Three Bargains: A Novel by Tania Malik Page A

question. “Good . . . very good, saab.”
    “And school?”
    He bowed his head. He couldn’t speak anymore, nothing would come out.
    Feroze and the other men laughed. “Saab, why did you call him here? This lizard’s pussy is going to throw up all over our shoes.”
    Avtaar Singh silenced them with a look. “Come here,” he said, pulling Madan to his side, sheltering him from the heat and the cluster of hard, staring eyes. “Do you want to leave? You’re free to go if you want.”
    Madan heard Feroze titter in the crowd. He moved closer into Avtaar Singh. “No, saab,” he said. “I don’t want to go.” The furnace roared behind him.
    At Avtaar Singh’s signal, two of the men disappeared, returning shortly with a sack between them.
    “Look,” said Avtaar Singh. Madan turned to see what they had placed on the floor. It wasn’t a sack. His trembling ceased; he suddenly began to feel mellow, like he was swimming underwater.
    Released from Avtaar Singh’s side, he approached the man quivering on the floor like he was cold, and well he should be. He looked stripped clean of any cover of skin and hair. Mesmerized, Madan peered at the face, trying to discern any movement. The eyes opened and fixed on him, glazed and unblinking. A mangled stump reached out as if pleading for a hand up.
    Madan could feel the men’s eyes on him, wondering what he would do. If he’d be shocked, horrified, cry like a baby. Moving past their curious gazes, he regarded Avtaar Singh. These men did not know about that day in the dining room, and the deal he’d made with Avtaar Singh. Madan knew then where those disclosures would lead. Thinking of it now, he grasped that he revealed something about himself that would terrify anybody else but Avtaar Singh.
    Looking up at Avtaar Singh prevailing over them with a hint of a smile, he understood why Avtaar Singh had summoned him to the factory. This wasn’t a place for confusion with consequences, for trying to divine intent and meaning, or for regret. It was Madan’s rightful place, more than any of these men’s. At Avtaar Singh’s side, everything became clear and uncomplicated.
    A low, plaintive moan drew his attention back to the floor.
    “Son . . .” The stump rocked back and forth.
    A plank of wood not four feet in length lay within reach. It was in Madan’s hand now. He swung it up in the air and slammed down. Chunks of flesh flew by him, splattered on his face, slithered down his legs. But he heaved the plank up and brought it down, again and again.
    “Don’t—call—me—son.” Sweat stung his eyes, and blood misted the air, yet he pounded on. With every strike, the lump on the floor jerked up and down.
    The men, caught by surprise at first, sniggered and clapped each other on the back. “Look . . . look at the little cocksucker. Jumping up and down like a hijra.”
    Moments later, Feroze stilled his hand. “Enough,” he heard Avtaar Singh say. “He’s gone.”
    The plank slipped out of his bloody grip. Sawdust cushioned its return to the floor.
    Someone undid the hutchlike opening to the furnace. Waves of heat billowed out. The men swarmed around the broken body and Madan stood back to give them room. They gathered the mass of flesh, pushing forward through the heat. The legs went in first; there was a sound of bones popping. Then a last shove to the shattered skull.
    He didn’t notice when the men dispersed. They left him staring into the roiling flames, roaring and flaring up as if inviting him in as well. After a while, he felt someone beside him.
    “At least you got to consign him to a fire,” Feroze said. “Never got to do that last rite to my bastard father.”
    Feroze slipped a bottle into his hand. “Here,” he said. Madan lifted the bottle to his lips. He was thirsty. The sip did not cool his parched throat but instead warmed him up. He took another big sip, splashing some of the toddy on his clothes.
    “Slowly, slowly,” Feroze said, closing the