A Fine Balance

IX. What Law There Is

OUT OF A DOORWAY A WOMAN beckoned to Dina, and furtively displayed a basket. “Tamaater, bai?” the woman whispered. “Big, fresh tamaater?”

Dina shook her head. She, as always, was searching for tailors, not tomatoes. Further ahead, someone stood concealed in an alcove with a box of leather wallets; another half-hidden man balanced a stack of bananas in his arms. Everyone was on the lookout for the police and ready to run. The rubble of broken stalls littered the ground.

She wandered through several bleak streets where pavement life had been sucked away by the Emergency. But perhaps her chances of finding replacements for Ishvar and Om were better now, she comforted herself. Perhaps the tailors who used to ply their trade from roadside stalls would seek alternate work.

Delivering the final dresses to Au Revoir Exports, she had casually advised Mrs. Gupta that her employees were going on a two-week vacation. As the tailorless fortnight drew to a close, however, she realized her optimism was misplaced. The manager had to be informed that resumption of work was being further postponed.

Dina started by praising Mrs. Gupta’s hair. “It looks lovely. Did you just come from Venus Beauty Salon?”

“No,” said Mrs. Gupta grouchily. “I had to go to a strange place. Zenobia has let me down.”

“What happened?”

“I needed an urgent appointment, and she said to me she was all booked up. To me — her most faithful client.”

Oh no, thought Dina, wrong topic. “By the way, my tailors have been delayed.”

“That’s very inconvenient. For how long?”

“I’m not sure, maybe two more weeks. They have fallen sick in their village.”

“That’s what they all say. Too many production days are lost to such excuses. Probably drinking and dancing in their village. We are Third World in development, but first class in absenteeism and strikes.”

Stupid woman, thought Dina. If she only knew how hard poor Ishvar and Om worked, and how much they had suffered.

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Gupta. “The Emergency is good medicine for the nation. It will soon cure everyone of their bad habits.”

Wishing the manager’s head could be cured of its chronic brainlessness, she agreed. “Yes, that would be a great improvement.”

“Two more weeks, then — and no more delays, Mrs. Dalai. Delays are the by-products of disorder. Remember, strict rules and firm supervision lead to success. Indiscipline is the mother of chaos, but the fruits of discipline are sweet.”

Dina listened in disbelief, and said goodbye. She wondered if Mrs. Gupta had taken up writing slogans for the Emergency, as a sideline or hobby. Or perhaps she had suffered an overdose of the government’s banners and posters, and lost the capacity for normal speech.

While the manager’s words hung like an ultimatum over Dina and the second fortnight commenced, the rent-collector arrived on his appointed day. He lifted his right hand towards the maroon fez as if to raise it. Stiffness in his shoulder kept the greeting incomplete. The hand dropped to the collar of his black sherwani, tugging it in a surrogate salutation.

“Oh, rent-collector,” she sniffed. “Wait. I’ll bring the money.”

“Thank you, sister,” smiled Ibrahim winsomely, as the door shut in his face. He relinquished the collar to rub his snuff-streaked nostrils. His fingers missed the light shower of brown dust that had rained on his clean-shaven upper lip, stark amid the full white beard.

He felt under the sherwani, got hold of the tip of his handkerchief, and pulled. He mopped his brow, then thrust it back into the trouser pocket, pushing repeatedly till all but a dangling corner disappeared.

Sighing, he leaned against the wall. Midday, and he was exhausted. Even if he finished his rounds early, there was nowhere to go — from nine a.m. to nine p.m. he had rented his room to a mill-worker on night shift. Doomed to roam the streets, Ibrahim occupied park benches, sat on bus-shelter stiles, sipped a glass of tea at a corner stall till it was time to return home and sleep in the mill-worker’s smell. This was life? Or a cruel joke? He no longer believed that the scales would ever balance fairly. If his pan was not empty, if there was some little sustenance in it for his days and nights, it was enough for him. Now he expected nothing better from the Maker of the Universe.

He decided to find Dina’s receipt while waiting outside her door. Cautiously, the rubber band was pulled upwards. He brought it safely as far as the edge of the folder, then it snapped, stinging his nose and making him drop the folder.

The contents scattered. He went down on his knees to recover the precious pieces of paper. His hands fluttered methodlessly among them. For every two he picked up, one slipped from his fingers. A slight breeze rustled the pages ominously, and he panicked. He swept with his palms to gather them together, not caring that the sheets were being crumpled.

Dina opened the door with the rent money in her hand. For a second she thought the old man had fallen. She bent to help. Then, realizing what had happened, she straightened away from the landlord’s emissary, watching the enemy’s discomfort.

“Sorry,” he smiled upwards. “Old hands are clumsy hands, what to do.” He managed to cram everything back inside the plastic folder. The large rubber band was slipped around a wrist for safekeeping. He rose to his feet, and staggered. Dina’s hand shot out to steady him.

“Heh, heh, don’t worry. Legs are still working, I think.”

“Please count it.” She sternly presented the money.

With both hands clutching the unsecured folder, the money remained unaccepted. He listened intently for the chatter of the sewing-machines. Nothing. “Please, sister, can I sit for a minute to find your receipt? Or everything will fall again to the ground. Hands are shaking too much.”

The need for a chair was real, she knew, and he would exploit it, without question. “Sure, come in,” she opened wide the door. There was nothing to lose today.

Excitement augmented Ibrahim’s tremors of fatigue. At last, after months of trying, he was inside. “All the papers are mixed up,” he said apologetically, “but I’ll find your receipt, don’t worry, sister.” He listened again for sounds from the back room. Ah, but they were quiet as mice, of course.

“Yes, here it is, sister.” The name and address were already entered. He filled in the amount received and the date. A signature writhed its way across the revenue stamp at the bottom, and the money was taken.

“Count it, please.”

“No need, sister. A twenty years’ tenant like you — if I cannot trust you, who can I trust?” Then he began counting it all the same. “Only to make you happy.” From an inside pocket of the sherwani he withdrew a thick wad of notes and thickened it further with Dina’s contribution. Like the plastic folder, the money was secured by a rubber band.

“Now,” he said, “what else can I do for you while I am here? Taps leaking? Anything broken? Plaster all right in the back room?”

“I’m not sure.” The cheek of it, she thought indignantly. Tenants could complain till they were exhausted, and here this crook was pretending with his automatic smile. “Better check for yourself.”

“Whatever is your wish, sister.”

In the back room he rapped the walls with his knuckles. “Plaster is fine,” he muttered, unable to hide his disappointment at the silent sewing-machines. Then, as though noticing the Singers for the first time, he said, “You have two machines in this room.”

“There is no law against two machines, is there?”

“Not at all, I was just asking. Although these days, with this crazy Emergency, you can never tell what law there is. The government surprises us daily.” His laugh was hollow, and she wondered if a threat was concealed in the words.

“One has a light needle, the other heavy,” she improvised. “Presser feet and tensions are also different. I do a lot of sewing — my curtains, bedsheets, dresses. You need special machines for all that.”

“They look exactly the same to me, but what do I know about sewing?” They went into Maneck’s room, and Ibrahim decided to put subtlety aside. “So this must be where the young man lives.”

“What?”

“The young man, sister. Your paying guest.”

“How dare you! How dare you suggest I keep young men in my flat! Is that the kind of woman you think I am? Just because — ”

“Please, no, that’s not — ”

“Don’t you dare insult me, and then interrupt me! Just because I am a poor defenceless widow, people think they can get away with saying filthy things! Such courage you have, such bravery, when it comes to abusing a weak and lonely woman!”

“But sister, I — ”

“What has happened to manhood today? Instead of protecting the honour of women, they indulge in smearing and defiling the innocent. And you! You, with your beard so white, saying such nasty, shameful things! Have you no mother, no daughter? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Please forgive me, I meant no harm, I only — ”

“Meant no harm is easy to say, after the damage is done!”

“No sister, what damage? A foolish old man like me repeats a silly rumour, and begs your forgiveness.”

Ibrahim made his escape clutching the plastic folder. The attempt to raise his fez in farewell was, like the earlier greeting, short-circuited. He substituted again with a yank at the sherwani’s collar. “Thank you, sister, thank you. I will come next month, with your permission. Your humble servant.”

She played with the idea of taking him to task for using “sister” so hypocritically. He had been let off too lightly towards the end, she felt. Still, he was an old man. She would have preferred to scold a younger hireling of the landlord’s.

In the afternoon she re-enacted the scene for Maneck, some sections twice at his urging. He enjoyed it the most when she came to the slandered-woman bit. “Did I show you my pose for the harassed and helpless woman?” She crossed her arms with hands on shoulders, shielding her bosom. “I stood like this. As if he was going to attack me. Poor fellow actually looked away in shame. I was so mean. But he deserved it.”

Their laughter acquired a touch of brave desperation after a while, like slicing a loaf very thin and pretending that bread was plentiful. Then the quiet in the room was sudden. The last crumb of fun had been yielded by the rent-collector’s visit.

“The play is acted and the money digested,” she said.

“At least the rent is paid up, and water and electricity too.”

“We cannot eat electricity.”

“You can have my pocket money, I don’t need it this month,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

She leaned forward and touched his cheek.

Another fortnight flew by, as swiftly, it seemed to Dina, as the rows of stitches that used to spill merrily from the Singers during happier days. She did not notice that already, in her memory, those months with Ishvar and Om, of fretting and tardiness, quarrels and crooked seams, had been transmuted into something precious, to be remembered with yearning.

Towards the end of the month, the hire-purchase man came to inquire about the sewing-machines. The instalment was overdue. She showed him the Singers to prove they were safe, and talked him into a grace period. “Don’t worry, bhai, the tailors can cover your payment three times over. But an urgent family matter has delayed them in their native place.”

Her daylong searches for new tailors continued to yield nothing. Maneck sometimes went with her, and she was grateful for his company. He made the dreary wanderings less dispiriting. Happy to skip college, he would have gone more often had it not been for her threats to write to his parents. “Don’t create extra problems for me,” she said. “As it is, if I don’t have two tailors by next week, I will have to borrow from Nusswan for the rent.” She shuddered at the prospect. “I’ll have to listen to all his rubbish again — I told you so, get married again, stubbornness breeds unhappiness.”

“I’ll come with you if you like.”

“That would be nice.”

At night, they busied themselves with the quilt. The stack of remnants was shrinking in the absence of new material, making her resort to pieces she had avoided so far, like the flimsy chiffon, not really suitable for her design. They sewed it into little rectangular pouches and stuffed in fragments of more substantial cloth. When the chiffon ran out, the quilt ceased to grow.

“Welcome,” the foreman greeted the Facilitator, as he delivered a fresh truckload of pavement-dwellers at the work camp.

The Facilitator bowed and presented an enormous cellophane-wrapped box of dry fruits. He was making a tidy profit between what he paid Sergeant Kesar and what he collected from the foreman; the wheels had to be kept oiled.

Cashews, pistachios, almonds, raisins, apricots were visible through the windows in the lid. “For your wife and children,” said the Facilitator, adding, “Please, please take it, no,” as the foreman made a show of refusing. “Its nothing, just a small token of appreciation.”

The project manager, too, was delighted with the arrival of new pavement-dwellers. The scheme allowed him great liberties in manipulating the payroll. What the free labour lacked in efficiency, it made up in numbers. The expanding irrigation project no longer needed to hire extra paid workers.

In fact, a few were laid off; and the remaining day-labourers began to feel threatened. In their view, this influx of starving, shrivelled, skeletal beings was turning into an enemy army. Regarded at first with pity or amusement as they struggled with puny little tasks, the beggars and pavement-dwellers now seemed like invaders bent on taking away their livelihood. The paid workers began directing their resentment at them.

Harassment of the newcomers was constant. Abuse, pushing, shoving became commonplace. A spade handle would emerge out of a ditch to trip somebody. From scaffoldings and raised platforms, spit descended like bird droppings but with greater accuracy. At mealtimes a flurry of suddenly clumsy elbows overturned their plates, and since the rules denied a second serving, the beggars and pavement-dwellers often ate off the ground. Most of them were used to foraging in garbage, but the water-thin dal soaked quickly into dry earth. Only solids like chapati or bits of vegetable could be salvaged.

Their supplications to the foreman were ignored. The view from the top showed a smooth, economical operation with little need for managerial intervention.

By the end of the first week, Ishvar and Om felt they had spent an eternity in this hell. They were barely able to rise for the dawn whistle. Dizzy spells made the world dance around them when they got out of bed. Their morning steadied somewhat after their glass of strong, overboiled tea. They staggered through the day, listening to the bewildering threats and insults of overseers and paid workers. They fell asleep early in the evening, cradled in the scrawny lap of exhaustion.

One night their chappals were stolen while they slept. They wondered if it was one of the men who shared the tin hut with them. They went barefoot to complain to the foreman, hoping he would issue replacements for them.

“You should have been more careful,” said the foreman, stooping to buckle his sandals. “How can I guard everybody’s chappals? Anyway, it’s not a big problem. Sadhus and fakirs all travel with naked feet. And so does M.F. Husain.”

“Who is M. F. Husain, sahab?” asked Ishvar humbly. “Government minister?”

“He is a very famous artist in our country. He never covers his feet because he does not want to lose contact with Mother Earth. So why do you need chappals?”

There was no footwear available in the camp supplies. The tailors looked inside their hut one more time in case someone had taken the chappals by mistake. Then they walked carefully to the worksite, trying to avoid sharp stones.

“I will soon get back the feet of my childhood,” said Ishvar. “You know, your grandfather Dukhi never wore chappals. And your father and I could not afford our first pair till we had finished apprenticing with Ashraf Chacha. By then our feet had become like leather — as though the Chamaars had tanned them, tough as cowhide.”

In the evening Ishvar claimed that his soles were already hardening. He examined the dust-caked skin with satisfaction, enjoying the roughness under his fingers. But it was excruciating for Om. He had never gone with unprotected feet.

At the start of the second week, Ishvar’s dizziness persisted past the morning glass of tea, getting worse under the burgeoning dome of heat. The sun battered his head like a giant fist. Towards noon, he stumbled and fell into a ditch with his load of gravel.

“Take him to Doctor sahab,” the overseer ordered two men. Ishvar put his arms over their shoulders and hopped on one foot to the work camp’s dispensary.

Before Ishvar could tell Doctor sahab what had happened, the white-coated man turned away towards an array of tubes and bottles. Most were empty; nevertheless, the display looked impressive. He selected an ointment while Ishvar, balancing on one leg, held up his injured ankle to encourage an examination. “Doctor sahab, it’s paining over there.”

He was told to put his foot down. “Nothing broken, don’t worry. This ointment will cure your pain.”

The white-coated man gave him permission to rest for the remainder of the day. Shankar spent a lot of time with Ishvar in the hut, leaving at intervals on his rolling platform to fetch food and tea. “No, babu, don’t get up, tell me what you want.”

“But I have to make water.”

Shankar slipped off his platform and motioned to him to get on. “You shouldn’t put weight upon your injured foot,” he said.

Ishvar was touched that he who had no feet should care so much about another’s. He seated himself gingerly on the platform, crossed his legs, and began rolling, using his hands the way Shankar did. It was not as easy as it looked, he discovered. The trip to the latrine and back exhausted his arms.

“Did you like my gaadi?” asked Shankar.

“Very comfortable.”

The next day Ishvar had to leave his bedding and hobble to the gravel area, though his ankle was swollen and painful. The overseer told him to fill baskets with the women instead of transporting them. “You can do that job sitting down,” he said.

There were other accidents too, more severe than Ishvar’s. A blind woman, set to crushing rocks, had, after several successful days, smashed her fingers with the hammer. A child fell from a scaffolding and broke both legs. An armless man, carrying sand in panniers on a shoulder yoke, suffered neck injuries when he lost his balance and the yoke slipped.

By week’s end, scores of newcomers were classified as useless by the foreman. Doctor sahab treated them with his favourite ointment. In his more inspired moments he even used splints and bandages. Shankar was assigned to ferrying the patients’ meals. He enjoyed the task, looking forward eagerly to mealtimes, paddling his platform from the hot kitchen to the groaning huts with a newfound sense of purpose. At every stop he was showered with the invalids’ grateful thanks and blessings.

What he really wanted, though, was to nurse their injuries and alleviate their pain, which Doctor sahab seemed unable to do. “I don’t think he is a very clever doctor,” he confided to Ishvar and Om. “He keeps using the same medicine for everyone.”

The patients cried out for help through the long, hot days, and Shankar talked to them, moistened their brows with water, gave them assurances of better times to come. When the workers returned in the evening, hungry and exhausted, the ceaseless moaning irritated them. It continued deep into the night, and they could not sleep. After a few nights, someone finally went to complain.

Annoyed at being awakened, the foreman admonished the injured. “Doctor sahab is looking after you so well. What more do you people want? If we took you to a hospital, you think you’d be better off than here? Hospitals are so overcrowded, so badly run, the nurses will throw you in filthy corridors and leave you to rot. Here at least you have a clean place to rest.”

Over the next few days, the foreman, shorthanded, was forced to rehire the laid-off paid workers. They quickly realized this was the answer to their problem: incapacitate the free labour, and the jobs would return.

Animosity towards the beggars and pavement-dwellers reached dangerous proportions. The day-labourers began pushing them off ledges and scaffoldings, swung carelessly with pickaxes, let boulders accidentally roll down hillsides. The number of casualties increased sharply. Shankar welcomed his new charges. He poured his entire soul into the added responsibility.

Now the project manager took a different view of the victims’ complaints. Security staff was increased, and ordered to patrol the worksite at all times, not just at night. Day-labourers were warned that negligence on the job would be punished by dismissal. The attacks decreased, but the irrigation project began to look like an armed camp.

The next time the Facilitator arrived with a fresh load of pavement-dwellers, the foreman complained that his free labour was a bad investment. He pretended the injuries had been sustained prior to their arrival. “You have stuck me with feeding and housing too many unproductive cripples.”

The Facilitator opened his register to the delivery date in question, and showed him details pertaining to the detainees’ physical condition. “I admit there were a few bad ones. But that’s not my fault. The police shoves everybody, living and half-dead, into my truck.”

“In that case, I don’t want any more.”

The Facilitator tried to pacify the foreman and rescue the deal. “Give me a few days, no, I’ll sort something out. I’ll make sure you won’t suffer a total loss.”

In the meantime, the latest consignment waiting to be unloaded from the truck included various types of street performers. There were jugglers, musicians, acrobats, and magicians. The foreman decided to give them a choice — join the labour force like the other pavement-dwellers, or entertain the camp in return for boarding and lodging.

The entertainers chose the latter option, as the foreman had expected. They were housed separately from the rest, and told to prepare for a performance that night. The project manager agreed with the foreman’s proposal. The diversion would be good for the morale of the labourers, and would help relieve the tension and bad blood threatening the work camp.

The show was held after dinner, under the lights of the eating area. The security captain agreed to be master of ceremonies. Tumbling tricks, a man juggling wooden clubs, and a tightrope walker started the proceedings. Then there was a musical interlude with patriotic songs, which elicited a standing ovation from the project manager. Next, a husband-and-wife contortionist team proved very popular, followed by card tricks and more jugglers.

Shankar, who sat with Ishvar and Om to watch the entertainment, was having a splendid time, bouncing on the platform with excitement, clapping heartily, though his bandaged palms only produced muffled reports. “I wish the others could also enjoy,” he said from time to time, thinking of his patients in the tin huts. He could hear their groans during the moments of quiet when the audience became silent, tense with anxiety, as a performer did something particularly daring with knives and swords or on the tightrope.

The project manager kept nodding approvingly at the foreman; the decision had been a good one. The last entertainer was waiting in the kitchen’s shadow. The props of the previous act were cleared away. The security captain announced that for the finale they would witness an amazing display of balancing. The performer stepped into the light.

“It’s Monkey-man!” said Om.

“And his sister’s two children,” said Ishvar. “Must be the new act he told us he was planning.”

The children were not included in Monkey-man’s opening move, some brief juggling of the sort already seen. It was received poorly. Now he introduced the little girl and boy, lifting them in the air, one in the palm of each hand. Both had colds, and sneezed. He proceeded to tie them to the ends of a fifteen-foot pole. Then he lowered himself to the ground, rolled onto his back, and balanced the pole horizontally on the soles of his bare feet. When it was steady, he began spinning it with his toes. The children revolved on the rudimentary merry-go-round, slowly at first, while he assayed the equilibrium and the rhythm, then faster and faster. They hung limply, making no sound, their bodies a blur.

The cheering was scattered, the audience anxious and uncertain. Then the clapping became urgent, as though they hoped the hazardous feat would end if they gave the man his due, or, at the very least, the applause would somehow sustain the balance, keep the children safe.

The pole began to slow down, and stopped. Monkey-man untied the children and wiped their mouths; centrifugal force had drawn a stream of mucus from their runny noses. Next he laid them face to face on the ground. This time they were both tied to the same end of the pole, their feet resting on a little crossbar. He tested the bindings and erected the pole.

The children were lifted high above the ground. Their faces disappeared into the night, beyond the reach of the kitchen lights. The audience gasped. He raised the pole higher, gave it a little toss, and caught the end upon his palm. His stringy arm muscles quivered. He moved the pole to and fro, making the top end sway like a treetop in a breeze. Then another little toss, and the pole was balanced on his thumb.

A cascade of protest spilled from the spectators. Doubt and reproach swirled in the area of darkness around Monkey-man. In the deafness of his concentration he heard nothing. He started walking back and forth within the circle of light, then running, tossing the pole from thumb to thumb.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Ishvar. “I don’t find it enjoyable.” Shankar shook his head too, mesmerized on his platform, swaying his trunk to the swaying of the pole.

“Would have been better if he stuck to monkeys,” said Om, his eyes fixed on the tiny figures in the sky.

Then Monkey-man threw his head back and balanced the pole on his brow. People rose angrily to their feet. “Stop it!” yelled someone. “Stop it before you kill them!”

Others joined in, “Saala shameless budmaas! Torturing innocent children!”

“Saala gandoo! Save it for the mohallas of the heartless rich! We are not interested in watching!”

The shouting dislocated Monkey-man’s focus. He could hear again. He hurriedly lowered the pole and untied the children. “What’s wrong? I’m not mistreating them. Ask them yourself, they enjoy it. Everybody has to make a living.”

But the uproar did not give him much of a chance to defend himself. Even more than Monkey-man, people were upset with the foreman who had arranged this cruel entertainment, and they screamed at him to let him know. “Monster from somewhere! Worse than Ravan!”

The security guards quickly dispersed the audience to their huts for the night, while the project manager’s former approval turned to censure. He shook his finger in the foreman’s face. “It was an error in judgement on your part. These people neither need nor appreciate kindness. If you are nice to them, they sit on your head. Hard work is the only formula.”

No more performances were scheduled. Next day the street entertainers were apportioned among various work crews. Monkey-man became the most unpopular person in the irrigation project, and before the week was out he joined the casualties with severe head injuries. Ishvar and Om felt sorry for him because they knew he was really so tenderhearted.

“Remember the old woman’s prophecy?” said Om. “The night his monkeys died?”

“Yes,” said Ishvar. “About killing his dog and committing an even worse murder. Right now, the poor fellow looks as though he himself has been murdered.”

The Facilitator returned to the irrigation project a fortnight later with someone he introduced to the foreman as “the man who will solve your crippling labour problems.”

The foreman and the Facilitator laughed at the joke. The new man’s face remained deadly serious, acquiring a hint of displeasure.

They went to the tin huts where the injured were prostrate, forty-two in all. Shankar was trundling back and forth among them, stroking one’s forehead, patting another’s back, whispering, comforting. The smell of festering wounds and unwashed bodies wafted through the doors, nauseating the foreman.

“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he excused himself.

The visitor said he would prefer to take a quick look at the injuries and estimate their potential. “Only then can I make a reasonable offer.”

They stepped inside the first hut, temporarily blinded by the move from harsh sunlight into semidarkness. Shankar wheeled his platform around to see who it was. Craning his neck, he let out a shriek of recognition.

“Who’s that?” said the visitor. “Worm?” His eyes had not adjusted to the interior, but he knew the familiar rumble of rolling castors. “So this is where you are. All these weeks I wondered what happened to you.”

Shankar paddled his platform towards the man’s feet, his palms flailing the ground excitedly. “Beggarmaster! The police took me away! I did not want to go!” Relief and anxiety merged in his sobs as he clutched the maris shins. “Beggarmaster, please help me, I want to go home!”

The distraction in the hut prompted the injured to start moaning and coughing, pleading for attention, hoping that this stranger, whoever he was, had at long last brought them deliverance. The Facilitator moved closer to the door for fresh air.

“Don’t worry, Worm, of course I’ll take you back,” said Beggarmaster. “How can I do without my best beggar?” He completed a quick inspection of the disabled and turned to leave. Shankar wanted to accompany him right then, but was told to wait. “First I have to make some arrangements.”

Outside, Beggarmaster asked the Facilitator, “Is Worm included in the lot?”

“Of course he is.”

“I won’t pay you for what is already mine. I inherited him from my father. And my father had him since he was a child.”

“But see it from my side, no,” bargained the Facilitator. “I had to pay the police for him.”

“Forget all that. I am willing to give two thousand rupees for the lot. Worm included.”

The amount was higher than the Facilitator had expected. Taking into account the rebate promised to the foreman, he would still make a nice profit. “We have much business ahead of us,” he said, concealing his delight. “I don’t want to haggle. Two thousand is okay, you can take your Worm.” He chuckled. “And any bugs or centipedes that you like.”

A look of disapproval darkened Beggarmaster’s face. This time he sharply rebuked the Facilitator. “I don’t like people making fun of my beggars.”

“I meant no harm.”

“One more thing. Your truck must take them back to the city — that’s part of the price.”

The Facilitator agreed. He led Beggarmaster to the kitchen and brought him a glass of tea to make up for offending him. Then he went to find the foreman, whose cut was still to be negotiated.

Rowing full tilt, Shankar sped to tell his two friends the happy news, but was intercepted by the overseer, who refused to let the rhythm of the work be interrupted. He shooed him away, stamping his foot, pretending to pick up a stone. Shankar retreated.

He waited till the lunch whistle blew, and caught up with Ishvar and Om near the eating area. “Beggarmaster has found me! I’m going home!”

Om bent to pat his shoulder, and Ishvar comforted him, “Yes, it’s okay, Shankar, don’t worry. One day we’ll all go home, when the work is finished.”

“No, I am going home tomorrow, really! My Beggarmaster is here!” They continued to disbelieve till he explained in more detail.

“But why are you so happy to go?” asked Ishvar. “You are not suffering like us slaves. Free meals, a little fetching and carrying on your gaadi. Don’t you prefer this to begging?”

“I did enjoy it for a while, especially looking after you, and the other sick ones. But now I miss the city.”

“You’re lucky,” said Om. “This work is going to kill us, for sure. Wish we could go back with you.”

“I can ask Beggarmaster to take you. Let’s talk with him.”

“Yes, but we… okay, ask him.”

They found Beggarmaster sipping tea on a bench near the kitchen. Shankar rolled up and tugged at his trouser cuff. “What’s the matter, Worm? I asked you to wait in the hut.” But he left his tea to kneel beside him, listening, nodding, then tousling his hair and laughing. He came over to the tailors.

“Worm says you are his friends. He wants me to help you.”

“Hahnji, please, we will be very grateful.”

He sized them up doubtfully. “Do you have any experience?”

“Oh yes. Many years’ experience,” said Ishvar.

Beggarmaster was sceptical. “It doesn’t look to me like you could be successful.”

Om was indignant. “I can tell you we are very successful.” He held up his two little fingers like votive candles. “Our long nails have broken in all this rough work, but they will grow back. We are fully trained, we can even take measurements straight from the customer’s body.”

Beggarmaster began to laugh. “Measurements from the body?”

“Of course. We are skilled tailors, not hacks who — ”

“Forget it. I thought you wanted to work for me as beggars. I have no need for tailors.”

Their hopes crashed. “We are no good here, we keep falling sick,” they pleaded. “Can you not take us? We can pay you for your trouble.” Shankar added his appeal to theirs, that they had been so kind to him from the moment the police had thrown him in the truck that terrible night, almost two months ago.

Beggarmaster and the Facilitator discussed the deal in low voices. The latter wanted two hundred rupees per tailor, because, he said, he would have to make it attractive for the foreman to release two able-bodied specimens: Ishvar’s sprained ankle did not qualify.

Gripping his tea glass, Beggarmaster returned to the tailors. “You can come if the foreman agrees. But it will cost you.”

“How much?”

“Usually, when I look after a beggar, I charge one hundred rupees per week. That includes begging space, food, clothes, and protection. Also, special things like bandages or crutches.”

“Yes, Shankar — Worm — told us about it. He praised you and said you are a very kind Beggarmaster. What luck for him that you came here.”

Pleased as he was with the compliment, he clarified the matter without undue modesty. “Luck has little to do with it. I am the most famous Beggarmaster in the city. Naturally, the Facilitator contacted me. Anyway, your case is different, you don’t need looking after in the same way. Besides, you’ve been good to Worm. Just pay me fifty a week per person, for one year. That will be enough.”

They were staggered. “That means almost two thousand five hundred each!”

“Yes, it’s minimum for what I am offering.”

The tailors calculated the payments between them. “Three days’ worth of sewing each week will go to him,” whispered Ishvar. “That’s too much, we won’t be able to afford it.”

“What choice?” said Om. “You want to toil to death, in this Narak of heartless devils? Just say yes.”

“Wait, I’ll bring him down a bit.” Ishvar approached the man with a worldly expression on his face. “Listen, fifty is too much — we’ll give you twenty-five a week.”

“Get one thing straight,” said Beggarmaster coldly. “I’m not selling onions and potatoes in the bazaar. My business is looking after human lives. Don’t try to bargain with me.” He turned away disdainfully to go back to the kitchen bench.

“Now look what you’ve done!” said Om, panicking. “Our only chance is finished!”

Ishvar waited a moment and shuffled back to Beggarmaster. “We talked it over. It’s expensive, but we’ll take it.”

“You’re sure you can afford it?”

“Oh yes, we have good jobs, regular work.”

Beggarmaster nibbled his thumbnail and spat. “Sometimes, one of my clients will vanish without paying, after enjoying my hospitality. But I always manage to find him. And then there is big trouble for him. Please remember that.” He finished his tea and accompanied the Facilitator to make a renewed offer to the foreman.

When the lunch hour ended, the tailors were reluctant to rejoin the gravel gang and ditch-diggers. With the promise of rescue so close, their resignation to the back-breaking labour vaporized; fatigue overwhelmed them.

“Aray babu, just be a little patient,” said Shankar. “It’s only one more day, don’t cause any trouble. You don’t want them to beat you. Stop worrying now, the foreman will agree, my Beggarmaster is very influential.”

Bolstered by Shankar’s encouragement, they found the strength to return to the overseer. In the late afternoon, they listened anxiously for the bhistee’s song. His arrival signalled the last two hours of work. They drank from his waterskin and got through the remainder of the day.

At dusk, when they stumbled back to their hut, Shankar was waiting, squirming excitedly on his platform. “It’s all decided. They are taking us tomorrow morning. Stay ready with your bedding, don’t miss the truck. Now I must make my preparations.”

He went to find the mechanic in charge of heavy machinery, who gave him oil for his castors. The grit and dust of the construction site was beginning to slow them down. Shankar wanted the platform in prime condition for his return to the pavement. He brought back the can cradled against his stomach. Om helped to lubricate the sluggish wheels.

Early next morning, a security guard ordered Shankar, the tailors, and the injured to assemble at the gate with their things. Those unable to walk were carried by men seconded from a work detail. They did it resentfully, grudging the invalids their imminent freedom. It was the tailors, however, who bore the brunt of the embittered glances.

“See how lucky we are, Om,” said Ishvar, gazing upon the damaged bodies accumulating in the truck. “We could be lying here with broken bones if our stars were not in the proper position.”

Monkey-man was still comatose from his head injury, and Beggarmaster refused to take him. But he wanted the children; they had real potential, he said. The little boy and girl resisted removal, weeping and clinging to their motionless uncle. They had to be dragged away when the truck was ready to leave.

The Facilitator and foreman balanced the debits and credits with a rebate towards the next delivery. Then there was a short delay. The foreman insisted that clothing issued on arrival be removed before departure — he had to account for every article to his superiors.

“Take what you want,” said Beggarmaster. “But please hurry, I have to get back in time for a temple ceremony.”

The ones who had been carried to the truck were incapable of undressing themselves. The workers, about to return to their regular tasks, were ordered to assist them. They vented their frustration by tugging the garments roughly off the injured bodies. Beggarmaster did not pay attention to it. When Shankar’s turn came, however, he made sure they were gentle with his vest.

Now the pavement-dwellers were as naked, or half-naked, as the day they had entered the labour camp; the gate opened and the truck was allowed to leave.

Dressing up to visit Nusswan’s office was Maneck’s idea. “We should go there looking tiptop. He’ll give you more respect. Appearances are very important to some people.”

In Dina’s present state, anything that sounded like half-sensible advice was welcome. She touched up his grey gabardine trousers with the iron. For herself, she selected her most effective frock, the blue one from her second wedding anniversary, with the vivacious peplum that came alive with walking. Would it still fit? she wondered. Shutting the adjoining door, she tried it on, pleased to discover that a little squeezing was all it took to fasten the zipper. She went into the front room.

“How about some makeup, Aunty?”

Unused for years, the lipstick poked up its head reluctantly as she rotated the base. She made a false start and smudged the lip line, but the labial acrobatics soon came back to her, the pursing and puckering and tautening, the simian contortions that seemed so absurd in the mirror.

The rouge was caked stiff, but under the discoloured crust there was enough to blush her cheeks. The round velvet pad had desiccated into a leathery scab. Once, Rustom had teased her while she was making up, and she retaliated by rouging his nose with the pad. Soft as a rose petal, he had said.

If Nusswan mentioned marriage today, she didn’t know what she would do — overturn his desk, perhaps. She surveyed herself in the mirror. Her reflection nodded approvingly. She hoped that Maneck’s theory linking appearance and respect was correct.

“Are you ready?” she called into his room.

“Wow! You look absolutely beautiful.”

“That’s enough from you,” she scolded, inspecting him from head to toe. He passed muster except for his shoes. She made him shine them before they left.

The office peon made the two wait in the corridor while he disappeared to check with the boss. “Just watch, Nusswan will be busy,” she predicted.

The man returned to announce in a regretful voice, “Sahab is busy.” The peon had worked here for many years, but it always embarrassed him to have to abet his employer’s charade. “Please sit for a few minutes.” He lowered his head and withdrew.

“Goodness knows why Nusswan still tries to impress me in these silly ways,” said Dina. “His busyness will end in exactly fifteen minutes.”

But in her second prediction she was proved wrong, for the peon had mentioned to Nusswan that his sister was beautifully dressed today and accompanied by someone.

“Who?” said Nusswan. “Have we seen her before?”

“Not her, sahab. Him.”

Very curious, thought Nusswan, feeling his chin where he had nicked it that morning. “Young? Old?”

“Young,” said the peon. “Very young.”

Even more curious, decided Nusswan, his imagination wandering wishfully. Boyfriend, maybe? Dina was very attractive at forty-two. Almost as beautiful as she was twenty years ago, when she married that poor, unfortunate Rustom. Unfortunate from beginning to end. In looks, in money, in his life span…

Nusswan paused in his thoughts, gazed ceilingward, and patted his cheeks alternately, reverently, with his right fingertips, to ensure that his brother-in-law rested in peace. He had no desire to speak ill of the departed. So sad, his death. But also a God-given second chance for Dina to set things right, find a more suitable husband. If only she had grabbed the chance.

Such a terrible thing her pride was, and her strange idea of independence. Working like a slave to earn a pittance, humiliating the whole family. And now this latest fiasco with the export company. Slowly, he had learned to let his skin grow thick. But shaking off embarrassment was easier than discarding his sense of duty. She was still his little sister, he had to do his best for her.

What a waste, he thought, what a waste of a life. Like watching a tragic play. Only, instead of three hours it had lasted almost three decades — a family estranged, Xerxes and Zarir growing up deprived of the love and attention of their Dina Aunty, she hardly knowing her two nephews. So much sadness and misery.

But perhaps there was still a chance of a joyful ending. There could be nothing better than becoming one happy, united family again. Soon it would be time for grandchildren in his own life. If Dina had abdicated as aunty, she could be a grand-aunty.

And this young man with her today, her boyfriend. If they were serious and got married, how wonderful. Even if the chap was only thirty, he should consider himself lucky to have Dina — so attractive that she could put women half her age in the shade.

Yes, that was it — she wanted to introduce the fellow and get her older brother’s approval. Or why bring him along? As to their age difference, there could be no objection, Nusswan decided reluctantly. One had to be broad-minded, in these modern times. Yes, he would give them his blessing, even pay for this second wedding. As long as the expenses were reasonable — one hundred guests, modest flower arrangements, a small band…

Reviewing a lifetime, brooding, regretting, revising, it seemed like ages to Nusswan since their arrival had been announced. He checked his watch — it had been less than five minutes. He put the dial to his ear: it was working. Astonishing, how time and mind conspired in their tricks.

He told the peon to send in the visitors immediately. He wanted to continue in reality the celebration he had begun in imagination.

“What?” said Dina to the peon. “So soon?” She whispered to Maneck, “See, already you have brought us good luck — he never calls me in so fast.”

Nusswan rose and shot his cuffs, ready to extend a warm greeting to the man who would be brother-in-law. When he saw Maneck’s youth enter the office, his knees almost gave way. His crazy sister had done it again! He clenched the edge of the desk, pale with visions of shame and scandal in the community.

“Are you turning into a European, Nusswan? Or are you sick?” asked Dina.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he answered stiffly.

“How are Ruby and the boys?”

“They are well.”

“Good. I’m sorry to trouble you when you are so busy.”

“It’s all right.” Not two seconds in his office, and she was at him. Stupid to have raised his hopes. Where Dina was concerned, it was wiser to despair. Not one paisa would he spend on this wedding. If child marriage was a terrible ancient scourge, child-and-adult marriage was a modern madness. He wanted no part of it. And the doctor telling him to watch his blood pressure, to curtail his activities on the Share Bazaar — while here was his own sister, doing her share to shorten his life.

“But where are my manners,” said Dina. “Talking on without introductions. Maneck, this is my brother, Nusswan.”

“How do you do?” said Maneck.

“Plea… pleased to meet you.” Nusswan fell back in his chair after shaking hands. A typewriter pounded away in the next room. The ceiling fan hiccuped discreetly. Under a paperweight, a sheaf of papers fluttered like a bird in trouble.

“Maneck has heard a lot about you from me,” said Dina, “and I wanted the two of you to meet. He came to live with me a few months ago.”

“Live with you?” His sister had gone mad! Where did she think she was, in Hollywood?

“Yes, live with me. What else would a paying guest do?”

“Oh yes! Of course! What else?” The relief was so keen, it was unbearable. He wanted to fall to his knees. Oh, thank God! Saved! Thank God Almighty!

Then, hiding behind the sunshine and rainbow that had burst on the horizon, Nusswan discovered his pot of sludge: there would be no wedding. He felt cheated. Just like her. Cruel, unfeeling, leading him on with false hopes. To think how genuinely happy he had been for her a few minutes ago. Once again she had mocked him.

“The prices keep going up,” she said. “I couldn’t manage, I had to take a boarder. And I was so lucky to find a wonderful boy like Maneck.”

“Yes, of course. Very nice to meet you, Maneck. And where do you work?”

“Work?” said Dina indignantly. “He is just seventeen, he goes to college.”

“And what are you studying?”

“Refrigeration and air-conditioning.”

“Very wise choice,” said Nusswan. “These days only a technical education will get you ahead. The future lies with technology and modernization.” Filling the silence with words was a way of dealing with the tumult of emotions his sister had exploded in him. Empty words, to carry away the foolishness he felt.

“Yes, the country has been held back for too long by outdated ideologies. But our time has come. Magnificent changes are taking place. And the credit goes to our Prime Minister. A true spirit of renaissance.”

Dina didn’t mind his rambling, relieved that at least the matrimonial topic had not been revived. “I have a boarder, but I have lost my tailors,” she said.

“What a pity,” said Nusswan, slightly confused by her interruption. “The main thing is, now we have pragmatic policies instead of irrelevant theories. For example, poverty is being tackled head-on. All the ugly bustees and filthy jhopadpattis are being erased. Young man, you are not old enough to remember how wonderful this city once was. But thanks to our visionary leader and the Beautification Programme, it will be restored to its former glory. Then you will see and appreciate.”

“I was able to finish the last dresses only because Maneck helped,” put in Dina. “He worked so hard, side by side with me.”

“That’s very good,” said Nusswan. “Very good indeed.” The sound of his own voice had made him loquacious as usual. “Hardworking, educated people like Maneck is what we need. Not lazy, ignorant millions. And we also need strict family planning. All these rumours of forced sterilization are not helping. You must have heard that nonsense.”

Dina and Maneck shook their heads in unison.

“Probably started by the CIA — saying people in remote villages are being dragged from their huts for compulsory sterilization. Such lies. But my point is, even if the rumour is true, what is wrong in that, with such a huge population problem?”

“Wouldn’t it be undemocratic to mutilate people against their will?” asked Maneck, in a tone that suggested total agreement rather than a challenge.

“Mutilate. Ha ha ha,” said Nusswan, avuncular and willing to pretend it was a clever joke. “It’s all relative. At the best of times, democracy is a seesaw between complete chaos and tolerable confusion. You see, to make a democratic omelette you have to break a few democratic eggs. To fight fascism and other evil forces threatening our country, there is nothing wrong in taking strong measures. Especially when the foreign hand is always interfering to destabilize us. Did you know the CIA is trying to sabotage the Family Planning Programme?”

Maneck and Dina shook their heads again, again in perfect unison and with straight faces. There was the subtlest touch of burlesque about it.

Nusswan eyed them suspiciously before continuing. “What’s happening is, CIA agents are tampering with consignments of birth-control devices and stirring up trouble among religious groups. Now don’t you agree that Emergency measures are necessary against such dangers?”

“Maybe,” said Dina. “But I think the government should let homeless people sleep on the pavements. Then my tailors wouldn’t have disappeared and I wouldn’t have come here to bother you.”

Nusswan lifted his index finger and waggled it like a hyperactive windshield wiper. “People sleeping on pavements gives industry a bad name. My friend was saying last week — he’s the director of a multinational, mind you, not some small, two-paisa business — he was saying that at least two hundred million people are surplus to requirements, they should be eliminated.”

“Eliminated?”

“Yes. You know — got rid of. Counting them as unemployment statistics year after year gets us nowhere, just makes the numbers look bad. What kind of lives do they have anyway? They sit in the gutter and look like corpses. Death would be a mercy.”

“But how would they be eliminated?” inquired Maneck in his most likeable, most deferential tone.

“That’s easy. One way would be to feed them a free meal containing arsenic or cyanide, whichever is cost-effective. Lorries could go around to the temples and places where they gather to beg.”

“Do many business people think like this?” asked Dina curiously.

“A lot of us think like this, but until now we did not have the courage to say so. With the Emergency, people can freely speak their minds. That’s another good thing about it.”

“But the newspapers are censored,” said Maneck.

“Ah yes, yes,” said Nusswan, at last betraying impatience. “And what’s so terrible about that? It’s only because the government does not want anything published which will alarm the public. It’s temporary — so lies can be suppressed and people can regain confidence. Such steps are necessary to preserve the democratic structure. You cannot sweep clean without making the new broom dirty.”

“I see,” said Maneck. The bizarre aphorisms were starting to grate on him, but he did not possess the ammunition to launch even a modest counterattack. If only Avinash were here. He would straighten out this idiot. He wished he had paid more attention when Avinash talked politics.

Still struggling with the earlier maxim, about breaking democratic eggs to make a democratic omelette, Maneck tried to formulate a variation by juggling democracy, tyranny, frying pan, fire, hen, hard-boiled eggs, cooking oil. He thought he had one: A democratic omelette is not possible from eggs bearing democratic labels but laid by the tyrannical hen. No, too cumbersome. And anyway, the moment was past.

“The important thing,” said Nusswan, “is to consider the concrete achievements of the Emergency. Punctuality has been restored to the railway system. And as my director friend was saying, there’s also a great improvement in industrial relations. Nowadays, he can call the police in just one second, to take away the union troublemakers. A few good saltings at the police station, and they are soft as butter. My friend says production has improved tremendously. And who benefits from all this? The workers. The common people. Even the World Bank and the IMF approve of the changes. Now they are offering more loans.”

Keeping her expression as grave as she could, Dina said, “Nusswan, can I make a request please?”

“Yes, of course.” He wondered how much it would be this time — two hundred rupees or three?

“About the plan to eliminate two hundred million. Can you please tell your business friends and directors not to poison any tailors? Because tailors are already hard to find.”

Maneck smothered a laugh before it broke. Nusswan spied the facial effort as he said to her disgustedly, “It’s useless talking to you about serious things. I don’t know why I even bother.”

“I enjoyed listening,” said Maneck gravely.

Nusswan felt betrayed — first her, now him. He wondered what sort of mockery and ridicule took place at his expense when the two were alone.

“I had fim too,” said Dina. “Coming to your office is the only entertainment I can afford, you know that.”

Glowering, he began moving papers on his desk. “Tell me what you need and leave me alone. There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Be careful, Nusswan, your eyebrows are doing funny exercises.” She decided not to press her luck further, and got down to business. “I haven’t given up the export work. It’s just a matter of time before I find new tailors. But till then I cannot accept more orders.”

The moment of asking, the moment she hated, did not become less unpalatable with the brisk matter-of-fact explanation or the levity leading up to it. “Two hundred and fifty will be enough to get me through this month.”

Nusswan rang for the peon, and filled out a cash voucher. Dina and Maneck were treated to a vehement display of penmanship, the ballpoint scratching savagely across the form. He crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s with heavy blows, as though competing with the typewriter being battered in the next room.

The peon carried the voucher to the cashier across the corridor. The run-down ceiling fan laboured like a noisy little factory. So much money, thought Dina, and he still hadn’t air-conditioned the office. She lowered her eyes, fixing them on a sandalwood paper-knife stuck strategically inside a half-opened envelope. The peon delivered the money and retreated.

Nusswan began, “None of this would be necessary if only — ” He glanced at Dina, unable to reach her downcast eyes, then at Maneck, and abandoned the thought. “Here,” he held out the notes.

“Thank you,” she accepted, eyes still averted.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’ll return it as soon as possible.”

He nodded, picking up the paper-knife, and opened the rest of the envelope.

“At least he spared me his favourite speech today, thanks to the Emergency,” said Dina when they got off the bus. “That’s something to be grateful for. And what is so terrible about marrying again?’“ she imitated in a sanctimonious voice. “ ‘You are still good-looking, I guarantee I can find you a good husband.’ You won’t believe the number of times he has said this to me.”

“But I do, Aunty,” said Maneck. “It’s the one thing on which I agree with your brother. You are good-looking.”

She smacked his shoulder. “Whose side are you on?”

“On the side of truth and beauty,” he pronounced grandly. “But it must be quite funny when Nusswan and his business friends get together and talk their nonsense.”

“You know what I was remembering, in his office? When he was a young boy. He would talk about becoming a big-game hunter, about killing leopards and lions. And wrestling crocodiles, like Tarzan. One day, a little mouse came into our room, and our ayah said to him, Baba look, there is a fierce tiger, you can be the hunter. And Nusswan ran away screaming for Mummy.”

She turned the key in the lock. “Now he wants to eliminate two hundred million. His big talk never stops.”

They entered the flat and were confronted by the silent sewing-machines. Their laughter now seemed out of place; it dwindled rapidly and died.