Uncle Madan

Aditya switched the radio on again and turned the tuning dial to All India Radio. Music was playing-Indian classical music, the strings of a sitar ringing through the night.

The door was not quite shut, leaving a crack through which bright moonlight streamed into the room.

At midnight, Aditya switched off the radio and picked up his pen to organize the information he had gathered over the past few days.

The BBC said it would begin in the second half of the year.

The Economic Times said it would begin after the monsoon ended.

With a pencil stub, he drew a timeline in his notebook from January to December, putting a question mark at August and another at September.

The monsoon would end around late September, but if the government wanted to announce the policy before it ended so farmers could catch the autumn sowing, that should mean mid-to-late August.

He stared at the question mark for a while, then closed the notebook.

"Guessing is useless. I still have to wait. Enough thinking. Sleep first." He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Early the next morning, Aditya went to the county town again. This time, Raju did not come along; he went alone.

It was a fair distance. He walked for over an hour, and by the time he reached town, the sun was already halfway up the eastern sky.

He sat at the tea stall for the entire morning, went through three newspapers, and copied every piece of information in the business sections that had anything to do with "agriculture, fertilizer, prices, controls, imports, and so on," without missing a single word.

By noon, his stomach was growling with hunger. He had a simple meal of curry and rice, then sat down at the tea stall again.

He had ordered only one cup of tea that morning but had sat there all morning. The owner was quite surprised to see him sit down again, but merely glanced at him and said nothing.

He was a Brahmin. Though the tea stall owner was very curious, he did not dare disturb him.

That afternoon, Aditya also made a round of the county cooperative. A sheet-metal sign hung on its whitewashed wall.

An old man sat at the entrance, balding and wearing a pair of battered glasses, with a register in front of him.

"Uncle, may I ask you something?"

The old man looked up at him, his gaze lingering on the sacred thread around his neck before he lowered his eyes slightly and said respectfully:

"Please, go ahead."

"Have fertilizer prices changed at all this year?"

The old man leafed through the register and said, "They went up once before the new year, then stabilized. The prices are all still what they were at the end of last year."

"What about imported fertilizer?"

The old man raised his head and looked at him again. "Why are you asking about that?"

"My family farms. We want to stock up on some fertilizer."

The old man looked at him, then at the thread around his neck, and finally said:

"Imports haven't been opened up yet. They're arguing over it in the government. Some say they should open them up, others say they can't. If you need it urgently, buy domestic fertilizer first. If you're not in a hurry, wait."

Aditya nodded. "Thank you."

He turned and walked out of the cooperative.

It was already dark when Aditya returned to the village. The courtyard gate stood open, and Raju was crouching inside, sweeping up fallen leaves with a broom.

"Young master, you're back."

"Mm."

Aditya walked into the main room and opened his notebook.

He wrote down what he had heard from the old man at the cooperative that day: "Some say they should open them up, others say they can't."

This information pointed to the same thing as what he had heard on the radio, read in the newspapers, and picked up at the tea stall.

The government had not yet made a decision. The policy was still being contested, and the timing remained undecided, but the direction was already clear.

Sitting on a low stool, he looked at the line in his notebook: "Wait for a specific date."

That wait lasted more than half a month.

During that half month, Aditya listened to the radio every morning and evening and went into town every three days to read the newspapers.

Raju was responsible for staying at the tea stall to gather information. Every day or two, he would also bring back bits of gossip he had heard there.

One morning in mid-July, Aditya switched on the radio as usual.

On All India Radio's morning news, the announcer read out a string of domestic and international reports before turning to agricultural policy.

"It is understood that the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of Agriculture are in the final stages of coordinating a fertilizer subsidy reform plan. Sources say adjustments to phosphate fertilizer import controls may be announced before September. The exact implementation date has yet to be determined..."

When Aditya heard the words "before September," he jumped straight up in excitement.

Before September-there was only a month and a half left. The window was narrowing.

He listened again to make sure he had heard correctly, then wrote the sentence down in his notebook word for word.

A month and a half. Late August at the latest.

Aditya did the calculations in his head. If the announcement came in late August, that meant he had around half a month left to prepare. In that half month, he had to find money, goods, and channels.

He closed the notebook, stood up, and walked into the courtyard. Raju was crouching at the foot of the wall, chopping firewood.

"Raju."

Raju put down the blade and stood up. "Young master."

"Come with me to Gorakhpur."

"Gorakhpur? What for?"

"To find my uncle."

Gorakhpur was an important city in northeastern Uttar Pradesh, India. It was a major railway junction and one of Uttar Pradesh's important transport and commercial centers.

It was already evening when Aditya and Raju reached Gorakhpur.

The ox cart could not travel that far, so the two of them took a long-distance bus from the county town. The trip took three hours, with seven or eight stops along the way to let passengers on and off. The bus was crammed with people and bundles.

Aditya and Raju squeezed into window seats in the back row. Dust covered the window glass, and the air outside looked hazy. Everything was yellow.

Aditya found one of the cheapest lodgings and checked in. It cost fifteen rupees a night, and the sheets smelled strongly of damp, but he no longer cared.

After putting down his things, Aditya went out with the slip of paper Madan had sent back with someone the previous year. An address was written on it: "Old Market, Gorakhpur, opposite Desai Store, second floor."

The old market was easy to find. Gorakhpur was not large; they only had to follow the main road to the end.

Two incandescent bulbs hung outside Desai Store, lighting up the rotten vegetable leaves strewn across the ground in front. Opposite stood a two-story building. The ground floor was a storefront, already closed.

A narrow staircase ran up the side, pitch-black. Aditya felt his way up to the second floor.

There was a room at the end of the second-floor corridor, with light leaking through the crack around its door. He went up and knocked.

A weak voice came from inside. "Who is it?"

"Uncle Madan, it's me, Aditya."

The door opened a crack, revealing a tired face.

His uncle Madan had grown much thinner. His hair was a mess, his shirt was crumpled, and its collar shone with grease.

When Madan saw that it was Aditya, he froze for a moment, then glanced to either side and pulled the door open.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see my poor, cowardly uncle."

Aditya sneered.

Ignoring Madan's reddening face, Aditya walked straight inside.

The room was tiny, furnished with only a bed and a table, with several stacks of account books on the table. The window stood open a crack, and cold wind blew in from time to time.