A Fine Balance

XI. The Bright Future Clouded

AFTER THE VERANDAH’S SECURITY and comfort had blunted the urgency for new accommodation, the tailors’ evening excursions in search of a room to rent became a halfhearted exercise. Ishvar felt a little guilty about this, felt they were taking advantage of Dina’s hospitality, now entering its third month. To assuage his conscience, he got into the habit of describing the failures for her in minute detail: the places they visited, the chawls and kholis and sheds they inspected, and how narrowly they missed out.

“So disappointing,” he said, on more evenings than one. “Just ten minutes before we got there, someone took the room. And such a nice room too.”

But time had tranquillized Dina’s worries about the landlord. She was quite content to let the tailors continue sleeping on the verandah. No one could have told her otherwise, not even Zenobia, who was horrified to discover their trunk and bedding there when she dropped in one evening.

“This is dangerous,” she warned. “You are playing with fire.”

“Oh, nothing will happen,” said Dina confidently. She had repaid Nusswan’s loan, there had been no more bother from the rent-collector, and the sewing was proceeding faster than ever.

The fearfully anticipated strike at Au Revoir Exports was also averted, which Mrs. Gupta celebrated as a triumph of good over evil. “The corporation has its own musclemen now,” she explained to Dina. “It’s a case of our goondas versus their goondas. They deal with the union crooks before they can start trouble or lead the poor workers astray. Mind you, even the police support us. Everybody is fed up with the nuisance of unions.”

The tailors rejoiced when Dina brought home the good news. “Our stars are in the proper position,” said Ishvar.

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s more important that your stitches be in the proper position.”

Ishvar and Om usually set off on their housing hunt after dinner, and sometimes before, if they were not cooking that day. She wished them good luck, but always added “See you back soon,” and meant it. Maneck frequently went along. Left alone, her eyes kept turning to the clock as she awaited their return.

And when the evening’s wanderings were later reported to her, her advice was: “Don’t rush into anything.” It would be foolish, she said, to pay a premium for a place which might be demolished again because it was illegally constructed. “Better to save your money and get a proper room that no one can throw you out of. Take your time.”

“But you don’t accept rent from us. How long can we burden you like this?”

“I don’t feel any burden. And neither does Maneck. Do you, Maneck?”

“Oh yes, I have a big burden. My exams are coming.”

“The other problem is,” continued Ishvar, “my dear nephew cannot get married until we have our own place.”

“Now that’s something I can’t help you with,” said Dina.

“Who said I wanted to marry?” scowled Om, while she and Ishvar exchanged parental smiles.

A tip about a possible half-room in the northern suburbs led them to the neighbourhood where they had searched for work on first arriving in the city. By the time they reached the location, the place had already been rented. They happened to be passing Advanced Tailoring Company, and decided to say hello to Jeevan.

“Ah, my old friends are back,” Jeevan greeted them. “With a new friend. Is he also a tailor?”

Maneck smiled and shook his head.

“Ah, never mind, we’ll soon turn you into one.” Then Jeevan waxed nostalgic about the time the three tailors had worked round the clock to meet the by-election deadline. “Remember, we made a hundred shirts and hundred dhotis, for that fellow’s bribes?”

“Felt like a thousand,” said Om.

“I found later that he had parcelled out work to more than two dozen tailors. He gave away five thousand shirts and dhotis.”

“Where do these rascal politicians get the money?”

“Black money, what else — from businessmen needing favours. That’s how the whole licence-permit-quota raj works.”

It turned out, however, that the candidate was defeated, despite distributing the garments among his most important constituents, because the opposition kept making clever speeches: that there was no crime in using empty hands to accept fine gifts, as long as wise heads prevailed at voting time.

“He tried to blame me for losing. That the voters rejected him because the clothes were badly stitched. I said, bring it and show me. I never saw him again.” Jeevan cleared his work from the counter and brushed fluff off his shirt front. “Come, sit, drink a little tea with me.”

The invitation to sit was only a figure of speech. The clutter in the tiny shop made it difficult to take literally. Renovations had been performed since the tailors were last here, and the rear had been partitioned to include a curtained booth for trial fittings. Ishvar accepted a saucer of tea at the counter; Jeevan sipped from the cup. The boys took theirs to the outside steps, to share.

It turned out to be a busy evening for Advanced Tailoring. “You have brought me good luck,” said Jeevan. A family came to order outfits for their three little daughters, the mother proudly carrying the bundle of fabric under her arm, the father frowning fiercely. They wanted a blouse and long skirt for each child, in time for Divali.

Strumming his lips with one finger, Jeevan pretended to study his order book. “That’s only a month away,” he complained. “Everybody is in a hurry.” He hummed and hawed, produced dentilingual clicks, then said it was possible, but only just.

The little girls hopped on their toes with relief and excitement. The fierce father snapped at them to stand still or he would break their heads. His family paid no attention to the excessive threat. They were used to this paternal aberration of speech.

Jeevan measured the cloth, a polyester design of peacocks. He frowned grimly, measured again, and pronounced, strumming his lips, that it was insufficient for three blouses and three long skirts. The children were ready to cry.

“The bowlegged bastard is lying,” whispered Om to Maneck. “Watch now.”

He measured a third time and said, with the air of a philanthropist, that there was another option. “It will be very difficult, but I can make knee-length frocks.”

The parents desperately seized the alternative, requesting Jeevan to go ahead. He flapped his tape in the air and invited the children forward for measurements. They stood stiffly, like a puppeteer’s dolls, turning, raising their heads, lifting their arms with frozen joints.

“The crook will swipe at least three yards from it, maybe four,” murmured Om, vacating the steps to let the family depart. The three little girls complained softly that they wanted long skirts so, so much. Their father hugged them affectionately, threatening to knock their teeth out if they didn’t behave themselves, and the happy family disappeared down the footpath.

Jeevan folded the cloth and tucked the page with the children’s measurements inside it. “We tailors have to make a living, no?” He sought approval for his performance.

Ishvar nodded in a non-committal manner.

“These customers — always expecting too much from us,” Jeevan tried again, hiding poorly behind banalities.

He was plucked out of his awkward moment by the appearance of another client. The woman, scheduled for a trial fitting, was handed the preliminary framework of her silk choli. She disappeared into the booth, drawing the curtain shut.

Maneck nudged Om, and they turned to watch. The swaying curtain settled a few inches from the floor, where the woman’s sari could be seen caressing her sandalled feet. Jeevan wagged a finger at them, then leered at the booth himself.

“A thinner curtain would put spice in my life,” said Om. They could hear the gentle tinkling of her bangles.

“Shoosh!” warned Jeevan, snickering. “You will cost me a regular customer.”

The woman’s reappearance made them stumble into a guilty silence. They examined her surreptitiously, glancing sideways with heads lowered. Her sari had been left off the shoulders to permit Jeevan to review the blouse-in-progress. “Arms raised a little, please,” he said, slipping his tape measure under them. Now his tone was clinical, like a doctor asking to see the patient’s tongue.

Between the choli and the waistline her midriff was bare. She was wearing a hipster sari, in the modern fashion, showing her navel. Maneck and Om stared as Jeevan recommended two tucks at the back and a slightly deeper plunge for the neckline. She returned behind the curtain.

Om whispered to Maneck that this was the part he missed the most in working for Dinabai from paper patterns. “It gives me no chance to measure women.”

“As if you could do anything while measuring.”

“You don’t know how much is possible, yaar.” Doing a blouse, especially a tight choli like this one, he said, was heaven, because the tape went over the cups. Passing it around and reaching with the other hand to bring it to the front, you had to stand very close to her. This alone was exciting. Then your fingers held the tape in the hollow between the two breasts — so you didn’t touch her — but it was always possible to graze a little. You had to be careful, and know when to press on. If she shrank as soon as the tape touched, it was dangerous to try anything. But some of them did not mind, and you could tell from their eyes and their nipples whether it was safe to move your fingers about.

“Have you ever done it?”

“Many times. At Muzaffar Tailoring, with Ashraf Chacha.”

“Maybe I really should give up college and become a tailor.”

“You should. It’s more fun.”

Maneck smiled. “Actually, I’m thinking of continuing college after my year is up.”

“Why? I thought you hated it.”

Maneck was silent for a moment, piano-playing on his knuckles. “I got a letter from my parents. Saying how much they are waiting for this year to finish, how lonely they are without me — same old rubbish. When I was there, they said go, go, go. So I’ve decided to write that I want to stay for three more years, do the degree course instead of the one-year diploma.”

“You’re stupid, yaar. In your place, I would return to my parents as early as possible.”

“What’s the point? To argue and fight again with my father? Besides, I’m having fun here now.”

Om inspected his nails and ran a hand through his puff. “If you’re planning to stay, you should change your subject to tailoring, for sure. Because you cannot measure women for refrigerators.” He chuckled. “What are you going to say? ‘Madam, how deep are your shelves?’“

Maneck laughed. “I could ask ‘Madam, may I examine your compressors?’ Or ‘Madam, you need a new thermostat in your thermostat cavity.’“

“Madam, your temperature control knobs require adjustment.”

“Madam, your meat drawer is not opening properly.”

The customer left as they were getting uproarious, and Ishvar said, “Gome on, you two, time to go. What are you laughing so much about, hahn?”

“As if we don’t know,” grinned Jeevan, bidding them good luck and farewell. “Hope you soon find a room.”

During reading week, prior to Manek’s exams, the rent-collector paid an unscheduled afternoon call. The tailors silenced the sewing-machines at the sound of the doorbell.

“How are you, sister?” said Ibrahim, his hand rising fezwards.

“What is it now?” said Dina, barring his way. “Rent is already paid this month.”

“Rent is not the problem, sister.” Shrinking as he spoke, he blurted in one sentence that the office had sent him to deliver a final notice to vacate in thirty days because they had proof that she was using the flat for commercial purposes despite the warning months ago.

“Nonsense! What proof do they have?”

“Why get upset with me, sister,” he pleaded, tapping the notebook in his pocket. “It’s all here — dates, times, coming-going, taxi, dresses. And more proof is sitting in the back room.”

“Back room? You want to show me?” She stood aside and gestured him in.

The outright challenge startled him. He had no choice but to accept. Entering with his head bowed, he made for the sewing room. The tailors, frozen at the Singers, waited nervously, while Maneck watched from his room.

“This is the problem, sister. You cannot hire tailors and run a business here.” He moved his anguished hands to include the other bedroom. “And a paying guest, on top of that. Such insanity, sister. The office will throw you out for sure.”

“You are talking rubbish!” She started the counterattack. “This man,” she said, pointing to Ishvar, “he is my husband. The two boys are our sons. And the dresses are all mine. Part of my new 1975 wardrobe. Go, tell your landlord he has no case.”

It was difficult to say who she shocked more with the apocryphal revelation: Ishvar, blushing and playing with his scissors, or Ibrahim, wringing his hands and sighing.

Pressing home her advantage, she demanded, “You have anything else to say?”

Ibrahim hunched his shoulders till they looked sufficiently supplicatory. “Marriage licence, please? Birth certificates? Can I see, please?”

“My slipper across your mouth is what you will see! How dare you insult me! Tell your landlord, if he does not stop harassing my family, I’ll take him straight to court!”

He retreated, muttering that he would have to make a full report to the office, why abuse him for doing his job, he did not enjoy it any more than the tenants did.

“If you don’t enjoy it, leave it. At your age you shouldn’t have to work anyway. Your children can look after you.”

“I have to work, I am all alone,” he said as the door shut.

The sweetness of her victory faded. She waited, hearing him panting outside, catching his breath before he could set off. In the moment of his brief words, her own life’s lonely, troubled years came rushing back, reminding her how recent and unreliable was the happiness discovered in these last few months.

In the back room Ishvar had recovered from the matrimonial surprise. The boys were chortling away, teasing him about the look on his face. “You keep talking about a wife for me,” said Om. “Instead you got one for yourself.”

“That was an amazing idea, Aunty. Did you plan it in advance?”

“Never mind that, you better plan for your exams.”

College closed for the three-week Divali vacation, and Dina encouraged Maneck to be a tourist. “All this time it’s been home to class and class to home. But there is so much sightseeing in this city. The museum and aquarium and the sculpted caves will fascinate you. Victoria Garden and the Hanging Gardens are also worth visiting, believe me.”

“But I’ve seen them before.”

“When? Years ago, with your mummy? You were just a little baba then, you cannot remember anything. You must go again. And you must also visit your Sodawalla relatives — they are your mummy’s family.”

“Okay,” he said indifferently, and did not stir from the flat.

That week, the first fireworks of Divali were heard. “Hai Ram,” said Ishvar. “What a bombardment.”

“This is nothing,” said Dina. “Wait till the actual date gets closer.”

The noise delayed bedtime by roughly two hours each night, making Maneck’s empty vacation days longer and emptier. To compensate he tried rising late, but the clamorous dawn, filled with clanging milkmen and argumentative crows, was always victorious.

Dina wrote down bus numbers and directions for him. “It’s very easy to find these tourist attractions, you won’t get lost,” she said, thinking that perhaps that was what scared him. But Maneck did not budge.

Fed up with his moping about the house, she began scolding him. “All the time indoors, like a glum grandpa. It’s not natural for a young man. And you’re driving us crazy with your pacing up and down the whole day.”

His idle presence now began to distract Om, who was once again taking extended tea breaks with him at the Vishram, or playing cards on the verandah, showing a general disinclination to work. Ishvar reproached his nephew, and Dina reprimanded him as well, to no avail.

At the end of the week they took a different approach; they decided it would be best to let Om have a vacation too. Expecting him to slog at the Singer while his friend waited around was unrealistic. After all, it was bad enough having to earn his living at an age when he should have been going to college like Maneck.

So Om was told he could reduce his hours and sew from eight to eleven in the morning. “You have worked very hard these last few months,” said Dina. “You deserve a holiday.”

Now there was no keeping them at home. The minute Om finished his short shift, the two were not seen again till dinnertime. Then it was nonstop talk through the meal and until bedtime, for they were full of the things they had done.

“The sea was so rough, the launch was jumping like a wild horse,” said Om. “It was scary, yaar.”

“I’m telling you, Aunty, your paying guest and half your tailoring factory almost drowned at the jetty.”

“Dont say inauspicious things,” said Ishvar.

“After that launch ride, even the aquarium made me dizzy — all that water around us.”

“But the fish were beautiful, yaar. And such stylish ways they have of swimming. As if they were out for a walk, or shopping in the bazaar, squeezing the tomatoes, or like police running after a thief.”

“Some of them were so colourful, like the cloth from Au Revoir,” said Maneck. “And the nose of the sawfish looked exactly like a real saw, I swear.”

“Tomorrow, I want to get a massage at the beach,” said Om. “We saw them today, with their oils and lotions and towels.”

“Be very careful,” warned Dina. “Those massagewallas are crooks. They give you beautiful chumpee till you are so relaxed, you fall asleep. Then they pick your pocket.”

The next three days, however, were spent at the museum. Om came home and said that the builders must have modelled the domed roof after his uncle’s stomach. “If only I could honestly claim such prosperity,” said Ishvar. For three evenings he and Dina heard all about the Chinese gallery, Tibetan gallery, Nepalese gallery, samovars, tea urns, ivory carvings, jade snuff boxes, tapestries.

Particularly transfixing had been the armour collection — the suits of mail, jade-handled daggers, scimitars, swords with serrated edges (“like the coconut grater on the kitchen shelf,” said Om), bejewelled ceremonial swords, bows and arrows, cudgels, pikes, lances, and spiked maces.

“They looked like the weapons in that old film, Mughal-e-Azam,” said Maneck, and Om added they would be useful to arm all the Chamaars in the villages, conduct a massacre of the landlords and upper castes, which made Ishvar frown disapprovingly till the boys’ laughter reassured him.

And so they devoured their holidays with youthful appetites. The wonders of the city tumbled from their tongues for Ishvar, who enjoyed their sightseeing vicariously, and for Dina, who, in the tide of their enthusiasm, rediscovered something of her own school-days.

Halfway through the vacation a late monsoon surge darkened the skies. Heavy rain kept the boys indoors. Bored and restless, Maneck remembered the chessmen. Om had never seen a set, and the plastic figures captivated his imagination. He demanded to learn the game.

Maneck began naming the pieces for him: “King, queen, bishop, knight, rook, pawn.” The sculpted words fell with a familiar caress upon his own ears. He took pleasure in feeling the pieces between his fingers again after so long, resurrecting them from their maroon plywood coffin in their customary squares, ready for battle.

Then, abruptly, the sound of his voice became the faraway echo of another — a voice that had once named the chessmen thus, for him, in the college hostel. He stopped, unable to proceed with explaining the game. The voice began disinterring the bones of his recent past, the ones he was trying to forget, had half-forgotten, had never wanted to see again. Now they were suddenly surfacing with grotesque alacrity.

He stared at the chessboard, where every piece harboured a ghost within its square. Thirty-two ghosts began their own moves, a dancing, colliding, taunting army of memories willing to do battle with his will to forget. Then the dancing chessmen changed partners, and it was the face of Avinash smiling at him from all sixty-four squares.

With an effort, Maneck abandoned the board and went to the window. Rain was pounding the street. Someone’s motorcycle lay covered under a loudly thrumming tarpaulin. The puddles around it were muddy and uninviting. There were no children playing or splashing, the street joyless in this rain that had stayed too long and was too torrential. He wished he had never opened the box of chessmen.

“What’s wrong?” asked Om.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, then. Stop wasting time, show me how to play.”

“It’s a stupid game. Forget it.”

“Why do you have it, if it’s stupid?”

“Someone lent it to me. I have to return it soon.” He watched the sewer’s whirlpool swallow empty cigarette packs and soft-drink bottlecaps. Kohlah’s Cola would not be among them. Not while Daddy continued in his stubborn ways. What a success the business could have been. And he would never have had to come to this bloody college. Must have made a wrong move somewhere in life, he thought, to walk into this check.

“You just don’t want to teach me,” said Om, sweeping the pieces into the box. They fell with an accusing clatter. Maneck looked, and opened his mouth as though he would speak. Om did not notice, sliding on the lid.

Maneck lingered at the window a little longer before returning to the chessboard. “I don’t want to give you any trouble,” said Om sarcastically. “Are you sure you want to teach me?”

He said nothing, set the board up and began to explain the rules. The rain was beating hard on the motorcycle’s tarpaulin.

Over the next two days, Om learned how the pieces were moved and captured but the concept of checkmate continued to elude him. If Maneck constructed an example on the board, he grasped it perfectly, feeling the trapped king’s helplessness with a visceral anguish. But to reach a similar dénouement on his own during play was beyond him, and he became impatient.

Maneck felt the failure was his — he was just not as good a teacher as Avinash. The corollaries of stalemate and draw were equally difficult. “Sometimes there aren’t enough pieces left on either side, so the king keeps endlessly moving out of check,” he explained over and over.

Again, Om understood when it was illustrated on the board; but the metaphor of kings and armies was not sustained to his satisfaction, and he refused to proceed beyond it. “Makes no sense,” he argued. “Look, your army and my army are battling, and all our men are dead. That leaves the two of us. Now one of us has to win, the stronger will kill the other, right?”

“Maybe. But the rules are different in chess.”

“The rules should always allow someone to win,” Om insisted. The logical breakdown troubled him.

“Sometimes, no one wins,” said Maneck.

“You were right, it is a stupid game,” said Om.

After five days of rain the skies did not let up, and the two were a thorough nuisance in the flat. They amused themselves watching Ishvar and Dina at work. “Look,” whispered Maneck. “His tongue always pokes into his cheek when he starts the machine.” And they found hilarious her habit of hiding both lips between her teeth when measuring something.

“That’s too slow, yaar,” observed Om, as his uncle paused to load a bobbin from the spool. “I can wind it in thirty seconds.”

“You are young, I am old,” said Ishvar good-humouredly. He slipped the fresh bobbin into the shuttle and slid the metal plate over it.

“I always keep six bobbins ready,” said Om. “Then I can change them phuta-phut, without stopping in the middle of a dress.”

“Aunty, you should also grow long nails on your little fingers, like Ishvar. It will look great.”

Her patience quickly ran out. “You two are becoming trouble with a capital t. Just because you have a vacation doesn’t mean you sit and eat up our heads with your nonsense. Either go out or start working.”

“But it’s raining, Aunty. You don’t want us to get wet, do you?”

“You think the whole city pulls a blanket over its head because of a little rain? Take the umbrella, it’s hanging from the cupboard in your room.”

“That’s a ladies’ umbrella.”

“Then get wet. But stop bothering us.”

“Okay,” said Om. “We’ll go somewhere in the afternoon.”

They removed themselves to the verandah, and Maneck suggested a second visit to the aquarium. Om said he had a better idea: “Jeevan’s shop.”

“Boring, yaar — there’s nothing to do there.”

Om revealed his plan: to convince Jeevan to let them measure female customers.

“Okay, let’s go,” grinned Maneck.

“I’ll teach you this game,” said Om. “Measuring the chest is easier than playing chess. And much more fun, for sure.”

The shop was quiet when they arrived. Jeevan was taking a nap, stretched out on the floor behind the counter. On a stool by his head a transistor radio played soft sarangi music. Om turned up the volume, and Jeevan awoke with a start.

He sat gulping air for a minute, his eyes bulging. “Why did you do that? It’s a joke or what? Now I’ll have a headache the whole afternoon.”

He refused to even consider Om’s offer of free help. “Measure my customers? Forget it. I know what you are up to. That swelling between your legs will drag my shop’s good name through the mud.”

Om promised to behave professionally and not let his fingers wander. He declared that his skills were rusting due to working from paper patterns. “I just want to keep in touch with real tailoring.”

“Tits are what you want to keep in touch with. You can’t fool me. Stay away from my lady customers, I’m warning you.”

Maneck wandered into the changing booth behind the curtain. “Wouldn’t it be fun to hide in here when they came for a trial.”

Om inspected the interior too. He found three clothes hooks and a mirror, but nowhere to conceal oneself. “It’s impossible,” he concluded.

“You think so, do you?” said Jeevan. “Now let me show you smart boys something.” He led them behind the counter, to the rear of the partition that formed the back of the booth. “Put your eye to that,” he said, indicating a crack in one corner.

Om gasped. “You can see everything from here!”

“Let me look,” said Maneck, pushing him. “It’s perfect, yaar!”

Jeevan strummed his lips and smirked. “Yes, but don’t get any ideas. I will be in a madhouse before I let you in here.”

“Aray, please!” said Om. “It’s such a perfect top-to-bottom free show!”

“Perfect, yes. Free, no. Everything has a price. You go for cinema, there is a ticket to buy. Take the train, and there is the fare to pay.”

“How much?” asked Om.

“Never mind how much. I cannot risk my shop’s honour.”

“Please, yaar, Jeevan, please!”

He began to relent. “You’ll behave yourselves? No going crazy at the sight of flesh?”

“We’ll do whatever you say.”

“Okay. Two rupees each.”

Om watched Maneck check his pocket. “Yes, we have enough.”

“But I want only one at a time back here. And no noise, not even breathing, understand?” They nodded. Jeevan examined the order book. Two women were due that evening, one for a blouse and one for pants. “Who wants which?”

Maneck suggested tossing a coin. “Heads,” said Om, and won. He closed his eyes, smiling, trying to decide, and selected pants. Jeevan said they had at least an hour to wait, the customers would be coming after five. Since the rain had eased up, the two decided to go for a stroll.

It was a tense, silent walk, the air heavy with expectation. They spoke just once, to concur that they should be getting back in case the women were early. Barely fifteen minutes had elapsed.

They waited on edge in the shop, getting on Jeevan’s nerves. There were four false alarms — people collecting repairs and alterations. At a quarter to six, their patience was rewarded.

“Yes, madam, your blouse is ready for trial,” said Jeevan, giving the boys a discreet nod. He browsed through a stack of clothes to allow Maneck time to slide behind the counter into the dark space. Then, retrieving the blouse, he indicated the curtain to the woman. “In there, madam, thank you very much.”

Maneck thought the pounding of his heart would knock down the partition. High heels tapping sharply on the stone floor, she entered, hung the new blouse on a hook, and drew the curtain. She pulled her neatly tucked top out of her skirt and unbuttoned it, her back towards him. He watched her reflection in the mirror.

He held his breath as the top came away. She was wearing a white brassière. Her thumbs travelled under the straps, shifting their position. Two red lines upon the skin of her shoulders marked the place. Then she moved her hands behind and unhooked the brassière.

For one insane moment he thought it was coming off. He clenched his fist. But the hook was merely moved to the next loop on the fraying elastic band. She rolled her shoulders a couple of times and adjusted the cups, pushing them higher till they settled snugly, and put on the new blouse.

Beads of perspiration rolled down Maneck’s forehead and stung his eyes. She left the booth. He took the opportunity to inhale deeply. Through the crack, past the open curtain, he could see Jeevan checking the fit. Om turned suddenly and winked at the crack, putting his hands on his chest and squeezing.

The blouse was satisfactory. She returned to change, and exited in less than a minute. Maneck waited; he could hear Jeevan thanking her and providing a final delivery date. Then the high heels tapped their way down the steps, and he emerged from the hiding place.

He wiped his brow on his sleeve, shaking out the shirt underneath his armpits. “It’s so hot behind the partition.”

“Don’t blame the partition. Your heat rises from your lower part,” laughed Jeevan. He gestured for the money, and Maneck paid up.

“How was it?” asked Om. “What did you see?”

“It was great. But she was wearing a bra.”

“What did you expect?” said Jeevan. “My customers are not low-class village women. They work in big offices — secretaries, receptionists, typists. They apply lipstick and rouge, and wear top-quality underwear.”

Om had to wait another half-hour before his customer arrived. He sidled nonchalantly past the counter, disappearing before Jeevan found the garment and directed the woman into the booth.

When she stepped out Maneck wished he could have opted for this one. The way the new pants hugged her thighs and gripped her crotch brought a lump to his throat. Jeevan knelt before her to verify the inseam, and Maneck swallowed hard.

She returned behind the curtain. Seconds later, there was a muffled thud and a scream.

Jeevan jumped. “Madam! Is everything all right?”

“I heard a noise! From the back!”

“Please madam, it’s all right, I promise you,” he grovelled with masterful calm and speed. “It’s only rats. Please don’t worry.”

She came out flustered, flinging the pants on the counter. He reverently restored them to their hanger. “I’m very sorry you were frightened, madam. Rats are such a problem wherever you go in the city.”

“You should do something about it,” she said angrily. “It’s not nice for your customers.”

“Yes, madam. Sometimes it hides in the boxes behind the partition and makes a noise. I’ll have to spread more poison for it.” He apologized again and saw her off.

Om emerged wearing a sheepish smile, quite ready to be teased about his trouser-rat. Jeevan clipped him viciously over the head. “Saala idiot! Such huge trouble you could have made for me! What caused the noise?”

“Sorry, I slipped.”

“Slipped! What filthy things were you doing that you slipped? Get out, both of you! I don’t want to see you again in my shop!”

Maneck tried to placate Jeevan by offering the two rupees for Om’s viewing, but that only aggravated him further. He swept the hand aside and looked ready to strike him. “Keep your money! And keep this troublesome boy out of my shop!” He pushed them through the door and down the steps.

They were subdued as they walked up the lane to the main road. A crow shrieked from a window ledge. The sobering effect of Jeevan’s rage was deepened by the evening light lapping at the hem of darkness. Streetlamps started to flicker tentatively — yellow buds, intimating the arrival of the full glow. Something scampered across their path into an alley.

“Look,” said Maneck. “There goes madam’s rat.” They caught a flash of pink skin through the rodent’s diseased fur, patchy and mange-eaten.

“It’s searching for Advanced Tailoring,” said Om. “Wants to order a new suit.” They laughed. The rat disappeared into the alley’s darker recesses where a gutter gurgled. There were sharp squeaks, and sounds of splashing. They headed for the bus stop.

“So tell me,” Maneck nudged with an elbow. “What were you doing in there?”

Smiling wryly, Om made a fist and moved it up and down. A short laugh that was more like a cough broke from Maneck.

Ahead, something spattered onto the crowded pavement from an upper-storey window. Pedestrians who had been soiled screamed at the building. They reached the entrance steps and raced upstairs, though it was impossible to know which window was hiding the culprit.

“Did you see much?” asked Maneck.

“Everything. Her new pants were so tight, when she pulled them down her knickers went down as well.”

Maneck kicked a stone into the gutter. “You saw the hair?”

Om nodded. “It was a real bush.” He used both hands to describe it, wriggling his fingers to emphasize a rich thicket. “Have you ever seen one?”

“Only once. A long time ago. We used to have an ayah when I was small. I climbed on a chair while she was bathing and looked through the ventilator over the door. It scared me. It seemed fierce, as though it was going to bite.”

Om laughed. “It wouldn’t scare you now, for sure. You’d jump right into it.”

“Just give me a chance.”

They waited for the signal change to cross the road. At the edge of the footpath two policemen held up a rope, taut between them, keeping the crowds from spilling into traffic. People surged against the barrier like waves testing the shoreline. The policemen dug in their heels, straining, shouting, containing the impatient homeward-bound flock.

“You know, it’s a good thing the rat wasn’t really behind the partition,” said Maneck. “It would have chewed off your little soosoti in one second.”

“What do you mean by little?” said Om. “It stands up like this.” And he brandished his forearm energetically.

The proscriptive red hand on the traffic light disappeared, and a green stick-figure illuminated the round glass. The policemen skipped aside nimbly with the rope; the crowd swarmed across.

Fireworks reached their climax on the night before Divali, and sleep was difficult till well after midnight. At each detonation, especially of the red cubes called Atom Bombs, Ishvar sighed “Hai Ram” and put his hands over his ears.

“What’s the point in covering your ears after the bang?” said Om.

“What else can I do. Bilkool crazy, a time of light and celebration turning into pain and earache. Is this any way to welcome Lord Ram back to Ayodhya from his exile in the forest?”

“The problem is too much wealth in the city,” said Dina. “If people must make smoke of their money, I wish they would do it prettily.” She flinched as another Atom Bomb exploded, “If I was in charge, only sparklers, fountains, and chakardees would be allowed.”

“Hahnji, but the great religious experts will tell you that it wouldn’t be enough to frighten away the evil spirits,” said Ishvar sarcastically.

“These Atom Bombs will scare the gods as well,” she said, retreating from the verandah. “In Lord Ram’s place, I would run straight back to the forest rather than face the explosions of these fanatics.”

With a plug of cotton wool in each ear she started to work on the quilt. Ishvar followed her in a few minutes, sitting with his hands over his ears, and she got cotton wool for him too. At the next boom he beamed, to say it was working.

Maneck and Om refused to relinquish the verandah, though they stuck fingers in their ears if a reveller began preparing a string of red cubes. “Too bad we’re watching,” said Om. “Or they’d be in bed — jumping, for sure.”

“Who?”

“Dinabai and my uncle, who else?”

“You have a dirty mind.”

“Yes, I do,” said Om. “Listen, a riddle for you: to make it stiff and stand up straight, she rubs it; to make it slick and slide it in, she licks it. What is she doing?” He was laughing before he had finished reciting the question, while Maneck hushed him with a finger to his lips.

“Come on, answer. What’s she doing?”

“Fucking, what else?”

“Wrong. Give up? She’s threading a needle,” said Om smugly, as Maneck clapped a hand to his forehead. “Now whose mind is dirty?”

There were six days of vacation left before college reopened, and Om had an idea for more fun. He knew that age and moisture had distorted the bathroom door and its frame, leaving a sizeable gap when shut. He said they could take turns peeking while Dina bathed. The other would keep watch, to make sure Ishvar didn’t catch them at it.

“Your story about the bathing ayah gave me the inspiration. So what do you think?”

“You’re mad,” said Maneck. “I’m not going to.”

“What are you scared of? She won’t know, yaar.”

“I just don’t want to.”

“Okay, then I will.” He got up.

“No, you won’t.” Maneck grabbed his arm.

“Aray go! Who are you to tell me?” He wrenched his arm away, whereupon Maneck gripped his shoulders and pushed him back in the chair. They grappled in earnest. Om lashed out with his feet but Maneck worked his way behind the chair and pinned him to it. Om gave up, unable to move.

“You’re a selfish bastard,” he said softly. “I know you. All those months you lived alone with her, you must have watched her naked every morning in the bathroom. Now you won’t let me have the same fan.”

“It’s not true,” said Maneck vehemently from behind the chair. “I never have.”

“You’re lying. At least admit it. Come on, describe her for me if you won’t let me look. What about her tits? Are the nipples nice and pointy? And the — ”

“Stop it.”

“- and the brown circles around the nipples, how big are they?”

“Shut up, I’m warning you.”

“And the cunt? Is it big and juicy with lots of — ”

Maneck moved in front of the chair and slapped him across the mouth. Shocked, Om clutched his face silently for a few seconds. The pain filled his eyes. “You lousy fucker!” He came to life then, and sprang at him, swinging his fists wildly.

The chair fell over. Maneck caught one blow on the head, the rest landing harmlessly on his arms. To subdue Om without hurting him, he grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a close embrace; now the fists had no room to travel. There was the sound of something tearing. The pocket came away in his hand, and a rent appeared below the shoulder.

“Bastard!” screamed Om, redoubling his efforts. “You tore my shirt!”

The commotion grew loud enough for Ishvar to hear over the sound of his machine, bringing him to the verandah. “Hoi-hoi! What is this goonda-giri?”

In his presence their desire to fight suddenly evaporated. It was easy for him to separate them. Now the violence was all in the looks. They glared at each other for a moment before turning away.

“He tore my shirt!” cried Om, staring down at the disembowelled pocket.

“Such things happen if you fight. But why were you behaving like that?”

“He tore my shirt,” anguished Om again.

Meanwhile, Dina had heard the shouting and cut short her bath. “I can’t believe it,” she said, when Ishvar told her. “I thought it was ruffians on the street. You two? Why?”

“Ask him,” they each muttered.

“He tore my shirt,” added Om, “look,” and flapped the torn pocket before her.

“Shirt, shirt, shirt! Is that all you can say?” scolded Ishvar. “Shirt can be repaired. Why were you fighting?”

“I’m not rich like him, I only have two shirts. And he tore one.”

Maneck rushed to his room, grabbed the first shirt in sight, and returned to fling it at Om. He caught it and threw it back. Maneck let it lie where it fell.

“You are acting like two little babas,” said Dina. “Come on, Ishvarbhai, let’s get to work.” She felt they would reconcile faster if left to themselves, without the burden of saving face.

Maneck stayed in his room all day, and Om sat on the verandah. Ishvar’s attempts to joke about the sour-lime face or hero number zero were stillborn. Dina felt sorry that the vacation was winding down on a bitter note.

“Look at them,” she said, “two mournful owls nesting in my house,” and she made an owlish face at the boys. Ishvar laughed alone.

Next morning, Om announced with the air of a martyr that he wanted to work full days again. “This holiday has lasted much too long for my taste.” Maneck pretended not to have heard.

The sewing started badly, and developed into a full-blown disaster. Dina had to warn Om: “The company will not tolerate this. You must keep your bad humour out of the stitches.”

As a badge of his martyrdom he continued to wear the torn shirt, pocket hanging loose, though it would have taken less than ten minutes to fix. At mealtimes, he pointedly avoided the knife and fork, which he had mastered by now, and used his fingers. In the absence of speech, a war of noises broke out. Maneck’s cutlery clattered against the plate, sawing a potato as if it were a deodar log. Om replied by slurping from his fingers, his tongue sucking and licking like a floor mop sloshing industriously. Maneck speared meat like a gladiator lunging at a lion. Om retaliated by involving his palm as well, suctioning food off it with little gurgles.

Their extravagant performances might have been amusing were it not for the palpable misery around the table. Dina felt cheated of the happy family atmosphere she had come to rely on. Instead, this wretched gloom sat uninvited at dinner, residing unwanted in her home.

For a fortnight after Divali, sporadic firecrackers kept puncturing holes in the night before dying out altogether. “Peace and quiet at last,” said Ishvar, throwing away the cotton-wool plugs he had saved carefully beside his bedding.

Maneck got his marks for the first-term exams, and they were not very good. Dina said it was due to his neglecting his studies. “From now on, I want to see you with your books for at least two hours. Every night, after dinner.”

“Even my mother is not so strict,” he grumbled.

“She would be if she saw these marks.”

Prodding him into the study routine turned out to be easier than she expected. His resistance was nominal, for there was little else to occupy him. Since the fight with Om, they barely spoke, though Ishvar kept trying valiantly to rekindle their friendship. He also supported Dina’s attempt to make Maneck work harder.

“Think how happy your parents will be,” he said.

“Never mind your parents — study for your own sake, you foolish boy,” she said. “You listen, too, Om. When you have children, make sure you send them to school and college. Look how I have to slave now because I was denied an education. Nothing is more important than learning.”

“Bilkool correct,” said Ishvar. “But why were you denied an education, Dinabai?”

“It’s a very long story.”

“Tell us,” said Ishvar, Maneck, and Om together. It made her smile, especially when the boys frowned to disown the coincidence.

She began. “I never like to look back at my life, my childhood, with regret or bitterness.”

Ishvar nodded.

“But sometimes, against my will, the thoughts about the past come into my head. Then I question why things turned out the way they have, clouding the bright future everyone predicted for me when I was in school, when my name was still Dina Shroff…”

Sounds on the verandah announced the tailors’ preparation for sleep. The bedding was unrolled and shaken out. Soon, Om began massaging his uncle’s feet. Maneck could tell from the soft sighs of pleasure. Then Ishvar said, “Yes, that one, harder, the heel aches a lot,” and inside, bent over his textbook, Maneck envied their closeness.

He yawned and looked at his watch — everyone in neutral corners. He missed their company, the walks, the after-dinner gatherings in the front room with Dina Aunty working on the quilt while they watched, chatting, planning next day’s work, or what to cook for tomorrow’s dinner: the simple routines that gave a secure, meaningful shape to all their lives.

In the sewing room the light was still on. Dina was maintaining her vigil till Maneck closed his books, making sure he did not shave a few minutes off the end of his study shift.

The doorbell rang.

The tailors bolted upright on the bedding and reached for their shirts. Dina came to the verandah and demanded through the door, “Who’s there?”

“Sorry for the trouble, sister.”

She recognized the rent-collector’s voice. Absurd, she thought, for him to come at this hour. “What is it, so late?”

“Sorry to bother you sister, but the office has sent me.”

“Now? Couldn’t wait till morning?”

“They said it was urgent, sister. I do as I am told.”

She shrugged at the tailors and opened the door, holding on to the knob. The next moment, two men behind Ibrahim shoved the door aside, and her with it, charging in as though expecting to meet heavy opposition.

One of them was nearly bald and the other had a mop of black hair, but their straggly moustaches, cold eyes, and slouching, bulky torsos made menacing twins of them. They seemed to have fashioned their mannerisms on cinema villains, thought Maneck.

“Sorry, sister,” Ibrahim smiled his automatic smile. “Office has sent me to deliver final notice — orally. Please listen very carefully. You must vacate in forty-eight hours. For violating tenancy terms and regulations.”

Fear brushed Dinas face lightly, like a feather, before she blew it aside. “I’m calling the police right now if you don’t take your goondas and leave! The landlord has a problem? Tell him to go to court, I will see him there!”

The bald man spoke, soft and soothing. “Why insult us by saying goondas? We are the landlord’s employees. Like these tailors are your employees.”

The other one said, “We are acting in the place of courts and lawyers. They are a waste of time and money. These days we can produce faster results.” He had a mouthful of paan, and spoke with difficulty, dark-red trickles escaping the corners of his lips.

“Ishvarbhai, run to the corner!” said Dina. “Fetch the police!”

The bald man blocked the door. Trying to get past him, Ishvar was sent reeling to the other end of the verandah.

“Please, please! No fighting,” said Ibrahim, his white beard trembling with his words.

“If you don’t leave I’m going to start screaming for help,” said Dina.

“If you scream, we’ll make you stop,” said the bald partner in a reassuring tone. He continued to guard the front door while the paanchewing man sauntered into the back room. Ibrahim, Dina, and the tailors followed helplessly. Maneck watched from his room.

The man stood motionless, looking around as though admiring the place. Then he exploded. He picked up one of the stools and began battering the sewing-machines with it. When its wooden legs fell apart, he continued with the second stool till it, too, had shattered.

He tossed it aside, kicked over the Singers, and started to rip the finished frocks stacked on the table, pulling them apart at the seams. He was struggling now — new cloth and fresh stitches did not give easily. “Tear, maaderchod, tear!” he muttered, addressing the dresses.

Ishvar and Om, paralysed up to now, rediscovered movement and rushed to rescue the products of their labour. They were both flung back like bundles of cloth.

“Stop him!” said Dina to Ibrahim, grabbing his arm and pulling, pushing him towards the fray. “You brought these goondas! Do something!”

Ibrahim wrung his hands nervously and decided to gather the wrecked frocks. As fast as the paanchewing man could scatter them, he picked them up, folded the torn pieces, and placed them carefully on the table.

“Need any help?” called the partner from the door.

“No, everything’s fine.” Finished with ripping the dresses, he started on the bolts of cloth, but this time the fabric, in its abundance, refused to tear.

“Set fire to it,” was the bald man’s advice, and he offered his cigarette lighter.

“No!” panicked Ibrahim. “Whole building might burn! Landlord won’t like that!”

The paanchewing man conceded the point. Unfurling the cloth in a heap upon the floor, he sprayed it with the paan juice his mouth had worked up. “There,” he grinned at Ibrahim. “My red nectar is as fiery as flames.”

Pausing to survey the room, he spied the pinking shears that Ashraf Chacha had gifted to the tailors. He examined them. “Nice,” he said appreciatively, and lifted his hand to fling them out the window.

“No!” screamed Om.

The goonda laughed and released the tailors’ dearest possession. The crash of the shears landing on the pavement came through the window as Om rushed at him. The puny attack amused the man before he decided to end it, slapping Om twice, then punching him in the stomach.

“You bastard,” said Maneck. He grabbed the pagoda umbrella hanging from the cupboard and went after Om’s assailant.

“Please! No fighting!” begged Ibrahim. “There is no need for fighting!”

The man took a whack on his shoulder, noticed the steel shaft’s formidable point, and dodged around the fallen sewing-machines. Maneck feinted, relishing his superiority, while the man jerked backwards. He feinted again, and whacked him twice over the head.

The bald man entered the room quietly. Standing behind them, he pulled out a flick-knife and held it open, pointing to the ceiling. Like a film actor, thought Maneck, starting to tremble.

“Okay, batcha,” said the bald man in his soft voice. “Your little fun is over.”

The others turned to look. Dina screamed when she saw the knife, and Ibrahim was furious now. “Put that away! And get out, both of you! Your work is done, I am in charge!”

“Shut up,” said the bald man. “We know our job.” His partner snatched away the umbrella and drove his fist into Maneck’s face. Maneck fell against the wall. Blood trickled from his mouth in a painful reflection of the paan juice oozing from the other’s lips.

“Stop it! I was present when you got your orders! There was nothing about beatings and knives!” The rent-collector stamped his foot and shook his fist.

The impotent rage entertained the bald man. “Are you killing cockroaches with your shoe?” he laughed, feeling the blade with his finger before retracting it. Then he snapped it open again and slashed Dina’s pillows and mattress. He threw them about, watching the stuffing scatter. The sofa cushions in the front room were treated similarly.

“There,” he said. “Now the rest is in your hands, madam. You don’t want us to return with a second notice, do you?”

The other fellow kicked Maneck’s shins in passing. Giving his paan a final workout, he spat on the bed and around it, emptying his mouth over as much of the room as possible. “Are you coming or not?” he asked Ibrahim.

“Later,” he said, frowning angrily at them. “I have not finished.”

The front door closed. Dina regarded the rent-collector with loathing and went to Maneck, where Ishvar was cradling him, holding his head, asking if he was all right. Ibrahim followed close behind, whispering repeatedly, “Forgive me, sister,” like a secret prayer.

Maneck’s nose was bleeding and the upper lip was cut. He checked with his tongue — no teeth were broken. They wiped the blood with scraps lying around the sewing-machines. He tried to mumble something and rose groggily.

“Don’t talk,” said Om, who had got back his wind, “it will bleed more.”

“Thank God the knife wasn’t used,” said Dina.

The sound of shattering glass came from the front room. Ibrahim ran to the verandah. “Stop it, you fools!” he yelled. “What’s the idea? That will only cost the landlord!” A few more stones broke the remaining windowpanes, then there was silence.

They helped Maneck to the basin to wash his face. “I can walk by myself,” he muttered. After cleaning him up a bit, they led him to the sofa with a cloth pressed to his nose.

“What that lip needs is ice,” said Dina.

“I’ll buy some from Vishram,” volunteered Om.

“Not necessary,” said Maneck, but was overruled by the others. A ten-paisa lump would be enough, they decided. Ibrahim quickly fished a coin out of his sherwani and offered it to Om.

“Don’t touch his money!” ordered Dina, fetching her purse. The rent-collector pleaded for its acceptance before dropping the coin back in his pocket.

Waiting for Om to return, they contemplated the damage. Fluff from the shredded cushions floated around, settling slowly to the floor. Dina picked up the slashed casings; she felt dirty, as though the goondas’ hands had molested her own being. The ripped dresses and paan-soiled bolts began bearing down heavily on her. How would she explain to Au Revoir? What could she possibly tell Mrs. Gupta?

“I am finished,” she said, on the verge of tears.

“Maybe the frocks can be repaired, Dinabai,” said Ishvar, making an effort to console her. “And we can wash off the red stuff.”

But his words sounded so hopeless, even to himself, that instead he turned on Ibrahim. “You have no shame? Why are you trying to destroy this poor lady? What kind of monster are you?”

Ibrahim stood contritely, ready to listen. He welcomed the revilement, desired an excess of it, to salve his guilt.

“Your beard is pure white but your heart is rotten,” said Ishvar.

“You wicked, sinful man!” hissed Dina. “A disgrace to old age!”

“Please, sister! I did not know they — ”

“You did this! You brought those goondas!” She shook with fear and rage.

Ibrahim could control himself no longer. Putting his hands over his face, he made a peculiar sound. It was not immediately apparent that he was trying to cry noiselessly. “It’s no use,” his voice broke. “I cannot do this job, I hate it! Oh, what has my life become!” He felt under the sherwani and pulled out his kerchief to blow his nose.

“Forgive me, sister,” he sobbed. “I did not know, when I brought them, that they would do such damage. For years I have followed the landlord’s orders. Like a helpless child. He tells me to threaten somebody, I threaten. He tells me to plead, I plead. If he raves that a tenant must be evicted, I have to repeat the raving at the tenant’s door. I am his creature. Everybody thinks I am an evil person, but I am not, I want to see justice done, for myself, for yourself, for everyone. But the world is controlled by wicked people, we have no chance, we have nothing but trouble and sorrow…”

He dissolved completely. Ishvar took his arm and led him to a chair, his resentment softening. “Here, sit down and don’t cry. Doesn’t look nice.”

“What else can I do but cry? These tears are all I have to offer. Forgive me, sister. I have harmed you. Now the goondas will return after forty-eight hours. They will throw your furniture and belongings on the pavement. Poor sister, where will you go?”

“I won’t open the door for them, that’s all.”

Her childish assertion touched Ibrahim, and he began weeping again. “It won’t stop them. They will bring policemen to break the lock.”

“As if the police will help them.”

“These Emergency times are terrible, sister. Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.”

“But what is it to the landlord if my tailors and I sew here?” Her voice rose uncontrollably. “Who am I harming with my work?”

“The landlord needs an excuse, sister. These flats are worth a fortune, the Rent Act lets him charge only the old worthless rent, so he — ”

Ibrahim broke off and wiped his eyes. “But you know all that, sister. It’s not you alone, he is doing the same with other tenants, the ones who are weak and without influence.”

Om returned with a lump of ice that was too big to hold comfortably against the lip. He covered it in cloth and struck the floor with it. “You came like a real hero to save me,” he grinned, trying to cheer up Maneck, who looked very pale. “You jumped in just like Amitabh Bachchan.”

He unwrapped the fragments of ice and turned to the others. “Did you see it? For a minute that fucker was really scared by Maneck’s umbrella.”

“Language,” said Dina.

Maneck smiled, which stretched the cut lip. He restrained himself and took a piece of ice.

“That’s it — that’s your new name,” said Om. “Umbrella Bachchan.”

“What are you waiting for?” Dina turned angrily to the rent-collector again. “You tell your landlord, I am not leaving, I won’t give up this flat.”

“I don’t think it will help, sister,” said Ibrahim sorrowfully, “but I wish you best of luck,” and he left.

Maneck said he did not want to create trouble for Dina Aunty with his presence. “Don’t worry about me,” he uttered with minimum lip movement. “I can always return home.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “After all these months, more than halfway to your diploma, how can you disappoint your parents?”

“No no, he is right,” said Ishvar. “It’s not fair, all this suffering for you because of us. We will go back to the nightwatchman.”

“Stop talking nonsense, all of you,” snapped Dina. “Let me think for a minute.” She said they were missing the point. “You heard Ibrahim’s words — the landlord just wants an excuse. Your going away will not save my flat.”

The only thing she could count on, in her opinion, was her brother’s ability to straighten out the dispute — with money, smooth words, or whatever it was that he was so good at using in his business dealings. “Once again, I’ll have to swallow my pride and ask for his help, that’s all.”