A Fine Balance

VIII. Beautification

IN ABOUT A WEEK, THE ALCHEMY of time had translated the noisy nocturnal street outside the chemist’s shop into a lulling background for the tailors. Now their sleep was no longer poisoned by nightmares. The shadows and disturbances — bookies yelling out the midnight Matka numbers, winners hooting with delight, dogs howling, drunks locked in mortal combat with their demons, the crash of milk-bottle racks, doors slamming on bakery vans — all these became, for Ishvar and Om, the bonging of hours by a faithful clock.

“I told you the street was nothing to be frightened of,” said the nightwatchman.

“True,” said Ishvar. “Noises are like people. Once you get to know them, they become friendly.”

The rings around their eyes began to fade, their work improved, and their sleep grew pleasant. Ishvar dreamt a wedding celebration in the village; Om’s bride was beautiful. And Om dreamt about the deserted slum. Shanti and he, holding hands, fetched water from the tap, then romped through the wasted field, now transformed into a garden teeming with flowers and butterflies. They sang, danced around trees, made love while flying aboard a magic carpet of clouds, machine-gunned Sergeant Kesar and his evil policemen as well as the Controller of Slums, and restored the hutment dwellers to their rightful place.

The chemist’s shop was the centre of the tailors’ new routine. They picked out a change of clothing from the trunk when leaving Dina’s flat at the end of the day. Soap and toothbrushes went back and forth with them. After dinner at the Vishram, they washed their clothes in the railway station bathroom and dried them in the chemist’s entrance. Electrical wiring that had lost its moorings hung like a clothesline for the laundry. Pants and shirts floated like truncated sentries while they slept. On windy nights the garments danced on the wire, friendly funambulating ghosts.

Then came the night of noises that were strangers on the street. Police jeeps and a truck roared down the road and parked across from the chemist’s. Sergeant Kesar barked short, sharp instructions to his men; the constables’ sticks thudded hollowly on cardboard boxes sheltering sleepers along the pavement; heavy steps in regulation footwear pounded the footpath.

The noises, like menacing interlopers, barged their way into the tailors’ slumber. Ishvar and Om awoke trembling as though from a bad dream, and crouched fearfully behind the nightwatchman. “What’s happening? What do you see?” they asked him.

He peered around the entrance. “Looks like they are waking all the beggars. They are beating them, pushing them into a truck.”

The tailors shook off their sleep and saw for themselves. “That really is Sergeant Kesar,” said Om, rubbing his eyes. “I thought I was dreaming about our jhopadpatti again.”

“And that other chap, the one next to Sergeant Kesar — he also seems familiar,” said Ishvar.

The small, clerkish-looking man was hopping along like a rabbit, sniffling with a heavy cold. He periodically snorted back the mucus and gulped it. Om edged forward. “It’s that fellow who wanted to sell us a ration card for two hundred rupees — the Facilitator.”

“You’re right. And he is still coughing and sneezing. Come on back, better stay hidden, it’s safer.”

The Facilitator was making notes on a clipboard, keeping count as the truck was loaded. “Wait a second, Sergeant,” he protested. “Look at that one — completely crippled. Leave her out, no.”

“You do your work,” said Sergeant Kesar, “I’ll do mine. And if you have extra time, look after your spectacles.”

“Thank you,” said the Facilitator, his hand shooting up to halt the slide of his glasses. On the way down, the fingers collected the pearl dangling at his nose. It was a smooth combination of gestures. “But please listen to me, no,” he sniffed. “This beggar is useless in her condition.”

“Actually speaking, that’s not my concern. I have to follow orders.” Tonight, Sergeant Kesar had decided he was going to tolerate no nonsense, his job was getting harder by the day. Gathering crowds for political rallies wasn’t bad. Rounding up MISA suspects was also okay. But demolishing hutment colonies, vendors’ stalls, jhopadpattis was playing havoc with his peace of mind. And prior to his superiors formulating this progressive new strategy for the beggary problem, he had had to dump pavement-dwellers in waste land outside the city. He used to return miserable from those assignments, get drunk, abuse his wife, beat his children. Now that his conscience was recuperating, he was not about to let this nose-dripping idiot complicate matters.

“But what good is she to me?” objected the Facilitator. “What kind of labourer will such a cripple be?”

“With you it’s always the same complaint,” said Sergeant Kesar, sticking his thumbs in the black leather belt that followed the generous curve below his belly. He was a fan of cowboy films and Clint Eastwood. “Don’t forget, they will all work for free.”

“Hardly free, Sergeant. You’re charging enough per head.”

“If you don’t want them, others will. Actually speaking, I am sick and tired of listening to your moaning every night. I cannot pick and choose healthy specimens for you — this isn’t a cattle market. My orders are to clear the streets. So you want them or not?”

“Yes, okay. But at least tell your men to hit carefully, not to make them bleed. Or it becomes very difficult for me to find places for them.”

“Now there I agree with you,” said Sergeant Kesar. “But you don’t need to worry, my constables are well trained. They know the importance of inflicting hidden injuries only.”

The sweep continued, the policemen performing their task efficiently, prodding, poking, kicking. No obstacle slowed them down, not shrieks nor wails nor the comical threats of drunks and lunatics.

The policemen’s detached manner reminded Ishvar of the streetsweeper who came for the garbage at five a.m. “Oh no,” he shuddered, as the team reached the street corner. “They’re after the poor little fellow on wheels.”

The legless beggar made a break for it. Pushing the ground with his palms, he propelled the platform forward. The policemen were amused and cheered him on, wanting to see how fast his castors could go. The escape attempt ran out of energy outside the chemist’s. Two constables carried him to the truck, platform and all.

“Just look at this one!” cried the agitated Facilitator. “No fingers, no feet, no legs — a great worker he will be!”

“You can do what you like with him,” said one constable.

“Let him out beyond the city limits if you don’t need him,” said the other. A slight push, and the platform rolled till it came to rest at the front end of the truck bed.

“What are you saying, how can I do that? I have to account for all of them,” said the Facilitator. Remembering Sergeant Kesar’s ultimatum, he looked over his shoulder cautiously, biting the cap of his ballpoint — had he heard? To make up, he voiced agreement for a change. “Those blind ones are fine. Blindness is no problem, they can do things with their hands. Children also, many little jobs for them.”

The constables ignored him as they pursued their quarry. Once the initial panic had subsided, the beggars went meekly. Most of them had endured such roundups outside businesses or residences that persuaded the police, with a little baksheesh, to remove the eyesores. Sometimes the policemen themselves stationed the beggars there, then eagerly awaited the lucrative removal request.

Lined up by the truck, the pavement-dwellers were counted off and asked to give their names, which the Facilitator noted on his clipboard along with sex, age, and physical condition. One old man remained silent, his name locked away in his head, the key misplaced. A policeman slapped him and asked again. The grizzled head rolled from side to side with each blow.

His friends tried to help, calling out the various names they used for him. “Burfi! Bevda! Four-Twenty!” The Facilitator selected Burfi, and entered it on the roster. For the age column he used a rough estimate by appearance.

The drunks and the mentally disturbed were a little more difficult to deal with, refusing to move, screaming abuse, most of it incoherent, and making the police laugh. Then one drunk began swinging his fists wildly. “Rabid dogs!” he shouted. “Born of diseased whores!” The constables stopped laughing and set on him with their sticks; when he fell, they used their feet.

“Stop, please stop!” beseeched the Facilitator. “How will he work if you break his bones?”

“Don’t worry, these fellows are tough. Our sticks will break, they won’t.” The unconscious drunk was thrown into the truck. On the pavement, discussion was adjourned with truncheons in the kidneys and, in extremely voluble cases, a crack on the skull.

“These are not hidden injuries!” the Facilitator protested to Sergeant Kesar. “Look at all that blood!”

“Sometimes it’s necessary,” said Sergeant Kesar, but he did remind his men to curb their zeal or it would stretch out the night’s work by involving doctors and bandages and medical reports.

Still concealed within the chemist’s entrance, the tailors wondered what was happening now. “Are they leaving? They finished?”

“Looks like it,” said the nightwatchman, and the sound of engines starting confirmed it. “Good, you can go to sleep again.”

Sergeant Kesar and the Facilitator checked the roster. “Ninety-four,” said the latter. “Need two more to complete the quota.”

“Actually speaking, when I said eight dozen I was giving an approximate number. One truckload. Don’t you understand? How can I predict in advance exactly how many we are going to catch?”

“But I told my contractor eight dozen. He will think I am cheating him, no. Can’t you look for two more?”

“Okay,” said Sergeant Kesar wearily, “let’s find two more.” Never again would he deal with this fellow. Whining and whimpering nonstop, like a whipped dog. If it weren’t a question of paying for his daughter’s sitar lessons, he would chuck these overtime assignments without a second thought. Not only did he have to deal with scum like the Facilitator; the late nights also kept him from rising before dawn and putting in an hour of yoga as he used to. No wonder he was so short-tempered these days, he reflected. And suffering all this stomach acidity. But what choice? It was his duty to improve his child’s marriage prospects.

The tailors and the nightwatchman heard the approach of thumping feet and sticks. Two silhouettes, faceless as their shadows, looked inside the entrance. “Who’s there?”

“It’s all right, don’t worry, I am the nightwatchman and — ”

“Shut up and come out! All of you!” Sergeant Kesar’s patience had been devoured by the Facilitator.

The nightwatchman rose from his stool, decided it would be prudent to leave his night-stick behind, and stepped onto the pavement. “Don’t worry,” he beckoned the tailors forward. “I will explain to them.”

“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, buttoning his shirt.

“Actually speaking, sleeping on the street is breaking the law. Get your things and into the truck.”

“But police-sahab, we are sleeping here only because your men came with machines and destroyed our jhopadpatti.”

“What? You lived in a jhopadpatti? Two wrongs don’t make a right. You could get double punishment.”

“But police-sahab,” interrupted the nightwatchman, “you cannot arrest them, they were not sleeping on the street, they were inside this-”

“You understand what shut up means?” warned Sergeant Kesar. “Or you want to find out what lockup means? Sleeping in any non-sleeping place is illegal. This is an entranceway, not a sleeping place. And who said they are being arrested? The government is not crazy that it would go around jailing beggars.” He stopped abruptly, wondering why he was making a speech when his men’s lathis would get quicker results.

“But we are not beggars!” said Om. “We are tailors, look, these long fingernails to fold straight seams, and we work at — ”

“If you are tailors then sew up your mouths! Enough, into the truck!”

“He knows us,” Ishvar pointed at the Facilitator. “He said he could sell us a ration card for two hundred rupees, payable in instalments and-”

“What’s this about ration cards?” demanded Sergeant Kesar, turning.

The Facilitator shook his head. “They’re confusing me with some crooked tout, it looks like.”

“It was you!” said Om. “You were sneezing and coughing, snot coming from your nose just like it is now!”

Sergeant Kesar motioned to a constable. The stick came down across Om’s calves. He yelped.

“No, please, no beating,” pleaded the nightwatchman. “It’s all right, they will listen to you.” He patted the tailors’ shoulders. “Don’t worry, this is definitely a mistake, just explain to the people in charge and they will let you go.”

The constable lifted his stick again, but Ishvar and Om began rolling up the bedding. The nightwatchman embraced them before they were led off. “Come back soon, I’ll keep this place for you.”

Ishvar tried one last time. “We really have jobs, we don’t beg — ”

“Shut up.” Sergeant Kesar was in the midst of calculating his proceeds for the night’s haul, and arithmetic was not his strong point. The interruption forced him to start the sum over again.

The tailors climbed onto the truckbed, then the tailboard was slammed shut and the bolt shot into place. The men assigned to escort the transport took their seats in the police jeep. The Facilitator settled the final amount with Sergeant Kesar and got in beside the truck driver.

The truck, recently used for construction work, had clods of clay stuck to its insides. Underfoot, stray gravel stabbed the human cargo. Some who were standing tumbled in a heap as the driver threw the gears into reverse to turn around and return the way he had come. The police jeep followed closely behind.

They travelled through what remained of the night, the bumps and potholes making their bodies collide ceaselessly. The beggar on castors had the worst of it, shoved back each time he skidded into someone. He smiled nervously at the tailors. “I see you often on my pavement. You’ve given me many coins.”

Ishvar moved his hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture. “Why don’t you get off your gaadi?” he suggested, and with Om’s help the beggar removed the platform from under him. His neighbours were relieved. Inert as a sack of cement, he clutched the board to his chest with his fingerless hands, then cradled it in his abbreviated lap, shivering in the warm night.

“Where are they taking us?” he yelled above the engine’s roar. “I’m so scared! What’s going to happen?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out,” said Ishvar. “Where did you get this nice gaadi of yours?”

“My Beggarmaster gave it to me. Gift. He is such a kind man.” Fear made his shrill voice sharper. “How will I find Beggarmaster again? He will think I have run away when he comes tomorrow for the money!”

“If he asks around, someone will tell him about the police,”

“That’s what I cannot understand. Why did police take me? Beggarmaster pays them every week — all his beggars are allowed to work without harassment.”

“These are different police,” said Ishvar. “The beautification police — there’s a new law to make the city beautiful. Maybe they don’t know your Beggarmaster.”

He shook his head at the absurdity of the suggestion. “Aray babu, everybody knows Beggarmaster.” He began fidgeting with the castors, finding comfort in spinning the wheels. “This gaadi here, it’s a new one he gave me recently. The old one broke.”

“How?” asked Om.

“Accident. There was a slope, I crashed off the pavement. Almost damaged somebody’s motorcar.” He giggled, remembering the event. “This new one is much better.” He invited Om to inspect the castors.

“Very smooth,” said Om, trying one with his thumb. “What happened to your legs and hands?”

“Don’t know exactly. Always been like this. But I’m not complaining, I get enough to eat, plus a reserved place on the pavement. Beggarmaster looks after everything.” He examined the bandages on his hands and unravelled them using his mouth, which silenced him for a few minutes. It was a slow, laborious procedure, involving a lot of neck and jaw movement.

The palms revealed, he scratched them by rubbing against the tailors’ bedding. The sackcloth’s delicious roughness relieved the itch. Then he began retying the bandages, the arduous process of neck and jaw in reverse. Om moved his own head in sympathy — up, and down, around, carefully, yes, around again — stopping when, feeling a little foolish, he realized what he was doing.

“The bandage protects my skin. I push with my hands to roll the gaadi. Without bandages they would start bleeding against the ground.”

The casually offered fact made Om uncomfortable. But the beggar kept talking, easing his own fear and anxiety. “I did not always have a gaadi. When I was little, too little to beg on my own, they carried me around. Beggarmaster used to rent me out each day. He was the father of the one who looks after me now. I was in great demand. Beggarmaster would say I earned him the highest profits.”

The panic in his voice had been routed by the memory of happier days. He recalled how well the renters would care for him and feed him, because if they were neglectful, Beggarmaster would thrash them and never do business with them again. Luckily, due to his reduced size, he resembled a baby till he was twelve. “A child, a suckling cripple, earns a lot of money from the public. There were so many different breasts I drank milk from during those years.”

He smiled mischievously. “Wish I could still be carried around in women’s arms, their sweet nipples in my mouth. More fun than bumping along all day on this platform, banging my balls and wearing out my buttocks.”

Ishvar and Om were surprised, then laughed with relief. Passing him by on the pavement with a wave or a coin was one thing; sitting beside him, dwelling on his mutilations was another — and quite distressing. They were happy that he was capable of laughter too.

“At last my baby face and baby size left me. I became too heavy to carry. That’s when Beggarmaster sent me out on my own. I had to drag my self around. On my back.”

He wanted to demonstrate, but there was no room in the crammed truck. He described how Beggarmaster had trained him in the technique, as he trained all his beggars, with a personal touch, teaching them different styles — whatever would work best in each case. “Beggarmaster likes to joke that he would issue diplomas if we had walls to hang them on.”

The tailors laughed again, and the beggar glowed with pleasure. He was discovering a new talent in himself. “So I learned to crawl on my back, using my head and elbows. It was slow going. First I would push my begging tin forward, then wriggle after it. It was very effective. People watched with pity and curiosity. Sometimes little children thought it was a game and tried to imitate me. Two gamblers placed bets every day on how long I would take to reach the end of the pavement. I pretended not to know what they were doing. The winner always dropped money in my can.

“But it took me very long to get to the different spots which Beggarmaster reserved for me. Morning, noon, and night — office crowd, lunch crowd, shopping crowd. So then he decided to get me the platform. Such a nice man, I cannot praise him enough. On my birthday he brings sweetmeats for me. Sometimes he takes me to a prostitute. He has many, many beggars in his team, but I’m his favourite. His work is not easy, there is so much to do. He pays the police, finds the best place to beg, makes sure no one takes away that place. And when there is a good Beggarmaster looking after you, no one dare steal your money. That’s the biggest problem, stealing.”

A man in the truck grumbled and gave the beggar a shove. “Simply screeching like a cat on fire. No one’s interested in listening to your lies.”

The beggar was silent for a few minutes, adjusting his bandages and toying with the castors. The tailors’ drowsy heads started to loll, alarming him. If his friends fell asleep he would be left alone in the dark rush of this terrifying night. He resumed his story to drive away their sleep.

“Also, Beggarmaster has to be very imaginative. If all beggars have the same injury, public gets used to it and feels no pity. Public likes to see variety. Some wounds are so common, they don’t work anymore. For example, putting out a baby’s eyes will not automatically earn money. Blind beggars are everywhere. But blind, with eyeballs missing, face showing empty sockets, plus nose chopped off — now anyone will give money for that. Diseases are also useful. A big growth on the neck or face, oozing yellow pus. That works well.

“Sometimes, normal people become beggars if they cannot find work, or if they fall sick. But they are hopeless, they stand no chance against professionals. Just think — if you have one coin to give, and you have to choose between me and another beggar with a complete body.”

The man who had shoved him earlier spoke again. “Shut up, you monkey, I’m warning you! Or I’ll throw you over the side! At a time like this we don’t want to listen to your nonsense! Why don’t you do an honest job like us?”

“What work do you do?” inquired Ishvar politely, to calm him down.

“Scrap metal. Collecting and selling by weight. And even my poor sick wife has her own work. Rags.”

“That’s very good,” said Ishvar. “And we have a friend who is a hair-collector, although he recently changed to Family Planning Motivator.”

“Yes babu, all very good,” said the beggar. “But tell me, metal-collector, without legs or fingers, what could I do?”

“Don’t make excuses. In a huge city like this there is work even for a corpse. But you have to want it, and look for it seriously. You beggars create nuisance on the streets, then police make trouble for everyone. Even for us hardworking people.”

“O babu, without beggars how will people wash away their sins?”

“Who cares? We worry about finding water to wash our skins!”

The discussion got louder, the beggar yelling shrilly, the metal-collector bellowing back at him. The other passengers began taking sides. The drunks awoke and shouted abuse at everyone. “Goat-fucking idiots! Offspring of lunatic donkeys! Shameless eunuchs from somewhere!”

Eventually, the commotion made the truck driver pull over to the edge of the road. “I cannot drive with so much disturbance,” he complained. “There will be an accident or something.”

His headlights revealed a stony verge and tussocks of grass. A hush descended over the truck. The darkness was deep on both sides, betraying nothing — beyond the road’s narrow shoulders, the night could be hiding hills, empty fields, a thick forest, or demon-monsters.

A policeman came through the beam of light to warn them. “If there is any more noise, you will be thrashed and thrown out right here, in the jungle, instead of being taken to your nice new homes.”

The silenced truckload started moving. The beggar began to weep. “O babu, I’m feeling so frightened again.” He fell into a stupor of exhausted sleep after a while.

The tailors were wide awake now. Ishvar wondered what would happen when they didn’t turn up for work in the morning. “Dresses will be late again. Second time in two months. What will Dinabai do?”

“Find new tailors, and forget about us,” said Om. “What else?”

Dawn turned the night to grey, and then pink, as the truck and jeep left the highway for a dirt road to stop outside a small village. The tailboard swung open. The passengers were told to attend to calls of nature. For some, the halt had come too late.

The beggar tilted on one buttock while Om slid the platform under him. He paddled himself to the edge of the truck and waved a bandaged palm at two policemen. They turned their backs, lighting cigarettes. The tailors jumped off and lowered him to the ground, surprised at how little he weighed.

The men used one side of the road, the women squatted on the other; children were everywhere. The babies were hungry and crying. Parents fed them from packages of half-rotten bananas and oranges and scraps scavenged the night before.

The Facilitator went on ahead to arrange for tea. The village chaiwalla set up a temporary kitchen near the truck, building a fire to heat a cauldron of water, milk, sugar, and tea leaves. Everyone watched him thirstily. The early sun dabbled through the trees, catching the liquid. Boiling and ready in a few minutes, it was served in little earthen bowls.

Meanwhile, word of the visitors percolated swiftly through the little village, and its population gathered round to watch. They took pride in the pleasure the travellers obtained from sipping the tea. The headman greeted the Facilitator and asked the usual friendly, villager questions about who, where, why, ready to offer help and advice.

The Facilitator told him to mind his business, take his people back to their huts, or the police would disperse them. Hurt by the rude behaviour, the crowd left.

The tea was consumed and the little earthen bowls were returned to the chaiwalla. He proceeded to shatter them in the customary way, whereupon some pavement-dwellers instinctively rushed to save them. “Wait, wait! We’ll keep them if you don’t want them!”

But the Facilitator forbade it. “Where you are going, you will be given everything that you need.” They were ordered back into the truck. During the halt, the sun had cleared the tree tops. Morning heat was rapidly gaining the upper hand. The engine’s starting roar frightened the birds, lifting them from the trees in a fluttering cloud.

Late in the day the truck arrived at an irrigation project where the Facilitator unloaded the ninety-six individuals. The project manager counted them before signing the delivery receipt. The worksite had its own security men, and the police jeep departed.

The security captain ordered the ninety-six to empty their pockets, open up their parcels, place everything on the ground. Two of his men moved down the line, passing hands over their clothes in a body search and examining the pile of objects. This need not have taken long, since half of them were near-naked beggars and the possessions were meagre. But there were women too, so it was a while before the guards finished the frisking.

They seized screwdrivers, cooking spoons, a twelve-inch steel rod, knives, a roll of copper wire, tongs, and a comb of bone with teeth deemed too large and sharp. A guard gave Om’s plastic comb the bending test. It broke in two. He was allowed to keep the pieces. “We’re not supposed to be here, my uncle and I,” he said.

The guard pushed him back in line. “Talk to the foreman if you have a complaint.”

The extremely ragged were issued half-pants and vests, or petticoats and blouses. The beggar on castors got only a vest, there being nothing suitable to fit his cloth-swaddled amputated lower half. Ishvar and Om did not get new clothes, nor did the ragpicker and the metal-collector. The latter, whose many sharp-edged items had been confiscated, was chagrined, considering it most unfair. But the tailors felt the new clothes were poorly stitched, and preferred what they were wearing.

The group was shown to a row of tin huts, to be occupied twelve to a hut. Everyone rushed in a frenzy to the nearest of the identical shelters and fought to get inside. The guard drove them back, allocating places at random. A stack of rolled-up straw mats stood within each hut. Some people spread them out and lay down, but had to get up again. They were told to store their belongings and reassemble for the foreman.

The foreman was a harried-looking individual, sweating profusely, who welcomed them to their new houses. He took a few minutes to describe the generous scheme the government had introduced for the uplift of the poor and homeless. “So we hope you will take advantage of this plan. Now there are still two hours of working-time left, but you can rest today. Tomorrow morning you will start your new jobs.”

Someone asked how much the salary was, and if it would be paid daily or weekly.

The foreman wiped the sweat from his face, sighed, and tried again. “You didn’t understand what I said? You will get food, shelter, and clothing. That is your salary.”

The tailors edged forward, anxious to explain their accidental presence in the irrigation project. But two officials got to the foreman first and led him away for a meeting. Ishvar decided against running after him. “Better to wait till morning,” he whispered to Om. “He’s very busy now, it might make him angry. But it’s clear that the police made a mistake with us. This place is for unemployed people. They will let us go once they know we have tailoring jobs.”

Some people ventured to lie down inside the huts. Others chose to spread their mats outside. Blazing under the daylong sun, the tin walls enclosed a savage heat. The shade cast by the corrugated metal was cooler.

A whistle blew at dusk and workers returned from their tasks. After thirty minutes it blew again, and they made their way to the camp’s eating area. The newcomers were told to go with them. They lined up outside the kitchen to receive their dinner: dal and chapati, with a green chilli on the side.

“The dal is almost water,” said Om.

The server overheard him and took it personally. “What do you think this is, your father’s palace?”

“Don’t take my father’s name,” said Om.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Ishvar, pulling him away. “Tomorrow we’ll tell the top man about the policeman’s mistake.”

They finished eating in silence, concentrating like everyone else on the food’s hidden perils. The chapatis were made from gritty flour. The meal was punctuated by the diners spitting out small pebbles and other foreign bodies. Tinier fragments which could not be caught in time were triturated with the food.

“They should have been here more than an hour ago,” Dina said to Maneck when breakfast was done.

She’s after the poor chaps again, he thought, gathering the books he needed for the day’s classes. “Does it matter that much, if it’s piecework?”

“What do you know about running a business? Your mummy and daddy pay your fees and send you pocket money. Wait till you start earning your living.”

When he returned in the afternoon, she was pacing by the door. The instant his slightly bent key rattled in the keyhole, she turned the knob. “No sign of them all day,” she complained to him. “I wonder what excuse they’ll have this time. Another meeting with the Prime Minister?”

As the afternoon meandered towards evening, her sarcastic tone was elbowed aside by anxiety. “The electricity bill is due, and the water bill. Rations to be bought. And Ibrahim will arrive next week to collect the rent. You’ve no idea how harassing he can be.”

Her worries continued to bubble like indigestion after dinner. What would happen if the tailors did not come tomorrow even? How could she get two new ones quickly enough? And it wasn’t just a question of these dresses being late — a second delay would seriously displease the high and mighty empress of Au Revoir Exports. This time the manager would place the black mark of “unreliable” next to her name. Dina felt that perhaps she should go to the Venus Beauty Salon, talk to Zenobia, request her to again use her influence with Mrs. Gupta.

“Ishvar and Om wouldn’t stay absent just like that,” said Maneck. “Something urgent must have come up.”

“Rubbish. What could be so urgent that they cannot take a few minutes to stop by?”

“Maybe they went to see a room for rent or something. Don’t worry, Aunty, they’ll probably be here tomorrow.”

“Probably? Probably is not good enough. I cannot probably deliver the dresses and probably pay the rent. You, without any responsibilities, probably don’t understand that.”

He thought the outburst was unfair. “If they don’t come tomorrow, I’ll go and ask what’s wrong.”

“Yes,” she brightened. “It’s a good thing you know where they live.” Her anxiety seemed to diminish. Then she said, “Let’s visit them right now. Why spend the whole night worrying?”

“But you always say you don’t want them thinking you are desperate. If you run there at night, they’ll see you are helpless without them.”

“I am not helpless,” she said emphatically. “Just one more difficulty in life, that’s all it is.” But she decided to wait till morning, agreeing that he should check on them before going to college. She was too distracted to continue working on the quilt; the squares and scraps sat in a pile on the sofa, hiding their designs.

Maneck ran back from the chemist’s shop, frantic. Near the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel he slowed down for a quick look inside, hoping that Ishvar and Om might be sipping their morning tea. Empty. He reached the flat, panting, and repeated the nightwatchman’s account for Dina.

“It’s terrible! He thinks they were mistaken for beggars — dragged into the police truck — and God knows where they are now!”

“Hmm, I see,” she said, weighing the story for truth and substance. “And how long is their jail sentence? One week, two weeks?” If those rascals were trying a new job somewhere, playing for time, this would be the way to do it.

“I don’t know.” Distraught, he did not detect her question’s cynicism. “It’s not just them — everyone from the street, all the beggars and pavement-dwellers were taken away by the police.”

“Don’t make me laugh, there’s no law for doing that.”

“It’s a new policy — city beautification plan or something, under the Emergency.”

“What Emergency? I am sick and tired of that stupid word.” Still sceptical, she took a deep breath and decided to be direct. “Maneck, look at me. Straight in my eyes.” She brought her face closer to his. “Maneck, you would not be lying to me, would you? Because Ishvar and Om are your friends, and they asked you to?”

“I swear on my parents’ name, Aunty!” He drew away from her, shocked. Then the accusation made him angry. “You don’t have to believe me, think what you like. Next time don’t ask me to do your work.” He left the room.

She followed him. “Maneck.” He ignored her. “Maneck, I’m sorry. You know how worried I am about the sewing — I said it without thinking.”

A moment’s silence was all he could maintain before forgiving her. “It’s all right.”

Such a sweet boy, she thought, he just cannot stay upset. “How long have they been sleeping outside the — what is it, chemist’s shop?”

“Since the day their home was destroyed. Don’t you remember, Aunty? When you wouldn’t let them sleep on your verandah?”

She bristled at the tone. “You know very well why I had to refuse. But if you were aware of it, why didn’t you tell me? Before something like this happened?”

“Suppose I had. What difference? Would you have let them stay here?”

She avoided the question. “I still find it hard to believe this story. Maybe that watchman is lying — covering up for them. And in the meantime I will have to go begging to my brother for the rent.”

Maneck could sense the things she was trying to juggle, conceal, keep in proportion: concern, guilt, fear. “We could check with the police,” he suggested.

“And what good will that do? Even if they have the tailors, you think they will unlock the jail on my say-so?”

“At least we’d know where they are.”

“Right now I’m more worried about these dresses.”

“I knew it! You’re so selfish, you don’t think about anyone but yourself! You just don’t — ”

“How dare you! How dare you talk to me like that!”

“They could be dead, for all you care!” He went to his room and slammed the door.

“If you damage my door, I’ll write to your parents! For compensation, remember!”

He kicked off his shoes and fell in bed with a thump. It was half past nine, he was late for college. To hell with it — to hell with her. Enough of trying to be nice. He jumped off the bed and exchanged his shirt for an old wear-at-home one from the cupboard. The door clattered off the lower hinge. He jiggled it into the bracket and banged it shut.

He flopped on the mattress once more, his finger angrily tracing the floral design carved in the teak headboard. The bed was the identical twin of the one in the sewing room. Dina Aunty’s and her husband’s — they must have slept side by side on them. A long time ago. When her life was filled with happiness, and the flat with the sounds of love and laughter. Before it went silent and dingy.

He could hear her pacing in the next room, could sense her distress in the footsteps. And barely a week ago the work had been going so well, after she gave the Amrutanjan Balm to Om. Massaging his arm had put her in a good mood, she had started reminiscing about her husband’s back, about their lives.

All the things she told Maneck came back now to crowd his room: those enchanted evenings of music recitals, and emerging with Rustom from the concert hall into the fragrant night when the streets were quiet — yes, she said, in those days the city was still beautiful, the footpaths were clean, not yet taken over by pavement-dwellers, and yes, the stars were visible in the sky in those days, when Rustom and she walked along the sea, listening to the endless exchange of the waves, or in the Hanging Gardens, among the whispering trees, planning their wedding and their lives, planning and plotting in full ignorance of destiny’s plans for them.

How much Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be recreated — not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

So what was the point of possessing memory? It didn’t help anything. In the end it was all hopeless. Look at Mummy and Daddy, and the General Store; or Dina Aunty’s life; or the hostel and Avinash; and now poor Ishvar and Om. No amount of remembering happy days, no amount of yearning or nostalgia could change a thing about the misery and suffering — love and concern and caring and sharing come to nothing, nothing.

Maneck began to weep, his chest heaving as he laboured to keep silent. Everything ended badly. And memory only made it worse, tormenting and taunting. Unless. Unless you lost your mind. Or committed suicide. The slate wiped clean. No more remembering, no more suffering.

Poor Dina Aunty, how much of the past she was still carrying around with her, although she deceived herself that these were happy memories she was dwelling upon. And now the problems with the sewing, the rent, the rations…

He felt ashamed of his earlier tantrum. He got out of bed, tucked in his shirt, dried his eyes, and went to the back room where she was pacing the prison of her incomplete dresses.

“When do you have to deliver them?” he asked gruffly.

“Oh, you’re back? Day after tomorrow. By twelve o’clock.” She smiled to herself, having expected him to sulk for an hour; he had emerged in thirty minutes. “Your eyes look watery. Have you got a cold?”

He shook his head. “Just tired. Day after tomorrow — that’s two whole days. Lots of time.”

“For two expert tailors, yes. Not for me alone.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You, sewing? And me with my eyes. I can’t see to put my finger through a wedding ring, let alone thread the eye of a needle.”

“I’m serious, Aunty.”

“But there are sixty dresses, six-zero. Only the hems and buttons are left, true, but it’s still a lot of work.” She picked one up. “See the waist, all puckered? That’s called ‘gather.’ Now it measures” — she stretched the tape — “just twenty-six inches. But because of the gather, the hemline of the skirt is, let’s see, sixty-five inches, to be done by hand. That takes a lot of — ”

“How will they know if you do it by machine?”

“The difference is like night and day. And then eight buttons on each dress. Six in the front, one on each sleeve. An hour’s work per dress for someone like me. Sixty hours altogether.”

“We have forty-eight till delivery time.”

“If we don’t eat or sleep or go to the bathroom, yes.”

“We can at least try. You can deliver what we finish, and make an excuse that the tailors fell sick or something.”

“If you’re really willing to help …”

I am.

She started to get things ready. “You’re a good boy, you know? Your parents are very fortunate to have a son like you.” Then she turned abruptly. “Wait a minute — what about college?”

“No lectures today.”

“Hmm,” she said dubiously, selecting the thread. They took the dresses into the front room where the light was better. “I’ll teach you buttons. Easier than hems.”

“Anything. I learn quickly.”

“Yes, we’ll see. First you measure and mark the places with chalk, in a straight line. It’s the most important step, or the front will look crooked. Thank goodness these are plain poplin dresses, not slippery chiffon like last month.” She took him through the paces, emphasizing that the stitches in the four-holed button should be parallel and not crisscross.

He tried the next one. “Oh, to have young eyes again,” she sighed, as he moistened the thread between his lips and passed it through the needle. Finding the holes in the button from the blind side took a bit of poking around with the needle. But he managed to finish in fair time, and snipped the threads, triumphant.

Two hours later, between them they had finished sixteen buttons and three hemlines. “See how long it takes?” she said. “And now I must stop to make lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry today, no lectures today. Very strange.”

“But it’s true, Aunty. Forget lunch, I’m really not hungry.”

“And what about me? Worrying all yesterday, I didn’t eat a single bite. Today at least may I have the pleasure?”

“Work before pleasure,” he smiled down at the button, looking up from the corner of his eye.

“Planning to be my boss, are you?” she said with mock sternness. “If I don’t eat, there will be no work and no pleasure. Only me fainting over needle and thread.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of lunch. You keep on hemming.”

“Proper housewife you are becoming. What will it be? Bread and butter? Tea and toast?”

“A surprise. I’ll be back soon.”

Before leaving the flat he readied six needles with thread, to spare her pitting her eyes in contest with the little silvery ones.

“Wasting money like that,” scolded Dina. “Your parents already pay me for your food.”

Maneck emptied the alayti-palayti from A-l Restaurant into a bowl and brought it to the table. “It’s out of my pocket money. I can spend it any way I like.”

Chunks of chicken liver and gizzard floated tantalizingly in the thick, spicy sauce. Bending over the bowl, she sniffed. “Mmm, the same wonderful fragrance that made it a favourite of Rustom’s. Only A-1 makes it in rich gravy — other places cook it too dry.” She dipped a spoon, raised it to her lips, and nodded. “Delicious. We could easily add a little water without harming the taste. Then it will be enough for lunch and dinner.”

“Okay. And this is specially for you,” he handed her a bag.

She felt inside and withdrew a bunch of carrots. “You want me to cook these for us?

“Not for us, Aunty — for you, to eat raw. Good for your eyes. Especially since they’ll be very busy now.”

“Thank you, but I prefer not to.”

“No alayti-palayti without carrot. You must have at least one with your lunch.”

“You’re crazy if you think I will eat raw carrots. Even my mother could not make me.” While she got the table ready, he scraped a medium-sized specimen, lopped off the ends, and placed it next to her plate.

“I hope that’s yours,” she said.

“No carrot, no alayti-palayti.” He refused to pass her the bowl. “I make the rules. For your own good.”

She laughed but her mouth started to water while he ate. She picked up the vegetable by the thin end as though to hit him over the head with it, and bit into it with a vengeance. Grinning, he passed her the bowl. “My father says his one eye is equal to most people’s two because he eats carrots regularly. A carrot a day keeps blindness away, he claims.”

Throughout the meal, she grimaced each time she crunched into it. “Thank goodness for the delicious alayti-palayti. Without the gravy this raw roughage would stick in my throat.”

“Now tell me, Aunty,” he said when they finished eating. “Are your eyes any better?”

“Good enough to see you for the devil that you are.”

The sewing picked up speed after lunch, but late in the afternoon Dina’s eyelids grew heavy. “I have to stop now for tea. Okay, boss?”

“Fifteen minutes only, remember. And one cup for me too, please.”

She went to the kitchen, smiling and shaking her head.

Seven o’clock, and her mind turned to dinner duties. “That alayti-palayti sitting in the kitchen is making me hungry earlier than usual. What about you? Now, or wait till eight?”

“Whenever you like,” he mumbled through lips clutching an empty needle. He unrolled a length of thread from the spool.

“Look at that! First time sewing, and already acting like a crazy tailor! Take it out of your mouth! At once! Before you swallow it!”

He removed the needle, a little sheepish. She had hit the mark — he was trying to copy Om’s jaunty way of sticking things between his lips: pins, needles, blades, scissors, the daredevilry of juxtaposing sharp, dangerous objects with soft, defenceless flesh.

“How will I explain to your mother if I return her son with a needle stuck in his craw?”

“You never shouted at Om for doing it.”

“That’s different. He’s trained, he grew up with tailors.”

“No, he didn’t. His family used to be cobblers.”

“Same thing — they know how to use tools, to cut and sew. And besides, I should have stopped him. His mouth can bleed just like yours.” She went to the kitchen, and he kept working till dinner was on the table.

Halfway through the meal, she remembered what he had said about the tailors. “They were cobblers? Why did they change?”

“They requested me not to tell anyone. It’s to do with their caste, they are afraid of being treated badly.”

“You can tell me. I don’t believe in all those stupid customs.”

So he briefly related the story Ishvar and Om had shared with him in bits and pieces, over weeks, over cups of tea in the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel, about their village, about the landlords who had mistreated the Chamaars all their lives, the whippings, the beatings, the rules that the untouchable castes were forced to observe.

She stopped eating, toying with her fork. She rested an elbow on the table and balanced her chin on the fist. As he continued, the fork slipped from her fingers, clattering outside the plate. He concluded quickly when he came to the murders of the parents and children and grandparents.

Dina retrieved her fork. “I never knew … I never thought… all those newspaper stories about upper-and lower-caste madness, suddenly so close to me. In my own flat. It’s the first time I actually know the people. My God — such horrible, horrible suffering.” She shook her head as though in disbelief.

She tried to resume eating, then gave up. “Compared to theirs, my life is nothing but comfort and happiness. And now they are in more trouble. I hope they come back all right. People keep saying God is great, God is just, but I’m not sure.”

“God is dead,” said Maneck. “That’s what a German philosopher wrote.”

She was shocked. “Trust the Germans to say such things,” she frowned. “And do you believe it?”

“I used to. But now I prefer to think that God is a giant quiltmaker. With an infinite variety of designs. And the quilt is grown so big and confusing, the pattern is impossible to see, the squares and diamonds and triangles don’t fit well together anymore, it’s all become meaningless. So He has abandoned it.”

“What nonsense you talk sometimes, Maneck.”

While she cleared the table he opened the kitchen window and miaowed. Out went bits of bread and alayti-palayti. Hoping it was not too pungent for the cats, he returned to the sewing room and picked up another dress, reminding Dina Aunty to hurry.

“This boy is going crazy. Not letting me rest even five minutes after dinner. I’m an old woman, not a young puppy like you.”

“You’re not old at all, Aunty. In fact, you’re quite young. And beautiful,” he added daringly.

“And you, Mr. Mac, are getting too smart,” she said, unable to hide her pleasure.

“There’s only one thing that puzzles me.”

“What?”

“Why someone who looks so young should sound so elderly, grumpy all the time.”

“You rascal. First you flatter me, then you insult me.” She laughed as she folded and pinned the hem, holding up the dress to check if the border was even. Adjusting the edges, she said, “Now I can appreciate the long nails on the tailors’ fingers. You really became friends with them, didn’t you? And them telling you all about their life in the village.”

He looked up briefly, and shrugged.

“Day after day they sat here working, and wouldn’t say anything to me. Why?”

He shrugged again.

“Stop speaking with your shoulders. Your quiltmaking God has sewn a tongue inside your mouth. Why did they talk to you but not to me?”

“Maybe they were afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me? What nonsense. If anything, I was afraid of them. That they would find the export company and cut me out. Or that they would get better jobs. Sometimes I was afraid even to point out their errors — I would correct the mistakes myself at night, after they left. For what reason could they be afraid of me?”

“They thought you’d find better tailors and get rid of them.”

She considered it in silence for a moment. “I wish you had told me before. I could have reassured them.”

He shrugged again. “That wouldn’t change anything, Aunty. You could have saved them only by giving them a place to sleep.”

She flung down the sewing. “You keep on saying that! Keep on, don’t worry about my feelings! Repeat it till I am blinded by guilt!”

Maneck pricked himself as the needle surfaced through the button. “Ouch,” he sucked the thumb.

“Go on, you callous boy! Tell me I am responsible, tell me I left them out on the street because I am heartless!”

He wished he could cancel the hurt of his words. She fumbled with the hem, beginning to cough as though something was stuck. It sounded like an attention-getting cough to him, and he brought her a glass of water.

She said, after drinking, “You were right about carrots. I can see much better.”

“It’s a miracle!” He raised his hands theatrically, bringing a smile to her face. “Now I am incarnated as Maharishi Carrot Baba, and all the opticians will lose their business!”

“Oh stop being silly,” she said, draining the glass. “Let me tell you what I can see better. When I was twelve my father decided to go and work in an area of epidemic. It worried my mother very much. She wanted me to change his mind — you see, I was his favourite. Then my father died while working there. And my mother said if I had followed her advice I might have saved him.”

“That wasn’t fair.”

“It was and it wasn’t. Just like what you said.”

He understood.

Dina rose, lifted the glass hen squatting on the worktable, and put away the thimble, scissors, and needle in its porcelain bowels.

“Where are you going, Aunty?”

“Where do you think — to a Lalya’s wedding? It’s ten o’clock, I’m going to bed.”

“But we only finished sixteen dresses. Today’s quota is twenty-two.”

“Listen to the senior manager.”

“My plan is to do twenty-two today, thirty tomorrow, and eight the day after, so everything can be delivered by noon.”

“Wait a minute, mister. What about college, tomorrow and the day after — what about studies? I don’t think they give a refrigeration diploma for sewing buttons.”

“Lectures are cancelled for the next two days.”

“Right. And I’m winning the State Lottery on the third day.”

“Forget it, Aunty. You’re always doubting me.” He continued to sew, exhaling injury and martyrdom in his sighs, dragging the needle as though its thread were an iron chain. “It’s okay, I’ll keep working, you go to bed.”

“And miss your Oscar-winning performance?”

He dropped a button, groaned, and bent to find it, feeling about with his fingers like an old man. “Go, Aunty, go and rest, don’t worry about me,” he waved a trembling hand.

“You said you were good at acting, but I didn’t think you were this good. Okay, let’s finish one more dress.”

The bidding was open; he sat up briskly. “We need six more for today’s quota.”

“Forget your quota. I said one.”

“At least three, then.”

“Two is my final offer. And no more argument. But first I need something from the kitchen.”

She returned shortly, a steaming mug hooked in the fingers of each hand, and set one down beside him. “Horlicks. To refresh us.” As proof, she took a swallow and sat tall in her chair, shoulders back, face beaming.

“You sound like an advertisement,” he said. “And it doesn’t even need a professional model, you look so pretty.”

“Don’t think flattery will get you a cup every day. I cannot afford that.”

Blowing and sipping, they joked their way through two more dresses. Near midnight, Dina’s was the only light left on in the building. The lateness of the hour, the streets fallen silent outside the window, the flat enveloped in darkness, all lent a conspiratorial air to their innocent activity.

“That makes eighteen,” she said, as they finished after midnight. “And not a single stitch left in these fingers. Now can we go to sleep, boss?”

“Soon as they are properly folded.”

“Yes, Mr. Mac Kohlah.”

“Please — I hate that name.”

While passing through to their rooms she hugged him, whispering, “Good night. And thank you for helping.”

“Good night, Aunty,” he said, and floated happily to bed.

An hour before sunrise the whistle blast ended the night, snatching back the labourers from its dark, comforting bosom. They spilled out from the tin huts in a trickle towards the food area. Two pariah dogs sniffed at dusty feet, lost interest and slunk away around the kitchen. Tea was served with last night’s chapatis. Then the whistle blew again to commence work.

The newcomers were assembled separately and assigned their chores by the foreman. There were jobs for everyone with the exception of the beggar on the rolling platform. “You stay here,” said the foreman. “I will decide later for you.”

Om was teamed with a group of six to start a new ditch. Ishvar’s task was to carry gravel where concrete was being mixed. The foreman came to the end of the list, and the scraggy army dispersed to their locations as directed by the overseers. The tailors waited till everyone had gone.

“There is a mistake, sahab,” said Ishvar, approaching the foreman with his palms together.

“Name?”

“Ishvar Darji and Omprakash Darji.”

The foreman read off their assignments again. “No mistake.”

“The mistake is that we should not be here, we — ”

“All you lazy rascals think you should not be here. The government will no longer tolerate it. You will work. In return you will get food and a place to sleep.”

“We have work, we are tailors, and the policeman said to speak to you -

“My duty is to give you jobs and shelter. You say no, and the security men will take you away.”

“But why are we being punished? What is our crime?”

“You are using the wrong word. It’s not a question of crime and punishment — it’s problem and solution.” He beckoned to two khaki-uniformed men patrolling with sticks. “We have no trouble here, all the people are happy to work. Now you decide.”

“Okay,” said Ishvar. “But we would like to talk to the top man.”

“The project manager will come later. He is busy with his morning prayers.”

The foreman personally escorted the tailors to the worksite. He handed them over to their respective supervisors with instructions to watch them carefully, to make sure they worked without slacking. The beggar rolled alongside them on his platform. Where the path ended, the rough terrain was impossible for his castors. He turned back, waving to the tailors, promising to wait by their hut in the evening.

The hillside was alive with a flock of tiny crouching figures. At first the children seemed frozen by sunlight; then the sound of their hammers revealed the movement of their hands. Pounding rock, making gravel. Clumps of dead grass pocked the sere slope. The greening hand of rain had yet to touch this earth. Occasionally, a boulder got away and crashed somewhere below. In the distance, the rumbling of earth movers, cranes, and cement mixers rose like a wall upon which the steady ring of stone-chipping hammers carved a pattern. From the sky, the sledge of heat pounded relentlessly.

A woman filled Ishvar’s gravel basket and helped him hoist it to his head. The effort made her hands tremble, quivering the wrinkled skin pouches under her arms. He staggered beneath the weight. When she let go, he felt the load start to unbalance. He clawed the sides desperately, tilting his head the other way, but the falling basket fell, jerking his neck sharply.

“I have never done this kind of work,” he said, embarrassed by the heavy shower of gravel that stung their feet.

Wordlessly she slanted the basket against her shins and bent over to fill it again. Her skimpy grey plait slid forward over the shoulder. Wouldn’t be much use to Rajaram the hair-collector, thought Ishvar absently. With each pull of the hoe her plastic bangles made dull clinks. Soft echoes of the stone-hammering children. He watched her forearms glisten with sweat, the powerful back and forth movement. Then he noticed, behind him, others in the backed-up gravel chain. He knelt to assist her, anxious to make up for his clumsiness. He scooped gravel into the basket with his hands.

“Filling is my task, carrying is yours,” she said.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“You don’t, but the overseer will.”

Ishvar desisted, and asked if she had done this work a long time.

“Since I was a child.”

“Pay is good?”

“Enough to keep from starving.” She showed him how to hold his head and shoulders to carry the weight, and they raised the load. He staggered again but managed to retain the basket.

“See, it’s easy once you learn to balance,” she encouraged, and pointed him on his way towards the men mixing concrete. Tottering, faltering several times, he reached his destination and dumped the gravel. Then it was back with the empty basket to the woman who filled it. Again, and again, and again.

A few trips, and the sweat was streaming down his face; the ground spun; he asked if he could go for a drink of water. The overseer refused. “The bhistee will come when it’s time for water.”

With the man watching, the woman filled the basket as slowly as she dared. Ishvar was grateful for the restful seconds she stole for him. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths.

“Pile it to the brim!” The overseer screamed. “You are not paid for filling half-baskets!” She pulled in four additional hoefuls. While lifting the load she tipped it slightly to get rid of the extra weight.

Ishvar stumbled back and forth, fighting dizziness as the morning ground him down. His mind was emptied of all thought. The blasting at the other end of the site sent dust clouds rolling through the gravel area, and women pulled their saris over their noses. He felt that were it not for the pounding hammers to guide him, he would lose his way in the fog. The feeling of sightlessness persisted even when the air cleared. Clinging to the rope of sound, he hovered between the gravel and the concrete mixers.

It seemed an age before the water-carrier arrived. The stone-breaking hammers fell silent. Ishvar heard the slurp of thirsty tongues before he saw the man. The swollen waterskin hung from the bhistee’s shoulder like a dark-brown animal, its leather strap cutting deep into him. His steps unsteady under the heavy bulge of water, the blind man passed among the labourers. Whoever was thirsty touched his hand to stop him. He sang softly, a song he had made up: O call to me and I

Will quench your thirst for water.

But who, on earth, can grant

My parched eyes’ desire?

Ishvar fell on his knees before the bhistee, positioned his mouth under the leather spout and drank. Then he moved his mouth, and cold water splashed over his grateful face. The overseer shouted, “Careful, don’t waste! That’s for drinking only!” Ishvar rose hurriedly and returned to his gravel basket.

By the time the bhistee reached the place where Om was working, the waterskin had grown lighter. So had the bhistee’s steps. The six ditch-diggers drank first, and then the women who were assigned to carry away the loosened earth. Their babies played near the ditch. The women scooped water in their palms to let the children slurp it.

Om wet his fingers and slicked back his hair. He pulled out his half-comb and whipped it through. “Aray, hero-ka-batcha!” yelled the overseer. “Get back to work!”

Om put away the comb, returning his ragged attention to the digging. He enjoyed the moment when the women bent over to gather up the rubble, their breasts hanging forward in their cholis. With the load on their heads, they repositioned their saris and walked away, tall and stately, their limbs flowing with liquid smoothness. Like Shanti at the tap, he thought, with the brass pot that made her hips sway.

As the hours strained to pass, the women were not enough to distract him from the torment of the work. Bent double at the ditch, the pickaxe unwieldy in hands accustomed to scissors and needle and thread, he struggled with the hard ground. The shame of seeming weak in the women’s eyes kept him going. Blisters which had flared within minutes of commencing the job were now in full eruption. He could barely straighten his back, and his shoulders were on fire.

One of the babies by the ditch started to cry. The mother dropped her basket and went to it. “Saali lazy woman,” said the overseer. “Get back to work.”

“But baby is crying.” She picked up the child. Its tears were tracing glistening paths down the dust-coated cheeks.

“It’s natural for babies to cry. They cry and then they stop. Don’t give me excuses.” He moved towards her as though to take it from her arms. She returned it gently to the rubble, to amuse itself.

When the whistle sounded for lunch, Om, like Ishvar, felt he was too exhausted to eat the watery mix of vegetables. But they knew they must, if they were to survive the rest of the day. They swallowed the food quickly and slipped into the shadow of their tin hut to rest a little.

The whistle ended the lunch break. Within minutes of returning to the site they started retching; a gush of vomit followed. Emptying their bellies took a fraction of the time spent in filling them. Fighting dizziness, they hunkered down, refusing to move. Close to the ground they felt safe.

The overseer whacked their heads a couple of times, pulled at their collars, and shook them by the shoulders. The tailors moaned to be excused. The foreman was sent for.

“What’s the matter now? You are determined to make trouble or what?” asked the foreman.

“We are sick,” said Ishvar. As proof, he pointed to the two pools of vomit being investigated by a crow. “We are not used to this kind of work.”

“You will get used to it.”

“We want to meet the manager.”

“He is not here.” The foreman put a hand under Ishvar’s arm and pulled. Ishvar rose, swaying from side to side, his mouth vomit-streaked, and lurched towards the foreman. The latter pushed him back hastily, afraid of getting vomit on himself. “Okay, go. Sleep for some time. I will see you later.”

No one bothered them for the rest of the day in the tin hut. At dusk they heard people proceeding towards the kitchen area. Ishvar asked Om if he wanted to eat. “Yes, I’m hungry,” he said, and they sat up. Feeling dizzy again, they lay down. They did not resist the returning drowsiness.

Some time later the beggar rolled in on his platform, with food. He paddled very slowly, taking care not to spill the dinner balanced upon his stumps. “I saw you becoming sick. Eat, it will give you strength. But chew properly, no rushing.”

The tailors thanked him for the food. He watched with satisfaction as they took the first bite, refusing to share. “I’ve already eaten.”

Ishvar emptied the water mug, and the beggar started rolling to fetch more. “Wait, I’ll get it,” said Om. “I’m all right now.”

The beggar was having none of that, and soon returned with a full mug. He inquired if they wanted extra chapatis. “I made friends with someone in the kitchen, I can get as many as I like.”

“No no, bas, we are full, thank you,” said Ishvar, then asked him his name.

“Everybody calls me Worm.”

“Why?”

“I told you, babu. Before my Beggarmaster gave me the gaadi, I used to crawl around.”

“But now you have the gaadi. What’s your real name?”

“Shankar.”

He stayed with them for another half-hour, chatting, describing the irrigation project where he had been wandering all day. Then he suggested they try to sleep and wake up strong for tomorrow’s work. In a few minutes, when they were snoring lightly, he rowed away on his platform, smiling happily to himself.