Akhil Sharma - An Obedient Father

Mr. Gaur was sitting in a chair on the veranda that ran along the yellow rooms. He was eating rice and lentils with his bare hands. As he saw me, he took a glass of water from beside his foot and, leaning beyond the veranda, rinsed his hands. "How are you?" I asked. Mr. Gaur was under five feet tall and had a face so round you could set instruments by it.

"Your blessings," he answered, smiling and bobbing his head.

He stood and I followed him inside. The stink of shit and heat was so strong I backed out as soon as I stepped through the door. The room was dark. The only windows were high up and narrow. There was a cot against a wall, several cots standing on end, and a table with an enormous radio.

"Oh ho," Mr. Gaur chuckled, and called, "Baby Baby" He moved into the room and leaned down and scanned the floor. He spotted something beneath the cot and, kneeling, pulled it out. The child was perhaps a year old and wore only a cloth diaper. "My granddaughter," Mr. Gaur said, and carried the child, held beneath its arms and kept as far away from himself as possible, past me. From the veranda he shouted, "Mrs. Gaur! Come take care of this bad girl."

Mrs. Gaur left her class and, after saying namaste to me, took the baby behind the school.

Mr. Gaur and I sat on the veranda.

At first we talked about his children. His oldest daughter had cervical cancer. His son, who worked at a cigarette factory, had been promoted. Mrs. Gaur returned to her classes. After a while the discussion came to the elections. At some point I let a meaningful pause develop to indicate that the serious part of the conversation was about to start.

"Big things are happening," I said.

"What?" he asked, leaning over. There was fear in his voice.

"The government wants to shut down your school."

Mr. Gaur straightened in his chair. He was quiet for a moment. "Can't you save us?" Mr. Gaur asked. "We have rights after living here so long." He said the two things in the same quiet, frightened voice.

Looking at the students, I said, "You have forty students." Most of them were thin and all were barefoot. Mrs. Gaur made them leave their slippers in a pile on the side of the compound entrance because she did not want them bringing their germs into her dirt yard. This detail had, in the past, made me wonder whether she was crazy.

"I can get more, as many as you need."

I did not answer for a while. "That's not what it is. Congress wants to sell your school to raise money for the election." About fifteen years ago a bank robber had phoned the Central Bank and pretended to be speaking on Indira Gandhi's behalf He had said the Prime Minister needed money and would like it to be ready in a briefcase in two hours. The robber appeared at the bank at the appointed time, showed some identification he had made up, received the money in a bag, and vanished, never to be seen again. When I first heard that, I immediately thought of doing it myself

"What are we to do? We have to live somewhere."

"Take a flat like everybody else. The government never meant you to live here." I dripped a little anger into my voice so that he would know he was unimportant.

"Don't be angry with me. I am a poor man."

"This is a nation of poor people."

"But what am I to do with my family?"

"Your children are gone." As I was saying this, Mrs. Gaur dismissed one batch of her students and came to the veranda.

Mr. Gaur explained Congress's plans to her.

The thoughtful stare she gave me made me uneasy and I said, "Changes are happening. Changes which if you knew would drive you mad."

"Will we get other jobs?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Will we work in the same school?"

"I give you my finger, you grab my wrist."

"No. No," Mr. Gaur protested.

"What if the BJP wins?" Mrs. Gaur asked.

"That is the good thing about the sale. The BJP and Congress will both share whatever money is made."

"Strange," she said. Women, I think, do not speak as fast as men and this lets them be more reflective.

Mr. Gaur also appeared doubtful.

I said, "Does a lion care what another lion eats as long as its stomach is full?"

Mr. and Mrs. Gaur were quiet. Many of the children that had been reciting the alphabet had stopped and were talking among themselves.

"Can we get government quarters?" Mrs. Gaur asked.

I sighed. No one spoke for a while. "One piece of good news I have. I can offer you one lakh." Mr. Gaur looked at his wife. I had picked this figure by calculating reasonable rent for two years and then doubling it. I was afraid of how long negotiations could take if Mr. Gaur resisted. "But you can't tell anyone what's being done. If anyone asks, and why should they, you say this school is being closed and you are being moved."

"Will you find out about government quarters?" Mrs. Gaur asked.

"One lakh is what you get. You've lived for free all these years."

Again we were quiet. "I can buy stocks," Mr. Gaur said.

"You won't gamble with our money," Mrs. Gaur immediately replied.

"Stocks are not gambling."

"And every type of alcohol is not bad."

I had to begin investigating the property dealers capable of buying the land. The school was about two kilometers from home, and I decided to walk to the flat and make my phone calls from there. The confidence that comes with success made me think I had been superstitious to believe I could not be bad in one part of my life without suffering elsewhere.

K sha opened the door and said, "Every twenty minutes

/Xk you've had phone calls." She was smiling and excited. I thought the phone calls had to do with Mr. Gupta. I felt a gust of self-importance.

"The same man always," Anita added. She was in the doorway between her bedroom and the living room. "I told him you were at work, and you would be back by three. But he keeps calling." Her squeaky voice made her sound as if she was about to cry.

The phone rang. We became still at the sound. "I'll answer," I said.

"Hello," I murmured. I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down into the phone, which I held in my lap.

"Ram Karan?" The man had a Haryanvi accent. I didn't answer. "Ram Karan?"

"What's your name?"

"Sisterfucker, you think you're in a toy store. Asking me questions." It was Congress, of course. Immediately I wanted to apologize and claim there had been a mistake, but I couldn't think of anything to say "We'll kill you. You return the money or they won't find your corpse."

I cut the line and immediately dialed Mr. Gupta at the office. I

was SO panicked, I started dialing my own number. Anita came and sat on one of the love seats and watched me. She kept her hands on her knees. Once the other end was ringing, I heard a click and the phone became airy. "Who are you calling?" asked the man with the Hariyanvi accent. I didn't answer and the phone stopped ringing. "Who are you calling? Roshan Gupta?"

"Yes."

"Okay. You can dial him now."

I dialed again. The other end rang for a while and then I hung up. I tried Mr. Gupta at home. "Who are you calling now?"

I thought about whether to answer. "I'm phoning his house."

"I have to write down everyone you call. That's why I ask." Now none of the menace that had been in his voice a moment ago was present.

A servant at Mr. Gupta's picked up. Mr. Gupta was out and Ajay was put on.

"Somebody is listening to this," I told him as soon as he spoke.

"Who are you?" Ajay demanded.

"A killer from Bihar," the man answered. "You think you can steal from us?"

"Steal what? From where?" Ajay said.

"Sisterfucker."

"You think this will scare us. Slap you twice and you'll start crying."

"Cut your throat twice. Make your whole family cry."

"I am home," I said softly, fear crushing my voice.