Personal Maid Dipali

Madan had followed behind them without saying a word. Only when they reached the corner outside the wholesale depot did he catch up and tug at Aditya's sleeve.

"Are you really going to do this?"

"Yes."

"What about the money?"

"I'll find a way."

"What way could you possibly find? Do you know? Chaudhary used to be a Brahmin too. What you're doing now is exactly what he did before." Madan regretted it the moment he finished speaking. He was annoyed with himself; he shouldn't have said so much.

Aditya turned to look at his uncle in surprise.

Madan's face drooped. He looked hesitant, as though he wanted to stop him but didn't know how.

Aditya didn't answer his uncle. He merely said again:

"I know someone."

"Who?"

"Solomon Cohen, a Jew living in Varanasi."

Madan frowned. "That bankrupt old man?"

"You know him?"

"I don't, but I've heard of him. Your father mentioned him before. He said the man had a knack for business. I also heard he made a miscalculation and went under."

"He didn't go under," Aditya said. "He just stopped."

He turned and continued walking back. Madan stood where he was for a few seconds, then followed.

"I'll go back with you."

Aditya didn't stop or turn his head. Only the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I've been watching you for a good while, but I still can't figure you out. Aditya, you've changed. You've become so levelheaded. You shouldn't have to be like this. You should have been studying at university without a care in the world. I've dragged you down." Madan's voice came from behind him.

Aditya turned to look at his uncle. After a moment's silence, he said:

"Then come back and run errands for me."

"Errands? Of course. Your uncle can do anything. Just tell me what to do, Aditya."

Wind funneled in from the mouth of the alley, carrying the smell of cow dung and dust.

Aditya turned toward the station, with Madan following two paces behind.

Ahead of him was Aditya's back, young and straight, his strides long. Looking at that retreating figure, Madan suddenly felt that this nephew of his was different from his older brother, and even more different from himself.

He thought that perhaps things really would be different this time.

On Aditya's journey back from Gorakhpur, the passengers were packed into the bus like sardines in a can.

Madan and Raju sat beside him, unable to straighten their legs, their knees pressed against the seatbacks in front. In less than half an hour, they had shifted positions seven or eight times.

"You lived in that room for the whole six months you were in Gorakhpur?"

"Yes."

"You never thought about finding somewhere else?"

Madan gave a bitter smile. "Where else could I go? Out there, only rupees count. I was already two months behind on rent. The landlord only refrained from throwing me out because I was a Brahmin and had kept his books for half a year."

"Then where will you stay when you get back?"

Madan rubbed his hands. "I'll clear out that room in the west courtyard and clean it up. I'll stay there."

His uncle Madan was twenty-eight that year, ten years older than Aditya. He had yet to marry, so naturally, he had not established a separate household.

But however far the Mishra Family had fallen, they were still Brahmins. Their ancestral home was a brick house rarely seen in the countryside, occupying many mu of land, and there were still plenty of empty rooms.

Aditya glanced at his uncle without replying.

Madan looked out the window, his expression difficult to read-whether it was resignation or something else.

It was already evening when they reached Varanasi. The three got off the bus and walked back to the Mishra Family's ancestral home.

Madan stood motionless at the courtyard gate, looking at the mango tree inside. He stared at it for a long time, as though he no longer recognized it.

"Go in. See Grandfather first," Aditya said.

Madan pushed open the gate and went inside.

His grandfather, Patil, was sitting in the main room. At the sound of footsteps, he lifted his eyelids. Seeing Madan, he said nothing, merely shifting the teacup in front of him to one side to make room.

Madan stood in the doorway with his head lowered. "Dad, I'm back."

His grandfather lifted his teacup and took a sip without looking at him.

"You're back, then you're back. No more messing about. From now on, help Aditya with his work. I'll find you a wife in a few days. It's time you started a family too. I'll have your sister-in-law find someone to clean the room in the west courtyard. Stay there for now."

Madan murmured his assent and headed toward the back courtyard with his head lowered. His retreating figure was thin and frail, and soon his footsteps could no longer be heard.

Aditya didn't follow him. He took two steps forward and sat down opposite his grandfather.

"Grandpa, you know Solomon Cohen, don't you?"

His grandfather set down his teacup and glanced at him. "That Jew?"

"Yes."

"What do you want with him?"

"To borrow money."

His grandfather fell silent for a moment. He turned the teacup in his hand twice before speaking:

"He used to do business in Mumbai, both aboveboard and underhanded, on quite a large scale. Later, he went under. Somehow, he ended up in Varanasi, and he's been living here for almost twenty years. I've met him a few times. Your father wanted to do business with him back then, but he didn't agree."

"Why?"

"Your father didn't have any projects that interested him enough to get involved." His grandfather paused. "If you go to see him, what will you bring?"

Aditya thought for a moment. "A game of chess."

"Chess?"

"I've asked around. Every afternoon, he sets up a chessboard by the river ghats and waits for someone to play."

His grandfather looked at him. An indefinable glimmer flashed through his cloudy eyes, as though he wanted to see right through the grandson before him.

"You've already prepared so much. But do you know how to play chess?"

"A little."

"Who taught you?"

"I taught myself at university."

His grandfather asked no more questions. He finished his tea, set down the cup, and rose to head toward the back courtyard. As he passed Aditya, he paused and said:

"Success or failure is all heaven's will. Don't take it too much to heart. Go ahead and do it."

At dusk, Aditya walked into his small room as usual. The instant he opened the door, he froze.

A figure wrapped from head to toe in a pale red sari stood prettily before him.

Her face was veiled, her figure petite, her black hair shoulder-length. Judging by her exposed wrists, her skin was fair.

"Dipali! What are you doing here?"

The girl removed her veil. Delicacy and allure coexisted on her tender face, and her bright, captivating green eyes were full of smiles.

It was Aditya's first time seeing Dipali's true appearance. She was the girl his mother, Sushila, had adopted, three years older than him and in the full bloom of youth and vitality. He was instantly spellbound.

"Baba. The mistress sent me."

"What? What did you call me?" Aditya suddenly shuddered, as though a warm current were slowly flowing through his body from head to toe.

"Baba. You're my baba!" Baba was a special honorific in Hindi, expressing respect for teachers, saints, and exceptionally capable people, and, of course, masters as well.

Dipali didn't know why Aditya was asking. Baba ought to know all this.

"Don't you like it, Baba? I can call you something else, like Master."

"No, there's no need. Just call me Baba. But from now on, you can only call me Baba, no one else." Aditya refused with righteous conviction, grinning crookedly, though his smile grew increasingly perverted.

Dipali was utterly puzzled. Why was her baba grinning like a fool? And his face was so red.

Naturally, Dipali didn't know that his face was red because the last scrap of Aditya's conscience felt a trace of shame at his own shamelessness.

"All right, Baba."

The way she addressed Aditya sent tingles through his entire body, and he shuddered again. His shame vanished without a trace, leaving only two words in his mind: So good.

"By the way, Dipali, what did Mother send you here for?" Aditya put away his lecherous grin, wiped the nonexistent drool from the corner of his mouth, and asked solemnly.

This time, it was Dipali's turn to blush. She hemmed and hawed, her voice very quiet.

"..."