Funds in Place

The old man toppled his king and said:

"You won. By the rules, I can help you once."

He leaned back in his chair, picked up the cup of tea that had long since gone cold, took a sip, and set it back on the table.

"Five hundred thousand. I can lend you that. But I have conditions."

"Go ahead."

"First, you have to tell me where you heard about phosphate fertilizer."

"The radio."

"Which station?"

"All India Radio, the BBC, and the bookkeeper at the county wholesale depot."

"Second, if you make a profit, I want thirty percent."

Aditya frowned. After a long moment, he said, "Ten percent."

"Twenty percent."

"Ten percent."

The old man looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Since when did the people of the Mishra Family learn to haggle?"

"It started with me."

"Interesting. Ha!"

The old man laughed, thoroughly amused. The corners of his mouth pulled upward, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes bunched together.

Then he held out his hand and said, "Come to my house on the afternoon of August fourteenth to collect the money. Bring an IOU, with everything clearly written out. Five hundred thousand rupees, twelve percent annual interest, repaid in full within a year. If you make a profit, I get ten percent. If you lose money, you sweep my courtyard for a month."

Aditya's eyes flickered. His gamble had paid off.

"Deal."

Aditya shook his hand. The old man's hand was dry and cold, his palm hard beneath a thin layer of calluses.

"My name is Solomon Cohen," the old man said.

"I know."

"And you still came?"

"I had no other choice. I came precisely because I knew."

Aditya stood, picked up the cup of cold tea, and took a sip. It was so bitter that he bared his teeth.

Solomon watched his expression and smiled again.

"Go on. Go home and prepare your IOU."

Aditya left the ghat, climbed the steps, and headed home.

The afternoon sun reflected off the surface of the Ganges, shattering amid rings of ripples into a swaying expanse of gold.

He had taken a few steps when he heard someone call from behind him, "Young Master Aditya."

He turned. It was Amir Kayastha.

Amir, the garland seller who had pulled him ashore. He had not taken his boat out today and was sitting on the upper stone steps of the ghat, a bundle of unsold garlands beside him.

"Young Master Aditya, were you just sitting over there playing chess with that old man?" Amir gestured toward Solomon with his lips.

"Yes. Thank you for saving me last time. What is it?"

"Don't mention it, young master. That old man has lived here for twenty years. You're the first person to play chess with him in the past six months."

Aditya looked at Amir, not understanding what he meant.

Amir said nothing more. He picked up a bundle of garlands and handed it to Aditya.

"Take these home and put them beside the shrine. Picked just yesterday, still fresh. No charge."

Aditya took the garlands. They were strung with jasmine, droplets of water still clinging to the delicate white petals.

"Thanks, Amir."

Aditya left, the garlands swaying in his hand. The faint fragrance of jasmine rose in the sunset and followed him all the way back to the Mishra Family.

When he pushed open the courtyard gate, Raju was in the courtyard, clutching a broom and sweeping fallen leaves off the ground.

He worked clumsily. By the time he had swept one side, another layer had fallen on the other, but he kept his head down and swept without stopping to look.

Only when he saw Aditya come in did he stop. He looked at his handiwork and scratched his head. He opened his mouth to say something, but in the end said nothing.

Madan sat in the courtyard, a ledger in one hand and a pen in the other. He froze briefly at the sight of the garlands in Aditya's hand but asked no questions.

"Young master, you're back." Holding up her skirt, Dipali ran carefully over, her face full of attachment.

Last night, Aditya had specifically instructed Dipali to call him Baba only in private. He treated it as a little pleasure between the two of them. Although Dipali did not understand, she was very obedient, so this time she called him only young master and did not disappoint him.

After a day apart, Dipali already missed her Baba terribly. Now she was like a dried-up flower, urgently in need of watering from Baba Aditya.

Aditya handed the bundle of garlands to Dipali, secretly stroked her hand, and said, "Put these beside the shrine."

Dipali felt a tickle. Enduring the discomfort, she walked away with the garlands in her arms.

Aditya went into his little room, spread a sheet of paper beneath the kerosene lamp, and began writing the IOU.

He wrote it three times and revised the wording twice before folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

"A few more days, then I get the money. Then it's off to Mumbai." Aditya looked toward the window, imagining the future.

On the afternoon of August fourteenth, Aditya went to Solomon's home.

Solomon lived in an old colonial-style building by the Ganges.

The iron railing of the second-floor balcony faced the ghat. Downstairs was a spice shop. The stairs were narrow and steep, and the wooden boards creaked underfoot.

As Aditya climbed the stairs, he saw two stacks of old books at the turn, tied with hemp rope and covered in a layer of dust.

Solomon opened the door for him. The old man wore a clean beige shirt, his hair combed as neatly as yesterday and his gold-rimmed glasses polished until they gleamed.

He stepped aside to let Aditya in.

The living room was small but very clean. There was a wooden table, two chairs, and a bookshelf against the wall, all the spines bearing English lettering. A desk lamp stood on the table, its green glass shade looking very new.

Solomon had Aditya sit in a chair, then went over to the kitchen, poured two cups of tea, and brought them over.

It was black tea with a little sugar added. Aditya tasted it. It was much better than the tea at the county town's tea stalls.

"Did you bring the IOU?"

Aditya took the folded sheet from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table.

Solomon did not read it immediately. He took a sip of tea and first looked over the handwriting on the paper.

"You have good handwriting. The same style as your father's."

"You knew my father?"

"We met a few times. He came to ask me about business a few times."

"Did you agree?"

"No."

"Why?"

Solomon finally picked up the IOU, read it from beginning to end, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He said:

"Because when he asked me, he didn't even believe he could pull it off himself."

Aditya said nothing.

Solomon stood, walked to an old cabinet against the wall, crouched down, and pulled open the bottom drawer. The drawer was empty. He reached inside and felt around the bottom, caught a fingernail in a crack, and lifted a wooden panel.

Beneath it was a hidden compartment containing a stack of old envelopes and a passport, with a bundle of cash underneath.

Five hundred thousand rupees, in thousand-rupee notes, five bundles stacked neatly together.

Solomon took out the cash, set it on the table, and pushed it toward Aditya. "Count it."

Aditya did not count it. He picked up one bundle and flipped through it, confirmed that the notes were genuine, then put all five bundles into an old canvas bag he had brought, tied the opening tight, and slung it over his shoulder.

"Not counting it?"

"I trust you."

Solomon smiled, shook his head, and said:

"A member of the Mishra family, a Brahmin. You're nothing like your father, nor like any Brahmin I know. You're more like a Jew. A Jew like me."

Aditya stood. "When I repay you, I'll add twenty percent to the interest."

Solomon lifted his teacup. "I'd collect it even if you didn't add it."