A Fine Balance

VII. On the Move

AFTER THE INCIDENT WITH THE SANITARY pads, Dina was certain that neither Ishvar nor Om would dare follow through with a dinner for Maneck at their house. And even if they did, he would refuse, for fear of offending her.

In a few days, however, the invitation was indeed renewed, and acceptance seemed to linger close at hand. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered angrily to Maneck. “After what you did that day, isn’t it enough? Haven’t you upset me enough?”

“But I apologized for that, Aunty. And Om was also very sorry. What’s the connection between the two things?”

“You think sorry makes it all right. You don’t understand the problem. I have nothing against them, but they are tailors — my employees. A distance has to be maintained. You are the son of Farokh and Aban Kohlah. There is a difference, and you cannot pretend there isn’t — their community, their background.”

“But Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t mind,” he said, trying to explain he hadn’t been brought up to think this way, that his parents encouraged him to mix with everyone.

“So you are saying I am narrow-minded, and your parents are broad-minded, modern people?”

He grew tired of arguing. Sometimes she seemed to him on the verge of being reasonable, only to make another absurd statement: “If you are so fond of them, why don’t you pack your things and move in with them? I can easily write to your mummy, tell her where to send the rent next month.”

“I just want to visit once. It feels rude to keep refusing. They think I’m too big to go to their house.”

“And have you thought of the consequences of one visit? Good manners is all very well, but what about health and hygiene? How do they prepare their food? Can they afford proper cooking oil? Or do they buy cheap adulterated vanaspati, like most poor people?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t fallen sick and died as yet.”

“Because their stomachs are accustomed to it, you foolish boy, and yours is not.”

Maneck pictured the hideous canteen food his own stomach had endured, and the roadside snacks devoured for weeks on end. He wondered if mentioning that would make her modify her culinary theories.

“And what about water?” she continued “Is there a clean supply in their neighbourhood, or is it contaminated?”

“I’ll be careful, I won’t drink any water.” His mind was made up, he was going. She was getting too bossy. Even Mummy never controlled his life the way Dina Aunty was trying to.

“Fine, do as you please. But if you catch something, don’t think I’ll be your nurse for one moment. You’ll be sent back by express delivery to your parents.”

“That’s all right with me.”

The next time Ishvar and Om asked him, he said yes. She flushed, and ground her teeth. Maneck smiled innocently.

“Tomorrow then, okay?” said Ishvar with delight. “We’ll leave together at six o’clock.” He inquired what he would like to eat. “Rice or chapati? And which is your favourite vegetable, hahn?”

“Anything,” answered Maneck to all questions. The tailors spent the rest of the afternoon discussing the menu, planning their humble feast.

Ishvar was first to notice that the smoke from cooking fires did not linger over the hutment colony. He tripped on the crumbling pavement, his eyes searching the horizon. At this hour the haze should have been clouding thick. “Everyone fasting or what?”

“Forget worrying about everyone — I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving. Do you have worms?”

Om did not laugh; the joke was growing stale. The absence of smoke bothered Ishvar. In its place a dull roar, as of heavy machinery, hung in the distance. “Repairing the roads at night?” he wondered, as the noise rose with their approach. Then, thinking about Maneck’s dinner, he said, “Tomorrow we will shop in the morning, keep everything ready. We shouldn’t waste time after work. Now if you were married, your wife would have the food cooked and waiting for our guest.”

“Why don’t you get married?”

“I’m too old.” But, he thought, teasing aside, it really was high time for Om — not wise to delay these things.

“But I’ve even selected a wife for you,” said Om.

“Who?”

“Dinabai. I know you like her, you’re always taking her side. You should give her a poke.”

“Shameless boy,” said Ishvar, thumping him lightly as they turned the corner into the slum lane.

The rumbling ball of sound that had been rolling towards them, slow and placid in the dusk, grew larger, louder. Then it detonated. The air was suddenly filled with noises of pain and terror and anger.

“Hai Ram! What’s going on?” They ran the final distance and came upon a battle in progress.

The hutment dwellers were massed on the road, fighting to return to their shacks, their cries mingling with the sirens of ambulances that couldn’t get through. The police had lost control for the moment. The residents surged forward, gaining the advantage. Then the police rallied and beat them back. People fell, were trampled, and the ambulances supplemented their siren skirls with blaring horns while children screamed, terrified at being separated from their parents.

The hutment dwellers straggled back from the pulse of the assault, spent, venting their anguish in helpless outrage. “Heartless animals! For the poor there is no justice, ever! We had next to nothing, now it’s less than nothing! What is our crime, where are we to go?”

During the lull, Ishvar and Om found Rajaram. “I was there when it all started,” he said, panting. “They went in and — just destroyed it. And just smashed — everything. Such crooks, such liars — ”

“Who did it?” They tried to make him talk slowly.

“The men, the ones who said they were safety inspectors. They tricked us. Sent by the government, they said, to check the colony. At first the people were pleased, the authorities were taking some interest. Maybe improvements were coming — water, latrines, lights, like they kept promising at voting time. So we did as they told us, came out of the shacks. But once the colony was empty, the big machines went in.”

Most of the bulldozers were old jeeps and trucks, with steel plates and short wooden beams like battering rams affixed to the front bumpers. They had begun tearing into the structures of plywood, corrugated metal, and plastic. “And when we saw that, we rushed in to stop them. But the drivers kept going. People were crushed. Blood everywhere. And the police are protecting those murderers. Or the bastards would be dead by now.”

“But how can they destroy our homes, just like that?”

“They said it’s a new Emergency law. If shacks are illegal, they can remove them. The new law says the city must be made beautiful.”

“What about Navalkar? And his boss, Thokray? They collected this month’s rent only two days ago.”

“They are here.”

“And they’re not complaining to the police?”

“Complaining? Thokray is the one in charge of this. He is wearing a badge: Controller of Slums. And Navalkar is Assistant Controller. They won’t talk to anyone. If we try to go near them, their goondas threaten to beat us.”

“And all our property in the shacks?”

“Lost, looks like. We begged them to let us remove it, but they refused.”

Ishvar suddenly felt very tired. He moved away from the crowd and crossed the lane, where he sank to his haunches. Rajaram hitched up his pants and sat down beside him. “No sense crying for those rotten jhopdis. We’ll find somewhere else, it’s only a small obstacle. Right, Om? We’ll search together for a new house.”

Om nodded. “I’m going to take a closer look inside.”

“Don’t, it’s dangerous,” said Ishvar. “Stay here, with me.”

“I’m here only, yaar,” said Om, and wandered off to examine the demolition.

The evening was on the edge of darkness. A vigorous lathi-charge had finally cleared the area near the front of the colony. Slippers and sandals lost by the fleeing crowd littered the ground, strewn like the flotsam of a limbless human tide. The police cordon, now firmly in place, kept the rage of the residents smouldering at a safe distance.

The bulldozers finished flattening the rows of flimsy shacks and tackled the high-rental ones, reversing and crunching into the brick walls. Om felt nothing — the shack had meant nothing to him, he decided. Maybe now his uncle would agree to go back to Ashraf Chacha. He remembered Maneck, coming to visit tomorrow. He laughed mirthlessly about telling him the dinner was off — cancelled due to the unexpected disappearance of their house.

Sergeant Kesar’s megaphone blared in the dusk: “Work will be stopping for thirty minutes. Actually speaking, this is simply to give you a chance to collect your personal belongings. Then the machines will start again.”

In the crowd, the announcement was received with some scorn — a goodwill gesture from the police to avoid more trouble. But most were grateful for the opportunity to retrieve their few possessions. A desperate scramble commenced in the wreckage. It reminded Om of children on garbage heaps. He saw them every morning from the train. He rejoined his uncle to become part of the bustle among the ruins.

The machines had transformed the familiar field with its carefully ordered community into an alien place. There was much confusion amid the people rooting for their belongings. Which piece of ground had supported whose shelter? And which pile of scantlings and metal was theirs to comb through? Others were turning the turmoil to advantage, grabbing what they could, and fights broke out over pieces of splintered plywood, torn rexine sheets, clear plastic. Someone tried to seize the harmonium player’s damaged instrument while he was burrowing for his clothes. He fought off the thief with an iron rod. The tussle inflicted more wounds on the harmonium, ripping its bellows.

“My neighbours have become robbers,” he said tearfully. “Once, I sang for them, and they clapped for me.”

Ishvar offered him perfunctory solace, anxious about his own possessions. “At least our sewing-machines have a safe home with Dinabai,” he said to Om. “That’s our good fortune.”

They dragged aside the corrugated sheet that used to be the roof, and uncovered the trunk. The lid had sustained several deep dents. It swung open with a protesting squeal. Om aimed a kick at the biggest depression and the lid moved less stubbornly. They cleared more debris and came upon the small mirror they used for shaving. It was intact: the aluminium frying pan had fallen over it like a helmet.

“No bad luck for us,” said Om, stuffing both items into the trunk. The Primus stove was crushed beyond repair, and he tossed it back. Ishvar found a pencil, a candle, two enamel plates, and a polythene glass. Om found their razor, but not the packet of blades. By shifting more pieces of plywood they unearthed the copper water pot. Someone else spied it at the same moment, grabbed it, and ran.

“Thief!” shouted Om. Nobody paid attention. His uncle stopped him from chasing the man.

They pulled out their wicker mat, sheets, blankets, and the two towels used for pillows. Shaking out clouds of dust, Ishvar rolled it all into one neat bedding bundle and wrapped it with sackcloth.

Rajaram’s concern was solely for his hoard of hair. The stock was ravaged, the plastic sacks ripped, their contents spilled. “One month’s precious collection,” he grieved. “All scattered in the mud.” The allotted thirty minutes were running out. Ishvar and Om helped him gather what they could, concentrating on retrieving the longest specimens.

“It’s hopeless,” said Rajaram bitterly. “The bastards have ruined me. The locks and plaits have broken up, it’s impossible to join them together. Like trying to recover grains of sugar out of a cup of tea.”

The three made their way through the police barricade, where the Controller of Slums was giving instructions to his workers. “Levelled smooth — that’s how I want this field. Empty and clean, the way it was before all these illegal structures were built.” The debris was to be dumped in the ditch by the railway tracks.

The dispossessed lingered outside, watching numbly. The workers flattened walls and corners that had survived the first assault, then stopped, claiming it was too dark for the equipment to shift the rubble without tumbling into the ditch. The Controller of Slums could not risk that, there was much work ahead for his machines, many unlawful encroachments to be razed. He agreed to postpone the final phase till the morning, and the workers departed.

“I’ll spend the night here,” said Rajaram. “I might find something valuable in the field. What about you?”

“We should go to Nawaz,” said Ishvar. “Maybe he’ll let us sleep under his back awning again.”

“But he was so mean to us.”

“Still — he might help us find a house, like he did last time.”

“Yes, it’s worth trying,” said Rajaram. “And I’ll check what happens here. Who knows, some other gang boss might be planning to build new shacks.”

They agreed to meet next evening and exchange information. “Can you do me a favour in the meantime?” asked Rajaram. “Keep these few plaits for me? They are very light. I have nowhere for them.”

Ishvar agreed, and put them in the trunk.

There were strangers living in Nawaz’s house. The man who answered the door claimed to know nothing about him.

“It’s very urgent for us to find Nawazbhai,” said Ishvar. “Maybe your landlord has some information. Can you give me his name and address?”

“It’s none of your business.” Someone shouted from inside, “Stop pestering us so late at night!”

“Sorry to disturb you,” said Ishvar, rehoisting the bedding bundle and retreating down the steps.

“Now what?” panted Om, his face showing the weight of the trunk.

“Your breath has leaked out already?”

He nodded. “Like a broken balloon.”

“Okay, let’s have tea.” They went to the stall at the corner, the one they had frequented during their months on the back porch. The owner remembered them as friends of Nawaz.

“Haven’t seen you for some time,” he said. “Any news of Nawaz since the police took him?”

“Police? For what?”

“Smuggling gold from the Gulf.”

“Really? Was he?”

“Of course not. He was just a tailor, like you.” But Nawaz had quarrelled with somebody whose daughter was getting married. The man, well-connected, had given him a large assignment — wedding clothes for the entire family. After the wedding he refused to pay, claiming that the clothes fit badly. Nawaz kept asking for his money to no avail, then found out where the man’s office was. He showed up there, to embarrass him among his colleagues. “And that was a big mistake. The bastard took his revenge. That same night the police came for Nawaz.”

“Just like that? How can they put an innocent man in jail? The other fellow is the crook.”

“With the Emergency, everything is upside-down. Black can be made white, day turned into night. With the right influence and a little cash, sending people to jail is very easy. There’s even a new law called MISA to simplify the whole procedure.”

“What’s MISA?”

“Maintenance of… something, and Security… something, I’m not sure.”

The tailors finished the tea and departed with their loads. “Poor Nawaz,” said Ishvar. “Wonder if he was really up to something crooked.”

“Must have,” said Om. “They don’t send people to jail for nothing. I never liked him. But now what?”

“Maybe we can sleep at the railway station.”

The platform was thick with beggars and itinerants bedding down for the night. The tailors picked a corner and cleaned it, whisking away the dust with a newspaper.

“Oiee, careful! It’s coming in my face!” screamed someone.

“Sorry bhai,” said Ishvar, abandoning the sweeping. The urge to talk about tomorrow dawning homeless, about what to do next, was strong, but each wanted the other to broach the subject. “Hungry?” he asked.

“No.”

Ishvar wandered down anyway to the railway snack shop. He bought a spicy mix of fried onions, potatoes, peas, chillies, and coriander, stuffed into two small buns. Carrying it back to Om, a little guilt accompanied his passage through the gauntlet of hungry eyes ranged along the platform. “Pao-bhaji. One for you and one for me.”

The glossy magazine page the bun was served on felt soggy. Little circles of warm grease were starting to appear. Om ate hungrily, finishing first, and Ishvar slowed down to save him a piece of his. “I’m full, you have it.”

They took turns visiting the drinking fountain; the trunk and bedding needed guarding. After this, no further distractions were available. “Maybe Rajaram will have good news tomorrow evening,” Om started tentatively.

“Yes, who knows. We could even build something ourselves, once the tamasha dies down. With plywood and sticks and plastic sheets. Rajaram is a smart fellow, he will know what to do. The three of us could live together in one big hut.”

They visited the wasteland beyond the station to urinate, and had another drink of water before untying the bedding. The frequency of trains diminished as the night deepened. They lay down with their feet resting protectively on the trunk.

After midnight, they were awakened by a railway policeman kicking at the trunk. He said sleeping on the platform was prohibited.

“We are waiting for the train,” said Ishvar.

“This is not that kind of station. No waiting room. Come back in the morning.”

“But these other people are sleeping.”

“They have special permission.” The policeman jingled the coins in his pocket.

“Okay, we won’t sleep on the platform, we will just sit.”

The policeman left, shrugging. They sat up and rolled away the bedding.

“Ssst,” called a woman lying next to them. “Ssst. You have to pay him.” The plastic sheet she lay upon rustled loudly at her slightest movement. Her feet were wrapped in bandages blotched by a dark-yellow ooze.

“Pay him for what? It’s not his father’s platform.”

She smiled, cracking the grime on her face. “Cinema, cinema!” She pointed excitedly at the film posters lining the platform wall. “One rupee per beggar. Fifty paise for child. Cinema every night.”

Ishvar secretly raised a hand to his forehead and gave the loose-screw sign, but Om insisted on explaining. “We’re not beggars, we’re tailors. And what will he do if we don’t pay? Can’t take us to jail for it.”

The woman turned on her side, observing them closely, silent except for the random giggling. A half-hour passed, and there was no sign of the policeman.

“I think it’s safe now,” said Om. He unrolled the bedding and they lay down again. She was still watching them amusedly. A faint smell of rot came from her bandaged feet.

“Are you going to look at us all night?” said Om. She shook her head but kept staring. Ishvar quietened his nephew, and they closed their eyes.

Within minutes of their dozing off, the policeman returned with a bucket of cold water and emptied it over the sleeping tailors. They howled and jumped off their bedding. The policeman walked away wordlessly, giving his empty bucket a jaunty swing. The woman on the plastic sheet was shaking with laughter.

“Animal from somewhere!” hissed Om, and Ishvar shushed him. He need not have bothered; the woman’s hysterical laughter drowned the words. She slapped her hands with delight on the plastic sheet, making it flap.

“Cinema! Cinema! Johnnie Walker comedy!” she managed to get out between laughs.

“She knew! The crazy witch knew and didn’t tell us, yaar!”

Thoroughly soaked, they picked up everything and moved to the only remaining spot, at the end of the platform, where the urine smell was strong. The dry clothes in the trunk were a precious treasure. They took turns changing. Their wet things were spread out on the trunk’s open lid. The sheets and blanket were hung on a broken sign fixture protruding from the platform wall.

The wicker mat dried quickly but they were afraid to lie down. Shivering, they sat guarding their belongings, swaying with sleep, nodding off occasionally. Due to the drenching, they needed to visit the wasteland several times. After the station was asleep, walking down to the tracks was not necessary. They emptied their bladders off the edge of the platform.

The railway snack shop crashed open its steel shutters at four a.m. Cups and saucers started clinking, pots and pans banged. Ishvar and Om gargled at the drinking fountain, then bought two teas and a loaf of crusty bread. The hot liquid cleared their sleep-logged heads. The plan for the day began falling into place: at a suitable hour they would take the train to work, sew till six as usual, then return to meet Rajaram.

“We’ll leave the trunk with Dinabai, just for tonight,” said Ishvar. “But we won’t say our house is destroyed. People are scared of the homeless.”

“I’ll give you anything if she lets us leave it there.”

They spent two more hours on the platform, smoking, watching the early-morning commuters who were mainly vendors waiting with baskets of pumpkin, onions, pomfret, salt, eggs, flowers balanced on their heads. An umbrella repairer was preparing for work, anatomizing broken umbrellas, salvaging the good ribs and handles. A contractor with his band of painters and masons, armed with ladders, pails, brushes, trowels, and hods, went by smelling like a freshly painted house.

The tailors got on a train at six-thirty. They were at Dina’s flat by seven. She flung a dustercoat over her nightgown and opened the door.

“So early?” Trust them to be inconsiderate, she thought — the sun barely up, the washing to do, Maneck’s breakfast still to make, and here they were, expecting attention.

“The trains are at last running on time. Because of the Emergency,” said Om, feeling rather clever.

She concluded that the brazen excuse was designed to infuriate her. Then Ishvar added placatingly, “Longer day means more dresses, hahn, Dinabai?”

True enough. “But what’s all this big fat luggage?”

“We have to take it to a friend in the evening. Oh, Maneck. Before I forget. You must forgive us, dinner is not possible today. Something very urgent has come up.”

“That’s okay,” said Maneck. “Another time.”

She made them leave the trunk and bedding by the door. It could be crawling with bugs, for all she knew. And their behaviour was very suspicious. If it was urgent, they could have gone to their friend now. Especially since they were so early. But at least Maneck’s dinner invitation was cancelled, which was a relief.

All that day, Ishvar was not his usual steady self, and once, he almost joined a skirt and bodice back to front. “Stop!” she cried as the needle drove in the first line of stitches. “You, Ishvar? If Omprakash did this it would be no surprise. But you?” Smiling sheepishly, he severed the delinquent stitches with a safety razor blade.

At four o’clock they wanted to leave, two hours earlier than usual. So much for the extra dresses they were going to sew, she thought, but was glad to see them go, taking with them the weight that hung in the air.

Before she realized the trunk was left behind, they had shut the door and hurried away to the station.

Heavy rain had fallen during the day, submerging much of last night’s debris in muddy little ponds. Pieces of plywood or metal rose through the water like sails and shipwrecks. Seagulls screeched over the transfigured slum. Some former residents were wandering outside, gazing at the land, but Rajaram was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe he found out there is no chance of building here again,” said Ishvar.

The portly Sergeant Kesar was not in evidence at the moment. Six constables from his new enforcement squad were guarding the field. They approached the tailors and the others hanging around, and warned them, “If you try to put up any new jhopdis, we’ll have to take you straight to jail.”

“Why?”

“It’s our assignment — slum prevention and city beautification.” The constables returned to their post at the corner.

“I think we should go back and tell Dinabai the truth,” said Ishvar.

“Why?”

“She might help us.”

“In your dreams,” said Om.

A work crew was erecting two new hoardings, one on each side of the road. They pasted the Prime Minister’s face over the boards, then debated about the accompanying message. There was a variety to choose from. They unrolled the banners and spread them out over the pavement for consideration, using stones to hold down the corners.

The workers were unanimous concerning the first slogan: THE CITY BELONGS TO YOU! KEEP IT BEAUTIFUL! The second was posing some difficulty. The supervisor wanted to use FOOD FOR THE HUNGRY! HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS! His subordinates advised him that something else would be more appropriate; they recommended THE NATION IS ON THE MOVE!

The tailors waited around till the displays were completed. The crowd clapped as the huge frames were raised. The posts were embedded in holes, buttressed with diagonal braces, and the earth tamped down. Someone asked Om if he could please read what the two boards were saying. Om translated for him. The man contemplated the meaning for a moment, then went away shaking his head, muttering that this time the government had gone completely mad.

“I knew you would come back,” said Dina. “You forgot your trunk.” They shook their heads, and she saw how scared and exhausted they were. “What’s wrong?”

“A terrible misfortune has fallen on our heads,” said Ishvar.

“Come inside. Would you like some water?”

“Hahnji, please.” Maneck fetched it in their segregated glass. They drank and wiped their lips.

“Dinabai, we’ve had very bad luck. We need your help.”

“Times are such, I don’t know how much help 1 can be to anyone. But tell me anyway.”

“Our home… it’s gone,” said Ishvar timidly.

“You mean your landlord kicked you out?” She sympathized. “Landlords are such rascals.”

He shook his head. “I mean… gone completely,” and he swept his palm through the air. “It has been destroyed by big-big machines. All the houses in the field.”

“They said it was illegal to live there,” added Om.

“Are you serious?” said Maneck. “How can they do that?”

“They are the government,” said Ishvar. “They can do anything they want. Police said it’s a new law.”

Dina nodded, remembering that as recently as last week, there had been ringing praise from Mrs. Gupta for the proposed slum clearance programme. How unfortunate for the tailors, though. Poor people. And she was right about one thing — they did live in an unhygienic place. Thank goodness Maneck was spared from eating with them. “It’s terrible,” she said. “Government makes laws without thinking.”

“Now you know why we had to cancel dinner,” said Om to Maneck. “We felt bad to tell you in the morning.”

“You shouldn’t have,” said Maneck. “It would have given us more time to think of some way to help and — ” He broke off, silenced by Dina knitting her brow fiercely in his direction.

“Rent was already paid for this month,” said Ishvar. “Now we have no house or money. Can we sleep on your verandah … for a few nights?”

Maneck turned, appealing to Dina as she weighed her response. “Myself, I have no objection,” she said. “But if the rent-collector sees, there will be trouble. He will use it as an excuse to say I have made this an illegal guest house. Then you and Maneck and me, and your sewing-machines — everything will land on the street, roofless.”

“I understand,” said Ishvar. His pride would not let him push against the rejection. “We’ll try elsewhere.”

“Don’t forget to take your trunk,” said Dina.

“Can we leave it for tonight?”

“Leave it where? There’s no room to even move in this flat.”

Disgusted by her answer, Om passed the bedding to his uncle and picked up the trunk. They nodded and left.

Dina followed them to the door, locked it, and walked back into the glare of Maneck’s reproach. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I had no choice.”

“You could have let them stay at least tonight. They could have slept in my room.”

“That would be trouble with a capital t. One night is enough for the landlord to bring a case against me.”

“And what about the trunk? Why can’t you keep it for them?”

“What’s this, a police interrogation? You’ve lived such a sheltered life, you’ve no idea what kind of crookedness exists in a city like this. A trunk, a bag, or even a satchel with just two pyjamas and a shirt is the first step into a flat. Personal items stored on the premises — that’s the most common way of staking a claim. And the court system takes years to settle the case, years during which the crooks are allowed to stay in the flat. Now I’m not saying Ishvar and Om came tonight with this plan in their heads. But how can I take the risk? What if they get the idea later from some rascal? Any trouble with the landlord means I have to ask for Nusswan’s help. My brother is absolutely unbearable. He would crow and crow about it.”

Maneck looked out the window, trying to sort out the degree of Dina Aunty’s suspicion. He imagined the invasion of dirty laundry that she feared, the fabricated occupation force.

“Don’t worry so much about the tailors,” she said. “They’ll find somewhere to stay. People like them have relatives all over the place.”

“They don’t. They came just a few months ago from a faraway village.” He was pleased to see a trace of worry in slow migration across her face.

Then she was annoyed. “It’s amazing. Just amazing how much you know about them, isn’t it?”

They ignored each other for most of the evening, but while working on the quilt after dinner, she spread out the squares and tried to get him to talk. “Well, Maneck? How does it look now?”

“Looks terrible.” He was not ready to forgive her while the tailors remained unaccommodated in the night.

The sign read “Sagar Darshan — Ocean View Hotel.” The only sea in sight was the rectangle of blue painted on the weather-beaten board, with a little sailboat perched upon a wave.

Inside, a youth in a frayed white uniform sat on the floor by an umbrella stand, staring at pictures in Filmfare. He did not look up as the tailors came in. A grey-haired man, eating busily behind the counter, broke pieces from a loaf of bread and dipped them in quick succession into a series of four stainless steel saucers. “Thirty rupees per night,” he mumbled through an overloaded mouth, revealing a gold tooth in the process. Masticated fragments of his dinner flew past the moist lips onto the counter. He swept them to the floor, then polished away the smudge with his sleeved elbow.

“See? I told you, we cannot afford a hotel,” said Ishvar as they retreated.

“Let’s try another one.”

They checked place after place: Paradise Lodge, at twenty rupees a night, located over a bakery with a badly insulated ceiling, so that the searing heat of oven flames could be felt upstairs; Ram Nivas, the signboard stating that all castes were welcome, whose rooms reeked with a horrible stench, courtesy of a small chemical factory next door; Aram Hotel, where their luggage was almost stolen while they inquired, the would-be thief bolting as they retraced their steps down the hallway.

“Had enough?” said Ishvar, and Om nodded.

They lifted their loads and started towards the train station, pausing to inspect every doorway, awning, and façade that might offer shelter. But wherever shelter was possible, the place was already taken. To discourage pavement-dwellers, one shop had laid down in its entrance an iron framework covered with spikes, on hinges that could be unlocked and folded away in the morning. This bed of nails was being used by an enterprising individual — first, a rectangle of plywood over the spikes, and then his blanket.

“We will have to learn things like that,” said Ishvar, watching admiringly.

They passed the beggar on his platform, who greeted them with the usual rattle of his tin. Intent in their search, they didn’t acknowledge him. He gazed forlornly after them. There were a few empty places outside a furniture store that was still open. “We could try there,” said Om.

“Are you crazy? You want to get killed for taking someone’s spot? Have you forgotten what happened on the pavement near Nawaz’s shop?”

They passed the store that never closed, the twenty-four-hour chemist’s. The lights were going out in the main section as the sales clerks left. The dispensing side stayed bright, with a compounder on duty.

“Let’s wait here,” said Ishvar. “See what happens.”

Someone put a wooden stool outside, in the entrance way that was shared by the chemist’s and the antique shop next door. Steel shutters descended like eyelids on the two windows. Soaps, talcum powders, cough syrups on one side, and bronze Natarajas, Mughal miniatures, inlaid jewel boxes on the other, all vanished from view. The two managers locked up and handed over the keys to the nightwatchman.

The tailors waited till the nightwatchman loosened his belt, pulled off his shoes, and got comfortable on the wooden stool. Then they approached with their packet of beedis. “Matches?” asked Ishvar, making the striking gesture with his hand.

The nightwatchman stopped rubbing his calves to dig in his pocket. The tailors shared a match. They offered the beedis to the nightwatchman. He shook his head, producing a pack of Panama cigarettes. The three puffed silently for a while.

“So,” said Ishvar. “You sit here all night?”

“That’s my job.” He reached for the night stick that leaned against the door and tapped it twice. The tailors smiled, nodding.

“Anyone sleeps in this entrance?”

“No one.”

“Sometimes you must feel like taking a rest.”

The nightwatchman shook his head. “Not allowed. I have to watch two shops.” He leaned towards them and confided, pointing inside to the night compounder, “But he. He takes a rest. He takes a long sleep, inside, on a mat on the floor, every night. For that, the rascal gets paid, and much more than me.”

“We have no place to sleep,” said Ishvar. “The colony where we lived — it was destroyed by the government yesterday. With their machines.”

“That’s happening often these days,” said the nightwatchman. He continued his complaint about the compounder. “That fellow has very little work at night. Sometimes a customer comes for medicine. Then I unlock the door and wake the rascal to mix the prescription. But if he has been sleeping his mind is cloudy. He has trouble reading the labels.” He leaned closer again. “Once, he put wrong things in the medicine mixture. Customer died, and police came to investigate. Manager and police talked. Manager offered money, police took money, and everybody was happy.”

“Crooks, all of them,” said Ishvar, and they nodded in agreement. “Can you let us sleep here?”

“It’s not allowed.”

“We could pay you.”

“Even if you pay, where’s the space?”

“Space is enough. We can put our bedding near the door if you move your stool just two feet.”

“And what about other things? There is no storage place.”

“What things — just one trunk. We will take it with us in the morning.”

They shifted the stool and unrolled the bedding. It fit exactly. “How much can you pay?” asked the nightwatchman.

“Two rupees each night.”

“Four.”

“We are poor tailors. Take three, and we will do some free tailoring also for you. We can repair your uniform.” He pointed to the worn knees and fraying cuffs.

“Okay. But I’m warning you, sometimes the nights are very noisy here. If a customer comes for medicine you will have to move. Then don’t say I spoiled your sleep. No refund for spoiled sleep.” And if the night compounder should ask, they were to say two rupees, because the rascal would demand a cut from it.

“Bilkool,” agreed the tailors to all his conditions. After another beedi, they took needles and thread out of the trunk and got to work. The nightwatchman sat in his underwear while they fixed his uniform.

“First class,” he said, slipping on his trousers.

The compliment gratified Ishvar, and he said they would be pleased to mend other things for him and his family. “We can do everything. Salwar-kameez, ghaghra-choli, baby-baba clothes.”

The nightwatchman shook his head sadly. “You are kind. But wife and children are living in my native place. I came here alone, looking for work.”

Later, as the tailors slept, he watched them from his wooden stool. When Omprakash twitched in his sleep, it reminded him of his children: those special nights with the family still together, and he present at his babies’ dreamings.

The street awoke early to rouse the tailors before dawn. In fact, the street never slumbered, explained the nightwatchman, only drowsed lightly between two a.m. and five a.m. — after the insomniac gambling and drinking ended, and before the newspapers, bread, and milk arrived. “But your sleep was beautiful,” he smiled proprietorially.

“It was two nights’ sleep poured into one,” said Ishvar.

“Look, the rascal is still snoring inside.” As they peered through the window, the compounder’s eyes opened suddenly. He scowled at the three faces flattened against the glass, turned over, and went back to sleep.

They smoked in the entranceway, observing the streetsweeper at work, collecting the previous night’s cigarette and beedi stubs. His broom made neat designs in the dust. Later, they rolled up the bedding, paid three rupees and departed with their loads, promising to be back in the evening.

Om’s left shoulder and arm were aching from the trunk, but he refused to let his uncle take it. “Use your right hand,” said Ishvar. “Give them both equal exercise, they will grow strong.”

“Then both will be useless. How will I sew?”

They stopped at the railway station and washed before proceeding to the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel for tea and a bun. “You didn’t come yesterday,” said the cashier-cum-waiter.

“We were busy — looking for a place to rent.”

“Now that is something you could spend your whole life searching for,” put in the cook from his corner, shouting over the roaring, blue-flamed stoves.

In the window Om noticed a large picture of the Prime Minister that hadn’t been there before, along with a poster of the Twenty-Point Programme. “You have a new customer or what?”

“That’s no customer,” said the cashier. “That’s the goddess of protection. Her blessing is a business necessity. Compulsory puja.”

“How do you mean?”

“Her presence keeps my windows from being smashed and my shop from being burned. You follow?”

The tailors nodded. They told the cashier and the cook about the Prime Minister’s meeting into which they had been dragooned. Their stories of the helicopter, the rose petals, the hot-air balloon, and the huge cutout had them laughing.

After the first night of sound sleep, the nightwatchman’s forecast about nocturnal disturbances proved accurate. He apologized each time he had to shake the tailors awake. In his system of beliefs, nothing was more despicable than depriving a fellow human being of either food or sleep. He helped move the bedding to unlock the door, comforting them as they stumbled around in the dark, Om’s drowsy head on one shoulder, Ishvar leaning heavily on the other.

They kept muttering while the customers waited for their medicine. “Why do all these people have to fall sick at night only?” grumbled Ishvar. “Why are they harassing us?”

“What a headache I have,” moaned Om.

The nightwatchman gently rubbed his brow. “Not long now. Only two minutes more, okay? Then you can sleep very, very peacefully. I promise, I won’t let any more customers disturb you.” But he had to break his promise over and over.

Later they learned about an outbreak of dysentery — bad milk had been sold in the neighbourhood. If the tailors had stayed around during the day, they would have discovered that illness was an impartial thief who struck in sunshine and darkness. Fifty-five adults and eighty-three children dead, the nightwatchman told them, having heard the official figure from the compounder, who explained that fortunately it was bacillary dysentery, and not the more serious amoebic variety.

Lugging the trunk and bedding, the tailors arrived at work ready to collapse, dark circles around their red-streaked eyes. Work fell further behind. Ishvar’s impeccable seams strayed often. Om with his stiff arm had trouble doing anything right. The Singers’ rhythms turned sour; the stitches were no longer articulated gracefully in long, elegant sentences but spat out fitfully, like phlegm from congested lungs.

Dina read the deterioration in their haggard faces. She feared for their health and the approaching delivery date — the two were joined like Siamese twins. The trunk’s weight hung heavy on her conscience.

That evening, the sight of Om straining to lift his load yanked her to the verge of saying the trunk could stay. Maneck watched her from the doorway, anxious to hear it. But the other fears made her leave the words unspoken.

“Wait, I’ll come with you,” said Maneck, hastening to the verandah. Om protested feebly, then surrendered the trunk to him.

Dina was relieved — and angry and hurt. Nice of him to help, she thought. But the way he did it. Walking out without a word, making her seem like a heartless person.

“Here it is, our new sleeping place,” said Om, and introduced the nightwatchman: “Our new landlord.”

The latter laughed, beckoning them into the entrance. They huddled together on the steps to smoke and watch the road. “Ah, what kind of landlord am I? I cannot even guarantee a good night’s sleep.”

“Not your fault,” said Om. “It’s all this sickness. And on top of that, I keep having bad dreams.”

“So do I,” said Ishvar. “The nights are full of noises and shapes and shadows. Too scary.”

“I am sitting here with my stick,” said the nightwatchman. “What’s there to be scared of?”

“It’s hard to give it a name,” said Ishvar, coughing and extinguishing his beedi.

“We should just go back to our village,” said Om. “I’m fed up of living like this, crawling from one trouble to another.”

“You prefer to run towards it?” Ishvar squeezed the tip of the beedi to make sure it was out, then reinserted it in the packet. “Patience, my nephew. When the time comes, we will go back.”

“If time were a bolt of cloth,” said Om, “I would cut out all the bad parts. Snip out the scary nights and stitch together the good parts, to make time bearable. Then I could wear it like a coat, always live happily.”

“I’d also like a coat like that,” said Maneck. “But which parts would you cut out?”

“The government destroying our house, for sure,” said Om. “And working for Dinabai.”

“Hoi-hoi,” cautioned Ishvar. “Without her, where would the money come from?”

“Okay, let’s keep the paydays and throw out the rest.”

“What else?” asked Maneck.

“Depends how far back you want to go.”

“All the way. Back to when you were born.”

“That’s too much, yaar. So many things to cut, the scissors would go blunt. And there would be very little cloth left.”

“How much nonsense you boys are talking,” said Ishvar. “Been smoking ganja or what?”

The evening sky darkened, summoning the streetlights. A torn black kite swooped down from the roof like an aggressive crow, startling them. Om grabbed it, saw that it was badly damaged, and let it go.

“Some things are very complicated to separate with scissors,” said Maneck. “Good and bad are joined like that.” He laced his fingers tight together.

“Such as?”

“My mountains. They are beautiful but they also produce avalanches.”

“That’s true. Like our teatime at Vishram, which is good. But the Prime Minister sitting in the window gives me a stomach-ache.”

“Living in the colony was also good,” suggested Ishvar. “Rajaram next door was fun.”

“Yes,” said Om. “But jumping up in the middle of a shit because of a fast train — that was horrible.”

They laughed, Ishvar too, though he insisted that that had happened just once. “It was a new train, even Rajaram didn’t know about it.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Wonder what happened to Rajaram?”

Pavement-dwellers began emerging through the gathering dusk. Cardboard, plastic, newspaper, blankets materialized across the footpaths. Within minutes, huddled bodies had laid claim to all the concrete. Pedestrians now adapted to the new topography, picking their way carefully through the field of arms and legs and faces.

“My father complains at home that it’s become very crowded and dirty,” said Maneck. “He should come and see this.”

“He would get used to it,” said the nightwatchman. “Just like I did. You watch it day after day, then you stop noticing. Especially if you have no choice.”

“Not my father, he would keep grumbling.”

Ishvar’s cough came back, and the nightwatchman suggested asking the compounder for medicine.

“Can’t afford it.”

“Just go and ask. He has a special system for poor people.” He unlocked the door to let him in.

For those who could not pay the price of a full bottle, the compounder sold medicine by the spoonful or by the tablet. The poor were grateful for this special dispensation, and the compounder made up to six times the original price, pocketing the difference. “Open your mouth,” he instructed Ishvar, and deftly poured in a spoonful of Glycodin Terp Vasaka.

“Tastes nice,” said Ishvar, licking his lips.

“Come tomorrow night for another spoonful.”

The nightwatchman inquired how much he had been charged for the dose. “Fifty paise,” said Ishvar, and the nightwatchman made a mental note to demand his cut.

For three more days the trunk hung from Om’s arm during the march between the nightwatchman and Dina Dalai. The distance was short but the weight made it long. He was sore from shoulder to wrist, the hand useless for guiding the fabric through the machine. To feed the cloth accurately to the voracious needle took two hands: the right in front of the presser foot, and the left behind.

“The trunk has paralysed me,” he said, giving up.

Dina watched him, her compassion muted but not dead. My spirited little sparrow is really not well today, dragging his injured wing, she thought. No more hopping and chirping, no more arrogance and argument.

In the midst of a morning filled with tangled threads and twisted seams, the doorbell rang. She went to the verandah to look, and returned very annoyed. “It’s someone asking for you. Disturbing our work in the middle of the day.”

Surprised and apologetic, Ishvar hurried to the front door. “You!” he said. “What happened? We went to the colony that evening. Where were you?”

“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram, joining his hands. “I feel very bad about it, what to do. I got a new job, they needed me right away, I had to go. But look, my employer has more jobs to fill, you should apply.”

Ishvar could sense Dina trying to listen in the background. “We’ll have to meet later,” he said, and gave him the address of the chemist’s.

“Okay, I’ll come there tonight. And look, can you lend me ten rupees? Just till I get paid?”

“Only have five.” Ishvar handed it over, wondering if Rajaram’s habit of borrowing money was going to become a nuisance. The earlier loan was still unpaid. Should never have let him know where we. work, he thought. He returned to his Singer and told Om about their visitor.

“Who cares about Rajaram, I’m dying here.” He extended his sore left arm, the limb delicate as porcelain.

The gesture finally melted Dina. She brought out her bottle of Amrutanjan Balm. “Come, this will make it better,” she said.

He shook his head.

“Dinabai is right,” said Ishvar. “I’ll rub it for you.”

“You keep sewing, I’ll do it,” said Dina. “Or the balm smell from your fingers will fill the dress.” Besides, she thought, if he starts wasting time, I might as well start begging for next month’s rent.

“I’ll apply it myself,” said Om.

She uncapped the bottle. “Come on, take off your shirt. What are you shy about? I’m old enough to be your mother.”

He unbuttoned reluctantly, revealing a vest with many holes. Like Swiss cheese, she thought. A salty-sour odour tarried about him. She dug a dark-green blob out of the bottle and started at the shoulder, spreading the cold unguent down towards the elbow in frigid one-finger lines. He shuddered. The chill of it made his skin horripilate. Then she began to massage, and the salve released its heat, causing his arm, her hand, to tingle. The goose flesh dwindled and vanished.

“How is it?” she asked, kneading the muscles.

“Cold one minute, hot the next.”

“That’s the beauty of balm. Nice zhumzhum feeling. Just wait, the pain will soon be gone.”

The odour from his flesh had disappeared, drowned in the balm’s pungency. How smooth the skin, she thought. Like a child’s. And almost no hair, even on his shoulder.

“How does it feel now?”

“Good.” He had enjoyed the rub.

“Anything else hurting?”

He pointed from elbow to wrist. “All this.”

Dina hooked out another blob and rubbed his forearm. “Take some of it with you tonight, apply it when you go to bed. Tomorrow your arm will be good as new.”

Before washing her hands she went to the kitchen, to the dusty shelf by the window. Standing on tiptoe and still unable to see, she felt around. The blind hand dislodged a pivotal box. Things came sliding down: board and rolling pin, the coconut grater with its circular serrated blade, mortar and pestle.

She dodged the avalanche, letting the kitchen implements crash to the floor. The tailors came running. “Dinabai! Are you okay?” She nodded, a bit shaken but pleased to glimpse the look of concern on Om’s face before he erased it.

“Maybe we could fix the shelf a little lower,” said Ishvar, helping her replace the fallen items. “So you can reach it.”

“No, just leave it. I haven’t used these things in fifteen years.” She found what her fingers had been groping for: the roll of wax paper in which she used to wrap Rustom’s lunch. She blew off the dust and tore out a hanky-sized square, transferring green daubs of Amrutanjan onto it.

“Here,” she said, folding the piece into a little triangular packet. “Don’t forget to take it with you — your balm samosa.”

“Thank you,” laughed Ishvar, trying to prompt Om into showing his appreciation. And against Om’s wishes, a sliver of gratitude pushed a weak smile across his face.

In the evening, as they were leaving, she mentioned the trunk. “Why don’t you leave it where you sleep?”

“There’s no room for it there.”

“Then you might as well keep it here. No sense carrying this burden morning and night.”

Ishvar was overcome by the offer. “Such kindness, Dinabai! We are so grateful!” He thanked her half a dozen times between the back room and verandah, joining his hands, beaming and nodding. Om, once again, was more careful in spending his gratitude. He slipped out a softly murmured “thank you” while the door was shutting.

“See? She is not as bad as you think.”

“She did it because she wants money from my sweat.”

“Don’t forget, she applied the balm for you.”

“Let her pay us properly, then we can buy our own balm.”

“It’s not the buying, Omprakash — it’s the applying I want you to remember.”

Rajaram came to the chemist’s on a bicycle, which impressed Om. “It’s not exactly mine,” said the hair-collector. “The employers have provided it for the job.”

“What is this job?”

“I must thank my stars for it. That night, after the colony was destroyed, I met a man from my village. He works for the Controller of Slums, driving one of the machines for breaking down houses. He told me about the new job, and took me next morning to the government office. They hired me straight away.”

“And your work is also to destroy homes?”

“No, never. My title is Motivator, for Family Planning. The office gives me leaflets to distribute.”

“That’s all? And the pay is good?”

“It depends. They give me one meal, a place to sleep, and the cycle. As Motivator, I have to go around explaining the birth-control procedures. For each man or woman I can persuade to get the operation, I am paid a commission.”

He said he was happy with the arrangement. Gathering just two vasectomies or one tubectomy each day would equal his takings as a hair-collector. His responsibility ended once the candidates signed the forms and were shepherded to the clinic. There were no restrictions, anyone qualified for the operation, young or old, married or unmarried. The doctors were not fussy.

“In the end, everybody is satisfied,” said Rajaram. “Patients get gifts, I get paid, doctors fill their quotas. And it’s also a service to the nation — small families are happy families, population control is most important.”

“How many operations have you collected so far?” asked Ishvar.

“So far, none. But it’s only been four days. My talking style is still developing force and conviction. I’m not worried, I’m sure I’ll succeed.”

“You know,” said Om, “with this new job, you could continue the old one side by side.”

“How? There isn’t enough time for hair-collecting.”

“When you take patients to the clinic, does the doctor shave the beards between their legs?”

“I don’t know.”

“He must,” said Om. “They always shave before the operation. So you can collect all that hair and sell it.”

“But there is no demand for such short, curly hair.”

Om sniggered at the answer, and Rajaram caught on. “Rascal, making fun of me,” he laughed. “But listen, the office is hiring more Motivators. You should apply right away.”

“We are happy with tailoring,” said Ishvar.

“But you told me the woman was difficult, and cheating you.”

“Still, it’s the profession we trained for with Ashraf Chacha. Motivator — now that’s something we know nothing about.”

“That’s just a small obstacle. They will teach you the job at the Family Planning Centre. Don’t be afraid to change, it’s a great opportunity. Millions of eligible customers. Birth control is a growth industry, I’m telling you.”

But Rajaram’s efforts to persuade the tailors and the nightwatchman were unsuccessful. He picked up his bicycle and got ready to leave. “Any one of you interested in vasectomy? I can use my influence and give you special treatment, double gifts.”

They declined the offer.

“By the way, what about your hair in our trunk?” asked Ishvar.

“Can you keep it a little longer? Once I finish my probation period as Motivator, I can get rid of those plaits.”

He waved and disappeared down the road, ringing his bicycle bell in farewell. Om said the job did sound interesting, in a way. “And the cycle would be wonderful to have.”

Ishvar’s opinion was that only someone like Rajaram, speaking with his long, dangerous tongue, could succeed as a Motivator. “Telling us we are afraid to change. What does he know? Would we have left our native place and come all the way here if we were afraid of change?”

The nightwatchman agreed. “In any case, no human being has a choice in that matter. Everything changes, whether we like it or not.”

During the evening, Dina went repeatedly to look at the tailors’ dented trunk. Maneck watched her with amusement, wondering how long she would keep it up. “I hope you are happy,” she said after dinner. “Now pray that my kindness does not come back to hurt me.”

“Stop worrying so much, Aunty. How can it hurt you?”

“Do I have to explain everything again? I only did this because that poor skinny tailor is starting to look like his battered trunk. You think I am unkind to them, that I don’t care about their problems. You will think it strange if I tell you this, but after they leave in the evening I miss them — their talking and sewing and joking.”

Maneck did not think it strange at all. “I hope Om’s arm is better tomorrow,” he said.

“One thing is certain, he wasn’t pretending. The way his muscles felt while applying the balm, I knew he was in pain. I have experience in massaging. My husband had chronic backaches.”

She used Sloane’s Liniment in those days, she said, more efficacious than Amrutanjan Balm, making his knotted muscles ease under her very fingers. “Rustom would say there was magic in my hands that worked better than the doctor’s antispasmodic intramuscular injection.”

She examined her hand wistfully, holding it before her. “They have a long memory, these fingers. They still remember that feeling, of Rustom’s muscles relaxing.” She lowered her hand. “And in spite of his aching back he loved to cycle. Every chance he got, he jumped on it and pedalled off.”

Till bedtime came, Dina kept talking about Rustom: how they had met, and how her jackass of a brother had reacted, and then the wedding. Her eyes shone, and Maneck was touched by the stories. But he couldn’t understand why listening to her was making him bend once again under the familiar weight of despair, while she was delighting in her memories.