Read Online Three Bargains: A Novel by Tania Malik - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tania Malik
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. . . no, leave her . . . son of a pig . . . help! Who is there to help?”
At the quarters, they came upon his grandfather struggling with his father, who was carrying Swati in his arms. “Let go, old man,” his father said as he tried to loosen Madan’s grandfather’s grip on his waist. Swati swung from side to side as they struggled.
“What’s happening?” Madan’s mother asked.
“I’m taking Swati out, that’s all.” His father panted as he freed himself.
“Don’t let him go, Durga,” his grandfather wept, pawing the ground. “He’s made a deal with that man . . . for Swati.” Outside, Madan caught a glimpse of a man revving the engine of a green car with a missing back light.
“What? What d’you mean?” Madan asked as his father hurried toward the gate.
“No!” his mother screamed. “Please, I beg of you, we’ll manage whatever the problem is. We’ll manage,” she repeated. She lunged for her husband and caught the corner of his shirt, but he twisted her arm, making her release him.
“I’m doing us a favor,” he roared. “In a few years you’ll be the one paying dowry to her groom. Right now I’ve found someone willing to pay me! You should be grateful you have a husband who’s so smart about the future!”
“But she’s just a child,” his mother sobbed, down on her knees, hands folded, pleading. “Just six,” she kept repeating, “Just six.”
His father left with Swati huddled in his arms as Ma screamed, “At least fear God!”
But his father had made a deal. And right now twenty thousand rupees danced in front of his eyes like the women of Grindlay Road.
“Madan, do something,” she shrieked, turning to him.
“Bapu,” he said, his legs trembling, his voice barely audible from his constricted throat. He ran after his father. His father swung around to face him, and Swati’s arm reached out.
“Madan-bhaiya?” she said, her eyes glazed with confusion.
He tried to grab her hand but his father thrust her into the car, leaping in after her. “Go! Go!” he shouted to the driver. Madan pushed in after them. His father’s flailing kicks caught him in the groin, sending him sprawling onto the road. The door slammed shut and the car shot forward. Madan scrambled after them, running till his side hurt. It wasn’t until the car disappeared behind the fumes and traffic that he realized he would not be able to catch up to them.
His mother was still on her knees with her head in her hands, gasping for air as she wept when he returned home. His grandfather had crawled under his bed.
“What’ll we do?” His mother looked up at him. “Madan, I don’t . . . what’ll we do?”
Madan reached under the bed and helped his grandfather out. He went inside and got a glass of water for his mother. He forced her to drink when she pushed it away. When she was done, he pulled her up and wiped her tears with the edge of her sari.
“We’ll go to Avtaar Singh,” he said.
They met Avtaar Singh in the dining room, the mutton curry and rice prepared by Ma a short while ago steaming in front of him.
“I heard,” Avtaar Singh said. Madan and his mother stood before him with heads bent.
If only he had leaned forward a little more, Madan thought, he could have grabbed hold of Swati’s hand. He should have run faster, maybe he could have caught up with the car. Or blocked his father from leaving the compound. Take me, he should have said. But that plea would have been of no use. He held no value to his father.
Somewhere, Prince yapped and the sound of voices floated into the room from another part of the house. Madan’s bent head began to feel heavy. How far until his head bowed low enough to touch the floor? The patterned marble swam into focus and it did not seem too far to fall.
With great difficulty, he lifted his head slightly. Rimpy and Dimpy passed by the dining room window, chatting, their heads thrown back with laughter. There were some fathers who would never
At the quarters, they came upon his grandfather struggling with his father, who was carrying Swati in his arms. “Let go, old man,” his father said as he tried to loosen Madan’s grandfather’s grip on his waist. Swati swung from side to side as they struggled.
“What’s happening?” Madan’s mother asked.
“I’m taking Swati out, that’s all.” His father panted as he freed himself.
“Don’t let him go, Durga,” his grandfather wept, pawing the ground. “He’s made a deal with that man . . . for Swati.” Outside, Madan caught a glimpse of a man revving the engine of a green car with a missing back light.
“What? What d’you mean?” Madan asked as his father hurried toward the gate.
“No!” his mother screamed. “Please, I beg of you, we’ll manage whatever the problem is. We’ll manage,” she repeated. She lunged for her husband and caught the corner of his shirt, but he twisted her arm, making her release him.
“I’m doing us a favor,” he roared. “In a few years you’ll be the one paying dowry to her groom. Right now I’ve found someone willing to pay me! You should be grateful you have a husband who’s so smart about the future!”
“But she’s just a child,” his mother sobbed, down on her knees, hands folded, pleading. “Just six,” she kept repeating, “Just six.”
His father left with Swati huddled in his arms as Ma screamed, “At least fear God!”
But his father had made a deal. And right now twenty thousand rupees danced in front of his eyes like the women of Grindlay Road.
“Madan, do something,” she shrieked, turning to him.
“Bapu,” he said, his legs trembling, his voice barely audible from his constricted throat. He ran after his father. His father swung around to face him, and Swati’s arm reached out.
“Madan-bhaiya?” she said, her eyes glazed with confusion.
He tried to grab her hand but his father thrust her into the car, leaping in after her. “Go! Go!” he shouted to the driver. Madan pushed in after them. His father’s flailing kicks caught him in the groin, sending him sprawling onto the road. The door slammed shut and the car shot forward. Madan scrambled after them, running till his side hurt. It wasn’t until the car disappeared behind the fumes and traffic that he realized he would not be able to catch up to them.
His mother was still on her knees with her head in her hands, gasping for air as she wept when he returned home. His grandfather had crawled under his bed.
“What’ll we do?” His mother looked up at him. “Madan, I don’t . . . what’ll we do?”
Madan reached under the bed and helped his grandfather out. He went inside and got a glass of water for his mother. He forced her to drink when she pushed it away. When she was done, he pulled her up and wiped her tears with the edge of her sari.
“We’ll go to Avtaar Singh,” he said.
They met Avtaar Singh in the dining room, the mutton curry and rice prepared by Ma a short while ago steaming in front of him.
“I heard,” Avtaar Singh said. Madan and his mother stood before him with heads bent.
If only he had leaned forward a little more, Madan thought, he could have grabbed hold of Swati’s hand. He should have run faster, maybe he could have caught up with the car. Or blocked his father from leaving the compound. Take me, he should have said. But that plea would have been of no use. He held no value to his father.
Somewhere, Prince yapped and the sound of voices floated into the room from another part of the house. Madan’s bent head began to feel heavy. How far until his head bowed low enough to touch the floor? The patterned marble swam into focus and it did not seem too far to fall.
With great difficulty, he lifted his head slightly. Rimpy and Dimpy passed by the dining room window, chatting, their heads thrown back with laughter. There were some fathers who would never
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