“Of course, beta. What you want to ask for?”
“I want my team to win the soccer match.”
Prakash laughed. “Bas, that’s all? Bhagwan will definitely grant you this wish.” He caressed the boy’s back. “I will pray bigger-bigger wish for my son.”
Ramesh insisted that they catch an auto rickshaw back to the train station when they were done. “Dada, my back is hurting,” he said.
Prakash fingered the bundle of notes he had in his pocket. He wondered if Edna had yet noticed that he had taken most of the money they had been saving inside a tin she kept in the kitchen. “Theek hai,” he said. “Let’s take a rickshaw.”
Back at the station, he bought two tickets for an overnight train to Goa. Once aboard, Ramesh talked nonstop, thrilled to be visiting the place that his mother had talked so much about. But suddenly, he looked thoughtful. “Dada,” he said, munching on the batatawadas Prakash had purchased at the last stop, “why Ma not coming with us?”
Prakash looked out of the train window. “It is a surprise,” he said finally. He turned to face his son. “Do you know who live in Goa?”
Ramesh shook his head.
“Your grandma and grandpa. Your ma’s mummy-daddy. We are going to see them.”
Ramesh’s face fell. “But Ma said they not wanting to see us.”
“They will. Once they see you.” Prakash reached over and ran his fingers delicately over Ramesh’s face. “Once they see this khubsurat face.”
And now they were standing on the bottom step, looking up at the house where Edna’s parents lived. Prakash felt a nervous quivering at the base of his throat. He longed for a drink to steady his nerves, but he had vowed not to touch the bottle while he was on this trip with Ramesh. So far, he had kept his promise.
He took Ramesh’s hand and climbed the two steps and knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again, a little louder. This time, they heard the shuffle of feet, and then the door opened and an old lady in a yellow dress peered at them. “Yes?”
Prakash cleared his throat. “Are you Agnes D’Silva?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“I is Prakash.” Even to his own ears, his English sounded awful. To recover, he said, “And this your grandson, Ramesh.”
Nothing happened. The old lady squinted a bit as she looked at Ramesh, but her face was impassive. The moment stretched on forever. “Wait,” Agnes finally said and disappeared.
Father and son stood in the afternoon sun, not daring to look at each other. For the first time it occurred to Prakash that the situation he had been imagining—the teary reconciliation, the remorseful grandparents, the triumphant return to Girbaug—would perhaps not happen. But then he heard a second set of footsteps, and his optimism returned.
An old man stood at the door. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and square-jawed. He also had the coldest eyes Prakash had ever seen. Those eyes were looking at him now and then looking away, as if they’d been displeased by what they beheld. “So you’re the bumpkin she married,” the man said. The eyes flickered toward Ramesh. “And this is the bastard.”
Prakash let out a cry of protest. “This is your grandson,” he said, as if the old man didn’t understand. “We came to—”
“You must be mistaken.” The old man spoke carefully, deliberately. “I don’t have a grandson. Because I don’t have a daughter.” He stepped back and shut the door.
They stood in shock, staring at the closed blue door. Prakash wanted to pound on it, tear it down, burst in and squeeze that old, grizzled throat until the man took his words back. But he suspected that in a fight with Edna’s father, he would lose. He had no resources with which to combat such deliberate meanness. Beside, Ramesh had heard enough damaging words. He needed to be protected from any further cruelty. “Come, Ramu,” he said, taking his hand. “Let’s go. This boodha is mad.”
They ate lunch at a beachside shack—prawn curry for the boy, chicken vindaloo for him. But the food tasted bitter to Prakash. To erase its taste, he ordered a glass of feny, the Goanese wine made from cashews. Then, another glass.
“Dada,” Ramesh said, flashing him a worried look. “Don’t drink so much, na?”
He looked at his son as if seeing him for the first time. He felt as if he understood his son completely—the pinched circumference of his present, the narrow limitations of his future. He felt an unbearable pity as he watched that young, eager face wolf down the curry rice. To obliterate that feeling of pity, he downed a third glass of feny.
He staggered out of the shack, Ramesh following at his heels. “You wanting to return to the hotel?” he asked the boy and was relieved when Ramesh shook his head no. The thought of returning to the run-down room with the peeling paint and the paan stains on the bathroom wall was too depressing. “Let’s lie here, only,” he said, flopping down on the sand. He was asleep within moments.
But not for long. He woke up twenty minutes later, the bitter taste still in this mouth. The idea for this trip had come to him as he had sat on his cot nursing the bruise where the American had hit him. He believed that Edna’s parents would thaw once they saw their beautiful grandson. That they would regret the years of absence and would insist that the three of them move to Goa. He would’ve been happy to do so. The American’s interest in his son was beginning to scare him. He wanted other people to claim Ramesh as their kin, wanted Ramesh to belong to a larger family—people with whom he shared the ties of blood.
Above Prakash, the sky was spinning and he cursed himself for having drunk so much feny so fast. He glanced to his left to where Ramesh was lying on the sand.
“Ramu,” he said. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, Dada.”
Prakash thought for a moment. “Ramu, don’t you ever be poor like your dada. This world doesn’t like poor people. You promise?”
“Promise, Dada.”
“Good. And Ramu, another thing. Don’t ever drink so much like your dada. Promise?”
“I promise, Dada.”
He was silent for a long time, gazing up at the swirling, spinning sky. “And Ramu. Don’t ever be an orphan like your father. Promise?”
“I promise, Dada.” Followed by a little giggle.
Prakash turned his head to face his son. “You is making fun of your dada?”
Ramesh was screwing up his nose from the effort of trying not to laugh. “Sorry, Dada. But how can I promise not to be an orphan? That, up to you.”
And suddenly, they were laughing, laughing so hard that Prakash felt a hot squirt of urine leak onto his pants. He immediately tightened his muscles. “Saala,” Prakash said, rolling toward his son and wrestling playfully with him. “Teasing your old father.”
“I wasn’t, Dada,” Ramesh squealed. “But what you said was so funny.”
The laughter and roughhousing did them both good, broke the spell cast by Edna’s father’s mean words. Prakash felt something free up in his heart. Curse the old man to hell, he thought. If he cannot spot a Kohinoor diamond in the dust, his misfortune. I know my son’s worth.
He sat on his haunches and pulled Ramesh close to him. Father and son sat in this position for a few minutes, staring at the water. He kissed the top of the boy’s head. “You are my life,” he whispered. “Always remember this.”
“I know, Dada.” This time, there was no mischief in the boy’s voice.
“Chalo,” Prakash said finally. “Let’s go to the market and buy your ma a few things. Some Goanese sweets I needing to get her. Then tomorrow morning, we will leave for Girbaug.”
“I want to stay, Dada. I like Goa.”
He kissed the boy again. “I know, beta. But so much school you’re missing. And your ma will be waiting for us.”
They arrived in Girbaug at nine the next evening, armed with goodies—bebinca and other sweets for Edna and Ramesh, two bottles of feny for Prakash, and two packets of Goanese cashews for Ellie miss. As he walked up the driveway, Ramesh skipping ahead of him, Prakash felt hi
s chest tighten. Despite the failure of his mission, he had loved every minute he’d spent with his son. Now, he would once again have to share Ramesh with others. He forced himself to remember the sweetness of their time together.
He belongs to me, he said to himself. This boy is mine and Edna’s. No one else’s.
CHAPTER 30
Five days had gone by since Prakash had brought the boy back, and Frank was still smarting from the insolence of the man. Prakash had wandered back home as if he’d had every right to take off with his son. And now he acted as if he was completely oblivious to the havoc he had wreaked—the anxiety he had caused Edna, the expense of the police search, the lost days of work the episode had cost Frank. Prakash had, in fact, acted outraged when he’d heard that the police had been looking for him all over Girbaug and in Aderbad. “What, I don’t have the right to go somewhere with my own son?” Frank had heard him yell at Edna. “Tell your ’Merican bossman to call off his pet dogs. What police charge me with? Taking my son on holiday?”
He had wanted to march out of his house then and smash in the bastard’s face. Pulverize it and then stand back and watch in satisfaction. But many things had stopped him: the memory of revulsion on Ellie’s face as he had gotten more and more involved in the police’s search for Prakash. Her hostility toward Gulab, who had frequently stopped by the house with the latest reports. Also, the memory of Ramesh comforting his father after Frank had pushed him in the courtyard. And finally, a beaming Ramesh walking into their house, bearing gifts from Goa for them. Looking for all the world as if he’d just returned from an honest-to-goodness real family vacation.
Ellie had been touched by the gifts. Well, let her be duped. He knew better. Prakash had had every intention of running away with the boy. The train ticket to Aderbad had been a ruse, to throw them off his scent. The fellow was cleverer than he looked, he’d give him that. Though why he’d returned after five days was a mystery. Probably ran out of money faster than he’d anticipated. Or maybe he had another trick up his sleeve. Maybe he was lulling them all into complacency, so that the next time he eloped with Ramesh, nobody would be worried. Well, he would just have to watch the boy like a hawk. Maybe have Satish drop him off and pick him up from school.
Frank looked at the stack of papers in front of him. He couldn’t believe how much work had piled up during the time he’d stayed home. Yet the thought of attacking the pile made his eyes ache. He also had over eighty e-mails in his in-box. Half of them seemed to be from fucking Pete, about the consignment that hadn’t left Girbaug yet.
He rubbed his forehead and stared out of the window, trying to figure out a way to thwart any plans Prakash might have for Ramesh. His phone rang and he eyed it with distaste before answering it. “Hello?” he said.
The caller let out a sigh that felt like a gust of wind in his ear. “Frank? This is Pete.”
“Hello, Pete.”
“Listen, this is a quick call. What’s going on with the consignment?”
So that’s how we play it these days, Frank thought. No small talk, no asking about Ellie. And this from a man who had been in his wedding and a pallbearer at Benny’s funeral.
“I think we’ll have it shipped out tomorrow.”
“You think? I need more of a reassurance than that, Frank. It’s already been—”
“I know how long it’s been delayed, Pete. I’m working on it.”
“You’re working on it? I don’t believe this. Listen, Frank, you seem to have forgotten that you have a friggin’ job. That we’re not paying you to sit at home and—”
“And you seem to have forgotten the fact that I’ve made you more money than any other person in your company, Pete.”
“So is that what you’re doing? Resting on your laurels?”
“No. I already told you the order’s just about ready to be shipped.”
There was a long, painful silence. And then Pete Timberlake said, “You know what, Frank? I’ve been thinking about this. I want you to come home. I’m pulling you out of India.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said. Your contract’s up. And really, we need an Indian face to head the plant. It’s time for you to come home.”
“Pete, have you lost it? You know I’m in the process of negotiating the new machinery for the plant that will cut our labor costs by a third—”
Pete laughed. “Have I lost it? That’s precious, Frank. You’re the one who blows off a deadline and sits at home moping around because some poor son of a bitch takes his own son on vacation, and you ask me if I’ve lost it?”
His hands were shaking so hard he needed both of them to hold the phone. “Listen, Pete. I’ll get the consignment out by tomorrow, I promise. Hell, even if I have to stay here the whole damn night I’ll make sure it’s done.”
Pete sighed. “Frank, it’s more than just the consignment. Look, with all the labor trouble you’ve had and stuff, I just think it’s better if you’re home.”
“Better for whom, Pete?” Frank said.
There was no mistaking the coldness in Pete’s voice. “Why, best for HerbalSolutions, Frank. For God’s sake. Don’t make this personal.”
Pete, you asshole, we’re friends, Frank wanted to scream at him. I’ve changed diapers on your sons. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to in this stilted, formal way? Instead, he said, “Look, Pete. Don’t make me beg. Jesus, Ellie’s gonna have a fit when she finds out.”
“Frank.” Pete’s voice was quiet. “What’re you gonna do? Live in exile the rest of your life? You and Ellie? India isn’t your home, bud. You gotta face up to…what has happened and move on. You know? I don’t think this is healthy, the fact that you even blew us off at Christmas.”
He was suddenly glad that Pete was sitting halfway across the globe from him. Because he would’ve physically hurt Pete if they’d been in the same room. You damn, smug prick, he thought, sitting in your office with your life intact, lecturing me about what’s healthy.
“Frank? You still there?”
“Yup. I’m just—” He tried to say more, but his voice cracked. His left eye began to twitch.
“Oh, shit,” Pete breathed. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Frank. But my mind’s made up. I need you back here. You can take—I dunno—two to three months to wrap things up over there. I can send Stan to help you, if you like.”
“Okay,” he said, wrestling with his emotions. He’d be damned if he’d break down in front of Peter Timberlake. “Listen, I need your word—you can’t mention this to Ellie. I—I need to tell her at the right time.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. That’s your business.”
“So I have your word on this?”
“Yup. But you better tell her soon, kiddo. Two months will go by fast.”
“Sure I can’t get you to change your mind, Pete?” he asked, hating himself for the beseeching quality his voice took on.
“Afraid not, Frank.”
“Okay. We’ll talk later,” Frank said.
He hung up the phone, and his first thought was of Ramesh. Leaving India meant leaving Ramesh behind. He tried to get out of his chair and couldn’t. His legs felt like they were made of hay, his head felt stuffed with cotton wool. Shit, he thought, maybe he was getting sick again. But even as he thought this, he knew that the truth was that he suffered not from the illness of the body but a disease of the soul. If love could be called a disease, that is.
The intensity of his emotions stunned him. When on earth had Ramesh become this important to his life? How was it that the thought of leaving India and reuniting with Scott, his mom, all the other people who had always lit up his galaxy, gave him no comfort or joy? He admitted the answer to himself: Ramesh had become the brightest star in that galaxy, his sun, and without the sun his future looked barren and dark. Without the sun—without the son—there was only the Father, lost and lonely, with nothing to guide his path.
He thought of his rituals with Ramesh—their morning ru
ns on the almost deserted beach; the monthly haircuts that he and the boy got at the salon at the Hotel Shalimar; the Sunday dinners at home, where Frank taught Ramesh how to use the proper silverware, even as Edna waited on them and beamed proudly at the sight of her son cutting into the chicken with his fork and knife.
And here was Pete wanting to take all this away from him. Wanting him to abandon Ramesh as if he was some litter that he’d picked up on the beach. He fought the urge to get on the phone again and plead with Pete or even threaten to quit. But he couldn’t risk Pete calling his bluff. Fuck Pete. Maybe he’d get a job with another multinational in India. But then what? he thought. There were no other foreign companies in Girbaug. If he was very, very lucky he might get something in Bombay. But that was a long shot, and even if he did, he might be able to see Ramesh once a month. How soon before the boy fell back in his studies, how long before he forgot his table manners, before his English went from bad to worse? Losing Ramesh slowly, over time, as he succumbed to the pull of his culture and family dysfunctions, would be more painful than losing him all at once.
Losing Ramesh was not an option. No. Ramesh had to go with them to America. He had to figure out a way to make it happen. There was nothing for the boy here in Girbaug.
He needed to think, think. Needed to buy some time. One thing was for sure—Ellie could not know about Pete’s ultimatum. He would have to carry on as if everything was normal. He looked around his office, still pinned to his chair. This is my life, he thought, and the bastard who calls himself my friend is destroying it. Making me renounce it. And I will—I’ll give up the chauffeured cars and the live-in help and the free housing and all the baubles Pete had strewn my way when he had wanted me to run the plant. But I will never give up on the true treasure, the real gem. Ramesh.
CHAPTER 31
“So what’s he doing that’s making you so nervous?” Nandita asked as Ellie and she wandered through the narrow alleys of Agni Bazaar.
The Weight of Heaven Page 30