Three Bargains: A Novel (38 page)

“Durga?” The man spat a glob of phlegm into the street’s drain. “Durga? Oh, yes, a few years ago. She’s not here anymore.” The men looked at Madan curiously.

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.” The man shook his head. “She moved away after her father-in-law died. I heard she went to live with her daughter.”

Madan stepped back, surprised. “Gone to live with her daughter? Are you sure we’re talking about the same Durga? Her daughter lived with her.”

“No.” The man was quite firm now. “The daughter would visit but she didn’t live here, not since I’ve been here.”

Madan took this in. “Thank you,” he said, and they turned away. Madan took one last look around the barren compound. He was not sure what to do now. “Wait,” he said. “Is there a hotel around here?”

“You can check Hotel Emerald,” one said. “It opened a few years ago.” They gave him directions. “But if you come back next year, there’ll be a grand hotel in the new town, in Jeet Megacity.”

Startled by the sudden reference to the township he had conceived and created, Madan paused and murmured, “Yes, I saw the billboards . . . on my way here.”

“We’ll all have to live there soon,” said the man. “There’ll be nothing left for us here.”

Madan drove away slowly, passing by Prem Dhaba still serving customers steaming-hot tea, but a vending cart occupied the tiny square of land on which Bittu’s Paan Stand once stood.

He checked into his room, tossing aside his phone full of missed calls from Ketan-bhai. Nothing from Preeti. Tired, he lay down, letting all that he had learned sink in. His grandfather, gone. On that last day, had he spoken to his grandfather? Had he paused in all the crying and shouting to light him a beedi or rub down one of his spasms? No, he had not spared the old man a thought.

And what about his mother? He never thought his mother would move away. Hadn’t she chosen to stay in Gorapur over him? He would drive to Jaggu’s place tomorrow, though he harbored little hope of finding him in the small room he and his mother used to rent. At this rate, he might be back in Delhi sooner than expected.

That evening he walked the main market, noticing the many changes, every recognizable step bringing him to something new and different. He deliberated getting a bite to eat when his eyes fell upon a bright neon sign,
SUNRISE GENERAL GOODS
.

Sharma-ji’s shop. He walked up the two steps to the double glass doors, stepping into the brightly lit store, looking around in amazement. No shelves filled with mismatched foreign foodstuffs lined the walls, and no glass case filled with biscuits and soap ran the length of the once-narrow store. A huge showroom lay before him, goods piled department-store-style in islands, while shoppers browsed in the aisles, baskets in hand. By a far wall, an arrow pointed to the upper floor,
LADIES, MENS AND CHILDRENS GARMENTS
. Two ladies dressed in spiffily pleated saris helped customers.

“Can I help you, sir?” one of the ladies asked.

“Uh . . . yes.” He hesitated. “Is Mr. Sharma here?”

She looked nonplussed and said, “Do you have an appointment?” At the same time a door near the staircase opened. “Oh, wait, here he is,” she said, as a young man in jeans and a button-down shirt rushed out holding a sheaf of papers.

“No, that’s not—”

But she had already called out, “Mr. Sharma, this gentleman is here to see you.”

The young man stopped and came toward them, but Madan was already apologizing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I used to know an elderly man—”

“Oh, you must mean my father.”

“Yes,” he said, relieved, seeing it all clearly. “I didn’t know . . . well, I knew he had children, but I never met you. I remember when this place was a quarter of this size. You are running the store now?”

“Yes, my brother and I took it over. Did you know my father well?”

“Sort of,” said Madan, holding out his hand and introducing himself.

“Do you want to say hello to him? He’s here in the back office. He still likes to come in when he can.”

“Yes,” said Madan. “Yes, of course. I hope he’ll remember me.” He followed the young Mr. Sharma into a hallway behind the stairs.

“We are hoping to expand further,” said young Mr. Sharma. “There’s going to be a big mall near here soon . . .”

“I heard,” Madan said dryly. “In Jeet Megacity.”

“We’re leasing some space there. We hope to build a chain of Sunrise General Stores. It’s an exciting time.”

There were a few people in the office, but he brought Madan to the desk where old Sharma-ji sat, a walker by his chair, his wizened face barely visible under the large, square-framed spectacles on his nose.

“Papa,” said the younger man. “This gentleman says he used to know you. His name is Madan.”

Sharma-ji peered out of his thick glasses. “I don’t know any Madan,” he barked.

The young man gave a small, embarrassed smile. “His memory tends to come and go.”

Madan was about to tell him not to worry and take his leave, but Sharma-ji spoke up again.

“Has he come for his collections? Look in the cash register, under the drawer.”

His son looked mystified. “No, Papa, what collections? He knows you.”

Madan put a hand on the young man’s arm to stop him. He went up to the old man. “Sharma-ji, it is me, but I haven’t come for any collections today. I came to say hello. And I came to ask you—” Madan was not sure if this would work, but he thought he’d give it a try. “Sharma-ji, do you remember another boy who sometimes was with me . . . Jaggu? Joginder? He would come with me for my collections?”

Mr. Sharma harrumphed. “I don’t know any Madan,” he said.

Madan straightened up and said to the younger Mr. Sharma, “Well, thank you.”

But he wasn’t listening. “Do you mean Joginder who runs Manika Multiplex? I’ve heard people call him Jaggu. Thin chap, very peppy.”

“Yes, that sounds like him,” said Madan. “Runs Manika Multiplex? That old cinema hall down the road?”

“He owns it,” said young Mr. Sharma. “But it still has one screen. He swears it’s going to be a two-screen theater soon. At least that’s what he’s been saying for the last few years.”

“Yes,” said Madan, smiling, relief and excitement coursing through him. “That would be Jaggu.”

Madan walked back past his hotel to Manika Cinema Hall.
Multiplex
, he corrected himself. He stood in front of the soaring building, wondering where Jaggu would find a space to fit in another screen, sandwiched as it was between a store and a restaurant. On either side of the entrance hung a
NOW SHOWING
movie poster. Madan recognized the actor Shah Rukh Khan but not the pretty actress.

He walked to the ticket booth. “Is Mr. Joginder in?” he asked.

“No,” the ticket man said. “Jaggu-saab has gone home. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Madan stood rooted to the spot for a second. “His office is on the second floor,” the ticket seller said, indicating Madan should move to make room for the paying customer waiting behind him.

That night he looked out of his hotel room window, and the streets of Gorapur bustled. A tonga pulled by a roughened horse clopped down the road, a crowd of youngsters gathered outside a café. He could make out the
BHARAT PETROLEUM
sign beaming its yellow and blue light from the end of the road. A flock of pigeons lit out across the sky, landing on the statue planted in the center of the roundabout, children in ragged shorts dodged traffic, cars honked and food carts trundled by, and mottled mutts with their lopsided ears and severed tails curled up before storefronts. The sky was dusky blue. He could have been looking out at a vista of Delhi. Was there no difference between this place and that? Perhaps the only difference all along had been him.

The next morning, Madan waited in the hallway for over an hour. The peon told him that Jaggu-saab was meeting with some distributors and he would have to wait. Madan’s gaze traveled down the wall lined with glass-encased posters of upcoming movies. It made sense that this was where Jaggu ended up. Doing something he loved.

“Is Jaggu-saab married?” he asked the peon.

The man nodded. “Three children.”

Madan laughed. Jaggu had been busy since he’d last seen him. The man looked offended, thinking Madan had laughed at him. The door opened, spewing out a stream of people. Madan wiped his damp hands on his jeans. What if Jaggu refused to see him?

“Can I see him now?” he asked. The peon went in to check.

“Saab, there’s a man outside to meet you,” he heard.

Madan leapt up and followed the peon.

Madan saw Jaggu standing by the doorway of his office, one hand on the doorknob, the other gesticulating in the air. His eyes fell on Madan and widened in horror. Before Madan knew it, he had slammed the door. The slam reverberated through the room.

Madan pounded on the door. “Let me say sorry, Jaggu, let me at least say sorry—to your face.”

After a moment the door opened and Jaggu stood there, his face scrunched up, his lips trembling and tears running down his face. He took a deep breath and wiped his face on his sleeve. The peon looked unsure what to do.

“It’s okay,” Jaggu said to the peon. “He’s my friend.”

Madan sat in the chair across from his old friend and looked around the office. Old film reels lined the walls, framed posters leaned against the furniture in the room.

“So, you own this place,” Madan said.

Jaggu nodded. They sat in silence for a while, Madan waiting for Jaggu to say something, and then Madan finally said, “I should’ve called you. I thought about it many times. I was never as good a friend to you as you were to me.”

Still Jaggu did not say anything, but stared at him. Madan could not keep his eyes off Jaggu either, taking in the changes wrought on his face, the fine lines etched around his eyes, the deeply grooved laugh lines around his mouth.

“You can’t have come back for the heck of it. Just to say sorry to me.”

Madan gave a short laugh. “No,” he admitted. “But it’s a long story. I’m not sure if you want to hear it.”

Jaggu fixed his gaze on one of the posters. “No,” he agreed. “Not yet.”

“I went to the compound,” said Madan. “They aren’t there.”

“No. They moved some time ago.”

“Jaggu—”

Jaggu looked at his watch. “How about lunch?” he asked. “Are you free for lunch?”

Relieved that Jaggu was willing to spend time with him, he said, “Yes, yes, anything you say.”

They left the cinema hall and walked down to a nearby Chinese restaurant. After they ordered, Jaggu looked directly at him. “Lots of changes?”

“Yes,” agreed Madan. “Some better than others—like seeing what you’ve done, with the cinema hall.”

“We’ll see how long the cinema lasts for me,” said Jaggu.

“What d’you mean?”

“There’s this new development, you must’ve seen the billboards. Jeet Megactiy. It’s going to have a modern multitheater complex. I’ll be left to show C-grade movies to villagers and old people. The younger generation, they’re thrilled with the new opportunities. Now they don’t have to be stuck doing the same thing their fathers did. But for the rest of us . . .” Jaggu shrugged philosophically. “Maybe I can begin showing art-house movies.”

The sweet-and-sour chicken turned bland on Madan’s tongue, the noodles slick and soggy. He stared down at his plate, knowing he would have to say something soon.

Jaggu fiddled with his fork, inclining his head. “He helped me, you know. I started working in the cinema hall right after you left, and then the Marwaris, who owned it, looked to sell. I got a loan from the bank for part of the payment and he gave me the rest. There was not a lot remaining, but one of his men came to the door and handed me an envelope. I had not heard from him since you left. And even then, I never saw him. He never spoke to me or sent me a message. I paid it back in full, though, as soon as I could, even before the bank loan. Went and gave an envelope to Mr. D’Silva at the factory.”

“Why?” asked Madan. “Why would he do that?”

Jaggu put down his fork. He calmed his fiddling and held Madan’s gaze. “Because of you, Madan. It was always because of you.”