by Tania Malik
Nitasha, sitting with Mrs. Ganguli in the pressing crowd under the awning that stretched over the central park of the Gangulis’ apartment complex, gave a friendly wave, still treating him like an uncle who has come for a brief visit. Mrs. Ganguli, unable to make herself heard over the timbre of the loudspeaker blaring music and prayers, pointed Madan in the direction of the men’s seating area.
He found Mr. Ganguli, shaking his hand before sitting down cross-legged on the white sheet. Naveen, sitting with his father, smiled in greeting at Madan. He was a reserved young man who, like his father, was a lawyer, though he worked for an international conglomerate’s local office.
Madan felt a pat on his knee. Mr. Ganguli rose, indicating that Madan should follow him. He got up and filed out behind Mr. Ganguli and Naveen. “I’m not one for such long-winded things,” said Mr. Ganguli as they emerged under the stars, the warm air refreshing after the cloistered tents. “And you don’t seem the jagrata kind. Our association insists on this once a year. Bhavna is more involved, but I tell her to keep me out of it.”
Back in the apartment, they sat in the drawing room and Naveen poured drinks, serving his father and Madan a whiskey and getting a beer for himself. They talked about politics and business and the surprising efficiency of the subway system.
Madan asked Naveen about his work and as Naveen answered, Mr. Ganguli interjected. “These children, Madan, wonderful opportunities for them these days. Not like us sweating in the dusty courts. All they do is write briefs all day. What a life!”
Madan laughed and Naveen said, “Dad, it’s not like we don’t work hard.” Mr. Ganguli fondly slapped his son’s back to show it was in jest.
“Yes, Madan,” Mr. Ganguli went on, fully immersed in praise of his children. “I never had to worry with these two. I knew they would do well, never had to worry about their studies, whatever my income. Naveen didn’t want to go abroad; he studied law here. And when Nitasha wanted to study in America, the money from the trust was very helpful with her tuition and other fees.”
“Trust?” said Madan, picking up on the word like it was gold among the grit. “What trust?”
Mr. Ganguli clammed up, looking dumbfounded, as if some other person had spoken. Naveen glanced at his father in exasperation.
“It’s okay,” said Mr. Ganguli to Naveen. “So what if he knows?” He reached into his pocket and handed Naveen some keys. “Get the file from the Godrej almirah,” he said.
Naveen disappeared into the apartment. “This sometimes makes me talk too much,” Mr. Ganguli said, shaking his glass. “But really, what is there to hide?”
Naveen returned and Madan forced himself to keep sitting, to ignore his growing trepidation, his clammy back, the urge to grab Preeti and run. Run out of the room and away from the red file folder, and from Mr. Ganguli unwinding the string sealing the file closed.
“Nitasha had been with us for about a year at the time,” he said, opening the file and laying it on the coffee table. “We were living in another place then. We were so happy; Naveen here was excited to have a sister. Then one day this man showed up at the door.
“At first we didn’t let him in. He looked quite frightening, didn’t he?” Mr. Ganguli turned to Naveen, who nodded, even though he was probably too young to remember, but he’d heard the story often enough.
“He said he was from Gorapur and he was here about the child. The papers were not fully filed by then, so we were afraid he was here to take her away, that someone changed their mind. We wouldn’t let him in.” Mr. Ganguli paused. “When you came to my office that first day, it was almost a repeat of what I went through then. But he said he wanted a few minutes of our time and he wasn’t there to cause trouble.”
Mr. Ganguli began to rifle through the papers in the file. “He had a fancy car; not many people had a car like that at the time. In fact, it’s not manufactured anymore. What was it?” He tapped his forehead, trying to recall.
“A white Contessa,” Naveen supplied. Madan almost leapt up, but the pressure building in his head kept him down.
“Yes,” said Narash Ganguli. “Anyway, he came in; he had this file in his hand.” He held up the file.
“What did he say?” Madan managed.
“He said he knew the child’s father and he wanted to see the baby. He wanted to see that she was healthy and happy, and well settled in our home. He wanted to meet us. Bhavna was hesitant—we both were—but those eyes . . . those eyes could convince you of anything. So she brought Nitasha out. He held her in his arms, it wasn’t for long, but he stared at Nitasha like he was ready to eat her up. Then he gave her back and said, ‘Yes, she looks so much like him.’
“He set up a trust, he said, a trust she would get at eighteen that was for her education. He was adamant. Not for her wedding, or for her other needs as she grew. He could help with those things if we needed, but this was solely for her education. Her father had so much promise, he said, and she will too. I wanted to ask how he was so sure, but he wasn’t the type of man you questioned. Bhavna and I hardly said a word, and it happened very quickly. He handed this to us and left.”
Naresh Ganguli removed a sheet of paper and, placing it on top, slipped the file onto Madan’s lap. Madan stared down at the official-looking sheet, yellowed with age, the stamp of the notary public a faded inky swirl of blue.
His finger reached out to trace the familiar signature, one he could still replicate exactly as it was here, the sweeping A and the resolute r and the demanding, mercurial S.
Avtaar Singh.
“Nitasha doesn’t know much about this,” Mr. Ganguli said. “Naveen helped me open the trust for her America studies. I can picture Avtaar Singh to this day sitting on our sofa, holding Nitasha in his arms. Who was this Avtaar Singh to you?”
Madan stared at the flood tide of printed words, but understanding eluded him. He placed the file and papers on the desk and, rising up, hastily stepped away.
“Please,” he said, “I must go.”
Taken aback, they tried to follow him to the door, but he was wishing them good night, saying he would speak to them soon, and then he was gone, taking the stairs two steps at a time.
He signaled to Preeti in the mass of women. Nitasha was not with them, and though Preeti looked strangely at him, she bade Mrs. Ganguli a hurried goodbye and emerged from the crowd.
He grabbed her hand. “We have to go,” he said.
“What is it?” Clutching her purse, she adjusted her dupatta, tripping over her own feet as he pulled her along. “Madan, what’s the matter?” She was barely in the car before he reversed and then sped down the street.
“What is it, Madan? Slow down. What happened?”
He pulled over to the side and got out of the car. Though it was late, the market beside which he parked was lively. Lights streamed out of the row of shops and lean-tos, and music blared. Under the canopy of an eatery, people stood by their motorcycles and scooters, eating fish tikkas and mutton kebabs off paper plates, chutneys of mint and coriander dripping down their fingers. The air smelled of grilled meat and rising bread.
In a barren park behind a chain-link fence, teenage boys played cricket by the light of the street and passing cars. Preeti came out to stand by Madan. They leaned against the car, and the boys played, the bowler’s momentum lifting him off the packed dirt, his feet cycling in the air as if attempting to cross a great divide, the released ball hurtling to the waiting batter, the thwack of bat and ball, and the fielders scattering, their eyes on their moving target.
Of all the things Avtaar Singh could have done for his child, he bestowed on her the gift of education. Madan wished he could feel indignant, swear at him, curse him out. He wanted to burn with the familiar anger that kept him warm these many years. But instead he took Preeti’s hand and held it to his heart. He tried to imagine Avtaar Singh stirring from Gorapur, making the long journey to hold his daughter in his arms, to see her, to cradle her and to give her his blessings. Yet as he puzzled ove
r these images, struggling to gain momentum against the turbulence of emotions pounding through him, he could feel Avtaar Singh’s reach, firm and enduring, over land and river. He told Preeti then, the truth becoming plainer to him in his retelling. The sharp ax of regret had long ago brought down the tallest, strongest, most unconquerable tree.
Madan glanced at his watch. Preeti stretched in the seat beside him, her limbs cramped from the car journey. They would be reaching Jaggu’s house soon, and so he waited patiently for the Kanwariyas, the pilgrims swathed in bright saffron dhotis, shorts and T-shirts, to walk on ahead, while he slowly trailed in his car behind them.
Madan pointed out the train station to Preeti, unchanged since he had first arrived as a child. Two platforms sandwiched the twin tracks, and when a train pulled in, people grabbed their children and bundles of belongings, spilling out on either side, some onto the platform, others onto the train tracks.
On the long benches of an outdoor restaurant, a group of men sat talking and eating their lunch, looking out of place on the fraying edges of Gorapur. They were the last batch of project managers from Jeet Megacity, and soon they would be gone. Jeet Megacity would be up and running. Families had begun moving in, streetlights flickering on, stores opening, fountains sputtering to life. The last of the cranes were moving out and on to Jeet Industrial City, which would begin construction shortly. Madan was overseeing Jeet Megacity to the end, but would not be involved with Jeet Industrial City. And, though when the time came there would be one last wistful pang, he knew he would gladly let Jeet Megacity go. It belonged to everyone but him now—to the Avtaar Singhs, and the Jaggus and Swatis and their children, and to their children after them.
Nitasha had returned to school, and he mirrored the Gangulis’ sadness at her departure. He would have felt the same way if it were Arnav. If he could, he would hold on to his children, these beings fashioned equally with joy and heartache, and never let them go. Never let them be farther away than the reach of his hand or the roof of his house.
The road widened and Madan was able to drive around the Kanwariyas. They walked barefoot, these pilgrims, from their villages to the town of Hardiwar and back, for some a journey of a thousand kilometers or more. In Hardiwar they collected water from the Ganges River for consecration in the Lord Shiva temples of their villages. The Kanwariyas dotted the roadways all the way from Delhi to Gorapur as he and Preeti had driven here, visible from afar by the poles they carried on their backs, festooned with brightly colored scarves, from which hung the pots brimming with Ganges’ holy water.
The Kanwariyas surrounding his car were mostly young men, and even a boy not more than fourteen. With no harvest work during the monsoon months, some of these young men were on pilgrimage to keep themselves busy, while others wanted Lord Shiva’s blessings, or a wish granted, or the respect of their community when they returned with the holy water for their hometown’s temple.
Yet whatever the reason, like all pilgrims they walked on with the knowledge that no matter how rutted the road or hot the sun, how heavy the load or how distant the holiest point of their journey may be, it was only when they returned home that their pilgrimage was truly over.
When they got to Jaggu’s house, the family was waiting for them. The kids and Swati flitted around Preeti, exclaiming at the gifts Madan had remembered to bring with him this time around. His mother had left for a pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi with her temple group. “She spends most of her time at the temple now,” Jaggu said with a shrug.
Madan dropped off their bags and made sure Preeti was settled in. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come inside with you?” Jaggu asked, car keys jiggling in his hand.
“Yes,” said Madan. “Just drop me off.” He didn’t want to have a car waiting outside for him, his own or Jaggu’s. He wanted no temptation, no means of ready escape at hand.
They drove silently through town, past maize stalks and white egrets, past the lanky eucalyptus trees lining the roadways and the hunched women in the rice fields. One day, he’d told Nitasha, I’ll show you Gorapur. And he longed for the time when he would take her wading between the rice fields, and they would see the dabchicks skittering across the ponds, and gnaw on sugarcane straight from the field, fish in the canal and climb the lookout towers from which every horizon was visible. They would thread their way through markets lined with wooden carts heaped high with puffed rice and fresh fruit, where storefronts spilled out onto the sidewalks and makeshift temples grew under the shade of the banyan trees.
But where would he take her first?
“We’re here,” Jaggu said, as though Madan were not already aware of the sign soaring above the iron gate.
He didn’t hear Jaggu drive off. He stepped through the iron gate and over the chasm of the intervening years. The factory was as he had left it, buzzing with activity, as if carrying on wholly for him.
Above him, the ceiling of sugar-brown dragonflies pulsed and shifted. The pitch of their humming picked up as he walked under the hundred rolling eyes. The ground was soft with layers of sawdust. Somewhere under these long-standing layers there must be a network of his old footsteps, fossilized in their various stages of growth, like a yardstick of years gone by. He took a few steps farther in. The imprint of his shoes remained for a moment before the breeze coming off the rice fields blew sawdust over them once again.
A truck trundled through the gate, the driver calling for help with the unloading. The sharp smell of wood glue rose from the vats at the far end of the factory. The workers paused in their labor, watching as he lingered every few steps over this and that, staring off into the distance and nodding to himself as if checking off a list in his head.
He picked his way through the hillocks of logs and wound around the machines and piles of finished boards. There wasn’t anyone around the giant steel furnace, yet from behind its closed door he heard the flames roar like a muffled creature, its waves of heat causing the surrounding air to bend and flicker hypnotically.
There was a crunch of footsteps behind him. He turned. Mr. D’Silva peered at him through the dappled sunshine.
“Madan?” The old accountant held a ledger to his chest. “Madan?”
“Mr. D’Silva!” He took Mr. D’Silva’s hand, frail and soft; all that remained of his full head of hair was a thin edge of gray. “You’re still here?”
Mr. D’Silva clutched Madan’s hand. Through his glasses, his eyes raked over Madan’s face. “For a moment I thought my failing eyes were deceiving me . . .” He looked up at Madan, shaking his head. “I stepped out for a minute, and you’re standing here like you never left.”
“In some way, that’s what it feels like. It’s very good to see you.”
“And I never thought I’d see . . .” He stopped and collected himself. “I’m officially retired, but since I’m the only one left from the old days, he likes me to come around. Look over everything.” He smiled and patted Madan’s hand. “You’re seeing the changes?”
Madan nodded. “That’s new.” He pointed to a long green metal contraption.
“It has a conveyor system that dries the boards in about ten minutes flat. We still pile them in the heating rooms, the old way, but we try these modern things as well.”
“And what about the new factory? It must have all the latest stuff.”
Mr. D’Silva laughed. “Those blueprints have probably turned to dust in some corner of the office,” he said. “No one has spoken of them for over twenty years now.”
He took Madan’s arm as they walked away from the roughened brick walls and into the open. “He busied himself with other things.”
Back out in the yard, the chalky yellow walls of Avtaar Singh’s office stood before them, the same door, part wood, part glass, closed to the noise and activity.
“Go to him,” said Mr. D’Silva, nudging him on. “He waits and he waits.”
In Gorapur, Madan would tell Nitasha, There is one place we go first before all others, to the one man with w
hom, as we all do with the great cosmic giver-and-taker above, I bargained three times—once for my family, once for my life and then for you. He is the beginning of your story and mine.
It may not be the story she would want to hear, but it was the only story he had to tell.
Madan went toward the door without hesitation or fear or sadness. He forgot Mr. D’Silva, and the clanking machines, the trucks rumbling in belching black smoke, the prying dragonflies and the brick walls that bore witness, of what came before and what was yet to be.
Through the half window in the door, he could see the light shining through.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Eternal thanks to my editor Jill Bialosky for shaping and infusing Three Bargains with her excellent insights, perception, and kind regard. Thank you as well to everyone at W. W. Norton.
I am indebted to my agent Emma Sweeney for her guidance, support, and commitment, and to everyone at ESA who helped along the way.
Thank you to my writing partners Maya Creedman and Dr. Jennifer Gunter, for their generosity of time and spirit, for reviewing draft after draft, and for their wise counsel, motivation, unwavering faith, and encouragement throughout the years.
To Nikki Marchesiello for painstakingly reading, critiquing, polishing, and honing every single word of the manuscript time after time. Thanks for the innumerable cups of fortifying tea (and sometimes shots of Limoncello!) at her kitchen table, for giving me courage and inspiration when I most needed it, for never allowing me to give up on myself, and mostly for exhorting me to face it all with, “head up, shoulders back, and tits out.”
To my brother Sameer Gambhir, who puts life in perspective and makes me laugh like no one else, and his wife Nikita, for the many nights of brainstorming and deliberations over different aspects of the plot.
An immense debt of gratitude to Annie Yearout, Anjie Seewer Reynolds, Tina Bournazos, Cathy Petrick, and Jennifer Bell, for reading and providing invaluable feedback on various versions of the manuscript.