The Golden Son Page 9

  Although Anil’s family accepted his version without question, Anil knew he wouldn’t have been able to lie to his father. But neither would it have been easy to disappoint him. At times, the guilt over how he portrayed himself compounded the shame he already bore. Other times, when he heard his mother boasting about him to relatives, Anil allowed himself to sink into this version of reality, to savor feeling successful and respected again.

  One morning, Anil came downstairs as lunch was being served. He took the empty seat next to Kiran. “Where’s Chandu?” he asked, accustomed to being the last one himself.

  “Still sleeping,” Kiran said, raising an eyebrow. “He was up late playing cards.”

  “Again?” Anil filled his plate and began to eat. He’d noticed Chandu’s curious behavior but was reluctant to mention it to Ma in the aftermath of Papa’s death.

  “Ma said Pushpa Auntie’s moving in with her son,” Piya said. Pushpa Auntie, one of Papa’s widowed aunts, had lived for years in a small house close to theirs.

  “So who’ll take her cottage, then?” Kiran asked. “Or will it sit empty?”

  “Nikhil’s got his eye on it, don’t you, bhai?” Piya nudged her elbow into her brother’s ribs. “I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to get married.”

  “What hurry? I’m already twenty-one,” Nikhil said.

  Anil’s mouth was burning. He must have lost some of his tolerance for spice after all those dull cafeteria meals. He took a long drink of lassi and studied Nikhil’s expression. “Really, bhai?”

  “Why not? What’s there to wait for?” Nikhil reached across the table for the bowl of bright green coriander chutney. “Except you.” He nodded at Anil.

  Anil’s hand was suspended over his plate. “You don’t have to wait for me. I don’t care.” Ma appeared with a pitcher of water, making her presence known by clucking her tongue.

  “She cares.” Nikhil cocked his head toward their mother.

  “In due time, son.” Ma rested a hand on Anil’s shoulder. “You boys will have your pick of brides, God willing. After our mourning period is finished, Anil will come home, and we’ll start looking. Then you will be next.” She squeezed Anil’s shoulder and he sat back, no longer hungry.

  “Well, don’t start looking for me anytime soon,” Piya said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  Kiran leaned forward in his chair and kicked her under the table. “Don’t worry, I don’t see too many suitors lined up outside. I think you’re safe.”

  Piya laughed and kicked him back. “And you should talk? Who’s going to want you, with those table manners? It’s like eating with some kind of jungle animal.”

  Anil stood from the table to go clean his hands. As he held his palms under the running water, trying to rinse away the guilt, he realized that in his father he’d lost his only champion. Now he was left with his mother’s expectations and his brother’s hopes laced with resentment. Anil couldn’t bear to cause any of them further disappointment. His path, so clear before, was now shrouded by Papa’s death.

  MINA PATEL took private satisfaction in hearing her children bicker and tease one another. She could recognize their voices and inflections from the next room, even anticipate what each might do next, a skill that had proved invaluable when they were younger.

  She had reason to worry about each of them from time to time, particularly Chandu, with his affinity for trouble. Perhaps it was natural for him to seek some way to distinguish himself from his older brothers, who had already excelled in all the usual ways: Kiran as an athlete, Nikhil in farm work, and Anil always the best student. Mina had not been concerned about Anil in many years, not since he was afflicted with that terrible speech habit as a little boy.

  But it was her eldest son she now worried about most. Anil did not look well. He was thinner than when he’d left home and it showed, particularly in his face. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, which themselves looked vacant. The boy was mourning the loss of his father, of course, as they all were. There was an enormous hole at her very core, and Mina did not expect to feel complete again for a very long time, if ever. But Anil seemed changed in a way that went beyond grief. Something intrinsic to his being had been destroyed over there in America, his insides hollowed out like a gourd. Mina’s mind ran with the possibilities of what could be troubling her son. Simply considering the countless corruptions of the West—meat, alcohol, drugs, girls—was enough to give her a headache. Anyone could see that country was not good for her son.

  Later that evening, Mina went to Anil’s room. He’d been sleeping an inordinate amount since he’d come home, another sign he was not well. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand, the way she used to check for fever when he was a child. “You’re not eating well over there, son? You’ve lost weight.” If Jayant could see his son now, would he still believe America was such a good idea?

  “I’m okay, Ma,” Anil said. “Just tired. Jet lag.”

  “Son.” Mina sat down at the foot of his bed, noticing his forehead was creased with lines. “I didn’t want to speak about this when you were over there.” She cleared her throat and looked down at her hands as she spoke. “Your papa, before he passed . . .” Her throat clenched with the words, and she had to breathe deeply to continue. “He couldn’t manage the disputes lately, son. Some people have been waiting for months.”

  “Oh, Ma, I don’t think I can.” Anil shook his head. “There must be someone else. What about Manoj Uncle, or even Nikhil? He’s old enough now.”

  Mina noticed the dimple in his chin that had appeared when his face began to mature out of childhood. She touched it with her thumb, reminding herself. “He wanted it to be you, son.” Mina was careful not to overstep what Jayant had said. She wanted to tell her son it was time to give up this foolish dream now that his father was gone. But Jayant had warned her not to hinder Anil’s medical training in any way, not to ask him to come home. She had promised her husband she would ask only that he fulfill this one role, as best he could.

  Anil let out a long breath, erasing the crease in his forehead. He looked at her for several moments. “Okay, Ma. I’ll do what I can while I’m here, but I can’t make any promises about when I go back.”

  Mina smiled and stood up. “Day after tomorrow, then. We’ll hold a meeting. I will let everyone know.”

  THE DISPUTED WELL

  AS PEOPLE BEGAN TO TRICKLE INTO THE BIG HOUSE ON THURSDAY morning, Anil ducked into the kitchen under the pretense of getting another cup of tea when what he really needed was a moment to collect himself. The entire village had come to depend on his father’s wisdom and judgment, and the idea of stepping into that role filled Anil with dread.

  By the time he returned to the gathering room, most of the chairs were filled, and a dozen people were standing against the walls. Only a few faces were familiar to him. His mother was standing in the back corner of the room, and he followed her gaze to the magnificent carved wooden armchair that sat like a throne at the head of the table. He pulled out the chair, the sound of the heavy legs scraping against the stone floor drawing everyone’s attention.

  Anil sat down and folded his hands on the table. “Let us start with a prayer.” He bowed his head and recited the blessing his father had always used to open these gatherings. When he looked up afterward, his mother nodded. “All right, who would like to begin?”

  A man named Jagdish, seated to his right, spoke first. “Anil Sahib, I would be most indebted for your counsel.” He went on to explain his dispute with his neighbor, Bipin. “On my land, I grow rice, only rice. Just like your esteemed father, rest his soul, I tend only one crop and I do it well. For years on my land, it has been nothing but rice, only rice—”

  Anil gestured with his hand for Jagdish to pick up the pace.

  “As you know, Anil Sahib, for rice you need more water, plenty of water, so much water. For years, I saved money. Three months ago, I built a well on my land to deliver water to my fields. Eight thousand rupees I spent,
out of my own pocket, to build that well. I had to procure the pipes, the tank—” He counted off the items by touching his thumb to the tip of each finger.

  “Okay, I get it,” Anil interrupted. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Now, after all my hard work and money, this scoundrel”—Jagdish pointed an accusing finger at a tall, thin man seated across the table—“Bipin wants to steal my water for his lousy sugarcane!”

  Bipin jumped out of his chair. “Your water? Your water?” he shouted. “Oh, I’m sorry, Bhagwan.” He pressed his palms together in mock prayer and began to genuflect. “I didn’t realize God himself was living right next door to me. All the water, the soil, the air belongs to you. How dare any of us try to take it from you?” His red-lined eyes were bulging from their sockets.

  “Okay, let’s all calm down.” Anil motioned for both men to sit down and tried not to be distracted by the mumbling from the perimeter of the room. “Now, Bipin bhai, it seems very clear to me Jagdish bhai invested his own money to build this well and he has a right to use it as he wishes. Perhaps you can build your own well if you’d like one.”

  “And does he have a right to run those pipes for his well under my land? Heh?” Bipin leaned forward in his chair and narrowed his eyes at Jagdish. “I know what you did, you old donkey! I spoke to that fellow you hired to dig up my land at night, when you thought no one would see. You think I don’t know about the reservoir of water under my land? Heh? My soil has always been better than yours, just like my crops. So you see, Anil bhai, who’s stealing now?” Bipin sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  Anil looked over at Jagdish, who stared at the table and muttered something about where Bipin could put his sugarcane, but offered no audible defense against his neighbor’s accusation.

  The cook appeared, placing a steaming cup of tea on the table, and Anil took a sip. The hot liquid burned his tongue, leaving a raw, prickly feeling. He pushed the cup away. “Okay.” Anil spoke slowly, waiting for something insightful to come to mind, as he did when asked a tough question on rounds. “Does anyone else have something to say about this matter?” Around the room, various people were whispering to one another. Anil summoned the confidence he’d learned to project even when he didn’t have the answer. “Well then, although the well belongs to Jagdish, it seems the source of water may come from Bipin, so the only fair solution is to share the well water equally. Jagdish, you use the well on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Bipin, you use it on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On Sunday, we’ll give it a rest.” Anil looked back and forth between the two men, pleased with his solution.

  “But Thursday is market day, I can’t—” Bipin began to protest.

  “And my rice needs more than—” Jagdish interjected, and soon they were talking over each other, their voices rising again.

  “Listen.” Anil raised his voice to be heard above them. “Bhaiya, this is a fair solution and I expect you both to cooperate. Okay? Good.” Both men still looked unsatisfied. Jagdish again said something unintelligible, and Bipin shook his head and stood up from his chair.

  After the dueling farmers departed, others came forward with their disputes. Anil did his best to mediate for a woman whose husband had gambled away most of the couple’s money in nightly card games. But he didn’t have any greater success talking this man out of his addiction than he’d had with the heroin abuser who’d come to the Parkview ER with heart palpitations, certain he was dying. The gambler and his wife continued to bicker loudly as they left the house.

  Next, there was a pair of unmarried sisters in their forties who lived together in the family home but couldn’t stand each other’s cooking. One sister had furtively brought samples of what she deemed to be the other’s worst dishes as proof: indistinguishable brownish heaps of mushy lentils and vegetables in a tiffin carrier. She offered a taste to anyone in the room as evidence for her grievance but found no takers. Anil proposed they take turns using the kitchen, so each could prepare her own meals, but even as they departed, leaving the offending tiffin behind, Anil knew they’d soon be fighting over the kitchen utensils or who used the last of the rice.

  He tried his best, but all of the arbitrations ended more or less as unsatisfactorily as had the first one, between the two farmers. Anil remembered his father having to bear others’ complaints and tears, but Papa had been better suited to this task than Anil seemed to be. When people left Papa’s table, they were more peaceful than when they arrived; some were downright joyous with his father’s decisions, and everyone was respectful. Anil didn’t know how to navigate conflicts for these people, some of whom he hadn’t seen since he was a boy. He was well aware that no one in Panchanagar thought of him as an individual or valued his personal opinion. To them, he was just Papa’s eldest son. His only qualification for this role was one he’d done nothing to earn.

  THE MEETING took longer than expected, and by the time it was over, it was time for the midday meal. Anil stood, watching everyone file out of the Big House. As the room cleared, a figure moved toward him. It was Nirmala Auntie, Leena’s mother, her face etched with lines. How long had it been since he’d seen her? She held a parcel at her side, wrapped in thin white cotton and tied with a plain string.

  Anil put his hands together and bowed slightly. “Namaste, Nirmala Auntie.”

  “I would like a word with your mother if she’s available,” she said.

  “Of course,” Anil said. “Let me get her.”

  He found his mother in the kitchen, instructing the cook on the preparation of lunch. She grabbed the narrow rolling pin from the sheepish man and shook it at him before demonstrating how to roll out the dough. “Ma.” Anil touched her arm. “Nirmala Auntie wants to talk to you. I think she brought a gift.”

  “What nonsense?” Ma’s elbows shot out behind her as she rolled. “The nerve of that woman, coming here at a time like this, when we are still in mourning.” She spoke without turning to look at Anil. “Crying about their problems, when we have enough of our own.” Ma plucked another ball of dough from the pile and flattened it between her palms. “Everything has fallen apart since your father died.” Ma pressed the rolling pin down on the dough. “I can’t manage it all.” She shook her head, her mouth puckered.

  Anil felt a sudden protectiveness. “How can I help, Ma? What can I do?”

  “Just take care of it, Anil, please. I can’t handle any more unpleasantness right now.” She walked into the cellar and returned carrying an improbable number of potatoes in one hand. “Just don’t let them off the hook. They can’t afford to repay their debts, when they’ve brought it all on themselves. If they were dealing with the moneylender, he would not be so forgiving.”

  Nirmala Auntie was standing in precisely the same place when Anil returned to the gathering room. He gestured to the table. “Please, sit down.” He wished he’d asked the servant to bring out some tea but didn’t dare return to the kitchen now. “I’m sorry, my mother’s not feeling well,” he said, even as the sound of her voice carried above the din of clanging pots. “But maybe I can help. I understand there’s the matter of a debt?”

  The expression on Nirmala Auntie’s face was wiped clean—not a muscle moved. Her hands rested atop the white-clothed parcel in her lap. She stared at him without speaking.

  Anil cleared his throat. “Let us work something out,” he said, reaching for the notepad he’d left on the table. He was accustomed to dealing with situations out of context; it had become a regular part of his daily routine to take over patients midstream and diagnose ailments with incomplete histories. “The current payment is . . . ?”

  “Two hundred rupees.”

  “Okay, two hundred rupees a month—”

  “A week.”

  “Oh, I see,” Anil said, scribbling out the numbers. “Eight hundred rupees a month. And what kind of payment can you afford?”

  Nirmala did not answer him. Anil was growing weary of feeling that he was disappointing everyone wh
o sat down at this table with him. “How about four hundred rupees a month?” He looked up from his notepad after scratching out a few calculations.

  Nirmala Auntie closed her eyelids for a long moment, then nodded once.

  “Good, then.” Anil slid the paper over to her. “Please say hello to Uncle.” Why hadn’t the man come himself to discuss such money matters? “And Leena as well.”

  Shortly after Nirmala Auntie left, the servants came to arrange the table for lunch, and Anil was ushered outside before he could tell Ma what had been decided about the debt.

  “Was that Nirmala Auntie?” Piya came up behind him on the porch. “I haven’t seen her in ages. God, I miss Leena,” she said. “You know she got married a few months ago?”

  “Oh?” Anil said. “No, I didn’t know.” To whom? The question lingered on his lips. It felt as though he’d been in America much longer than six months.

  Piya jabbed her elbow lightly into his ribs. “All the good ones are getting snapped up. Better not wait too long.”

  Anil groaned. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Hey, good job today,” Piya said.

  Anil shot her a wry smile. “Thank God for the blind devotion of my kid sister. Even if it is misplaced.”

  She smiled. “Papa left a big chair to fill. But you will, brother. You will.”

  After Piya left, Anil stood on the porch alone, looking out over his family’s land. In the clearing below the Big House, villagers were gathered, discussing the morning’s affairs. It was a burden, this business of orchestrating people’s lives, solving their problems. And it was one he wanted no more today than when he’d left here. The ripples of his father’s death were radiating into all of their lives. For years, Papa had given Anil a protected space to pursue his career, and now it was up to Anil alone to maintain it.