Three Bargains: A Novel (45 page)

Madan lay atop Arnav’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was no more comfortable place in the world. He heard the swish of the bedroom door. Preeti came in, startled to find him at home in the middle of the day instead of at the office.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. In her hand was a nylon bag. She had come to collect some more of her things. Bit by bit she was disappearing from the house, and from his life.

He sat up and smoothed the rumpled bedcovers. “I went to see that lawyer, from the address given by Avtaar Singh.”

She stiffened. “And?”

“He says he can tell me what I need to know. He wants me to meet him at his house this evening.”

She was silent, and he willed her not to move. “Preeti,” he said. “After Arnav, it was hard for both of us to understand why we were still alive. How we could still be breathing when he wasn’t.”

She nodded. “I still don’t know why,” he said. “It seems a miracle, inexplicable, that we are. Such pain should’ve taken us too.”

Whatever he said next, he wanted to get right. “Pandit Bansi Lal,” he said, “gave me a lot of reasons to be angry with him. But I think the worst thing was he made me question what need or purpose there was to any kind of faith, in God or any other divinity beyond our understanding. So without faith, I did not know . . . could not recognize . . . the blessings that came my way. Without faith, I didn’t need to thank anyone for the miracles in my life. I took for granted that you should happen to me, Arnav should happen to me.

“But Pandit Bansi Lal also used to say that faith doesn’t come to a man from thin air. It has to have a starting point, a reason to come into existence. My beginning is you. I don’t want you to ever think, to ever feel, that finding my family in Gorapur, and finding my child, will deny you any part of me, this person who is lucky to have you.”

She leaned against the wall, looking off to the side, but he knew she had heard him. He waited while she wiped her eyes. “Since when have you started talking so much?” she said.

The strained tightrope he balanced on was unsteady, but he managed a small smile. It was true—in all the years they had been married, he’d probably never said so many words to her in one stretch.

“Preeti, before I shut up and go back to being my silent self, I want to ask—will you come with me?”

“Where?”

“To the lawyer’s place, this evening. Whatever I find out, whatever happens, I want you to be with me.”

She left the room without a word, but as he collected the car keys from the drawer of the foyer table, he heard her heels tapping on the stairway. She was rummaging through her purse as she descended, in a fresh, simple salwar, her face scrubbed and bright.

He had never turned to look up at her before. He had been too busy on the phone or he just never noticed. But Arnav had always turned and looked up at his descending mother, scrutinizing her carefully as if committing to memory the effortless joy with which she lived, recognizing what had drawn his father when they’d walked in the park in front of her house before he was born, what had made Madan say to Ketan-bhai, “Yes, why not?” Arnav had done that for him, lest his father should ever forget.

As they made their way to Alaknanda he glanced at Preeti, her puffy eyelids the only hint of what had taken place that afternoon.

“Have you brought any cash with you?” she asked.

“Some,” Madan said. “He did not ask for anything, but I brought some, in case.”

Turning into the gated colony, they drove past the central park surrounded by apartment complexes. “It’s Phase III B,” he said.

“There.” Preeti pointed, reading the painted numbers on the wall. Madan parked and they entered the building, climbing the switchback staircase to Apartment
4
B. Mr. Ganguli opened the door at the first ring, inviting them in.

Preeti and Naresh Ganguli said their namastes as Mr. Ganguli indicated the sitting room off to the side. A glass coffee table separated two sofas in the long room.

“Please sit,” said Mr. Ganguli. Madan and Preeti sat beside each other, exchanging a confused glance. The coffee table held a veritable spread of food. There were all sorts of crunchy namkeens in silver bowls, biscuits and pastries, rasgullas floating in heavy syrup.

“My wife will be right out,” said Mr. Ganguli. A woman appeared from the inside of their apartment, followed by a servant holding a server heaped with fresh pakoras.

Madan did not know what to make of this, and he saw the bewilderment on Preeti’s face as well. They rose to greet Mrs. Ganguli. She stared hard at Madan, but her tone was polite when she said, “Can I get you something? Tea? Or something cold?”

“No, that’s all right,” Preeti stammered, Madan nodding in agreement.

“No, please,” she insisted. “You have to have something.” She gave the retreating servant some instructions.

“We do not want to take up too much of your time,” said Madan. “As you’re expecting guests. If you have the information for us . . .”

“No we’re not expecting anyone but you. And we’re glad you brought your wife,” said Mr. Ganguli.

Mrs. Ganguli handed out the snack plates, insisting over their protestations that they take something, and she poured the tea, asking for their preferences in sugar and milk.

With everyone served, Mr. Ganguli sat back and took a long sip.

“Mr. Ganguli?” Madan said.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I wanted you to come here, to my home, because I wanted Bhavna to be here too. I will start at the beginning,” he said, when he saw they were at a loss for words. “You’re upset with Pandit Bansi Lal, and he was a shady character, I give you that, but he also gave us our greatest happiness.”

As Naresh Ganguli spoke, Preeti moved closer to Madan as if to shield him. Madan was thankful she was there so she could witness what Mr. Ganguli said, assure him later of what he had heard.

Naresh Ganguli took frequent sips of his tea to get his thoughts in order, and began his story. Blessed with one beautiful child a few years after their marriage, they were unable to have another. For a long while, they tried a variety of treatments—allopathic, homeopathic, pujas, yatras—refusing to give up hope even when the doctors did. At the time, in Naresh Ganguli’s practice, he used to spend many hours under the creaky fans at Tis Hazari court, swatting at flies and waiting for rulings. Another lawyer whom he knew reasonably well noticed his worry and Mr. Ganguli confided in him.

“It didn’t take much for me to tell him. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled hearing that he could help couples like us,” said Mr. Ganguli. “And I was right.”

The lawyer had helped Pandit Bansi Lal place a child a year before. From the adoption agencies, one was never sure what child from what poor family one would get, and the lawyer assured Mr. Ganguli that Pandit Bansi Lal only dealt with babies from good families. The pandit had contacted him recently. A baby would soon be available.

“After everything, we didn’t need much time to think about it,” Mr. Ganguli said, as his wife dabbed her eyes with her dupatta. “Pandit Bansi Lal wanted money, of course. I borrowed from my brother, we sold some of Bhavna’s jewelry, but it was all worth it when that night he put the baby in my arms—”

“The child was ours from then on,” his wife interrupted, a little defensively, unable to stanch the flow of tears streaming down her face.

Mr. Ganguli patted her hand. “Pandit Bansi Lal told us that an underage girl from a rich family had the baby, and would never look for it. He never said anything about the father. And since it was all under the table, we did not ask many questions. All we wanted was a healthy baby. We didn’t care about anything else.”

Madan was glad Preeti spoke up, because he could not get the words out. “You . . . you both? You’re the people who took the baby?”

Mr. Ganguli nodded. “I filed the birth certificate papers, after paying off the filing clerk, with our names as parents.”

Preeti turned to Madan, her face wet with tears, and he wondered when he would cease giving her reasons to cry. Bhavna Ganguli reached over to the side table and placed a mahogany photo frame in Madan’s hands. Preeti leaned in to look.

A young man and woman stood next to each other, smiling. A curve of a beach, a few palm trees, a white building in the background. The clean-cut young man had his arm over the woman’s shoulder.

“That’s in Goa, last year,” Mrs. Ganguli murmured.

Madan touched the glass reverently, his finger tracing the outline of the taller figure. “Is this . . . ?” the words could barely escape his lips. They dried on his tongue and clung to his heart and the roof of his mouth.

“Is this him?” Preeti asked.

Mrs. Ganguli leaned over too. “Oh, no, that’s our son Naveen. This”—her finger tapped the young woman grinning through the glass at Preeti and Madan—“is Nitasha,” she said. “This is—she is who was given to us—who came to complete our family.”

Madan felt the gentle weight of Preeti’s hand on his. “It’s the girl, Madan,” she said. “A girl.”

Madan looked at the picture of the girl in a blue T-shirt and white shorts, a tanned, pretty face, her hair hanging loosely over one shoulder.

“Is she here?” asked Preeti, looking around the place.

“Not at the moment,” said Mr. Ganguli. He traded glances with his wife. “She knows she is not ours by birth. We’ve told her.”

“Though she’s so smart she would’ve figured it out herself anyway.” Husband and wife shook their heads and shared a small private laugh, as only parents who recognized the specialness of their child could.

Mr. Ganguli said, “Look, you said this morning that all you wanted to do was make sure she’s all right. As you can see, she’s everything to us, to her brother. It was never a question with us; no matter how she came to us, she could never be more ours than if we . . .”

“Yes, I understand,” said Madan, but he sounded befuddled, as if he couldn’t comprehend what they were saying.

Then he heard Preeti’s voice, strong and clear. “We are grateful,” she said. “We are grateful for all you’ve done, and yes, Madan wanted to make sure that she was all right. But Mr. Ganguli, Bhavna-ji, we’ve gone through a . . . a very bad time recently and it made Madan look for . . . Nitasha.”

A name, thought Madan . . . Nitasha. He held the picture frame in his hands, seeking it out again and again, his reflection superimposed on the smiling girl’s.

“But if Madan could meet her—he won’t say what you don’t want him to say—but, we would be so thankful.”

Madan looked at her. How was she able to articulate his thoughts when he himself did not know what was going through his own wandering, agonized mind?

“Please,” Preeti said.

“We told her you were coming here today. Her brother took her out so we could meet you first,” Mrs. Ganguli said. “She’ll be going back soon to school in Boston. She’s at MIT, doing her master’s in chemical engineering.”

“She’s old enough. The decision is hers,” Mr. Ganguli said.

They all turned as the lock on the front door clicked open. A young man stepped into the room. He was nearly as tall as the doorway and they could see the resemblance to the Gangulis.

“Dad?”

Mr. Ganguli rose up hurriedly. “Naveen, come in,” he said. To Madan and Preeti he said, “This is my son.”

Naveen continued to look questioningly at his father, and when Mr. Ganguli gave him a small, firm nod, he moved aside. “She was impatient,” Naveen said to his father.

Madan should have been looking at the door but it was too much, and he turned to Preeti, and saw her smile, rise up and walk toward the door with her arms stretched out. His gaze trailed Preeti to the girl who had jumped out of the picture frame and into the doorway. Mr. and Mrs. Ganguli stood on each side, and her brother behind her, protecting her, but Preeti broke in and gave her a loose hug. “We’re very glad to see you,” she said. And Madan stood up and made himself put one foot before another. He wondered why he was moving so slow, when he should be running, flying, but he kept on until he was beside Preeti. The girl put her hand out, and they shook.

“I’ve been waiting for a long time,” Nitasha said.

“Not as long as me,” he said.