hutch door of the furnace.
Feroze disappeared too, leaving him with the bottle of toddy. Madan took another long sip. A light spilled out of the window of Avtaar Singh’s office. He wasn’t sure if Avtaar Singh was in or had gone home. He went and stood outside Avtaar Singh’s door. He didn’t know what to do with himself. The door whooshed open, and Avtaar Singh stood in the light.
“Where’ve you been?”Avtaar Singh said as if he had been wondering where he was. “Come in.”
Tentatively, Madan stepped into the office. He was a mess, and reeked of perspiration, blood and the rank fumes of the toddy. A whiff of himself brought up a bit of his long-forgotten meal, and he swallowed hard to push the bile back down.
Avtaar Singh went to his desk and Madan stumbled after him.
Removing a hand towel hanging from the desk’s drawer handle which he usually spread on his lap when he ate lunch, Avtaar Singh soaked it through with water from the drinking jug.
“Come here,” he said to Madan. He took the toddy bottle from Madan’s hand and tossed it into the bin.
“Who gave you this?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. Avtaar Singh knew.
Steadying Madan by the shoulder, Avtaar Singh began to wipe him down, gently cleaning his face and behind his ears, swabbing the back of his neck and running the towel down his arms. The towel changed color as Avtaar Singh attended to Madan. Intermittently, he rinsed the towel out, beginning afresh, tending to Madan’s hands, carefully scouring the blood and gore from under his nails and between his fingers. Madan could feel Avtaar Singh’s breath, warming his cleaned skin as he lifted Madan’s T-shirt, sponging his chest and under his arms, then attending to the mop of Madan’s hair, fussing over each strand, coaxing the blood and tissue matter off until his dampened hairs stood on end. Avtaar Singh’s touch was tender, as if he sensed the tension in Madan’s muscles and did not want to add to the soreness and the ringing pain.
He bent down and ran the towel over Madan’s legs. Pulling his scummy rubber slippers off, Avtaar Singh placed Madan’s foot on his knee and scrubbed the dirt off Madan’s rough sole and the underside of his foot. A dirty imprint remained on Avtaar Singh’s trousers.
Madan wanted to tell him to stop. It was ill-fitting for a man of Avtaar Singh’s stature to do such a thing. Even his father had never ministered to Madan like this. His father had never cared to bend low enough to count Madan’s toes.
Madan’s breath caught in his throat as he remembered the events that had occurred outside the door. He tried now to connect the man who would come bellowing into their quarters and the scrap of pounded bones and flesh scraped off the factory floor. Were they the same? Would he go home and find him resurrected from the ashes, sitting on the chair with a bottle between his legs, sour and angry, waiting to exact some kind of retribution?
Madan’s legs trembled, and he did not know at first if it was with fright or from exhaustion. He placed a hand on Avtaar Singh’s shoulder to balance himself. He could feel the strength in the sinew, tendons and tissue rippling with life under his palms. He knew then his legs shook with nothing but relief. A tear leaked out and ran unbidden down his cheek. Avtaar Singh wiped it away too.
“These tears are too precious.” He held Madan’s chin and dabbed at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t waste them.”
Avtaar Singh stood back and scrutinized Madan from top to bottom. Satisfied, he threw the dirty towel in the corner of the office.
Madan looked at his arms and legs. He was glistening. Avtaar Singh had wiped every trace of his father off him.
CHAPTER 7
S TEPPING INTO SUNRISE GENERAL GOODS, MADAN GLANCED around the empty store looking for the proprietor, Sharma-ji. He heard thumping overhead and looked up to see Sharma-ji perched halfway up a ladder, a dust cloth in hand.
There were two clear
Feroze disappeared too, leaving him with the bottle of toddy. Madan took another long sip. A light spilled out of the window of Avtaar Singh’s office. He wasn’t sure if Avtaar Singh was in or had gone home. He went and stood outside Avtaar Singh’s door. He didn’t know what to do with himself. The door whooshed open, and Avtaar Singh stood in the light.
“Where’ve you been?”Avtaar Singh said as if he had been wondering where he was. “Come in.”
Tentatively, Madan stepped into the office. He was a mess, and reeked of perspiration, blood and the rank fumes of the toddy. A whiff of himself brought up a bit of his long-forgotten meal, and he swallowed hard to push the bile back down.
Avtaar Singh went to his desk and Madan stumbled after him.
Removing a hand towel hanging from the desk’s drawer handle which he usually spread on his lap when he ate lunch, Avtaar Singh soaked it through with water from the drinking jug.
“Come here,” he said to Madan. He took the toddy bottle from Madan’s hand and tossed it into the bin.
“Who gave you this?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. Avtaar Singh knew.
Steadying Madan by the shoulder, Avtaar Singh began to wipe him down, gently cleaning his face and behind his ears, swabbing the back of his neck and running the towel down his arms. The towel changed color as Avtaar Singh attended to Madan. Intermittently, he rinsed the towel out, beginning afresh, tending to Madan’s hands, carefully scouring the blood and gore from under his nails and between his fingers. Madan could feel Avtaar Singh’s breath, warming his cleaned skin as he lifted Madan’s T-shirt, sponging his chest and under his arms, then attending to the mop of Madan’s hair, fussing over each strand, coaxing the blood and tissue matter off until his dampened hairs stood on end. Avtaar Singh’s touch was tender, as if he sensed the tension in Madan’s muscles and did not want to add to the soreness and the ringing pain.
He bent down and ran the towel over Madan’s legs. Pulling his scummy rubber slippers off, Avtaar Singh placed Madan’s foot on his knee and scrubbed the dirt off Madan’s rough sole and the underside of his foot. A dirty imprint remained on Avtaar Singh’s trousers.
Madan wanted to tell him to stop. It was ill-fitting for a man of Avtaar Singh’s stature to do such a thing. Even his father had never ministered to Madan like this. His father had never cared to bend low enough to count Madan’s toes.
Madan’s breath caught in his throat as he remembered the events that had occurred outside the door. He tried now to connect the man who would come bellowing into their quarters and the scrap of pounded bones and flesh scraped off the factory floor. Were they the same? Would he go home and find him resurrected from the ashes, sitting on the chair with a bottle between his legs, sour and angry, waiting to exact some kind of retribution?
Madan’s legs trembled, and he did not know at first if it was with fright or from exhaustion. He placed a hand on Avtaar Singh’s shoulder to balance himself. He could feel the strength in the sinew, tendons and tissue rippling with life under his palms. He knew then his legs shook with nothing but relief. A tear leaked out and ran unbidden down his cheek. Avtaar Singh wiped it away too.
“These tears are too precious.” He held Madan’s chin and dabbed at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t waste them.”
Avtaar Singh stood back and scrutinized Madan from top to bottom. Satisfied, he threw the dirty towel in the corner of the office.
Madan looked at his arms and legs. He was glistening. Avtaar Singh had wiped every trace of his father off him.
CHAPTER 7
S TEPPING INTO SUNRISE GENERAL GOODS, MADAN GLANCED around the empty store looking for the proprietor, Sharma-ji. He heard thumping overhead and looked up to see Sharma-ji perched halfway up a ladder, a dust cloth in hand.
There were two clear
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