A Fine Balance

XV. Family Planning

AGAUNT, BEARDED FIGURE hurried towards the tailors as they wrestled their trunk out of the compartment and onto the platform. “At last,” he clapped for joy. “Here you are.”

“Ashraf Chacha! We were going to surprise you at the shop!” They dragged their belongings to the side, shaking hands, hugging, laughing with no reason other than the pleasure of being together again.

Ishvar and Om were the sole passengers to alight. Two coolies resting by the water tap remained on their haunches; instinct told them their services were not required. The sleepy little station awakened gradually under the engine’s pulse. Vendors with fruit, cold drinks, tea, pakora, ice gola, sunglasses, magazines besieged the train, embellishing the air with their cries.

“Come,” said Ashraf. “Let’s go home, you must be tired. We’ll eat first, then you can tell me what wonders you have been up to in the city.”

A woman with a small basket of figs sang at their side: “Unjir!” The shrill call started out in a plea, sliding into a rebuke as they passed her by. The cry went unrepeated. She tried the passengers on the train, framed by windows like a travelling gallery of portraits. Jogging alongside the compartments, she supported the basket at her hip; it bounced like a baby. The guard blew the warning whistle and startled a cream-coloured mongrel drowsing near the siding tracks. It scratched languidly behind an ear, face screwed up like a man shaving.

“Chachaji, you’re a genius,” said Om. “We don’t write you the arrival date and yet you meet the train. How did you know we were coming today?”

“I didn’t,” he smiled. “But I knew it would be this week. And the train rolls in at the same hour every day.”

“So you waited here every day? And what about the shop, hahn?”

“It’s not that busy.” He reached to help with the luggage. His hand, corded by prominent veins, shook uncontrollably. The whistle blew again, and the train rumbled past. The vendors disappeared. Like a house abandoned, the railway station sank from sleepy to forlorn.

But the emptiness was transitory. Slowly, more than a dozen figures materialized from the shadows of the sheds and storehouses. Lapped in rags, wrapped in hunger, they lowered their brittle bodies over the edge of the platform onto the rails and began moving systematically down the tracks from sleeper to sleeper, searching for the flotsam of railway journeys, bending now and then, collecting the garbage of travellers. When two hands grabbed the same prize, there was a tussle. The wood and gravel underneath where the wc had halted was wet, stinking, buzzing with flies. The tattered army retrieved paper, food scraps, plastic bags, bottle tops, broken glass, every precious bit jettisoned by the departing train. They tucked it away in their gunny sacks, then melted into the shadows of the station, to sort their collections and await the next train.

“So the city has been good to you, nah?” said Ashraf, as they took the level-crossing to the other side. “Both of you look prosperous.”

“Chachaji, your eyes are generous,” said Ishvar. The trembling of Ashraf’s hands distressed him. And age, taking advantage of the tailors’ absence, had finally taught his shoulders to stoop. “We have no complaints. But how are you?”

“First class, for my years.” Ashraf straightened, patting his chest, though the stoop returned almost immediately. “And what about you, Om? You were so reluctant to go. Look at you now, a healthy shine upon your face.”

“That’s because my worms have vacated the premises.” He explained with gusto how the parasites had been vanquished by the vermifuge.

“You meet Chachaji after a year and a half, and all you can talk about is your worms?”

“Why not?” said Ashraf. “Health is the most important thing. See, you could never have got such good medicine over here. One more reason to be happy you went, nah?”

Ishvar and Om slowed at the corner near the rooming house, but Ashraf steered them on towards his shop. “Why waste money for a bed filled with bugs? Stay with me.”

“That’s too much trouble for you.”

“But I insist — you must use my house to entertain for the wedding. Do me that favour. It’s been so lonely this last year.”

“Mumtaz Chachi won’t be pleased to hear you say that,” said Om. “Doesn’t her company count?”

Puzzlement clouded Ashraf’s smile. “You didn’t receive the letter? My Mumtaz passed away, about six months after you left.”

“What?” They stopped and let the luggage slip from their hands. The trunk hit the ground hard.

“Careful!” Ashraf bent to lift it.”But I wrote to you, care of Nawaz.”

“He didn’t give it to us,” said Om indignantly.

“Maybe the letter came late — after we moved to the hutment colony.”

“He could have brought it to us.”

“Yes, but who knows if he received it.”

They dropped their speculating and took turns hugging Ashraf Chacha; they kissed his cheeks three times, as much for their own comfort as his.

“I was worried when there was no reply,” he said. “I thought you must be very busy, trying to find work.”

“No matter how busy, we would have written if we knew,” said Ishvar. “We would have come to you. This is terrible — we should have been here for the funeral, she was like my mother, we should never have left…”

“Now that is foolish talk. Nobody can see into the future.”

They resumed walking, and Ashraf told them about the illness that had overtaken, and then taken, Mumtaz Chachi. As he spoke about his loss, it became clear why he had waited at the station platform every day to meet their train: he was matching his wits with time the great tormentor.

“It’s a strange thing. When my Mumtaz was alive, I would sit alone all day, sewing or reading. And she would be by herself in the back, busy cooking and cleaning and praying. But there was no loneliness, the days passed easily. Just knowing she was there was enough. And now I miss her so much. What an unreliable thing is time — when I want it to fly, the hours stick to me like glue. And what a changeable thing, too. Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl’s hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.” He sighed and smiled sadly. “But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.”

A clutter of troublesome feelings filled Ishvar — guilt, sorrow, the foreboding of old age waiting to waylay his own future. He wished he could assure Ashraf Chacha that they would not leave him alone again. Instead he said, “We would like to visit Mumtaz Chachi’s grave.”

The request pleased Ashraf greatly. “Her anniversary date is next week. We can go together. But you have come a long way for a joyous occasion. Let us talk about that now.”

He was determined not to let the sad news dampen their spirits. He explained that preliminary meetings with each of the four families were three days away. “Some of them were worried at first. I, a Muslim, making arrangements for you, nah.”

“How dare they,” said Ishvar indignantly. “Didn’t they know we are one family?”

“Not at first,” said Ashraf. But others who were aware of the longstanding ties between them had explained there was no cause for concern. “So it’s fixed now. The bridegroom must be anxious,” he prodded Om’s stomach playfully. “You will have to be patient a little longer. Inshallah, everything will go well.”

“I’m not worried,” said Om. “So tell me what’s new. Anything in town?”

“Not much. A Family Planning Centre has opened. I don’t think you would be interested in that,” he chuckled. “And everything else, good or bad, has remained the same.”

A surge of excitement quickened Om’s steps as their street came into view, and then the signboard of Muzaffar Tailoring. He walked ahead, greeting the hardware-store owner, the banya, the miller, the coal-merchant, who leaned out from their doorways and bubbled good wishes and blessings for the auspicious event.

“Let me know when you are hungry,” said Ashraf. “I have cooked some dal and rice. I also have your favourite mango achaar.”

Om licked his lips. “It’s such fun to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“Yes,” said Ishvar. “You know, Chachaji, Dinabai is very nice, and we get along very well now, but here it’s different. This is home. Here I can relax more. In the city, every time I go out anywhere, I feel a little scared.”

“What, yaar, you’re simply letting all those troubles haunt you. Forget them now, it was a long time ago.”

“Troubles?”

“Nothing much,” said Ishvar. “We’ll tell you later. Come, let’s eat before the rice and dal becomes dry.”

They sat in the shop, talking till late in the night, Ishvar and Om taking care to soften the details of their trials. They did this instinctively, wishing to spare Ashraf Chacha the pain, seeing how he winced in empathy with everything they described.

Around midnight Om began nodding off, and Ashraf suggested they go to bed. “My old head could stay up listening all night, it has not much need of sleep. But you two must rest.”

Ishvar moved aside the chairs to make space for bedding on the floor. Ashraf stopped him. “Why here? There is just me upstairs. Come on.” They climbed the steps from the shop to the room above. “What life there was in this place once. Mumtaz, my four daughters, my two apprentices. What fun we had together, nah?”

He got extra sheets and blankets from a trunk smelling of naphthalene. “My Mumtaz packed it all away after our daughters married and left. She was so careful — every year she would air it out, and put in new mothballs.”

Om was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. “Reminds me of you and Narayan,” whispered Ashraf. “When you first came here as little boys, remember? You would go down to the shop after dinner and spread your mats. You would fall asleep so peacefully, as though it was your own house. You could have paid me no greater compliment.”

“The way you and Mumtaz Chachi looked after us, it felt like our own house.” They reminisced a few minutes longer before switching off the light.

Ashraf wanted to present new shirts to Ishvar and Om. “We’ll go for them this afternoon,” he said.

“Hoi-hoi, Chachaji. That’s too much to take from you.”

“You want to cause me unhappiness, refusing my gift?” he protested. “For me, too, Om’s marriage is very important. Let me do what I want to do.” The shirts were to wear at the four bride-viewing visits. The wedding garments would be negotiated later, with the family of the girl they selected.

Ishvar relented, but on one condition — that he and Om would help him make the shirts. Chachaji toiling alone at the sewing-machine was out of the question.

“But nobody needs to sew,” said Ashraf. “There is the new ready-made shop in the bazaar. The one that stole our customers. How can you forget? That shop was the reason you had to leave.”

He told them about the faithful clients who, one by one, had abandoned Muzaffar Tailoring, including those whose families had been customers since his father’s time. “The loyalty of two generations has vanished like smoke on a windy day, by the promise of cheaper prices. Such a powerful devil is money. Good thing you left when you did, there is no future here.”

It was not long before Om brought up the other, always unspoken, reason for their flight to the city. “What about Thakur Dharamsi? You haven’t mentioned him. Is that daakoo still alive?”

“The district has put him in charge of Family Planning.”

“So what is his method? Does he murder babies, to control the population?”

His uncle and Ashraf Chacha exchanged uneasy glances.

“I think our people should get together and kill that dog.”

“Don’t start talking nonsense, Omprakash,” warned Ishvar. His nephew’s old unhappy rage seemed to be on the verge of returning, and it worried him.

Ashraf took Om’s hand. “My child, that demon is too powerful. Since the Emergency began, his reach has extended from his own village to all the way here. He is a big man now in the Congress Party, they say he will become a minister in the next elections — if the government ever decides to have elections. Nowadays, he wants to look respectable, avoids any goonda-giri. When he wants to threaten someone, he doesn’t send his own men, he just tells the police. They pick up the poor fellow, give him a beating, then release him.”

“Why are we wasting our time talking about that man?” said Ishvar angrily. “We are here for a joyous occasion, we have nothing to do with him, God will deal with Thakur Dharamsi.”

“Exactly,” said Ashraf. “Come on, let’s go buy the shirts.” He hung out a sign that the shop would reopen at six. “Not that it matters. Nobody comes.” He struggled with the steel collapsibles, and Om went to help. The grating stuck in its track, demanding to be reversed, shaken loose, coaxed forward.

“Needs oiling,” he panted. “Like my old bones.”

They took the dirt road to the bazaar, treading the hard, dry earth past grain sheds and labourers’ hovels. Their sandals crunched lightly and kicked up tiny tongues of dust.

“How was the rain in the city?”

“Too much,” said Ishvar. “Streets were flooded many times. And here?”

“Too little. The devil held his umbrella over us. Let’s hope he shuts it this year.”

The way to the clothes shop led past the new Family Planning Centre, and Om slowed down, peering inside. “You said Thakur Dharamsi is in charge here?”

“Yes, and he makes a lot of money out of it.”

“How? I thought government pays the patients to have the operation.”

“The rogue puts all that cash in his own pocket. The villagers are helpless. Complaining only brings more suffering upon their heads. When the Thakur’s gang goes looking for volunteers, the poor fellows quietly send their wives, or offer themselves for the operation.”

“Hai Ram. When a demon like this is allowed to prosper, the world must really be passing through the darkness of Kaliyug.”

“And you tell me I am talking nonsense,” said Om scornfully. “Killing that swine would be the most sensible way to end Kaliyug.”

“Calm down, my child,” said Ashraf. “He who spits paan at the ceiling only blinds himself. For the crimes in this world, the punishment occurs in the Next World.”

Om rolled his eyes. “Yes, definitely. But tell me, how much money can he make from that place? The operation bonus is not very big.”

“Ah, but it’s not his only source. When the patients are brought to the clinic, he auctions them.”

“What does that mean?”

“You see, government employees have to produce two or three cases for sterilization. If they don’t fill their quota, their salary is held back for that month by the government. So the Thakur invites all the schoolteachers, block development officers, tax collectors, food inspectors to the clinic. Anyone who wants to can bid on the villagers. Whoever offers the most gets the cases registered in his quota.”

Ishvar shook his head in despair. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, putting his hands over his ears. “Bas, I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Ashraf. “To listen to the things happening in our lifetime is like drinking venom — it poisons my peace. Every day I pray that this evil cloud over our country will lift, that justice will take care of these misguided people.”

As they were moving away from the building, someone from the Family Planning Centre came to the door. “Please step inside,” he said. “No waiting, doctor is on duty, we can do the operation right away.”

“Keep your hands off my manhood,” said Om.

The fellow started explaining wearily that it was a misconception people had about vasectomy, the manhood was not involved, the doctor did not even touch that part.

“It’s all right,” smiled Ashraf. “We know. The boy is only teasing you.” He waved genially, and they continued on their way.

Outside the ready-made shop, shirt-and-pant combinations flapped on wire hangers, suspended from the awning like headless scarecrows. The main stock was in cardboard boxes on shelves. Having assessed their sizes, the salesman proceeded to display some shirts. Om made a face.

“You don’t like?”

Om shook his head. The man pushed the boxes aside and showed a battery of alternate selections. He watched his customers anxiously.

“That’s a nice one,” said Ishvar, out of consideration for the man. He examined a short-sleeved shirt with checks. “Just like the one Maneck has.”

“Yes, but look how badly the buttons are sewn,” objected Om. “One wash and they will come off.”

“If you like the shirt, take it,” said Ashraf. “I will strengthen the buttons for you.”

“Let me show you more,” said the salesman. “This box has our special patterns, top quality, from Liberty Garment Company.” He fanned out half a dozen specimens along the counter. “Stripes are very popular nowadays.”

Om picked up a light-blue shirt with dark-blue lines and slid off the transparent plastic bag. “Look at that,” he said disgustedly, shaking it open. “The pocket is crooked, the stripes don’t even meet.”

“You are right,” the salesman admitted, uncovering more boxes. “I just sell the clothes, I don’t make them. What to do, no one takes pride in good workmanship anymore.”

“Very true,” said Ishvar. “It’s like that everywhere.”

Lamenting the changing times, it became easier to find acceptable shirts. The man folded their choices along the original creases and slipped them back in the transparent bags. The cellophane crackled opulently. The illusion of value and quality was restored, while string and brown paper secured it in place. He gnawed through the string to sever the required length from the large reel. “Please come back, I will be happy to serve you.”

“Thank you,” said Ashraf.

They stood in the street and debated what to do next. “We could roam in the bazaar,” said Om, “see if there is anyone we know.”

“I have a better plan,” said Ashraf. “Tomorrow is market day. Let’s come in the morning. Everyone from the villages will be here, you will get to meet lots of friends.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Ishvar. “And now let me treat you to paan, before we go home.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve picked up the paan habit,” said Ashraf disapprovingly.

“No no, it’s only because this is a special day, we are seeing you after so long.”

Their mouths bulging with the mixture of betel nut, chunam, and tobacco, they walked back towards Muzaffar Tailoring, passing the Family Planning Centre again, where Ashraf relieved his juice-laden mouth in the ditch and pointed to a parked car. “That’s Thakur Dharamsi’s new motor. He must be inside, counting his victims.”

Ishvar immediately began steering them across the road.

“What are you running for?” said Om. “We don’t have to be scared of that dog.”

“Better to avoid any trouble.”

“I agree,” said Ashraf. “Why see the demon’s face if you can help it?”

Just then, Thakur Dharamsi emerged from the building, and Om strode boldly towards him on a collision course. Ishvar tried to pull him back beside Ashraf Chacha. The smooth leather soles of Om’s sandals slipped on the pavement. He felt foolish. His uncle was winning the tug of war, and his defiance was turning into humiliation before the Thakur.

Om spat.

The arc of red ended several feet short; the sticky juice soaked the earth between them. The Thakur stopped. The two men with him awaited instructions. In their vicinity, people faded like the light, fearful of witnessing what might follow.

The Thakur said very softly, “I know who you are.” He got in the car, slammed the door, and drove off.

The rest of the way home, Ishvar was frantic with rage and anxiety. “You are mad! Bilkool paagal! If you want to die why don’t you swallow rat poison? Have you come for a wedding or a funeral?”

“My wedding, and the Thakur’s funeral.”

“Leave your clever talk! I should give your face one backhand slap!”

“If you hadn’t stopped me, I could have spat over him. Exactly in his face.”

Ishvar raised his hand to strike, but Ashraf made him desist. “What’s happened has happened. We have to stay out of that demon’s way from now on.”

“I’m not scared of him,” said Om.

“Of course you’re not. We just don’t want any trouble to spoil the wedding preparations, that’s all. Our joy doesn’t need to be darkened by that demon’s shadow.”

He had to keep applying his words like balm upon Ishvar’s anguish. But now and again the terror broke through, erupting in a bitter condemnation of his nephew’s stupidity. “Acting like a hero and thinking like a zero. My fault only, for buying paan for you. A bad-tempered owl, as Dinabai used to call you. What has become of your humour and your joking? Without Maneck you have forgotten how to laugh, how to enjoy life.”

“You should have brought him with you, if you think he’s so wonderful. I would have stayed back.”

“You are talking bilkool nonsense. We are here for just a few days. Soon we return to our jobs. You can’t behave sensibly even for this short time?”

“That’s what you said in the city — that we would be there for a short while only, and soon go back to our native place.”

“So? Is it my fault that it’s tougher than we expected, making money in the city?”

Then they abandoned the topic altogether. Quarrelling on would have meant Ashraf Chacha learning about the misery concealed in the details they had spared him.

Market day was noisier than usual because the Family Planning Centre was promoting its sterilization camp from a booth in the square, its loudspeakers at full blast. Banners were strung across the road, exhorting participation in the Nussbandhi Mela. The usual paraphernalia of the fairground — balloons, flowers, soap bubbles, coloured lights, snacks — were employed to lure the townsfolk and visiting villagers. The film songs were interrupted often with announcements about the nation’s need for birth control, the prosperity and happiness in store for those willing to be sterilized, the generous bonuses for vasectomies and tubectomies.

“Where will they perform the operations?” wondered Om. “Right here?”

“Why? You want to watch or what?” said Ishvar.

Ashraf said the Centre usually erected tents outside town. “They set it up like a factory. Cut here, snip there, a few stitches — and the goods are ready to be shipped.”

“Sounds just like the tailoring business, yaar.”

“Actually, we tailors take more pride in our work. We show more consideration for fabric than these monsters show for humans. It is our nation’s shame.”

Not far from the birth-control booth was a man selling potions for the treatment of impotency and infertility. “The quack is getting a bigger crowd than the government people,” said Ishvar.

The man, his hair combed out in a black shiny halo, wore an animal pelt over his shoulders. His chest was bare, and a tight thong cutting into his upper right arm made his veins stand out in a show of power all the way along his limb. He brandished his muscular forearm, engorged and hard, whenever some reproductive matter needed graphic illustrating.

Spread out on a mat before him were several jars containing herbs and chunks of bark. And lest these be mistaken for the trappings of an insipid apothecary, he had interspersed among them an assortment of dead lizards and snakes, to imbue the display with a feral virility, a reptilian electricity. In one corner sat a human skull. The centre of the mat was occupied by a bear’s head, the eyes large and gleaming, jaws open wide. This trophy had suffered in its travels, losing two teeth; tiny wooden cones painted white had taken their place. The risible dentures undercut the bear’s ferocious glare, and the overall effect was clownish.

The Potency Pedlar pointed with a stick at charts listing symptoms and cures, and at diagrams that might have depicted electrical circuits. Midway through the exegesis, he raised the hem of his dhoti and pulled it up — up until it revealed his calves, his knees, and finally his muscular thighs. His dark-brown skin shone under the sun. For a hairy-chested man, his legs were questionably smooth. Then, to emphasize what he was saying, he slapped the firm flesh of his thighs several times. The report was sharp, like the clapping of perfect hands.

His sales pitch followed a question-and-answer routine. “Are you having difficulty in producing children? Is your hathiyar reluctant to rise up? Or does it sleep and forget to wake?” His pointer drooped disconsolately. “Fear not, there is a cure! Like a soldier at attention it will stand! One, two, three — bhoom!” He whipped up his pointer.

Some in the audience sniggered, others were bold in their loud laughter, while a few produced dark, censorious frowns.

“Does it stand, but not straight enough? Is there a bend in the tool? Leaning left like the Marxist-Leninist Party? To the right, like the Jan Sangh fascists? Or wobbling mindlessly in the middle, like the Congress Party? Fear not, for it can be straightened! Does it refuse to harden even with rubbing and massage? Then try my ointment, and it will become hard as the government’s heart! All your troubles will vanish with this amazing ointment made from the organs of these wild animals! Capable of turning all men into engine-drivers! Punctual as the trains in the Emergency! Back and forth you will shunt with piston power every night! The railways will want to harness your energy! Apply this ointment once a day, and your wife will be proud of you! Apply it twice a day, and she will have to share you with the whole block!”

The last bit provoked a great quantity of laughter from some young men. Women hid their smiles behind their hands; a few giggles escaped before they could be strangled. The frowning censors walked away in disgust.

The Potency Pedlar picked up the grinning human skull and held it aloft. “If I were to rub my ointment on this fellow’s head, even he would start jumping! But I dare not, I have to think of the ladies present, and the safety of their virtue!” The audience applauded heartily.

He continued in this vein for a bit longer before addressing women’s problems. Now he spoke in his alternate role — the fakir of fertility. “Is there sadness in your life because your neighbour has more children than you? Do you need more hands to help you with the endless work in the fields, to carry water, to search for firewood? Are you worried about who will look after you in your helpless old age, because you have no sons? Fear not! This tonic will make strong children flow forth from your belly! One spoon a day, and you will give your husband six sons! Two spoons, and your womb will produce an army!”

Despite the large crowd around the vendor, actual customers were few. Mainly, they were there for the entertainment. Besides, to purchase the products in broad daylight meant a public admission of inadequate loins. The sales would take place later, after the performance wound down and the fun-seekers drifted away.

“Are you planning to buy?” Ishvar tickled Om in the ribs, who was listening with grave intent.

“I don’t need all this rubbish.”

“Of course not,” said Ashraf, putting his arm over Om’s shoulder. “Inshallah, sons and daughters will appear at the proper time.”

They resumed their stroll through the bazaar till they came to the Chamaar stalls. “Don’t say anything, just stand quietly,” said Om. “Let’s see how long before they spot us.”

They pretended to inspect the sandals, waterskins, purses, belts, barber’s strops, harnesses. The rich smell of fresh leather travelled deep, waking forgotten memories. Then someone from their village recognized them.

A shout of delight went up, echoed by others. The welcome was euphoric. People gathered around, and the conversation began to overflow. Everyone was eager to fill the void the tailors’ lengthy absence had created.

Ishvar and Om learned from the villagers that Dukhi’s lifelong friend, Gambhir, who had had molten lead poured in his ears many years ago, had died recently. Though the burn injury had always festered, it was blood poisoning from cutting his leg on a rusty scythe that had finally taken him. The old women, Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri, were well. They were the ones who most remembered the tailors’ family; their favourite story was still the one about going by bus with Roopa and Dukhi and several dozen others to inspect Narayan’s wife-to-be.

After homage was paid to the dead and the elderly, they turned to the present. News of the impending bride-viewing had spread in the Chamaar community. Two men lifted Om to their shoulders and paraded him like a conquering hero, as though the wedding were already accomplished. Felicitations poured from every mouth, embarrassing Om. For once, he was left incapable of making a smart retort, while his uncle beamed and nodded.

For those who had known his father, the occasion had a special significance. They were happy that the line of one as remarkable as Narayan, the Chamaar-turned-tailor who had defied the upper castes, was not going to die out. “We prayed that the son will return one day,” they said, “and our prayers are answered. Om must carry on the work of his father. And the grandsons will do likewise.”

To Ishvar’s ears the yearnings of his community were ill-considered, and recklessly tempted fate. The fear born out of Om’s foolhardiness with Thakur Dharamsi yesterday was still trembling in his veins. He cut short the well-wishers. “There is no chance of coming back. We have very good jobs in the city. The future there is bright for Omprakash.”

The Chamaars talked about the years when Ishvar and his brother had first left the village as apprentices to Muzaffar Tailoring. They told Om what a brilliant tailor his father had been, while Ashraf, the proud teacher, smiled, nodding to indicate that yes, it was all true. “It was like magic,” they said. “Narayan could take the discards of a fat landlord and alter them with his machine to fit us like brand-new. He could take our rags and turn them into clothes suitable for a king. We will never again see the like of him. So generous, so brave.”

Ishvar changed the subject once more, worried about the effect their reminiscing would have on his nephew. “Ashraf Chacha has been talking to us of the old days ever since we arrived,” he said. “Tell us what is happening in these new days.”

So Ishvar and Om learned that recently a stream had run dry, and in its bed was discovered a perfectly spherical rock with sickness-curing properties. In another village, a sadhu had meditated under a tree, and when he departed, furrows developed on the trunk in the image of Lord Ganesh. Elsewhere, during the religious procession of Mata Ki Sawari, someone had entered a trance and identified a Bhil woman as the witch causing the community’s woes. She was beaten to death, and the village was expecting better times; unfortunately, a year later they were still waiting.

Before the conversation could stray again into the past, Ishvar said, “We’ll see you at the wedding, if everything goes well,” and they took their leave to cheers and laughter.

They wandered into the vegetable section of the market where he selected peas, coriander, spinach, and onions. “Tonight I’ll cook my specialty for us.”

“And the chapati expert will favour us with his skills,” said Ashraf, putting his arm around Om again. It was hard for him to restrain himself from constantly touching and embracing the two who were like son and grandson to him. Besides, he was trying to ward off the dreaded day of departure that would dawn when the celebrations were over.

“One more stop before we go home,” said Ishvar. He led them towards the religious merchandise, and purchased an expensive string of prayer beads. “A small gift from us,” he said to Ashraf. “We hope you will use it for many years to come.”

“Inshallah,” he said, and kissed the beads of amber. “You have chosen the right item for me.”

“My idea,” claimed Om. “We noticed you are spending more time in prayer.”

“Yes, awareness of death and old age tend to have that effect on us mortals.” He stopped the vendor, who was making a newspaper pouch to package the beads. “No need for that,” he said, and wound the precious string round his fingers.

Nearby, the candy-floss man issued his inviting call: “Aga-ni-dadhi! Aga-ni-dadhi!”

“I want one,” said Om.

“Aray eat more, have two!” He tinkled his little brass bell.

Ishvar held up one finger, and the candy-floss man switched on the machine.

They watched the whirring, humming centre spin out wisps of pink. The man whisked a stick around inside the tub, stroking the air to harvest the sweet strands. When the ball reached the size of a human head, he switched off the machine.

“You know how that works, nah?” said Ashraf. “There is a large spider sitting inside the machine, feeding on sugar and pink dye. At the man’s command, it starts spinning its web.”

“For sure,” said Om and chucked him under the chin, fingering his fine white beard. “Is that how your dadhi was also made?”

It was a little before noon. Empty trucks rumbled up the main road and parked outside the market square. No one paid attention. Traffic was always heavy on this day of the week.

“Want to taste?” Om held out the stick.

Ishvar declined. Ashraf decided to try some, gamely negotiating the fluff through his whiskers. Bits of it stuck, pink on white, and Om roared. He led him to the window of a sari shop and showed him his candy-floss beard. “Looks very handsome, Chachaji. You could start a new style.”

“Now you know why it’s called aga-ni-dadhi,” said Ashraf, plucking the wisps out of his hair.

Ishvar watched contentedly, smiling with happiness. In spite of everything, life was good, he thought. How could he complain when Om and he were blessed with the friendship of people like Ashraf Chacha, and Dinabai, and Maneck.

More trucks appeared around the square, occupying the lanes leading into the bazaar. These were garbage trucks, round-roofed with openings at the rear.

“Why so early?” wondered Ashraf. “Market still has many hours to go, cleanup does not begin till evening.”

“Maybe the drivers also want to do some shopping.”

Suddenly, horns blaring, police vans swept into the marketplace. The sea of humans parted. The vehicles stopped in the centre and disgorged a battalion of constables who took up positions inside the square.

“A police guard for the bazaar?” said Ishvar.

“Something is wrong,” said Ashraf.

The shoppers watched, perplexed. Then the police began to advance and grab people. The bewildered captives resisted, shouting and questioning, “First tell us! Tell us what we’ve done! How can you catch people just like that? We have a right to be here, it’s market day!”

The constables answered by moving relentlessly through the crowd. Resistance was met with swinging lathis. Panic filled the marketplace as people pushed, pleaded, struggled with the police, tried to break through the cordon. But the square had been efficiently surrounded. Those who made it to the periphery were beaten back into the waiting hands of more police.

Stalls and stands came crashing down, baskets were overturned, boxes smashed. In seconds the square was littered with tomatoes, onions, earthen pots, flour, spinach, coriander, chillies — patches of orange and white and green, dissolving in chaos out of their neat rows. The Potency Pedlar’s bear was trampled underfoot, losing more of its teeth, while his dead lizards and snakes died a second death. The music from the Family Planning booth continued to blare over the screams of people.

“Come to this side, quick,” said Ashraf. “We will get shelter here.” He led them into the doorway of a textile-merchant who used to refer customers to Muzaffar Tailoring. The shop was closed, and he rang the bell. There was no answer. “Never mind, we’ll just stay here till things are quiet. Police must be looking for criminals in the crowd.”

But the police were snatching people at random. Old men, young boys, housewives with children were being dragged into the trucks. A few managed to escape; most were trapped like chickens in a coop, unable to do anything except wait to be collected by the law enforcers.

“Look,” urged Ashraf, “that corner has only one havaldar. If you run fast you will get through.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be safe here, I’ll meet you later at the shop.”

“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, refusing to leave him. “We don’t need to run like thieves.”

They watched from the doorway while the police continued to chase the ones tearing frenziedly amid the spilled fruit and grain and broken glassware. Someone tripped, fell upon the shards and cut his face. His pursuer lost interest, picking a new quarry.

“Hai Ram!” said Ishvar. “Look at that blood! And now they are ignoring him! What is going on?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that demon Dharamsi is behind it,” said Ashraf. “He owns those garbage trucks.”

As the vehicles filled up, the numbers in the square began to dwindle. The police had to work harder to catch the remainder. Before long, six constables targeted the tailors. “You three! Into the truck!”

“But why, police-sahab?”

“Just come on, don’t argue,” said one, raising his lathi.

Ashraf flung up his hands before his face. The constable grabbed the prayer beads round his fingers and pulled, breaking the string. The beads rolled lazily about the pavement.

“Oiee!” yelled two others as they slipped on the tiny amber spheres. Seeing his comrades fall, the first one reacted by lashing out angrily with his lathi.

Ashraf groaned and crumpled slowly to the ground.

“Don’t hurt him, please, it was a mistake!” pleaded Ishvar. He and Om knelt to cradle his head.

“Stand up,” said the constable. “He’s okay, just pretending. I gave him just a light blow.”

“But his head is bleeding.”

“Just a little. Come on, get in the truck.”

The tailors ignored the command in favour of Ashraf Chacha. The constable kicked them, once each. They yelped and clutched their ribs. As he drew his foot back to kick again, they stood up. He shoved them towards the trucks.

“What about Ashraf Chacha?” screamed Ishvar. “You’re going to leave him on the pavement?”

“Don’t yell at me, I’m not your servant or something! Saala, one tight shot on your face I’ll give!”

“Sorry, police-sahab, please forgive! But Chachaji is hurt, I want to help him!”

The constable turned to look again at the injured old man. Blood was oozing through the skimpy white hair, dripping in a slow trickle onto the kerb. But the police had been instructed not to load anyone unconscious onto the vehicles. “Others will take care of him, it’s not your worry,” he said, pushing the two aboard a truck.

On the pavement a dog sniffed at the candy-floss Om had dropped. The fluff stuck to its muzzle. The animal worried the pink beard with a paw, and a child in the truck, sitting on its mother’s lap, laughed at the creature’s antics. The police discontinued the roundup when the garbage trucks were full. The people remaining in the square suddenly found themselves at liberty to leave.

The sterilization camp was a short ride from town. A dozen tents had been pitched in a field on the outskirts, where the stubble of the recent harvest still lingered. Banners, balloons, and songs identical to those at the marketplace booth welcomed the garbage trucks. The passengers’ terrified wailing grew louder as the vehicles were parked in an open area behind the tents, alongside an ambulance and a diesel generator.

Two of the tents were larger and sturdier than the rest, with electric cables running to them from the generator that throbbed powerfully beneath the music. Red cylinders for gas stoves squatted outside the canvas. Inside, office desks covered with plastic sheets had been set up as operating tables.

The medical officer in charge of the camp wrinkled his nose in the vicinity of the garbage trucks. The putrid smell of their usual cargo clung to them. He had a word with the police. “Wait for ten minutes, we’ll finish our tea by then. And bring only four patients at a time — two men and two women.” He didn’t want more in the tents than could be handled by the attending doctors, or it would lead to greater panic.

“No one is offering us any tea,” the constables grumbled among themselves. “And this stupid music. Same songs over and over.”

Half an hour later they got the go-ahead. Four persons were selected from the nearest truck, dragged screaming to the two main tents and forced onto the office desks. “Stop resisting,” said the doctor. “If the knife slips it will harm you only.” The warning frightened them into silent submission.

The constables watched the tents carefully, trying to maintain a steady supply according to instructions. But several who couldn’t read kept getting confused. They escorted women to the vasectomy tent. The mixup was understandable: except for the handwritten signs, both tents were identical, and the medical personnel in white coats all looked alike.

“Men to the left tent, women to the right,” the doctors reminded them repeatedly. Their annoyance grew with the suspicion that it was being done on purpose — perhaps some kind of inane police humour. Finally, a medical assistant improved the signs. With a black marker he drew figures on the signboards, of the sort found on public latrines. The turban on the male, and the sari and long plait on the female were unmistakable, and now the constables were able to work with greater accuracy.

As the sterilizations proceeded, an elderly woman tried to reason with her doctor. “I am old,” she said. “My womb is barren, there are no more eggs in it. Why are you wasting the operation on me?”

The doctor approached the district official keeping a tally of the day’s procedures. “This woman is past child-bearing age,” he said. “You should take her off your list.”

“Is that a medical conclusion?”

“Of course not,” said the doctor. “There is no equipment here for clinical verification.”

“In that case, just go ahead. These people often lie about their age. And appearances are deceptive. With their lifestyle, thirty can look like sixty, all shrivelled by the sun.”

Two hours into the campaign, a nurse hurried to the policemen with new instructions. “Please slow down the supply of lady patients,” she said. “There is a technical problem in the tubectomy tent.”

A middle-aged man took the opportunity to appeal to the nurse. “I beg you,” he wept. “Do it to me, I don’t mind — I have fathered three children. But my son here is only sixteen! Never married! Spare him!”

“I have no authority, you must speak to the doctor,” she answered, and hurried back to attend to the technical problem. The autoclave was not working, she had to boil water to disinfect the instruments.

“See, I was right,” Ishvar whispered to Om, holding him close in his trembling arms. “The doctor will let you go, that’s what the nurse just said. We must talk to the doctor and tell him you don’t have children yet.”

In the truck with the tailors a woman was feeding her baby, unaffected by the anguish around her. She softly hummed a song, swaying her body to help the infant fall asleep. “Will you hold my child for me when my turn comes?” she asked Ishvar.

“Hahnji, don’t worry, sister.”

“I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. Five children I already have, and my husband won’t let me stop. This way he has no choice — government stops it.” She began singing again, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan …”

By and by, the constable beckoned to her, and she removed the child from her breast. The swollen nipple separated with a tiny pop. Om watched her tuck her breast back into her choli. Ishvar eagerly held out his arms and took the child. It started to cry as the mother was climbing down from the truck.

He nodded to reassure her, and rocked the child gently in his lap. Om tried to distract the infant by making funny faces. Then Ishvar began singing like the mother, imitating her little tune, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan.”

The baby stopped crying. They exchanged triumphant looks. Minutes later, tears were rolling down Ishvar’s cheeks. Om turned away. He did not need to ask the reason.

Frustrated by the malfunctioning equipment, the doctors operated slowly through the afternoon, and the Nussbandhi Mela was extended beyond its closing time of six p.m. The second autoclave had broken down as well. Around seven o’clock, a senior administrator from the Family Planning Centre arrived with his personal assistant.

The constables shuffled their feet and stood a little more erect while the camp was inspected. The administrator conveyed his displeasure regarding the number of patients still in the trucks. Then he came upon the doctors by the gas stoves, waiting for a fresh pot of water to boil, and decided to give them a piece of his mind.

“Stop wasting time,” he snapped as they wished him good evening. “Have you no sense of duty? There are dozens of operations left to do. A chupraasi can make tea for you.”

“We are not making tea. The water is for cleaning instruments. The machine is not working.”

“Instruments are clean enough. How long do you want to heat the water? Efficiency is paramount at a Nussbandhi Mela, targets have to be achieved within the budget. Who’s going to pay for so many gas cylinders?” He threatened that they would be reported to higher authorities for lack of cooperation, promotions would be denied, salaries frozen.

The doctors resumed work with partially sterile equipment. They knew of colleagues whose careers had suffered similarly.

The administrator watched for a while, clocking the operations and working out the average time per patient. “Too slow,” he said to his personal assistant. “A simple job of snip-snip-snip they turn into a big fuss.”

Before leaving, he delivered the final threat in his arsenal. “Remember, Thakur Dharamsi will be coming later to check the totals. If he is not pleased with you, you may as well send in your resignations.”

“Yes, sir,” said the doctors.

Satisfied, he went to inspect the other tents. His personal assistant stayed by his side like an interpreter, letting his facial expressions illuminate his superior’s speech.

“We have to be firm with the doctors,” confided the administrator. “If it is left to them to fight the menace of the population explosion, the nation will drown, choked to death, finished — end of our civilization. So it’s up to us to make sure the war is won.”

“Yes, sir — absolutely, sir,” said the aide, thrilled to receive this private pearl of wisdom.

The sun was disappearing at the horizon when it was the tailors’ turn. Ishvar said beseechingly to the constable who gripped his arm, “Police-sahab, there has been a mistake. We don’t live here, we came from the city because my nephew is getting married.”

“I cannot do anything about that.” He lengthened his stride.

Ishvar’s feet skipped in an effort to keep from being dragged. “Can I see the man in charge?” he panted, his voice uneven.

“Doctor is in charge.”

Inside the tent, Ishvar spoke timidly to the doctor. “There is a mistake, Doctorji. We don’t live here.”

The exhausted man made no response.

“Doctorji, you are like mother-father to us poor people, your good work keeps us healthy. And I also think nussbandhi is very important for the country. I am never going to marry, Doctorji, please do the operation on me, I will be grateful, but please leave out my nephew, Doctorji, his name is Omprakash and his wedding is happening soon, please listen to me, Doctorji, I beg of you!”

They were pushed onto the desks and their pants were removed. Ishvar started to weep. “Please, Doctorji! Not my nephew! Cut me as much as you like! But forgive my nephew! His marriage is being arranged!”

Om said nothing. He blocked out the humiliating appeals, wishing his uncle would behave with more dignity. The canvas ceiling undulated slightly in a breeze. He stared numbly as the guy ropes creaked and the electric lights swayed.

Dusk had turned to night when the tailors were helped off the table by the nurses. “Aiee!” said Om. “It hurts!”

“Soreness is normal for a few hours,” said the doctor. “Nothing to worry about.”

They were led limping through the dark field towards the recovery tent. “Now why are you keeping us here?” sobbed Ishvar. “Can’t we go home?”

“You could,” said the nurse. “But better to rest for a while.”

Half a dozen steps later, the pain was sharper. They decided to heed her advice and lie down on the straw mattresses. No one took notice of Ishvar’s crying; grief and tears were general throughout the tents. They were given water and two biscuits each.

“Everything is ruined,” he wept, passing his biscuits to Om. “The four families will never accept us now for their daughters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You are a stupid boy, you don’t understand what it means! I have let down your dead father! Our family name will die without children, it is the end of everything — everything is lost!”

“Maybe for you. But I still have my dignity. I’m not crying like a baby.”

A man on the next pallet was listening intently to their conversation. He raised himself on one elbow. “O bhai,” he said, “don’t cry. Look here, I’ve heard the operation is reversible.”

“But how can that be? After the nuss has been cut?”

“No, bhai, it’s possible. Specialists in big cities can reconnect the nuss.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure. Only thing is, it’s very expensive.”

“You hear that, Om? There is still hope!” Ishvar wiped his face. “Never mind how expensive — we will get it done! We will sew like crazy for Dinabai, night and day! I will get it reversed for you!”

He turned to his benefactor, the creator of hope. “God bless you for this information. May you also be able to reverse it.”

“I don’t want to,” said the man. “I have four children. A year ago I went to my doctor and had the operation of my own free will. These animals did it on me today for the second time.”

“That’s like executing a dead man. Don’t they listen to anything?”

“What to do, bhai, when educated people are behaving like savages. How do you talk to them? When the ones in power have lost their reason, there is no hope.” Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch, he lowered his elbow to lie down.

Ishvar wiped his eyes and lay down too. He reached over to the next mattress and stroked his nephew’s arm. “Bas, my child, we have found our solution, no need to worry now. We will go back, reverse the nussbandhi, and come next year for the wedding. There will be other families interested by then. And maybe by then this accursed Emergency will also be over, and sanity will return to government.”

A sound like a tap was heard, and a hissing; someone was urinating outside. His loud stream hitting the ground angered the twice-vasectomized man in the tent. He rose again on his elbow. “See? Like animals, I told you. These policemen don’t even have the decency to go to the end of the field to pass water.”

Darkness was falling, and the doctors were down to their last few operations when Thakur Dharamsi arrived. The policemen and Family Planning workers flocked to bow before him, jostling to touch his feet. He spoke briefly to the doctors and nurses, then strolled through the recovery tents, waving to the patients, thanking them for their cooperation in making the sterilization camp a success.

“Quick, turn your face, Om,” whispered Ishvar urgently, as the Thakur approached their row. “Cover it with your arms, pretend you are asleep.”

Thakur Dharamsi stopped at the foot of Om’s mattress and stared. He murmured a few words to someone at his side. The man left, returning a moment later with one of the doctors.

The Thakur spoke to him softly, and the doctor recoiled, shaking his head vehemently. The Thakur whispered again. The doctor went pale.

Shortly, two nurses arrived and helped Om to his feet. “But I want to rest,” he protested. “It still hurts.”

“Doctor wants to see you.”

“Why?” shouted Ishvar. “You already finished his operation! Now what do you want?”

In the operating tent, the doctor was standing with his back to the entrance, watching the water come to a vigorous boil. The scalpel lay at the bottom, shining below the bubbles. He motioned to the nurses to get the patient on the table.

“Testicular tumour,” he felt obliged to explain to them. “Thakurji has authorized removal, as a special favour to the boy.” The quaver in his voice betrayed the lie.

Om’s pants were taken off for the second time. A rag soaked in chloroform was gripped at his nose. He tore at it briefly, then went limp. With a swift incision the doctor removed the testicles, sewed up the gash, and put a heavy dressing on it.

“Don’t send this patient home with the others,” he said. “He will need to sleep here tonight.” They covered him with a blanket and carried him to the recovery tent on a stretcher.

“What have you done to him?” screamed Ishvar. “He went out on his feet! You bring him back senseless! What have you done to my nephew?”

“Quiet,” they admonished, sliding Om from the stretcher onto the pallet. “He was very sick, and Doctor did a free operation to save his life. You should be grateful instead of simply shouting. Don’t worry, he’ll be all right when he wakes up. Doctor said for him to rest here till morning. You can also stay.”

Ishvar went to his nephew’s side to see for himself. He sought verbal assurances. Sound asleep, Om did not answer. Ishvar pulled down the blanket and began examining him: his hands, fingers, toes were intact. He checked the back — there were no bloody welts of whiplashes. And the mouth was fine, the tongue and teeth were undamaged. His fear began to abate, perhaps the Thakur had left him alone.

Then he found bloodstains on the underside of the trouser crotch. Could it be from the nussbandhi operation? He looked down at himself — there was no blood. Fingers shaking, he undid Om’s trousers and saw the large dressing. He unbuttoned his own trousers to compare: there was only a small piece of gauze and surgical tape. He put his fingers on Om’s bandage and felt the absence. Swallowing hard, he moved his fingers around frantically, hoping to locate the testicles somewhere, refusing to believe they were missing.

Then he howled.

“Hai Ram! Look! Look what they have done! To my nephew! Look! They have made a eunuch out of him!”

Someone came from the main tent and told him to be quiet. “What are you shouting for again? Didn’t you understand? The boy was very sick, that part had a dangerous growth in it, a gaanth full of poison, it needed to be removed.”

The twice-vasectomized man had already departed. The remaining occupants of the tent were busy nursing their own sorrow and trying to cope with nausea and dizziness. One by one, when they felt strong enough, they rose and returned shamefaced to their homes. There was no one left to comfort Ishvar.

Alone through the night, he howled and wept, slept for a few minutes when exhausted, then wept once more. Om came out of the chloroform past midnight, retched, and fell asleep again.

After the roundup in the market square, Ashraf Chacha had been carried to the municipal hospital, and his relatives at the lumberyard were notified. He died a few hours later. The hospital, following standing orders, put down the cause of death as accidental: “Due to stumbling, falling, and striking of head against kerb.” His relatives buried him beside Mumtaz Chachi the next day, while Ishvar and Om were still making their way back from the sterilization camp.

Apart from a soreness in the groin, Ishvar felt no discomfort. But Om was in grave pain. The bleeding resumed when he took a few steps. His uncle tried to carry him on his back, which was more agonizing. Flat in his arms like a baby was the only comfortable position for Om, but too exhausting for Ishvar. He had to put him down every few yards along the road.

Towards afternoon, a man passing with an empty handcart stopped. “What is wrong with the boy?”

Ishvar told him, and he offered to help. They placed Om on the cartbed. The man removed his turban to make a pillow. Ishvar and he pushed the handcart. It was not heavy to roll, but they had to move very slowly over the rutted road. The jolts knifed their way through Om, and the distance was measured by his harrowing screams.

It was dark when they reached Muzaffar Tailoring. The handcart-man refused payment. “I was travelling in this direction anyway,” he said.

Ashraf’s nephew from the lumberyard was inside, come to secure the shop. “I have sad news,” he said. “Chachaji had an accident and passed away.”

The tailors were too distraught, however, to be able to mourn the loss or fully comprehend it. Yesterday’s events in the market square had merged with all the other tragedies in their lives. “Thank you for coming to inform us,” Ishvar kept saying mechanically. “I must attend the funeral, and Om will also come, yes, he’ll be better tomorrow.”

The man repeated it four times before they realized that Ashraf Chacha had already been buried. “Don’t worry, you can stay here till you are well,” he said. “I haven’t yet decided what to do with this property. And please let me know if you need anything.”

They went to sleep without eating, having no desire for food. To avoid climbing the flight of steps, Ishvar prepared a mattress downstairs beside the shop counter. During the night Om thrashed around in delirium. “No! Not Ashraf Chacha’s shears! Where’s the umbrella? Give me, I’ll show the goondas!”

Ishvar awoke in fright and groped for the light switch. He saw a dark blotch on the sheet. He cleaned Om’s wound and sat up the rest of the night to restrain him, lest the dressing tear open.

In the morning he half-dragged, half-carried him to a private dispensary in town. The doctor was disgusted by the castration but not surprised. He treated victims of caste violence from time to time, from the surrounding villages, and had given up trying to get the law to pursue the cause of justice. “Insufficient evidence to register a case” was the routine response, whether it was a finger or hand or nose or ear that was missing.

“You are lucky,” said the doctor. “This was done very cleanly, and stitched properly. If the boy rests for a week, it will heal.” He disinfected the wound and put a new dressing on it. “Don’t let him walk, walking will make it bleed again.”

Ishvar paid the fee out of the wedding money, then asked, despite knowing the answer, “Will he be able to father children?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Even though the pipe is intact?”

“The vessels which produce the seed have been cut off.”

Remembering the doctor’s advice, Ishvar staggered home with his nephew in his arms and put him to bed. He found a bottle and a pan so Om could relieve himself without having to walk to the lavatory. Ashraf Chacha’s neighbours avoided them. In the tiny kitchen where Mumtaz Chachi had cooked for her family of six, plus two apprentices, Ishvar prepared the joyless meals. The friendly ghosts of his childhood were unable to comfort him, and they ate in silence at Om’s bedside.

At the end of seven days, Ishvar carried him again to the private dispensary. In the street it was easy to spot the victims of forced vasectomies, especially among those who possessed only one set of garments. Pus stains at the crotch told the story.

“The healing is almost complete,” said the doctor. “It is all right to walk now — but no hurrying.” He did not charge for the second visit.

From the dispensary they took small, careful steps to the police chowki and said they wanted to register a complaint. “My nephew was turned into a eunuch,” said Ishvar, unable to control a sob as he spoke the word.

The constable on duty was perturbed. He wondered if this meant a fresh outbreak of inter-caste disturbances, and headaches for his colleagues and himself. “Who did it?”

“It was at the Nussbandhi Mela. In the doctor’s tent.”

The answer relieved the policeman. “Not police jurisdiction. This is a case for the Family Planning Centre. Complaints about their people are handled by their office.” And in all probability, he thought, it was just another instance of confusing sterilization with castration. A visit to the Centre would sort things out.

The tailors left the police chowki and walked very slowly to the Family Planning Centre. Ishvar was grateful for the unhurried pace. A terrible ache had grown around his own groin since the last three days, which he had ignored in his concern for his nephew.

Om noticed the peculiar walk, and asked his uncle what the matter was.

“Nothing.” He winced as waves of pain rolled leisurely down his legs. “Just stiffness from the operation. It will go.” But he knew that it was getting worse; this morning, a swelling had begun in the legs.

At the Family Planning Centre the moment Ishvar said eunuch, they refused to listen further. “Get out,” ordered the officer. “We are fed up with you ignorant people. How many times to explain? Nussbandhi has nothing to do with castration. Why don’t you listen to our lectures? Why don’t you read the pamphlets we give you?”

“I understand the difference,” said Ishvar. “If you take just one look, you will see what your doctor has done.” He motioned to Om to drop his pants.

But as Om began undoing the buttons, the officer ran and grabbed the waistband. “I forbid you to take off your clothes in my office. I am not a doctor, and whatever is in your pants is of no interest to me. If we start believing you, then all the eunuchs in the country will come dancing to us, blaming us for their condition, trying to get money out of us. We know your tricks. The whole Family Planning Programme will grind to a halt. The country will be ruined. Suffocated by uncontrolled population growth. Now get out before call the police.”

Ishvar begged him to reconsider, to at least take one quick look. Om spoke in his uncle’s ear, warning him not to start crying again. The man kept advancing threateningly. They were forced to back up. When they were out in the street, the door was shut and a Closed For Lunch sign hung on it.

“You really thought they would help?” said Om. “Don’t you understand? We are less than animals to them.”

“Keep your mouth shut,” said Ishvar. “Your foolishness has brought this on us.”

“How? For my foolishness I lost my balls. But how is your nussbandhi my fault? That would have happened anyway. It happened to everyone in the market.” He paused, then continued bitterly, “In fact, it’s all your fault. Your madness about coming here and finding a wife for me. We could have been safe in the city, on Dinabai’s verandah.”

Ishvar’s eyes filled with tears. “So you are saying we should have stayed hidden on the verandah for the rest of our days? What kind of life, what kind of country is this, where we cannot come and go as we please? Is it a sin to visit my native place? To get my nephew married?” He could walk no further, and sank to the pavement, shaking.

“Come on,” hissed Om, “don’t do a drama on the street, it’s looking bad.”

But his uncle continued to weep, and Om sat down beside him. “I did not mean it, yaar, it’s not your fault, don’t cry.”

“The pain,” shivered Ishvar. “It’s everywhere … too much … I don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s go home,” said Om gently. “I’ll help you. You must rest with your feet up.”

They rose and, with Ishvar limping, dragging, trembling with agony, they reached Ashraf Chacha’s shop. They agreed that a good night’s sleep would cure him. Om arranged the mattress and pillows comfortably for his uncle, then massaged his uncle’s legs. They both fell asleep, Ishvar’s feet clasped in his nephew’s hands.

A week later Ishvar’s legs were swollen like columns. His body burned with fever. From the groin to the knee the flesh had become black. They returned to the Family Planning Centre and peered timidly from the entrance. Fortunately, a doctor was present this time, and the man they had spoken to on the last visit was not around.

“The nussbandhi is fine,” said the doctor after a cursory glance. “It’s not connected to the sickness in your legs. There is a poison in your body which is causing the swelling. You should go to the hospital.”

Seeing that this was a reasonable man, Ishvar mentioned his nephew’s castration, and the doctor was instantly transformed. “Get out!” he said. “If you are going to talk nonsense, get out of my sight this moment!”

They went to the hospital, where Ishvar was given a course of pills: four times a day for fourteen days. The pills reduced the fever, but there was no improvement in his legs. At the end of the fortnight’s treatment he could not walk at all. The blackness had spread downwards like a stain, towards the toes, reminding him of the leather dye that used to impregnate his skin as a boy, when he worked with his father and the Chamaars.

Om found the handcart-man in the market that afternoon, and requested his help. “It’s my uncle this time. He cannot walk, he has to be taken to hospital.”

The man was unloading a consignment of onions from the cart. A few bulbs had been crushed during transit, and the air was charged with the pungent reek. He wiped his eyes, hoisted a sack over his shoulders, and took it to the godown. The vapours travelled into Om’s eyes too, though he stood at some distance.

“Okay, I’m ready,” said the handcart-man twenty minutes later. He dusted off the cartbed and they went to Muzaffar Tailoring to collect Ishvar. They positioned the cart close to the steps and hoisted him upon it. The neighbours watched, hidden behind curtains, as the rickety wheels trundled off towards the hospital.

The handcart-man waited outside the building while Ishvar huddled in the entrance and Om went in search of the emergency ward. “The pills have not worked,” the doctor on duty announced after the examination. “The poison in the blood is too strong. The legs will have to be removed in order to keep the poison from spreading upwards. It’s the only way to save his life.”

Next morning the blackened legs were amputated. The surgeon said the stumps would be observed for several days, to make sure all the poison had drained out. Ishvar spent two months in hospital. Om went every morning with food, and stayed till night.

“You must send a letter to Dinabai,” Ishavar reminded Om repeatedly. “Tell her what happened, she will be worrying about us.”

“Yes,” said Om, but he did not dare attempt the task. What would he write? How could he even begin to explain on a piece of paper?

At the end of the two months, the handcart-man returned to the hospital and helped to take Ishvar home to Muzaffar Tailoring. “My life is over,” wept Ishvar. “Just throw me in the river that runs by our village. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“Leave it, yaar,” said Om. “Don’t talk rubbish. What do you mean, life is over? Have you forgotten Shankar? He doesn’t even have fingers or thumbs. You still have both hands, you can sew. Dinabai has an old hand-machine, she will let you use it when we go back.”

“You are a crazy boy. I can’t sit, I can’t move, and you are talking of sewing.”

“Let me know if you need more transport,” said the handcart-man, adding quickly, “I will take you for the price of a bus ticket from now on.”

“Yes, we’ll pay you, don’t worry,” said Om. “My uncle will need to go to the hospital. And maybe in a few weeks, once he feels stronger, you can take us to the train station. We’ll soon be returning to our city.”

The recovery was slow. Their money was running out. Ishvar ate poorly, and his nights continued to pass in the embrace of fever and nightmares. He often woke up crying. Om comforted him, asked him what he would like.

“Massage my feet, they are aching too much,” he always said.

One evening, Ashraf Chachas nephew from the lumberyard came to see them. He had found a buyer for the shop. “Very sorry to make you leave. But who knows when I will get another offer?” He proposed alternate accommodation in a shed or shack, certain that some corner of the lumberyard could be found for them.

“No, it’s okay,” said Om. “We’ll just return to the city and start sewing again.”

This time Ishvar agreed with him. It was better to go, he felt, than to stay in this place that had brought them nothing but misery. Each day now was mortifying, with the people who knew them, especially the neighbours, staring at them on their trips to and from the hospital, whispering among themselves, shying away when they saw the handcart coming.

“Can you do us one last favour?” Om asked Ashraf Chacha’s nephew. “Can you get your carpenter in the lumberyard to make a little trolley with small wheels, for my uncle?”

He said it would be an easy matter. The next day he delivered the rolling platform to the shop. There was a hook at the front end, with a rope for Om to pull the platform.

“This rope is unnecessary,” insisted Ishvar. “I will roll the gaadi with my own hands, like Shankar. I want to be independent.”

“Okay, yaar, we’ll see.”

They removed the rope, and Ishvar began practising indoors. He needed to learn how to slump his body so it would be stable without the counterweight of legs. His frustration mounted. In his weakened state he could not propel the platform. There was no question of venturing into the street.

“Patience,” said Om. “You will be able to do it as you get stronger.”

“What patience,” sobbed Ishvar. “Patience is not going to make my legs grow back.” Hopelessly defeated, he allowed the towing rope to be reconnected.

Almost four months after coming to make wedding arrangements, the tailors set off for the railway station, for the return journey to the city. Along the way they stopped at the graves of Ashraf Chacha and Mumtaz Chachi. “I envy them,” said Ishvar. “Such peace now.”

“Don’t be talking nonsense again,” said Om, shifting the platform around to leave.

“Can’t we stay here a little longer?”

“No, we have to go.” Om tugged at the rope, and the castors jolted over the earth of the graveyard. How light is my uncle, he thought, light as a baby, pulling him is no strain at all.