Three Bargains: A Novel (44 page)

It had taken a few weeks to get everything in order, to explain to the investors, to get everyone on board, to draw up contracts, sign and send the documents to Avtaar Singh. Madan had promised there would be no other major changes. He would see Jeet Megacity to its completion. The opening ceremony would go as planned, but without Madan and Preeti.

Before these transitions, Madan purchased three apartments in the names of Jaggu’s children, and a villa for Swati and Jaggu. The value of these bits of real estate along with the rental income from the properties should cover the losses Jaggu would incur from the opening of the movie theater in Jeet Megacity. The owner of the movie theater chain had promised Madan that Jaggu could have the job of managing the multiplex theater, if he wanted it.

Madan’s cell phone beeped. Ketan-bhai and Madan sat up straighter. It was Jaggu.

“Your people have just left,” Jaggu said. Madan could hear the nervousness in his voice. Jaggu was at the timber factory after many years. “He says he wants to talk to you first.”

There was the scrape of chairs and the fuss of the phone changing hands. “Leave me,” Madan heard a gruff voice say. Avtaar Singh was sending Jaggu and whoever else was there out of the room.

He heard Avtaar Singh’s heavy, deliberate inhale. “You should’ve brought me the papers yourself,” Avtaar Singh said.

“They told you what I want in return,” Madan said.

This was his final handshake with Avtaar Singh. Never again did he want to hear the name or squander another moment of his life on the conceits of this man.

“Why do we have to fight?” Avtaar Singh said.

“Fight?” He was fast losing patience. “I’m not fighting. This is a business transaction.”

“You can come back, you can help me.” His voice lowered as if he if didn’t want anyone to overhear. “I have no one.” The complaint was soft, but the words were clear with yearning. “I’m surrounded by buffoons, there’s no one I can trust. Who’ll follow me when I’m gone? What’s done is done. Come back to where you belong. It’ll be like before, you and me—”

“You have your daughters,” Madan interrupted.

“Daughters?” He was abrupt again, angry. “Girls . . . they get married and leave, they go to their own families. But, my son. I need my son—”

Madan disconnected the phone.

“What happened?” asked Ketan-bhai “Did he tell you? He signed the papers; he can’t go back on his word.”

Madan couldn’t speak. He was at a loss, his agitated heart dragging against the currents of time.
I need my son.
The words fell gently and landed with a thousand pinpricks. His cell phone rang and Madan stared at it, unhearing. The rustle of Avtaar Singh’s voice filled his ear as he battled the potency of those words, and from some long-unheeded place a quiet wail arose, decrying the infallible power they possessed to undo him. The phone rang on insistently, but his every breath dueled against the wrenching need to run to Avtaar Singh, to be in his presence, to walk alongside him again.

“Madan?” Ketan-bhai prompted.

Madan picked up the phone. It was Jaggu.

“Have you got a pen?” Jaggu sounded excited. “I have an address.”

Madan trod softly around his room, collecting his things, the morning sunlight still weak and undecided. There was much that refused to let him rest. He contemplated the address on the square of paper before slipping it into his pocket. “Avtaar Singh said Pandit Bansi Lal made all the arrangements,” Jaggu had said. “The address is for a lawyer, an Advocate Naresh Ganguli. But listen to this, his office is near Lajpat Nagar. In Delhi.”

Delhi? How could it be? The city that gave him shelter, concealing him even from himself, allowing him to rise from his despair, and sending him fleeing back into those very depths again? He’d sped toward it on that clattering train. Had the baby, his child, been on a parallel journey at the same time as Madan back then? Had Delhi hidden them both, even from each other?

Before following the trail of the address, he needed to make one quick stop. He had driven past the Hanuman Mandir near his house many times, barely noticing the temple’s small white dome and walls decorated with strings of marigolds. The bell rang frequently as the morning worshippers came in, and tendrils of heavy, smoky incense tickled his throat. Madan removed his shoes and bought a cane bowl filled with flowers and prasad from the outside stall before joining the queue of worshippers waiting in line for their blessings.

What would he have done if Preeti were not there when he had returned from Gorapur? Would he have given up this search and gone after her, or would he have accepted her decision to leave? Either way seemed impossible to contemplate. No longer would he let fate flip his life like a coin, forcing him to choose one side or the other.

No, now was the time to demand from fate or from himself, or whoever was listening, that he wanted both—heads and tails, before and after, all together and all forever. And he hoped he had the time. Time enough to finish what he was looking for. And time enough to make her understand that if she was not with him, the rest could not exist because it would not matter. One could not be without the other.

He reached the head of the line. The pandit continued his chanting as he took the flowers and prasad from Madan, placing the offerings before the statue of Hanuman. Madan cupped his hands for the tiny spoon of holy water, sipping it and spreading the rest over the top of his head. The pandit dotted the vermilion tikka, cold and wet, on his forehead. Madan joined his hands and bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. But nothing came to him; he could not think what exactly to ask for. “God bless you, son,” he heard the pandit say, and then it was time to move out of the way for the next person in line.

The drive to Lajpat Nagar was like every other drive in the city, with its amalgamation of fits and starts, crowded red lights and traffic jams. Hopping out to ask a auto-rickshaw driver for directions, the driver turned the car into a drowsy street, inching along, peering at the numbers and pulling up in front of a building with a tempered glass door.

Madan peered at the name printed in gold lettering on the door:
NARESH GANGULI, ADVOCATE
. He took out the paper from his pocket to make sure, but he did not need it. This was the place.

He looked around. There were a few cars parked up and down the road, and a hawker rattled by with a covered cart. He pushed open the doors and walked into the carpeted waiting room, well furnished with potted plants and comfortable chairs. A lady in a heavily starched sari was at the desk.

“I would like to see Mr. Naresh Ganguli,” Madan said.

“Mr. Ganguli is in court. Do you have an appointment?”

“No. When will he be back?”

“I’m not sure, but if you want to see him you must make an appointment.”

Madan pinched the bridge of his nose to stop himself from shaking the woman and demanding she call Naresh Ganguli to appear right now. Her phone rang and he took the opportunity to take a deep breath, wresting his temper under control.

“Oh, Mr. Ganguli,” he heard her say. “Yes, sir. Okay, sir. There’s a client to see you, sir. No, no appointment.” She listened and then placed the receiver against her shoulder. “What’s this about?” she asked Madan. “Did someone send you?”

“It’s a personal matter. And I’ll wait,” he said, taking a seat. Looking at the messages on his phone, he thought about returning the calls, but was too restless. The hours passed slowly, and Madan nearly nodded off when the door swung open, sending the papers on the secretary’s desk flying.

“I tell you, Saloni,” said the man who walked in, placing a stack of files on her desk, “one stay order after the other; it’s a wonder any work gets done in this country.”

Saloni settled her desk and said, “Mr. Ganguli, this is the gentleman waiting for you.”

“Yes, yes.” He turned around.

Naresh Ganguli shook Madan’s hand, his head of thick white hair shaking with him. He carefully studied the business card Madan handed him.

“Come in, please,” he said. “I have a few minutes and we can talk. These days property issues are the number one cases for me. I have come across them all.”

Naresh Ganguli indicated the chair across from his desk as he took off his black robe and hung it behind the door.

“It’s not a property issue, Mr. Ganguli,” Madan said.

“Oh,” said Mr. Ganguli. “You said personal, so I assumed it was property. I do not deal with family law, you see, I can refer you to someone—”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Madan. “It’s . . .” He stopped to get his thoughts in order. What should he say to assure Mr. Ganguli’s cooperation? Maybe he should have brought his own lawyer along. A lawyer knows how to talk to a lawyer.

Madan took a deep breath. “Mr. Ganguli, it’s about a child, a baby. Over twenty years ago a Pandit Bansi Lal from Gorapur—” Madan broke off.

Naresh Ganguli went as pale as his hair. He jumped up and shut the half-open door. Back at his desk, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead.

“Who are you?” Mr. Ganguli whispered.

“Please, Mr. Ganguli, don’t be alarmed. I only want information. I want to know where the child went, who took it. I used to know Pandit Bansi Lal. I know most of his dealings were not so black-and-white, but I’m not here because of that. I just want to know about the baby.”

“Why?” he asked harshly, a stubborn tone in his voice.

“Mr. Ganguli,” said Madan. “I am that child’s father.”

They stared at each other across the desk, each refusing to look away. Naresh Ganguli wiped his brow again. “Look, Mr. Ganguli,” Madan said. “We can be civil about this or not, it’s up to you, but I’ve come a long, long way, and gone through hell to be here. If it’s proof you want, I can go back to Gorapur and bring half the town. All I want is my question answered.”

“Let me think.” Rising up, Mr. Ganguli paced back and forth. “Once we tried to get in touch, find out if we could meet with the mother or father. We were rebuffed badly, threatened and told it would not be good for us if we tried to look for the parents. It scared everyone.”

“You tried to find us?” Staggered by the disclosure, Madan stood up.

“But why now? Why after all this time?” asked Mr. Ganguli, wringing his hands. “The child is an adult.”

“I know more than anyone how much time has passed,” Madan said. “I mean no harm. Mr. Ganguli, please understand.” His voice choked. “I want to know what happened. I can go on my knees and beg if you want, I can pay you, but I need to find my child.”

Naresh Ganguli looked like he was going to throw up.

“You look like you have children of your own, you look like a father, Mr. Ganguli,” said Madan. Mr. Ganguli reluctantly nodded. “Then you understand.”

Mr. Ganguli stared at him, his eyes buried in a layer of crinkles, a frown cutting his forehead in half. He laid his hand on Madan’s shoulder. “Sit,” he said. “Sit.” He guided Madan down to the chair and took a seat again.

“It’s quite a shock . . . after all these years . . . hearing the name of Pandit Bansi Lal, Karnal . . . I put it all out of my mind.”

“You have the information I need?” asked Madan.

“Yes,” said Naresh Ganguli. “I do. But what about the child’s mother?”

“She’s not in the picture,” Madan said. “It’s only me.”

Mr. Ganguli absorbed this and said, “You’ll have to come to my house.” He wrote down the address, handing it to Madan.

He didn’t take it. “Mr. Ganguli, I really have no intention of leaving without the information I came for.”

“And you will have it,” he said. “But not here, not in my office. This is a real address, you can check with the receptionist outside. I’ve been in this office for many years. I’m not going anywhere. Come to my house at six o’clock this evening and we can talk more then.”

Still Madan stubbornly refused to take the card.

“You have waited this long,” said Mr. Ganguli. “What are a few hours more?” Again he held out the card to Madan.

Madan finally took it, glancing at the address scribbled on the back of the business card. “Six o’clock,” he said, “but you better have it then.”

“I will,” said Mr. Ganguli.