Read Online Three Bargains: A Novel by Tania Malik - Free Book Online
Authors: Tania Malik
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before they got too far Avtaar Singh called Madan back.
He held on to Madan’s arm, pulling him closer to his chair. “All through life you learn, from the people around you, what to do and what not to do. A forest is made of many trees, it’s always best to choose the strongest one to lean against. You understand?”
Madan nodded quickly. He was keen to leave, sure that Avtaar Singh’s calling him back must have further upset his father.
Avtaar Singh patted Madan on the cheek. His hand lingered there for a moment, he seemed unwilling to lift it off and allow Madan to leave, but he said, “Good. Go now and see to Prabhu . . .” He checked himself. “Your . . . father.”
Madan accompanied his father on his rounds but Avtaar Singh’s words troubled him. He considered his father again, watched his hands dart out as he collected and counted the money shopkeepers and businessmen owed Avtaar Singh, money they had taken to start their businesses and money they still gave to ensure their businesses kept running. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the notion that the man before him seemed no more than a roadside reed, easily crushed under the weight of any passing bullock cart.
“He built the town, so I guess he deserves some recompense,” his father sneered, slipping another roll of notes in his pocket. “Though of course if they’re doing well they have to give more, otherwise they still have to fork over the standard rate that Avtaar Singh sets when they start out.”
Back at the servants’ quarters, Madan counted the collections and rolled the notes into neat bundles. Swati twirled around the courtyard and Bapu sat on the charpai, watching her through the hazy smoke of his beedi. Swati’s long skirt billowed around her slim ankles and she sang a rhyme to her doll about the shy moon hiding from the morning sun.
“So much money, Bapu,” Madan said. With the final count done, he walked out with his father, who was to deposit the collections back at the factory.
Once outside his father said, “Wait a minute.” He took out the wad of notes from his pocket and separated more than a few hundred-rupee notes, returning the rest.
“Bapu, what’re you doing? Avtaar Singh . . . said not to . . . Bapu?”
His father had to stay out of trouble with Avtaar Singh. There would be no more chances—not for his father and not for the rest of them either. Madan dived for the money slipped casually into his father’s other pocket, but his father held him back with one hand.
“Don’t worry,” his father said. “I have Avtaar Singh’s number—I’ll slip a few of these to Nathu and he’ll cover for me. Your bapu needs to take care of some of his own business right now.” Madan struggled against his grip and he shoved him back against the wall. “What’re you?” his father asked. “His accountant?” He went off down the street in the other direction, away from the factory.
In the days following, Madan’s father appeared and disappeared with the changing angle of the sun. He was with them when he had nowhere else to go, no money to collect, no one to drink with or no games to play in the back rooms of towns far enough for him to be gone for days at a time. Madan couldn’t fathom how his father explained his absences to Avtaar Singh or how long this Nathu would cover for him. Sometimes the Jalnaur gang visited late at night and there were hurried conversations outside. Once, his father returned from these meetings with a bleeding lip.
“Don’t let this end badly,” his mother beseeched Madan, and prevailed on him to keep Bapu in town and in their sight. Madan made every effort to accompany his father wherever he could. He made sure Bapu’s shaving water was hot in the morning and pressed his legs when he was tired in the evening. With Jaggu’s help, he ensured there was enough of his father’s favorite Jagadhari No. 1 whiskey at hand to keep him fast asleep and unmoving at night. And when his
He held on to Madan’s arm, pulling him closer to his chair. “All through life you learn, from the people around you, what to do and what not to do. A forest is made of many trees, it’s always best to choose the strongest one to lean against. You understand?”
Madan nodded quickly. He was keen to leave, sure that Avtaar Singh’s calling him back must have further upset his father.
Avtaar Singh patted Madan on the cheek. His hand lingered there for a moment, he seemed unwilling to lift it off and allow Madan to leave, but he said, “Good. Go now and see to Prabhu . . .” He checked himself. “Your . . . father.”
Madan accompanied his father on his rounds but Avtaar Singh’s words troubled him. He considered his father again, watched his hands dart out as he collected and counted the money shopkeepers and businessmen owed Avtaar Singh, money they had taken to start their businesses and money they still gave to ensure their businesses kept running. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the notion that the man before him seemed no more than a roadside reed, easily crushed under the weight of any passing bullock cart.
“He built the town, so I guess he deserves some recompense,” his father sneered, slipping another roll of notes in his pocket. “Though of course if they’re doing well they have to give more, otherwise they still have to fork over the standard rate that Avtaar Singh sets when they start out.”
Back at the servants’ quarters, Madan counted the collections and rolled the notes into neat bundles. Swati twirled around the courtyard and Bapu sat on the charpai, watching her through the hazy smoke of his beedi. Swati’s long skirt billowed around her slim ankles and she sang a rhyme to her doll about the shy moon hiding from the morning sun.
“So much money, Bapu,” Madan said. With the final count done, he walked out with his father, who was to deposit the collections back at the factory.
Once outside his father said, “Wait a minute.” He took out the wad of notes from his pocket and separated more than a few hundred-rupee notes, returning the rest.
“Bapu, what’re you doing? Avtaar Singh . . . said not to . . . Bapu?”
His father had to stay out of trouble with Avtaar Singh. There would be no more chances—not for his father and not for the rest of them either. Madan dived for the money slipped casually into his father’s other pocket, but his father held him back with one hand.
“Don’t worry,” his father said. “I have Avtaar Singh’s number—I’ll slip a few of these to Nathu and he’ll cover for me. Your bapu needs to take care of some of his own business right now.” Madan struggled against his grip and he shoved him back against the wall. “What’re you?” his father asked. “His accountant?” He went off down the street in the other direction, away from the factory.
In the days following, Madan’s father appeared and disappeared with the changing angle of the sun. He was with them when he had nowhere else to go, no money to collect, no one to drink with or no games to play in the back rooms of towns far enough for him to be gone for days at a time. Madan couldn’t fathom how his father explained his absences to Avtaar Singh or how long this Nathu would cover for him. Sometimes the Jalnaur gang visited late at night and there were hurried conversations outside. Once, his father returned from these meetings with a bleeding lip.
“Don’t let this end badly,” his mother beseeched Madan, and prevailed on him to keep Bapu in town and in their sight. Madan made every effort to accompany his father wherever he could. He made sure Bapu’s shaving water was hot in the morning and pressed his legs when he was tired in the evening. With Jaggu’s help, he ensured there was enough of his father’s favorite Jagadhari No. 1 whiskey at hand to keep him fast asleep and unmoving at night. And when his
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