Gorapur to leave, even for a short time.

“Let them go,” continued Avtaar Singh. “It will be much cooler up in the hills away from the heat, and it’s true the girls haven’t had much of a holiday this time. But what I wanted to ask is, would you go with them?”

Madan wished that Avtaar Singh would give the order, tell Madan to do what he needed. Yet he had asked, giving Madan a choice that really did not exist, for he could not refuse Avtaar Singh. He didn’t really want to go; the thought of spending even a few days with memsaab and the two girls was not appealing.

“Memsaab asked that you go, so if the girls want to do sightseeing you can take them around. I know you don’t like leaving Gorapur, but maybe it’ll be a good break for you before college starts.”

Madan, at least, had the illusion of it being his own decision. Avtaar Singh extended that formality to no one else.

“Whatever you say, saab. When do they plan to leave?”

“Soon, soon,” said Avtaar Singh. “Oh, and there will be two cars going—ours and Trilok-bhai’s. His wife and daughter are going as well. They made these plans the other night. Trilok-bhai has a house near Mussoorie, so once they call up there to make it ready, in two, three days’ time I think . . .”

Avtaar Singh went on talking, but Madan heard no more, and before he knew it he was back home, telling his mother that he was going away for a few days.

Mussoorie. One road led up to it from the valley below, curving and snaking precariously up the mountainside, requiring all of Madan’s attention. Honking cars, overloaded trucks and shepherds herding goats all fought for space on a narrow road that ended abruptly by spilling into a large square that signaled the entry to the hill town.

Minnu and Neeta memsaab were in one car with Trilok-bhai’s driver, Bhola, an elderly man who, like all the rest of the help, had been with their family for as long as anyone remembered. In the other car were Madan and all the girls. Rimpy and Dimpy had wanted it like this so that they could talk and listen to their own music.

“No serious talk, okay, Neha?” Rimpy said when they stopped to pick her up.

“Agreed,” Neha said. “From what I’ve heard so far, my views aren’t shared by all.” She met Madan’s eyes as she handed him her bag and smiled.

Heaven’s End, Trilok-bhai’s family bungalow, was a few kilometers away from the town of Mussoorie. The mothers decided to stop in town to pick up groceries before proceeding on. Shops crowded the square, and in the middle stood a statue of Mahatma Gandhi caught in midstride, his walking stick in front as always.

“It’s cold,” said Dimpy, shoving her hands deep into her jacket pockets.

“If you’re cold, think how he must be feeling,” said Neha, nodding toward the half-clothed statue of Gandhi in his dhoti as small as a loincloth. In tandem, the twins glanced at Gandhi and then began to laugh, and even Madan, overhearing them from the other side of the car, allowed himself a smile.

They drove into Heaven’s End as the sun descended over the snowcapped peaks in the distance, bathing the old colonial bungalow in a buttery light. After the daylong drive, they were glad to be out of the cramped cars and decided to leave any exploring for the next day.

Trilok-bhai’s caretaker, who doubled as a cook, seemed glad for the company. Madan tried stifling his yawns as the old men continued to converse after dinner, but then excused himself. He thought sleep would come easily—he was tired after driving all day—but hours later, he tossed and turned.

It was no use. He pulled on his jacket and shoes and stepped outside. Moonlight flooded the hillside, bright enough to make his way around. The caretaker and Bhola were fast asleep in their rooms.

An expansive, well-manicured lawn surrounded the house in the front, but at its end the mountain reclaimed its space and the land fell away down a steep hillside. A short railing marked the beginning of the descent. Madan stood over it, looking into the shadows below.

“Careful,” said a voice behind him.

He didn’t move at first, giving himself time to breathe. He turned around and said, “You shouldn’t be out here.”

She came to the railing, peeking over as he had a moment ago. Her hair fell forward, draping her cheek, and he shoved his hand in his pockets to keep from reaching out to touch it.

She leaned against the railing, and he backed away as though to protect himself against a blow. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he repeated, the words hanging like a silent scream in the air.

“Yet here I am,” she said.

She slid down and sat on the grass, her back against the rail.

“Sit with me . . . Madan,” she said.

Madan looked up at the silent, slumbering house.
Come back
, it said.
Walk away. You’ve always listened to reason. Walk away and it will be okay.
Then he looked down at her and the house shut up like someone had cut out its tongue.

He slid down and they sat side by side, legs stretched out in front of them.

“Yes, memsaab,” he said.

“Don’t call me that,” she said

He didn’t look at her. “You may not agree with my thinking, but you don’t have to rub it in by calling me memsaab,” she said.

After a while he said, “Why did someone like you get into all that anyway?”

“Someone like me?” She laughed. “You mean the daughter of the great Trilok-bhai?”

When he nodded stiffly, she said, “I’m sorry. It’s not funny, he was really upset.”

And then she began to laugh, doubling over and wiping her eyes. Madan glanced toward the house, sure someone could hear.

“I’m sorry. I hated going to school in Delhi. My father thought the usual—convent-school-educated girl would make a good match. Sent me to live with my chacha. I begged in the beginning to come back home. But he refused to listen. And then, when I found friends and people I liked and everything finally became bearable, it upset him, so he dragged me back to Gorapur, and now I’m here . . . sitting with you.”

“And that’s funny,” said Madan.

She stopped at once. “No, no. It’s because now I really want to be here . . . right here.”

A girl from school had invited Neha to a meeting of the Youth Communist Party when she saw her reading a paper on “Communism in Plato’s
Republic
,” she told Madan. At her first meeting—Madan sensed her excitement—these people, they made so much sense, talking about equality and a workers’ state. The meetings took place during the day at a nearby college’s cafeteria. She gave her attendance at school and then slipped out with the other girl. It was easy; the school never thought girls from such good families would attempt leaving the grounds, so there wasn’t much security. And it was wonderful—meeting, talking, believing in something so strongly that you could see no other way. They even held a few protests.

Then one day her uncle and aunt came to school to pick her up earlier than usual. No one could find her, and when she returned it seemed like the entire Indian army was standing outside. Trilok-bhai let her finish school, but as soon as it let out she was back in Gorapur.

“Now she . . . my mother . . . they all keep a watch on me like I’m the Koh-i-Noor diamond. They thought I was escaping school to meet up with some boy.”

“And . . . there was no one?” Madan asked.

“There were quite a few boys who were members of the YCP, the Youth Communist Party. But no.” She sighed. “All I did was go back and forth—school, home, home, school. Here were people who argued and debated and thought hard and fought for their point of view, coming and going as they pleased. My parents, my brothers, still don’t believe I went to all this trouble to get to know other people besides them, to have thoughts besides theirs.”

“In that regard,” said Madan, “I don’t think that is where the country is headed.”

“The death of Nehru’s socialism and an open economy? You think that will work here?”

He nodded. “We all want to be our own boss. Isn’t that what we say, ‘Roti, kapda aur makan’? But we want to be the boss of our own basic necessities and have the freedom to multiply them without anyone—the government or anyone else—setting any limits.”

“You sound like Avtaar Uncle,” she said. She laughed again and then shivered. The temperature had dropped, and as much as they wanted to talk more, it was freezing.

Reluctantly they got up. “Good night, Madan,” she said, and held out her hand. He considered it for a moment and then took her hand in his own.

“Sleep well, memsaab,” he said.

After breakfast, the twins were raring to go. “We’ll meet you later,” said Minnu memsaab, “just take them out somewhere.”

The morning was clear and crisp but Madan found it hard to keep his eyes on the road. He was tempted to go on looking at Neha.

In town, they headed to Camel’s Back Road, where Madan procured horses for them to ride along the curving lane, the blue-green deodar trees perfuming the air with their cedarlike aroma. Flocks of chestnut-feathered bulbuls rustled in the branches, and trails of mist lingered around the lichen-dusted tombstones clinging to the hillside at the old British cemetery.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” said Dimpy as the girls pointed out things that caught their interest along the way. The horses lumbered on, used to traversing this path all day. The twins and Neha rode a little way ahead while Madan hung back, but she turned around now and then, catching his eye.