you want to know when we find him?”
Madan was scared to say yes or no, unsure where either answer would lead.
“Then what do you want to know, boy?”
Questions like these made his head hurt. He wrapped his arms around himself. Though there was farm and town rolling away behind the akhara, from where they stood the arena could be at the edge of the world.
“There are no rules in the akhara,” Avtaar Singh said. “No time limits. You fight till you win. That is it. Yes, you need strength and skill, you need to know every move and countermove. But you fight, until you win.”
He took Madan’s hand in his own and they traveled slowly back, each with his own thoughts, not yet shoulder to shoulder, but leaning on one another.
Exercise books, stationery, sports equipment, toys and more toys filled the shelves and the floor of the toy shop, brimming onto the sidewalk. Every passing gust of wind deposited another layer of dust, especially on the bicycles and strollers hanging off the sign outside. The shopkeeper kept an eye on Madan as he tried to find room to wriggle deeper into the confines of the overstocked store.
Madan couldn’t decide what to get Swati. Maybe a chalkboard set? For her to draw on. Or a cooking play set? He settled on another doll, a blond baby with its own baby bottle, and then made his way home, his shopping bags full. Ma should be back from the hospital by now. These days, he was taking care of his grandfather, with Ma busy at the hospital when she was not at work. A few more days, the doctor had said, and then they could bring Swati home.
The entrance to the servants’ quarters came into view and he saw a pair of Avtaar Singh’s men waiting. They straightened as he approached, greeting him with their eyes. “You are wanted by saab, at the factory.”
Why? He was going to ask but the saliva fled his tongue, and his arms and legs began to tremble with the weight of his bags. “I . . . I’ll put this inside,” he stammered. They moved aside, allowing him to enter. In their room, his mother prayed before pictures of her gods, Ram, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman. Lately Ganesh and Kali Ma had joined the confederacy pasted on the wall.
“Ma?” Didn’t she hear him come in? “Those men are here.”
“I know,” she said. She didn’t turn around.
“Ma, they got Bapu. Avtaar Singh is calling me.”
He didn’t know what to do. Should he go? He had to go. He couldn’t disobey Avtaar Singh. But he was unsure if he wanted to see his father. Why wouldn’t his mother say something?
“Ma.” She still refused to look. “What should I do? I’ll do whatever you say.”
He reached out to pull at her sari, make her turn his way, look at him instead of those stupid pictures. Leave your gods , he wanted to say. They never saved Swati and they won’t save Bapu. Just tell me what you want me to do.
He heard the men rustling outside. They would come looking for him soon. His mother mumbled prayers under her breath, each incantation adding to the spiraling anger in the pit of his stomach.
“Fucking woman,” he shouted, unable to bear it any longer. “Only prayers all the time.”
He stalked out of the room, but before he reached the men, he turned around. “Ma—” If she forbade him from going, he would defy even Avtaar Singh.
But she had shut the door.
They walked Madan to the massive steel furnace in the center of the factory. In the prism of heat surrounding the furnace, men milled about in an informal circle. The rest of the factory was deserted. There was a sharp tang of motor oil and hot metal in the air. Pushed to the center of the group, he looked up to see Feroze, the man from the hospital with the faint green eyes.
Someone went to get Avtaar Singh. When he emerged from his office, the men moved to attention. Madan could tell that they were not used to Avtaar Singh being present at such occasions.
“So, boy, how is the work going?”
Madan startled at the mundane
Madan was scared to say yes or no, unsure where either answer would lead.
“Then what do you want to know, boy?”
Questions like these made his head hurt. He wrapped his arms around himself. Though there was farm and town rolling away behind the akhara, from where they stood the arena could be at the edge of the world.
“There are no rules in the akhara,” Avtaar Singh said. “No time limits. You fight till you win. That is it. Yes, you need strength and skill, you need to know every move and countermove. But you fight, until you win.”
He took Madan’s hand in his own and they traveled slowly back, each with his own thoughts, not yet shoulder to shoulder, but leaning on one another.
Exercise books, stationery, sports equipment, toys and more toys filled the shelves and the floor of the toy shop, brimming onto the sidewalk. Every passing gust of wind deposited another layer of dust, especially on the bicycles and strollers hanging off the sign outside. The shopkeeper kept an eye on Madan as he tried to find room to wriggle deeper into the confines of the overstocked store.
Madan couldn’t decide what to get Swati. Maybe a chalkboard set? For her to draw on. Or a cooking play set? He settled on another doll, a blond baby with its own baby bottle, and then made his way home, his shopping bags full. Ma should be back from the hospital by now. These days, he was taking care of his grandfather, with Ma busy at the hospital when she was not at work. A few more days, the doctor had said, and then they could bring Swati home.
The entrance to the servants’ quarters came into view and he saw a pair of Avtaar Singh’s men waiting. They straightened as he approached, greeting him with their eyes. “You are wanted by saab, at the factory.”
Why? He was going to ask but the saliva fled his tongue, and his arms and legs began to tremble with the weight of his bags. “I . . . I’ll put this inside,” he stammered. They moved aside, allowing him to enter. In their room, his mother prayed before pictures of her gods, Ram, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman. Lately Ganesh and Kali Ma had joined the confederacy pasted on the wall.
“Ma?” Didn’t she hear him come in? “Those men are here.”
“I know,” she said. She didn’t turn around.
“Ma, they got Bapu. Avtaar Singh is calling me.”
He didn’t know what to do. Should he go? He had to go. He couldn’t disobey Avtaar Singh. But he was unsure if he wanted to see his father. Why wouldn’t his mother say something?
“Ma.” She still refused to look. “What should I do? I’ll do whatever you say.”
He reached out to pull at her sari, make her turn his way, look at him instead of those stupid pictures. Leave your gods , he wanted to say. They never saved Swati and they won’t save Bapu. Just tell me what you want me to do.
He heard the men rustling outside. They would come looking for him soon. His mother mumbled prayers under her breath, each incantation adding to the spiraling anger in the pit of his stomach.
“Fucking woman,” he shouted, unable to bear it any longer. “Only prayers all the time.”
He stalked out of the room, but before he reached the men, he turned around. “Ma—” If she forbade him from going, he would defy even Avtaar Singh.
But she had shut the door.
They walked Madan to the massive steel furnace in the center of the factory. In the prism of heat surrounding the furnace, men milled about in an informal circle. The rest of the factory was deserted. There was a sharp tang of motor oil and hot metal in the air. Pushed to the center of the group, he looked up to see Feroze, the man from the hospital with the faint green eyes.
Someone went to get Avtaar Singh. When he emerged from his office, the men moved to attention. Madan could tell that they were not used to Avtaar Singh being present at such occasions.
“So, boy, how is the work going?”
Madan startled at the mundane
Similar Books
