glass-encased cash register, a modern version of the primitive cash box still used upstairs.
‘Vicky – it is your first day here,’ said Pyare Lal after a few hours. ‘Do you want something cold?’
‘There is still the whole day,’ replied Vicky bashfully.
Yashpal slapped him on the back, told him not to be shy and gave him five rupees.
Vicky had never had five rupees to himself before. He fingered the green note, disappeared into the market, but nothing seemed worth the pang of parting with the money. Back in the shop, caressing the note in his pocket, he stood silently next to the entrance, before the pictures of Babaji and the Devi circled with sandalwood garlands. He folded his hands and prayed, may this be the beginning of my fortune.
‘Beta,’ said his grandfather, beaming at him. ‘Believe in the Devi and Babaji. They will always keep your hands full. You must work, work, work, and leave the result to them. I lost everything, but today I have a shop of two floors.’
‘Ji Baoji,’ murmured Vicky.
Six days a week Vicky had his lunch in the shop. Banwari Lal and Yashpal would call him upstairs, move to the corner of the mattress, turn their backs, open up the four containers of their tiffin carrier, spread out the food on little steel plates, and begin to eat quickly, so that Pyare Lal could have his turn soon.
The meal over, Vicky was allowed to lie down behind the counter in the basement. He loved these moments. He dreamed of the day he would be big and earn lots of money. His father would be afraid of him. Maybe he would go back to Bareilly, but only after he accumulated wealth.
His mother had told him many times that he would be a big man some day. To this end she remarked hungrily over every centimetre he grew, and fed him secretly on things that she never fed his father or herself. Growing boy, you are a growing boy, you need to eat well.
In Delhi his tallness, smallness, fatness, thinness gave nobody a minute’s anxiety. Sometimes he heard his aunt remark, how much the boy eats, but this never resulted in more love, or more food. The hollow feeling in his stomach grew as he did. In the shop sometimes they exclaimed indulgently at his appetite, but they took pleasure in feeding him the samosas and kachoris that went with their tea.
Now, with more access to food and attention, he felt this was just the beginning. Money would follow. Lying on the floor in the afternoons, next to the assistant’s feet, hidden by the counter, he saw the writing on the wall.
At home Vicky lorded it over his cousins, making Ajay and Vijay clamour to be taken to the shop. Sona watched this grimly. Now they will know what kind of troublemaker the boy is, they will see he is not to be trusted. She wondered how one child could produce so much evil in the house. The day she saw his face first thing in the morning was bound to be a bad day. Either Nisha would cry a lot, or she herself would get a headache, invariably compounded by irritability in her normally attentive husband on his return home.
Besides which, she had to slave in the kitchen for Vicky, who ate enough for six children. Maybe the birth of the second baby would push that unwanted child back to his proper home. By which time the register of black marks against Vicky would be full.
V
Raju, Vicky, and Nisha
Five months later Sona delivered her son. That moment on the hospital bed she experienced as the most blessed of her life. The mother of a son, she could join Sushila as a woman who had done her duty to the family, in the way the family understood it. Gone was the disgrace, the resentment, gone with the appearance of little Raju, as dark and plain-featured as his father, but a boy, a boy.
‘Nisha has opened the luck of this family, I tell you,’ exclaimed Rupa. ‘Two children in two years after a decade of drought.’
‘God has rewarded you,’ cried the mother-in-law, clutching the day-old boy to her withered chest. ‘At last the name of his
‘Vicky – it is your first day here,’ said Pyare Lal after a few hours. ‘Do you want something cold?’
‘There is still the whole day,’ replied Vicky bashfully.
Yashpal slapped him on the back, told him not to be shy and gave him five rupees.
Vicky had never had five rupees to himself before. He fingered the green note, disappeared into the market, but nothing seemed worth the pang of parting with the money. Back in the shop, caressing the note in his pocket, he stood silently next to the entrance, before the pictures of Babaji and the Devi circled with sandalwood garlands. He folded his hands and prayed, may this be the beginning of my fortune.
‘Beta,’ said his grandfather, beaming at him. ‘Believe in the Devi and Babaji. They will always keep your hands full. You must work, work, work, and leave the result to them. I lost everything, but today I have a shop of two floors.’
‘Ji Baoji,’ murmured Vicky.
Six days a week Vicky had his lunch in the shop. Banwari Lal and Yashpal would call him upstairs, move to the corner of the mattress, turn their backs, open up the four containers of their tiffin carrier, spread out the food on little steel plates, and begin to eat quickly, so that Pyare Lal could have his turn soon.
The meal over, Vicky was allowed to lie down behind the counter in the basement. He loved these moments. He dreamed of the day he would be big and earn lots of money. His father would be afraid of him. Maybe he would go back to Bareilly, but only after he accumulated wealth.
His mother had told him many times that he would be a big man some day. To this end she remarked hungrily over every centimetre he grew, and fed him secretly on things that she never fed his father or herself. Growing boy, you are a growing boy, you need to eat well.
In Delhi his tallness, smallness, fatness, thinness gave nobody a minute’s anxiety. Sometimes he heard his aunt remark, how much the boy eats, but this never resulted in more love, or more food. The hollow feeling in his stomach grew as he did. In the shop sometimes they exclaimed indulgently at his appetite, but they took pleasure in feeding him the samosas and kachoris that went with their tea.
Now, with more access to food and attention, he felt this was just the beginning. Money would follow. Lying on the floor in the afternoons, next to the assistant’s feet, hidden by the counter, he saw the writing on the wall.
At home Vicky lorded it over his cousins, making Ajay and Vijay clamour to be taken to the shop. Sona watched this grimly. Now they will know what kind of troublemaker the boy is, they will see he is not to be trusted. She wondered how one child could produce so much evil in the house. The day she saw his face first thing in the morning was bound to be a bad day. Either Nisha would cry a lot, or she herself would get a headache, invariably compounded by irritability in her normally attentive husband on his return home.
Besides which, she had to slave in the kitchen for Vicky, who ate enough for six children. Maybe the birth of the second baby would push that unwanted child back to his proper home. By which time the register of black marks against Vicky would be full.
V
Raju, Vicky, and Nisha
Five months later Sona delivered her son. That moment on the hospital bed she experienced as the most blessed of her life. The mother of a son, she could join Sushila as a woman who had done her duty to the family, in the way the family understood it. Gone was the disgrace, the resentment, gone with the appearance of little Raju, as dark and plain-featured as his father, but a boy, a boy.
‘Nisha has opened the luck of this family, I tell you,’ exclaimed Rupa. ‘Two children in two years after a decade of drought.’
‘God has rewarded you,’ cried the mother-in-law, clutching the day-old boy to her withered chest. ‘At last the name of his
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