A Fine Balance

X. Sailing Under One Flag

THE TRUCK GROWLED INTO THE CITY after midnight along the airport road. Sleeping shanty towns pullulated on both sides of the highway, ready to spread onto the asphalt artery. Only the threat of the many-wheeled juggernauts thundering up and down restrained the tattered lives behind the verges. Headlights picked out late-shift workers, tired ghosts tracing a careful path between the traffic and the open sewer.

“Police had orders to remove all jhopadpattis,” said Ishvar. “Why are these still standing?”

Beggarmaster explained it was not so simple; everything depended on the long-term arrangements each slumlord had made with the police.

“That’s not fair,” said Om, his eyes trying to penetrate the rancid night. Splotches of pale moonlight revealed an endless stretch of patchwork shacks, the sordid quiltings of plastic and cardboard and paper and sackcloth, like scabs and blisters creeping in a dermatological nightmare across the rotting body of the metropolis. When the moon was blotted by clouds, the slum disappeared from sight. The stench continued to vouch for its presence.

After a few kilometres the truck entered the city’s innards. Lampposts and neon fixtures washed the pavements in a sea of yellow watery light, where slumbered the shrunken, hollow-eyed statuary of the night, the Galateas and Gangabehns and Gokhales and Gopals, soon to be stirred to life by dawn’s chaos, to haul and carry and lift and build, to strain their sinew for the city that was desperately seeking beautification.

“Look,” said Om. “People are sleeping peacefully — no police to bother them. Maybe the Emergency law has been cancelled.”

“No, it hasn’t,” said Beggarmaster. “But it’s become a game, like all other laws. Easy to play, once you know the rules.”

The tailors asked to be let off near the chemist’s. “Maybe the nightwatchman will let us live in the entrance again.”

Beggarmaster insisted, however, on first seeing their place of work. The truck travelled for a few more minutes and stopped outside Dina’s building, where they indicated her flat.

“Okay,” said Beggarmaster, jumping out. “Let’s verify your jobs with your employer.” He asked the driver to wait, and strode rapidly to the door.

“It’s too late to wake Dinabai,” pleaded Ishvar, wincing as he hurried on his bad ankle. “She’s very quick-tempered. We’ll bring you here tomorrow, I promise — I swear upon my dead mother’s name.”

The beggars and injured workers in the truck shivered, yearning for the comforting arms of motion that had cradled them through the journey. The idling engine’s rumbles endowed the night with a menacing maw. They began to cry.

Beggarmaster paused at the front door to study the nameplate, and made a note in his diary. Then he shot out his index finger and rang the doorbell.

“Hai Ram!” Ishvar clutched his head in despair. “How angry she will be, pulled out of bed this late!”

“It’s late for me also,” said Beggarmaster. “I missed my temple puja, but I’m not complaining, am I?” He pressed the bell again and again when there was no answer. The truck driver sounded his horn to hurry him up.

“Stop, please!” begged Om. “At this rate we’ll surely lose our jobs!” Beggarmaster smiled patiently and continued his jottings. Writing in the dark posed no difficulty for him.

Inside, the doorbell agitated Dina as much as it did the tailors. She rushed to Maneck’s room. “Wake up, quick!” He needed a few good shakes before he stirred. “Looks like an angel but snores like a buffalo! Wake up, come on! Are you listening? Someone’s at the door!”

“Who?”

“I glanced through the peephole, but you know my eyes. All I can tell is, there are three fellows. I want you to look.”

She had not yet switched on the light, hoping the uninvited visitors would go away. Cautioning him to walk softly, she led the way to the door and held the latch. He took a peek and turned excitedly.

“Open it, Aunty! It’s Ishvar and Om, with someone!”

Outside they heard his voice and called, “Hahnji, it is us, Dinabai, very sorry to disturb you. Please forgive us, it won’t take long…” Their voices trailed off in a timorous question mark.

She clicked the switch for the verandah light, still cautious, and opened the door a bit — and then wide. “It is you! Where have you been? What happened?”

She made no attempt to disguise her relief. It surprised her: she relished the wholeness of it, her feelings rising straight to her tongue, without twisting in deception.

“Come inside, come!” she said. “My goodness, we worried about you all these weeks!”

Beggarmaster stood back as Ishvar limped over the threshold and forced a smile. From his ankle trailed Doctor sahab’s filthy strips of cloth. Om followed close behind him, stepping on the bandage in his haste. Through the darkened doorway they crept shamefacedly into the verandah’s revealing light.

“My goodness! Look at your condition!” said Dina, overcome by the haggard faces, dirty clothes, matted hair. Neither she nor Maneck spoke for a few moments. They stared. Then the questions rushed out, tripping one over the other, and the fragmented answers were equally frantic.

Still waiting at the door, Beggarmaster interrupted Ishvar and Om’s confused explanations. “I just want to check — these two tailors work for you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“That’s fine. It’s so nice to see everybody happy and reunited.” The truck honked again, and he turned to leave.

“Wait,” said Ishvar. “Where to make the weekly payment?”

“I’ll come to collect it.” He added that if they wanted to get in touch with him at any time, they should tell Worm, whose new beat would be outside the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel.

“What payment, what worm?” asked Dina when the door had shut. “And who is that man?”

The tailors digressed from the main story to explain, starting with Beggarmaster’s arrival at the work camp, then backing up to Shankar’s account, racing forward again, getting confused, confusing their listeners. The harrowing stretch of time in hell was over; exhaustion was flooding the place vacated by fear. Ishvar fumbled with the bandage to wrap it properly round his ankle. His hands shook, and Om tucked in the loose end for him.

“It was the foreman’s fault, he…”

“But that was before the Facilitator came…”

“Anyway, after my ankle was hurt, it was impossible…”

The thread of events eluded their grasp, Ishvar picking up a piece of it here, Om grabbing something there. Then they lost track of the narrative altogether. Ishvar’s voice faded. He pressed his head with both hands, trying to squeeze out the words. Om stammered and started to cry.

“It was terrible, the way they treated us,” he sobbed, clawing at his hair. “I thought my uncle and I were going to die there …”

Maneck patted his back, saying they were safe now, and Dina insisted the best thing to do was to have a good rest, then talk in the morning. “You still have your bedding. Just spread it here on the verandah and go to sleep.”

Now it was Ishvar’s turn to break. He fell on his knees before her and touched her feet. “O Dinabai, how to thank you! Such kindness! We are very afraid of the outside… this Emergency, the police…”

His display embarrassed her. She pulled her toes out of his reach. So urgent was his grasp, her left slipper stayed behind between his clutching fingers. He reached forward and gently restored it to her foot.

“Please get up — at once,” she said with a confused sternness. “Listen to me, I will say this one time only. Fall on your knees before no human being.”

“Okayji,” he rose obediently. “Forgive me, I should have known better. But what to do, Dinabai, I just can’t think of how to thank you.”

Still embarrassed, she said there had been enough thanks for one night. Om unrolled the bedding after wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He asked if they could wash the dust from their hands and faces before sleeping.

“There’s not much water, just what’s in the bucket, so be frugal. If you are thirsty, take from the drinking pot in the kitchen.” She locked the verandah door and went inside with Maneck.

“I’m so proud of you, Aunty,” he whispered.

“Are you, now? Thank you, Grandpa.”

Morning light did not bring answers to the questions Dina had wrestled with all night. She could not risk losing the tailors again. But how firm to stand, how much to bend? Where was the line between compassion and foolishness, kindness and weakness? And that was from her position. From theirs, it might be a line between mercy and cruelty, consideration and callousness. She could draw it on this side, but they might see it on that side.

The tailors awoke at seven, and packed up their bedding. “We slept so well,” said Ishvar. “It was peaceful as paradise on your verandah.”

They took a change of clothes from the trunk and prepared to leave for the railway bathroom. “We’ll have tea at Vishram, then come back straight — if it’s all right.”

“You mean, to start sewing?”

“Yes, for sure,” said Om with a weak smile.

She turned to Ishvar. “What about your ankle?”

“Still hurts, but I can push the treadle with one foot. No need to delay.”

She noticed their cracked and bruised feet. “Where are your chappals?”

“Stolen.”

“Sometimes there is broken glass on the street. Drunks smashing their bottles. You cannot gamble with your three remaining feet.” She found an old pair of slippers which fit Om; Maneck gave Ishvar his tennis shoes.

“So comfortable,” said Ishvar. “Thank you.” Then he inquired timidly if they could borrow five rupees for tea and food.

“There is much more than five rupees coming to you from the last order,” she said.

“Hahnji? Really?” They were overjoyed, having presumed that leaving the work incomplete meant forfeiting the right to any payment, and said as much.

“It may be the practice with some employers. I believe in honest pay for honest work.” She added jokingly, “Maybe you can share it with Maneck, he deserves something.”

“No, I only helped with a few buttons. Dina Aunty did it all.”

“Forget your college, yaar,” said Om. “Become a partner with us.”

“Right. And we’ll open our own shop,” said Maneck.

“Don’t give bad advice,” she scolded Om. “Everyone should be educated. I hope when you have children you will send them to school.”

“Oh yes, he will,” said Ishvar. “But first we must find him a wife.”

After Maneck left reluctantly for college and Dina went to Au Revoir Exports for new cloth, the tailors idled away the time at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The cashier-cum-waiter welcomed back his regulars with delight. He finished attending to the customers at the front counter — a tumbler of milk, six pakoras, a scoop of curds — and soon joined them at the solitary table.

“You two have lost weight,” he observed. “Where have you been so long?”

“Special government diet,” said Ishvar, and told him about their misfortune.

“You fellows are amazing,” the sweaty cook roared over the stoves. “Everything happens to you only. Each time you come here, you have a new adventure story to entertain us.”

“It’s not us, it’s this city,” said Om. “A story factory, that’s what it is, a spinning mill.”

“Call it what you will, if all our customers were like you, we would be able to produce a modern Mahabharat — the Vishram edition.”

“Please, bhai, no more adventures for us,” said Ishvar. “Stories of suffering are no fun when we are the main characters.”

The cashier-waiter brought them their tea and bun-muska, then went to serve more customers at the counter. The milk in the tea had formed a creamy skin. Om spooned it into his mouth, licking his lips. Ishvar offered him his own cup, and he skimmed that off too. They separated the halves of the bun-muska to check if both sides were buttered. They were, lavishly.

During a pedestrian lull on the pavement, Shankar, who was already begging outside when they had arrived, rolled up by the door to greet them. Ishvar waved. “So, Shankar. Happy to be back and working hard, hahn?”

“Aray babu, what to do, Beggarmaster said it’s the first day, relax, sleep. So I fell asleep here. Then coins began falling into my can. A terrible clanging sound — right beside my head. Every time I close my eyes, they fly open in fright. The public just won’t let me rest.”

His routine this morning was simple. He rattled the coins and made a whining noise, or coughed hoarsely at intervals till tears ran down his cheeks. For visual interest, sometimes he paddled the platform a few feet to the left, then back to the right. “You know, I specially asked Beggarmaster to move me here from the railway station,” he confided. “Now we can meet more often.”

“That’s good,” said Om, waving goodbye. “We’ll see you again soon.”

The flat was padlocked, and they waited by the door. “Hope that crazy rent-collector is not prowling around the building,” said Om. It was an anxious ten minutes before the taxi drove up. They helped Dina unload the bolts of cloth and carry them to the back room.

“Not too much weight, careful with your ankle,” she cautioned Ishvar. “By the way, there’s going to be a strike in the mill. No more cloth till it’s over.”

“Hai Ram, trouble never ends.” Suddenly, Ishvar’s mind returned to what he had done the night before, and he apologized again for having fallen at her feet. “I should have known better.”

“That’s what you said last night. But why?” asked Dina.

“Because someone did it to me once. And it made me feel very bad.”

“Who was it?”

“It’s a very long story,” said Ishvar, unwilling to tell her everything about their lives, but eager to share a little. “When my brother — Om’s father — and I were apprenticed to a tailor, we gave him some help.”

“What did you do?”

“Well,” he hesitated. “Ashraf Chacha is Muslim, and it was the time of Hindu-Muslim riots. At independence, you know. There was trouble in the town, and — we were able to help him.”

“So he touched your feet, this Ashraf?”

“No.” The memory embarrassed Ishvar, even after twenty-eight years. “No, his wife did, Mumtaz Chachi did. And it made me feel very bad. As though I was taking advantage in some way of her misfortune.”

“That’s exactly how I felt last night. Let’s forget about it now.” She had a dozen more questions to ask, but respected his reluctance. If they wanted to, they would tell her more some day when they were ready.

For now, she added the pieces to what Maneck had already revealed about their life in the village. Like her quilt, the tailors’ chronicle was gradually gathering shape.

Throughout that first day, Dina continued to struggle with words to construct the crucial question. How would she phrase it when the time came? What about: Sleep on the verandah till you find a place. No, it seemed like she was anxious to have them there. Start with a question: Do you have a place for tonight? But that sounded hypocritical, it was plain they didn’t. A different question: Where will you sleep tonight? Yes, not bad. She tried it again. No, it expressed too much concern — much too open. Last night had been so easy, the words had sprung of their own accord, simple and true.

She watched the tailors work all afternoon, their feet welded to the treadles, till Maneck came home and reminded them of the tea break. No, they said, not today, and she approved. “Don’t make them waste money. They have lost enough in these last few weeks.”

“But I was going to pay.”

“Yours is not to waste either. What’s wrong with my tea?” She put the water on for everyone and set out the cups, keeping the pink rose borders separate. Waiting for the kettle to start chattering, she mulled her word-puzzle. What if she started with: Was the verandah comfortable? No, it sounded hopelessly false.

At quitting time the tailors placed the covers mournfully over the sewing-machines. They rose heavily, sighed, and walked towards the door.

For a moment Dina felt like a magician. She could make everything become shining and golden, depending on her words — the utterance was all.

“What time will you return?”

“Whenever you wish,” said Om. “As early as you like.” Ishvar nodded in silence.

She took the opening; the pieces fell into place. “Well, no need to rush. Have your dinner, then come back. Maneck and I will also finish eating by then.”

“You mean we can…?”

“On the verandah?”

“Only till you find yourselves a place,” she said, pleased at how neutral her statements were — the line drawn precisely.

Their gratitude warmed her, but she cut short the offer of payment. “No. Absolutely no rent. I am not renting anything, just keeping you out of those crooked police hands.”

And she made it clear that their comings and goings had to be reduced, the risk with the landlord was too great. The washing trip to the railway station every morning, for one, could be eliminated. “You can bathe and have tea here. As long as you wake up early, before the water goes. Keep in mind, I have only one bathroom.” Which made Om wonder why anybody would be silly enough to have more than one, but he didn’t ask.

“And remember, I don’t want a mess in there.”

They agreed to all her conditions and swore they would be no bother. “But we really feel bad staying for free,” said Ishvar.

“If you mention money once more, you’ll have to find somewhere else.”

They thanked her again and left for dinner, promising to be back by eight and sew for an hour before bedtime.

“But Aunty, why refuse their offer of rent? They’ll feel good if you take a little money. And it will also help you with the expenses.”

“Don’t you understand anything? If I accept money, it means a tenancy on my verandah.”

Stooped over the basin, Dina brushed her teeth with Kolynos. Ishvar watched the foam drip from her mouth. “I’ve always wondered if that’s good for the teeth,” he said.

She spat and gargled before answering, “As good as any other toothpaste, I think. Which one do you use?”

“We use charcoal powder. And sometimes neem sticks.”

Maneck said that Ishvar and Om’s teeth were better than his. “Show me,” she said, and he bared them. “And yours?” she asked the tailors.

The three lined up before the mirror and curled their lips, exposing their incisors. She compared her own. “Maneck is right, yours are whiter.”

Ishvar offered her a bit of charcoal powder to try, and she squeezed half an inch of Kolynos on his finger. He shared it with Om. “Taste is delicious,” they concurred.

“That’s all very well,” she said. “But paying for taste is a waste, unless you are talking about food. I think I will switch to charcoal and save money.” Maneck decided to follow suit.

The enlarged household turned the wheel of morning with minimal friction. Dina was the first to rise, Maneck the last. When she had finished in the bathroom the tailors took their turns. They were in and out so fast, she suspected a deficiency in matters of personal hygiene, till she saw their well-scrubbed faces and wet hair. A deep breath in their proximity confirmed the clean odour of freshly bathed skin.

Though the bathroom was unimaginable luxury, the tailors did not linger. High-speed washing came naturally to them. Over the last several months they had honed their skills in public places, where time was critical. The faucet in the alley near Nawaz’s awning; the single tap at the centre of the hutment colony; the crumbling toilets in the overcrowded railway bathroom; the trickling spout at the irrigation project: all these had helped to perfect their technique to the point where each could finish within three minutes. They never operated Dina’s immersion heater, preferring cold water, and their tidy habits left everything neat.

But the thought of their bodies in her bathroom still made Dina uncomfortable. She was watchful, waiting to pounce if she found evidence that her soap or towel had been used. If they were to live here for a few days, it would be on her terms, there would be no slackening of the reins.

What she disliked most was Ishvar’s morning ritual of plunging his fingers down his throat to retch. The procedure was accompanied by a primal yowling, something she had often heard emanating from other flats, but never at such close quarters. It made her skin crawl.

“Goodness, you frightened me,” she said when the series of yips and yelps rang out.

He smiled. “Very good for the stomach. Gets rid of stale, excess bile.”

“Careful, yaar,” said Om, siding with Dina. “Sounds like your liver is coming out with the bile.” He had never approved of his uncle’s practice; Ishvar had tried to teach him its therapeutic effects and had given up, faced with a lack of cooperation.

“What you need is a plumber,” said Maneck. “To install a little tap in your side. Then all you do is turn it on and release the excess bile.” He and Om began baying an accompanying chorus when Ishvar started howling again.

After a few days of their combined teasing, Ishvar moderated his habit. The yowls were more restrained, and his fingers no longer explored his gullet to quite the same daredevil depths.

Om sniffed Maneck’s skin. “Your smell is better than mine. Must be your soap.”

“I use powder as well.”

“Show me.”

Maneck got the can from his room.

“And where do you put it? All over?”

“I just take a little in my palm and spread it in the armpits and chest.”

On the next payment day, Om purchased a cake of Cinthol Soap and a can of Lakmé Talcum Powder.

The pattern of each day, thought Dina at the end of the first week, was like the pattern of a well-cut dress, the four of them fitting together without having to tug or pull to make the edges meet. The seams were straight and neat.

Ishvar, however, was still troubled that he and his nephew were taking advantage of Dina’s goodness. “You won’t accept any rent from us,” he said. “You let us use your verandah and bathroom. You give us tea. This is too much, it makes us feel bad.”

His declaration reminded her of her own guilt. She knew that everything she did was done from self-preservation — to keep the tailors from being picked up again by the police, and to have them out of sight of nosey neighbours and the rent-collector. Now Ishvar and Om were wrapping her in the mantle of kindness and generosity. Deceit, hypocrisy, manipulation were more the fabrics of her garment, she thought.

“So what is your plan?” she said brusquely. “To insult me with fifty paise for tea? You want to treat me like a roadside chaiwalla?”

“No no, never. But is there not something we can do for you in return?”

She said she would let them know.

At the end of the second week, Ishvar was still waiting to hear. Then he took matters into his own hand. While she was bathing, he fetched the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and swept the verandah, the front room, Maneck’s room, and the sewing room. As he finished in each, Om got busy with the bucket and cloth, mopping the floors.

They were still at it when Dina emerged from the bathroom. “What’s going on here?”

“Forgive me, but I have decided,” said Ishvar firmly. “We are going to share the daily cleaning from now on.”

“That does not seem right,” she said.

“Seems just fine,” said Om, briskly squeezing out the mop.

Deeply moved, she poured the tea while they were finishing up. They came into the kitchen to replace the cleaning things, and she handed two cups to Om.

Noticing the red rose borders, he started to point out her error, “The pink ones for us,” then stopped. Her face told him she was aware of it.

“What?” she asked, taking the pink cup for herself. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” his voice caught. He turned away, hoping she did not see the film of water glaze his eyes.

“Someone at the door for you,” said Dina. “The same longhaired fellow who came once before.”

Ishvar and Om exchanged glances — what did he want now? Apologizing for the interruption, they went to the verandah.

“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram, putting his hands together. “Sorry to bother you at work, but the nightwatchman said you didn’t sleep there anymore.”

“Yes, we have another place.”

“Where?”

“Nearby.”

“Hope it’s nice. Listen, can I meet you later to talk? Any time today, anywhere, your convenience.” He sounded desperate.

“Okay,” said Ishvar. “Come to Vishram at one o’clock. You know where it is?”

“Yes, I’ll be there. And listen, can you please bring my hair from your trunk?”

After Rajaram had left, Dina asked the tailors if something was wrong. “He’s not connected with that other man, I hope — the one who’s squeezing you for money every week.”

“No no, he does not work for Beggarmaster,” said Ishvar. “He’s a friend, probably just wants a loan.”

“Well, you be careful,” said Dina. “These days, friends and foes look alike.”

The Vishram was crowded, and Rajaram was waiting nervously on the pavement when they arrived. “Here’s your hair,” Ishvar handed him the package. “So. What will you eat?”

“Nothing, my stomach is full,” said Rajaram, but his mouth betrayed his hunger, masticating phantom food in response to aromas from the Vishram.

“Have something,” said Ishvar, feeling sorry for him. “Try something, it’s our treat.”

“Okay, whatever you two are eating.” He forced a laugh. “A full stomach is only a small obstacle.”

“Three pao-bhajis and three bananas,” Ishvar told the cashier-waiter.

They carried their food to the site of a collapsed building, just down the road, and chose a window ledge in the shade of a half-crumpled wall. A horizontal door served as their table. Its hinges and knobs had been scavenged; the collapse was several weeks old. Four children with gunny sacks were clambering in the rubble, sifting and searching.

“So how’s your work as a Family Planning Motivator?”

Rajaram shook his head, wolfing a large mouthful. “Not good.” He ate as though he hadn’t seen food for days. “They asked me to leave two weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“They said I wasn’t producing results.”

“Suddenly? After two months?”

“Yes,” he hesitated. “I mean, no, there were problems from the very beginning. After the training course, I was following the procedure they showed me. I visited different neighbourhoods every day. I carefully repeated the things they taught me, using the correct tone, sounding kind and knowledgeable, so no one would get scared. And usually people listened patiently, took the leaflets; sometimes they laughed, and young fellows made dirty jokes. But no one would sign up for the operation.

“A few weeks later, my supervisor called me into his office. He said I wasn’t pursuing the right customers. He said it was a waste of time trying to sell a wedding suit to a naked fakir. I asked him exactly what he meant.”

Rajaram repeated for the tailors the supervisor’s reply — that people in the city were too cynical, they doubted everything, it was difficult to motivate them. Suburban slums were the places to tackle. After all, there lived the ignorant people most in need of the government’s help. The programme, with its free gifts and incentives, was specifically designed for them.

“So I took his advice and went outside the city. And would you believe it? On the very first day my cycle got a puncture.”

“A bad beginning,” said Ishvar, shaking his head.

“Puncture was only a small problem. The real trouble came later.” While the tyre was being fixed at a cycle shop, said Rajaram, he got to talking with an elderly man waiting in a bus shelter, not far from a fire hydrant. The elderly man needed a wash, and was hoping that street urchins would come along and turn on the hydrant.

For the sake of practice, and to see how long he could hold the fellow’s attention, Rajaram began telling him he was a Motivator involved in the good works of the Family Planning Centre. He described the birth-control devices, named the sterilization operations, and the cash inducement for each: a tubectomy was awarded more free gifts than a vasectomy, he explained, because the government preferred intervention that was final and irreversible.

That’s the one I want, interrupted the old man, the expensive one, the tube-whatever one. Rajaram almost fell off his perch on the bus-shelter railing. No no, grandfather, it’s not for you, I was just talking about it for the sake of talking, he said. I insist, said the old man, it’s my right. But tubectomy can only be performed on a woman’s parts, explained Rajaram, for a man’s parts there is vasectomy, and at your age even that is unnecessary. I don’t care about age, I’ll take it, whichever is meant for my parts, persisted the old man.

“Maybe he badly wanted a transistor radio,” said Om.

“That’s exactly what I assumed,” said Rajaram. “I thought to myself, if this grandfather desires it so much, who am I to argue? If music makes him happy, why deny him?”

So he got out the proper form, took a thumbprint, paid the tyre-repairer, and escorted his patient to the clinic. That evening, he received the money for his commission, his very first.

Now he regarded the puncture as the harbinger of good fortune: the pointed finger of fate, flattening his tyre and his bad fortune. The badge of Motivator clung with more honesty to his shirt. Brimming with confidence, he returned to the suburban area, certain that he could round up vasectomies and tubectomies by the score.

A week passed, and his peregrinations took him to his first customer’s neighbourhood. He cycled among the shacks, seeking to motivate the masses, his head overflowing with various ways of saying the same thing, formulating phrases to make sterility acceptable, even desirable, when someone from the old man’s family recognized him and began shouting for help: Motorwaiter is here! Aray, the rascal Motorwaiter has come again!

Rajaram was soon surrounded by an angry crowd threatening to break every bone in his body. In response to his pleas for mercy and his terror-stricken cries of why? why? he learned that something had gone wrong with the operation. The old maris groin had filled up with pus. When the rot began to spread, the clinic was no help, and the old man died.

Ishvar nodded in sympathy as he peeled his banana. He had always felt that the hair-collector’s new job was fraught with danger. “Did they beat you badly?”

Rajaram unbuttoned his shirt and showed them the purple bruises on his back. Across the chest was a gouge, starting to heal, made by some sharp tool. He lowered his head to point out the torn patch of scalp where an attacker had pulled out a clump of hair. “But I was lucky to escape with my life. They told me I should have known better, the only reason their grandfather went for the operation was because of the cash bonus and gifts. The old man had wanted to help with his granddaughter’s dowry.

“I returned straight to my supervisor and made a complaint. How could I produce results, I said, if the doctors killed the patients? But he said the man died because he was old, and the family was simply at all blaming the Family Planning Centre.”

“Goat-fucking bastard,” said Om.

“Exactly. But guess what else the supervisor told me. From now on my job would be easier, he said, because of a policy change.” The new scheme had been explained to Rajaram — it was no longer necessary to sign up individuals for the operation. Instead, they were to be offered a free medical checkup. And it wasn’t to be viewed as lying, just a step towards helping people improve their lives. Once inside the clinic, isolated from the primitive influence of families and friends, they would quickly see the benefits of sterilization.

Rajaram picked the crumbs from his pao-bhaji wrapper, then tossed it in the rubble. “Even though I didn’t like the new system, I agreed to try it. By now, everyone realized that Motivators were giving bogus talk to people. Wherever I went, city or suburb, they insulted me, called me a threat to manhood, a dispenser of napusakta, a castrator, a procurer of eunuchs. And here I was, just doing a government job, trying to make a living. How can you function like this day after day? No, I said, this is not for me.”

He told his employers he was willing to work in the old way, distribute leaflets and explain procedures, but no more deception. They said the old way was no longer an option — quotas had fallen behind badly. Concrete results were needed to justify each Motivator’s food, shelter, and bicycle.

“So last week I lost all three when they threw me out. Now I am desperate. There is nothing to do but go back to my old profession.”

“Hair-collecting?”

“Yes, I’m going to sell these plaits right away,” he indicated the package the tailors had brought from their trunk. “And I am also starting my original trade. Barbering. I’ll have to do both because without storage space, hair-collecting will be limited. But I need eighty-five rupees. For combs, scissors, clippers, razor. Can you lend me the money?”

“Let me think it over,” said Ishvar. “Meet us tomorrow.”

“We would really like to do something for him, Dinabai,” said Ishvar. “He was our neighbour in the hutment colony, and very good to us.”

“I don’t have enough to advance you the amount.” But she offered an alternate solution. From the back of her cupboard she dug out the haircutting tools Zenobia had set her up with, years ago.

“Aray wah,” said Om, impressed. “You are also a barber?”

“Used to be — children’s hairdresser.”

Maneck fitted his hand around the clippers and pretended to tackle Om’s puff. “That’s a nice shrub to practise on.”

“Are you exchanging air-conditioning for barbering?” said Dina. She placed the kit before Ishvar. “It’s old, but still works. Your friend can have it if he likes.”

“Are you sure? What if you need it again?”

“Not likely. My haircutting days are over.” She said that with her eyes and forgotten skills, children’s ears would be in danger.

“There is one more problem,” said Rajaram, gratefully receiving the instruments when they met the next day.

“Now what?”

“My hair agent visits the city only once a month. And sleeping on the street, I have nowhere to store what I collect. Will you keep it in your trunk? For me? Your good friend?”

“A month’s supply won’t fit in the trunk,” objected Ishvar, not anxious to accumulate the unappetizing parcels.

“But it will. I’m going to specialize in long hair — in a month there will be ten plaits at the most, if I’m lucky. Won’t take up more than a corner of your trunk. And at month’s end I’ll sell them to the agent.”

“Your coming to the flat so often — it will annoy our employer.” He wished Rajaram would give up; he felt awkward making excuses to block him. “It isn’t our home, you know, we cannot keep receiving visitors.”

“That’s only a small obstacle. I can meet you outside. Here, at Vishram, if you like.”

“We rarely come here,” said Ishvar, then caved in. “Okay, what you can do is, leave the packet with Shankar, the beggar outside, the one on wheels. He knows us. We’ll introduce you.”

“That beggar is your friend? Strange friends you make.”

“Yes, very strange,” said Ishvar, but the hair-collector, absorbed in smoothing the knots and tangles of his life, missed the irony.

If with Ishvar it was the bile-seeking fingers that bothered Dina, with Om it was the itchy scalp. She had tolerated the scratching in the old days, knowing it would end at six o’clock. Now, apart from the annoying sight and the constant, irritating rasp, she feared that the itch would migrate to her own hair.

She spoke privately to Ishvar: lice was as bad as any other kind of sickness, and his nephew’s health would improve if the parasite was eradicated.

“But problem is money,” said Ishvar. “I cannot afford to take him to doctor.”

“You don’t need a doctor for lice. There’s a perfectly good home remedy.” And when she explained the procedure, he remembered his mother using it too.

While topping up the stove, she filled an empty hair-oil bottle with kerosene. “Do it after tea,” she said. “Massage it properly and leave for twenty-four hours. It can be washed off tomorrow.”

“Only twenty-four? I thought the remedy said forty-eight. That’s how long my mother used to leave it on.”

“Then your mother was a brave woman. Anything can happen in forty-eight hours. We don’t want your nephew turning into a human torch.”

“What are you talking about?” puzzled Om. He took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. “Chhee! It’s kerosene!”

“You expected rose water? You want to pamper the lice or kill them?”

“That’s right,” said Ishvar. “Don’t fuss, your Roopa Daadi used to do it for your father and me when we were children.”

Grumbling and cringing, Om bent over the basin, complaining that people didn’t have enough kerosene to cook their food and here they were, wasting it on hair. Ishvar took a few drops at a time in his palm and worked it in. Under the lightbulb, the oil-streaked black hair turned iridescent. “Beautiful as a peacock,” he said.

“Dig your fingers in,” instructed Dina. “Spread it well.” His energetic hands heeded her, rocking the protesting Om back and forth.

“Stop it, yaar! You’ll poison me if it enters my blood!”

When he was done she gave him a broken spoon to scratch with. “Don’t use your fingers, or you’ll get it on the dresses.”

He sat at the machine, miserable, wrinkling his nose, exhaling forcefully to blow out the smell. Relieving the itch with the spoon was not as satisfying as using fingernails. Now and again, he shook his head like a wet dog while they teased him.

“Would you like to smoke a beedi? Take your mind off?” asked Ishvar. “I’m sure Dinabai will make an exception today.”

“Of course I will. Shall I bring the matches?”

“Go ahead, laugh,” said Om darkly, “while I choke to death on these fumes.”

At lunchtime he told his uncle he was not going to the Vishram, he couldn’t possibly eat with the stink in his nose. So Ishvar stayed back as well.

Later in the afternoon, Maneck came home and started sniffing around. “Smells like a kitchen in here.” Keeping his nose low like a bloodhound, he followed the scent to Om. “Are you starting a new career as a stove?”

“Yes, he is,” said Dina. “Tonight we’ll cook our meal on top of his head. He has always been a hotheaded fellow.”

It was her own joke that first made Dina consider giving the tailors dinner in the flat that night. Other factors reinforced the idea. It would throw off that rascal Ibrahim completely; the tailors hadn’t gone for lunch, and they wouldn’t emerge for dinner. And besides, Om sitting patiently all day wearing kerosene deserved a reward.

So she chopped another onion and boiled three more potatoes to include them. The breadman arrived at dusk. Instead of two small loaves she bought four. “Maneck, come here,” she called from the kitchen, and took him into her confidence.

“Really? That’s great, Aunty! They’ll be thrilled to eat with us!”

“Who said anything about eating with us? I’m going to put their plates on the verandah.”

“Are you trying to be nice or offensive?”

“What’s offensive about it? It’s a good, clean verandah.”

“Fine. In that case, I’ll also eat on the verandah. I cannot take part in such an insult. My father feeds only stray dogs on the porch.”

She grimaced, and he knew he had won.

Dina remembered the last time all sides of the table had been occupied: on her third wedding anniversary, the night Rustom had been killed, eighteen years ago. She set out four plates and called in the tailors. Their faces plainly showed what an immense honour they considered it.

“You have taken your cure like a good boy,” she said to Om, “and now you get your dinner.” She brought the pot to the table, and a scraped carrot for herself. The tailors regarded her curiously as she bit into it. “You are not the only one taking a home remedy. This is medicine for my eyes. Right, Dr. Mac?”

“Yes, it’s a prescription for improving vision.”

“You know, I’ve grown to like raw carrots. But I hope Om doesn’t get fond of his medicine. Or we’ll have to suffer the kerosene stink every day.”

“But how does it work? Does it poison the lice in my hair?”

“I can tell you,” said Maneck.

“You are a champion fakeologist,” said Om.

“No, listen. First, every little louse soaks itself in the kerosene. Then, in the middle of the night, after you are asleep, Dina Aunty gives each one a tiny matchstick. At the count of three they commit suicide in bursts of tiny flames without hurting you. There’ll be a beautiful halo round your head when it happens.”

“That’s not funny,” said Dina.

“Suicide isn’t supposed to be, Aunty.”

“I don’t want such a subject at dinnertime. Not even as a joke. You shouldn’t even say the word.”

She started eating, and Maneck picked up his fork, winking at Om. The tailors sat motionless, watching the food. When she looked up, they smiled nervously. Exchanging glances, they touched the cutlery, uncertain, hesitating to pick it up.

Dina understood.

How stupid of me, she thought, to set it out tonight. Abandoning her own knife and fork, she used fingers to convey a piece of potato to her mouth. Maneck caught on as well, and the tailors started their meal.

“Very tasty,” said Ishvar, and Om nodded agreement with his mouth full. “You eat bread every day?”

“Yes,” said Dina. “Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, it’s very good,” said Ishvar. “No, I was just thinking, must be expensive to buy ready-made bread every day. You don’t get wheat on your ration card?”

“It’s available. But taking it to the mill for grinding, mixing flour, making chapati — that’s too much for me to do. I used to when my husband was alive. Afterwards, I didn’t care. Nothing worse than cooking for just one.” She broke a piece of her loaf to soak up some gravy. “Must be expensive for you also, eating at Vishram.”

Ishvar said yes, it was difficult, especially with having to pay Beggarmaster weekly. “When we had our own place in the colony and a Primus stove, we spent much less, even without the benefit of a ration card. We made chapatis every day.”

“You can buy wheat on my card if you like. I only take rice and sugar.”

“Problem is, where to cook?”

The question was rhetorical, but Maneck had an answer. He let the silence linger over the table for a few moments, then spoke up brightly. “I have a great idea. Ishvar and Om are used to making chapatis, right? And Dina Aunty has all that grain quota on the ration card, right? So you can share the cost of food, and we can eat together. Both sides will save money.”

More than money, it would save trouble with the landlord, thought Dina, by defeating Ibrahim. He could wait twenty-four hours outside the flat and see no one. Nosey neighbours too, if they were planning to snitch to him, get into his good books to solve their own problems. And besides, fresh puris and chapatis were absolutely delicious.

But was this reason enough to get more familiar with the tailors? Was it wise to tamper with the line she had drawn so carefully? “I don’t know,” she said. “Ishvar and Om might not like to have my food every day.”

“Not like? It’s so tasty!” said Om.

She chewed slowly, giving herself time to think. “Well, we can try it for a week.”

“That will be very good,” said Ishvar.

“I’ll make the chapatis,” said Om. “I’m the chapati champion.”

The government truck was delivering fresh stock at the ration shop. Dina and the tailors joined the queue while two coolies unloaded fifty-kilo gunnies upon their backs. Sunlight flashed from the large steel hooks they swung to claw a grip into the burlap. Their dripping sweat, when it chanced to fall upon the beige jute sacking, created dark-brown dots. Inside the shop, the sacks of grain landed neatly in a row, like dead bodies in a morgue, beside the scales hanging from the ceiling by a heavy chain.

“These fellows are taking too long,” said Ishvar, “carrying one at a time. Go on, Om, show them how to carry two.”

“Don’t tease the poor boy,” said Dina, as he pretended to roll up his sleeves. “Why is he so thin anyway? Are you sure he does not have worms?”

“No no, Dinabai, no worms, trust me. Bas, I’ll soon get him married, and his wife’s cooking will put weight on him.”

“He’s too young for marriage.”

“Almost eighteen — that’s not young.”

“Dinabai is right, forget your crazy idea,” scowled Om. “Sour-lime face.”

The line was growing longer. Someone shouted from the back to hurry up, and the banya emerged belligerently, ready to take on the heckler. “Use your sense when you speak! If the truck is not allowed to unload, what am I going to give you? Rocks and sand?”

“That’s what you usually sell us!” the heckler yelled back, and people laughed. “Have you ever tasted your own stock?” He was a small man with a large goitre, which drew the stares of the people in line.

“Aray saala, go! Nobody is forcing you to buy!”

Those near the heckler tried to prevent the argument from overheating. They reminded him it wasn’t wise to fight at a ration shop, it was impossible to win when you depended on them for your food. Someone said the swelling on his neck might burst if he got too excited.

“This swelling is also caused by rascal banyas!” he raged. “They sell bad salt — salt without iodine! These fat, greedy banyas are responsible for all our suffering! Blackmarketeers, food-adulterers, poisoners!”

The grain truck rolled away. A sprinkle of wheat from leaking sacks marked the place where it had stood. A barefoot man in a vest and short pants quickly collected the spilled grain in an empty vanaspati tin, then ran after the truck to its next destination; tonight he would eat well.

The attendant engaged the scales, and the shop began serving again. The appropriate entries were made in Dina’s ration card. Besides the usual sugar and rice, she bought, under the tailors’ guidance, her full quota of red and white wheat as well as the allotment of jowar and bajri, which they said was very tasty, very nourishing, and, best of all, not expensive.

They watched the scales while each item was weighed, gazing up at the pointer till the beam came to rest. A cloud of dust rose when the man tipped the pan into Dina’s cloth bags. The grain cascaded with the sound of a soft waterfall. Afterwards, the tailors took the bags to the mill.

In the evening Om grew a little anxious about his chapati reputation. He mixed the flour and kneaded the dough more strenuously than he normally would have, concentrating hard while rolling out the chapatis, trying to make them perfectly round. A wayward arc meant that the dough was squished into a ball and rolled out again.

At dinner, everyone complimented his success. The praise was also delivered in the speed with which the eight he had made vanished. Pleased, he decided to make twelve from now on.

The cats came miaowing as soon as the window opened. Maneck told Ishvar and Om the names he had given to some: John Wayne, who liked to swagger about, implying he had the alley under control;

Vijayanthimala, his favourite, the brown and white tabby, prancing as though in a film-song dance sequence; Raquel Welch, sitting languidly, stretching, never deigning to rush to the food; and Shatrughan Sinha, bully and villain, from whom the scraps had to be thrown far, to give others a chance.

“Who is John Wayne?” asked Om.

“American actor. Hero type — sort of like Amitabh Bachchan. Walks as though he has piles, and onions under his arms. Always wins in the end.”

“And Raquel Welch?”

“American actress.” He leaned closer. “Big breasts,” he whispered, while the miaowing continued below the window.

Om grinned. “Good thing I made extra chapatis today. Looks like she’s enjoying them.”

“What’s going on?” said Dina. “Now you are teaching my tailors your bad habits. Please shut that window.” She wondered if something uncontrollable had been started here, with all this cooking together and eating together. Too much intimacy. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

Ishvar stood aside while the two boys carried on. “They say it’s a blessed deed, Dinabai, to feed dumb animals.”

“Won’t be so blessed if they come inside in search of food. They could kill us with filthy germs from the gutter.”

In the wc, the tailors’ urine smell that used to flutter like a flag in the air, and in Dina’s nose, grew unnoticeable. Strange, she thought, how one gets accustomed to things.

Then it struck her: the scent was unobtrusive now because it was the same for everyone. They were all eating the same food, drinking the same water. Sailing under one flag.

“Let’s have masala wada today,” proposed Ishvar. “Rajaram’s recipe.”

“I don’t know how to make that.”

“That’s okay, I can do it, Dinabai, you relax today.” He took charge, sending Om and Maneck to buy a fresh half-coconut, green chillies, mint leaves, and a small bunch of coriander. The remaining ingredients: dry red chillies, cumin seed, and tamarind were in the spice cabinet. “Now you two hurry back,” he said. “There’s more work for you.”

“Shall I do something?” asked Dina.

“We need one cup of gram dal.”

She measured out the pulse and immersed it in water, then put the pot on the stove. “If we had soaked it overnight it wouldn’t need boiling,” he said. “But this is fine too.”

When the boys returned, he assigned Om to grate the coconut and Maneck to slice two onions, while he chopped four green and six red chillies, the coriander, and the mint leaves.

“These onions are hot, yaar,” said Maneck, sniffing and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“It’s good practice for you,” said Ishvar. “Everyone has to cry at some time in life.” He glanced across the table and saw the fat white rings falling from the knife. “Hoi-hoi, slice it thinner.”

The dal was ready. He drained the water and emptied the pot into the mortar. He added half a teaspoon of cumin seed and the chopped chillies, then began mashing it all together. The drumming pestle prompted Maneck to add cymbals with his knife upon the pot.

“Aray bandmaster, are your onions ready?” said Ishvar. The medley in the mortar was turning into a rough paste, yellow with specks of green and red and brown. He mixed in the remaining ingredients and raised a bit to his nose, sampling the aroma. “Perfect. Now it’s time to make the frying pan sing. While I do the wadas, Om will make the chutney. Come on, grind the remaining copra and kothmeer-mirchi.”

The frying pan hissed and sizzled as Ishvar gently slid ping-pong sized balls into the glistening oil. He pushed them around with a spoon, keeping them swimming for an even colour. Meanwhile, Om dragged the round masala stone back and forth across the flat slab. Maneck took over after a while. Drop by precious drop, the green chutney emerged from their effort.

Dina stood savouring the fragrance of the wadas that were slowly turning mouth-watering brown in bubbling oil. She watched as the cleanup commenced with laughter and teasing, Ishvar warning the boys that if the grinding stone was not spotless he would make them lick it clean, like cats. What a change, she thought — from the saddest, dingiest room in the flat, the kitchen was transformed into a bright place of mirth and energy.

Thirty minutes later the treat was ready. “Let’s eat while it’s hot,” said Ishvar. “Come on, Om, get water for us.”

Everyone took a wada apiece and spread chutney over it. Ishvar waited for the verdict, beaming proudly.

“Superb!” said Maneck.

Dina pretended to be upset, saying he had never praised her meals with superlatives. He tried to wriggle out of it. “Your food is also superb, Aunty, but it’s similar to my mother’s Parsi cooking. That’s the only reason my tastebuds didn’t go crazy.”

Ishvar and Om were modest about their efforts. “It’s nothing. Very simple to make.”

“It’s delicious,” affirmed Dina. “Maneck’s idea of eating together was very good. If I knew from the beginning your food was so tasty, I would have hired you as cooks, not tailors.”

“Sorry,” Ishvar smiled at the compliment, “we don’t cook for money — only for ourselves and for friends.”

His words stirred her familiar residue of guilt. There was still a gulf between them; she did not see them as they saw her.

Over the weeks, the tailors expanded their contribution from chapatis, puris, and wadas to vegetarian dishes like paneer masala, shak-bhaji, aloo masala. There were always four people, or at least two, bustling about the kitchen in the evening. My bleakest hour, thought Dina, has now become the happiest.

On days that she made a rice dish, the tailors had a break from chapatis but went to the kitchen to help, if they were not out searching for a room to rent. “When I was a little boy in the village,” said Ishvar, cleaning the rice, picking out pebbles, “I used to do this for my mother. But in reverse. We used to go to the fields after the harvest and search for grain left from threshing and winnowing.”

They were trusting her with bits of their past, she realized, and nothing could be as precious. More pieces, to join to the growing story of the tailors.

“In those days,” continued Ishvar, “it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain.”

“And later?”

“Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.”

She liked his way of putting it. “You describe it well.”

He chuckled. “Must be my tailor training. Tailors are practised in examining patterns, reading the outlines.”

“And what about you, Om? Did you also help your mother to collect grain?”

“No.”

“He didn’t need to,” added Ishvar. “By the time he was born, his father — my brother — was doing well in tailoring.”

“But he still sent me to learn about the stinking leather,” said Om.

“You didn’t tell me that,” said Maneck.

“There are many things I haven’t told you. Have you told me everything?”

“Learning about leather was to build character,” explained Ishvar. “And to teach Om his history, remind him of his own community.”

“But why did he need reminding?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell us,” said Dina and Maneck, in unintentional unison, which made them laugh.

“In our village we used to be cobblers,” began Ishvar.

“What he means is,” interrupted Om, “our family belonged to the Chamaar caste of tanners and leather-workers.”

“Yes,” said Ishvar, taking the reins again, “a long time ago, long before Omprakash was born, when his father, Narayan, and I were young boys of ten and twelve, we were sent by our father, whose name was Dukhi, to be apprenticed as tailors…”

“Teach me how to use them,” said Om.

“What?”

“The knife and fork.”

“Okay,” said Maneck. “First lesson. Elbows off the table.”

Ishvar nodded approvingly. He commented that it would impress everyone and increase Om’s worth when they went back to the village to find him a wife. “Eating with fancy tools — that’s a great skill, like playing a musical instrument.”

Dina’s quilt started to grow again. With the tailors sailing vigorously through Au Revoir’s export orders, remnants piled up like the alluvial deposits of a healthy river. She sat with the patches after dinner, selecting and blending the best of the recent acquisitions.

“These new pieces are completely different in style from the old ones,” said Maneck. “You think they will look all right?”

“The counterpane critic is starting again,” she groaned.

“Squares and triangles and polygons,” said Om. “They are a bit confusing, for sure.”

“It will look beautiful,” said Ishvar with authority. “Just keep connecting patiently, Dinabai — that’s the secret. Ji-hahn, it all seems meaningless bits and rags, till you piece it together.”

“Exactly,” she said. “These boys don’t understand. By the way, there is lots of cloth in the cupboard, if you also want to make something.”

Ishvar thought of Shankar — it would be nice to present him with a new vest. He described the problem to Dina: the amputated lower half, where nothing would stay put, neither a loincloth nor underwear nor pants, because of his constant squirming and manoeuvring on the platform. And once the garment had slipped off his waist, he was helpless until Beggarmaster came on his rounds.

“I think I have the answer,” said Dina. She found her old school bathing-costume, a one-piece, and explained its design. Copying it would be easy, with a few modifications such as adding sleeves, a collar, and buttons along the front.

“Your idea is bilkool first class,” said Ishvar.

He set aside sections of light-brown poplin, and next afternoon took his tape measure to the Vishram. Blowing on their tea saucers, Om and he watched through the window. Shankar was trying out a new routine on the pavement.

The ever-innovative Beggarmaster had lengthened the platform by attaching an extension. Shankar lay flat on his back, waving his thigh stumps in the air. His testicles dribbled out of the swaddling cloth during the turbulence. He kept tucking them back, but it required an arduous stretch to accomplish, and after a while he let the scrotum hang.

“O babu ek paisa day-ray,” he sang, rattling the begging tin on the first and third beats. It rested on his forehead between his fingerless palms. When he got tired he set it beside his head, leaving the hands free to wave like the thigh stumps.

He was sitting up by the time the tailors finished their tea. The view from the supine position was new for him, and he could only take it in small doses, spending the minutes in dread, afraid that somebody would step on him. Rush hour, when the hordes swept over the pavement, was a period of sheer terror.

Seeing Ishvar and Om emerge, he rowed his platform in from the kerb to chat with them.

“New improved gaadi, hahn Shankar?”

“What to do, have to keep the public satisfied. Beggarmaster thought it was time for variety. He has been very kind since we came back from that horrible place. Even nicer than before. And he does not call me Worm anymore, uses my real name, just like you.”

He was excited by their plans to design a vest uniquely for him. The three moved into the privacy of the Vishram’s back alley where Ishvar could take some measurements.

“Must be nice for you,” said Om. “Being able to sleep on the job now.”

“You have no idea what a paradise it is,” said Shankar slyly. “It’s been only three days, and the things I’ve seen. Especially when the skirts go floating over my head.”

“Really?” Om was envious. “What do you see?”

“Words are too weak to describe the ripeness, the juiciness, of what my eyes have feasted on.”

“Maybe my nephew would like to take your place on the gaadi for a day or two,” said Ishvar drily.

“First he would have to do something about his legs,” said Shankar, relishing his touch of black humour. “I know — just stop paying Beggarmaster. That will automatically produce broken limbs.”

The gift was ready the next day, and when the tailors went out in the evening to continue their search for accommodation, they stopped by Shankar’s pavement. They wanted to take him to the alley and help him into the vest to check the fit, but he was a little doubtful. “Beggarmaster would not like that,” he said.

“Why?”

“The new cloth looks too good.” He preferred not to wear it till it had been approved.

They went away disappointed, taking with them the parcel of hair from under Shankar’s platform. For quite some time there had been nothing from the hair-collector, but in the last few days his deliveries had become regular. Their trunk was filling up.

“If long hair is very rare, how is Rajaram suddenly collecting so much of it?” wondered Om.

“I’m not going to bother my head with that fellow’s hair.”

The following week, the tailors finally saw the beggar dressed in their gift. It was hard to recognize at first, for Beggarmaster had modified the brown poplin. Soiled all over, with a hole torn into the front, the garment was now suitable for Shankar.

“That bastard Beggarmaster,” said Om. “Wrecking our creation.”

“Don’t judge him by your clothes,” said Ishvar. “You wouldn’t go to work for Dinabai wearing a tie-collar or a big wedding turban, would you?”