A Fine Balance

XII. Trace of Destiny

THEY MOVED MECHANICALLY THROUGH their morning acts of washing and cleaning and tea-making. Om’s stomach was sore where he had been punched, but he did not tell his uncle. They crept into Maneck’s room to check on him. He was still asleep. There were stains on his pillow; his lip and nose had bled again during the night. They called Dina to see it.

She was mentally rehearsing her meeting with Nusswan, imagining his smug face, the expression proclaiming his indispensability. She bent over Maneck — how innocent is his sleep, she thought, and felt like stroking his forehead. The lip was black where the blood had clotted. The final trickle from the nose had also congealed. They backed softly out of the room. “He’s all right,” she whispered. “The cut is dry, let him sleep.”

As she was readying to leave for her brother’s office, Beggarmaster arrived at the door, briefcase chained to his left wrist. It was his scheduled collection day. Ishvar had the money put aside from the previous week’s earnings, safe in Dina’s cupboard.

She urged him to level with the man that the next instalment would be difficult. “Better to tell him now than to have him come looking for you with a stick.”

Beggarmaster listened sceptically. Measured against his own experiences, the account of the goondas’ nocturnal assault sounded too theatrical to be true. He suspected his clients were concocting the story, preparing to renege on their contract.

Then they took him inside, showed him the shattered windows, battered sewing-machines, torn dresses and soiled fabrics, and he was convinced. “This is bad,” he said. “Very bad. Such amateurs they must be, to behave like this.”

“I’m ruined,” said Dina. “And it’s not the tailors’ fault that they won’t be able to pay you next week.”

“Believe me, they will,” he said grimly.

“But how?” implored Ishvar. “If we are thrown out and cannot work? Have mercy on us!”

Taking no notice of him, Beggarmaster walked around the room, inspecting, rapping his knuckles on the table, jotting in his little notepad. “Tell me how much it will cost to fix all the damage.”

“What good is that going to do?” cried Dina. “Those goondas will return tomorrow if we don’t vacate! And you want to waste time on an account? I have more urgent things on my mind, making sure I have shelter!”

Beggarmaster looked up from his notepad, slightly surprised. “You already have shelter. Right here. This is your flat, isn’t it?”

She nodded impatiently at the silly question.

“Those goondas committed a big mistake,” he continued, “and I am going to correct it for them.”

“And when they come back?”

“They won’t. You tailors have made your payments regularly, so you don’t have to worry — you are under my protection. Everything will be taken care of. But unless I know the amount of damage, how will I reimburse you? You want to start your sewing business again or not?”

Now it was Dina’s turn to look sceptical. “What are you, an insurance company?”

He smiled modestly in reply.

There was nothing to lose, she decided, and started multiplying the mutilated length of Au Revoir fabric by the price per yard. The loss totalled nine hundred and fifty rupees plus tax. Ishvar estimated the charge for repairing the sewing-machines to be approximately six hundred. The belts and needles were broken; and the flywheels and treadles would have to be realigned or replaced, besides a general overhaul.

Beggarmaster wrote it down, totting up the cost of the slashed mattress, pillows, wooden stools, sofa, cushions, and windows. “Anything else?”

“The umbrella,” said Maneck, awakened by their voices. “They broke some ribs.”

Beggarmaster added it to the list, then recorded the landlord’s office address and descriptions of the two men. “Good,” he said. “That’s all I need. If your landlord doesn’t know you’re my clients, he’ll soon find out. He’ll settle the damages, once I pay him a little visit. Now don’t worry, just wait for me, I’ll be back this evening.”

“Should I make a complaint to the police?” asked Dina.

He gave her a weary look. “If you like. But you might as well complain to that crow on your window.” The bird cawed and flew away; he felt vindicated.

Beggarmaster’s assurances could not fully assuage Dina’s doubts. She went to Nusswan’s office in order to inform him of the situation. In case his help was required later, she decided, or he would say: Digging a well when the house is on fire.

The peon informed her sadly that Nusswan sahab was out of town for a meeting; he always felt sad about sahab’s sister. “He won’t be back till tomorrow night.”

Dina left the office, tempted to stop at the Venus Beauty Salon and talk with Zenobia. But to what purpose? Empty consolation would solve nothing; besides, it would be accompanied by Zenobia’s infuriating “I warned you but you wouldn’t listen.”

She returned to the flat, praying that Beggarmaster would come through. A stench followed her inside the door, and she puzzled about it. “Can you smell it?” she asked Ishvar.

They went around room by room, checking the kitchen and wc as well. The malodour trailed them everywhere without revealing itself. “Maybe it’s from outside, from the gutter,” said Om. But when they stuck their heads out through the window, the smell seemed to diminish.

“Those stinking goondas must have left it behind,” she said, and Ishvar agreed. Then Om, who was kneeling on the floor, picking up the last bits of broken glass, discovered the smell was coming from her shoe. She had stepped in something on the pavement. She went outside, scraped off the brown mess from the sole, and washed it.

For most of the day Maneck stayed in bed with a thundering headache. Dina and the tailors attempted to restore some order to the shambles of the flat. They swept up the cotton fill, stuffed it back in, and sewed up the slashes, but the cushions still looked deflated. Plumping and patting could not take away their limpness. Next they tackled the paan stains, which were everywhere.

“God knows why we are wasting our energy,” she said. “Tomorrow night we could be thrown out, if your Beggarmaster is just big talk.”

“I think it will be all right,” said Ishvar. “Shankar always says Beggarmaster is very influential.”

When he had repeated this for the fourth time late in the day, Dina was irritated. “So now a poor legless beggar is your fountain of wisdom and advice, is he?”

“No,” said Ishvar, taken aback. “But he has known Beggarmaster a long time. I mean… in the work camp he helped us.”

“Then why isn’t he here yet? The evening is almost over.”

“Beggarmaster has betrayed us,” said Om. His uncle did not contradict him.

Their hopes of rescue faded with the twilight. As the night deepened, the four sat in silence, attempting to discern the face of tomorrow. So this was it, thought Dina, the end of the independence she had struggled so long to preserve. There was no use raising her hopes about Nusswan. Even his lawyer couldn’t do much if the landlord’s goondas put her furniture on the pavement. What was it that lawyers said — possession is nine-tenths of the law. And, in any case, the idea of independence was a fantasy. Everyone depended on someone. If not on Nusswan, she would have to continue relying on the tailors, and on Au Revoir Exports — which came to the same thing … and Nusswan could arrange for a lorry to remove her things, take them to her parents’ house — which he liked to call his house. Always saying it was his duty to look after his sister. Now he could, as long as he wanted.

A cat screeched outside the kitchen window, and they sat up, startled. More cats took up the cry. “Wonder what’s scaring them,” said Ishvar uneasily.

“They just like to scream sometimes,” said Maneck. But he went to look, and the others followed. There was no sign of anything unusual in the alley.

“You think the goondas will come back tonight?” said Om.

“Ibrahim gave us forty-eight hours’ notice,” said Dina. “So maybe tomorrow night. Listen, even though I am going to ask my brother’s help, our chances are not very good. The time is so short. And who knows what will happen? I don’t want more fighting here. Tomorrow morning, you must take your belongings and leave. Later, if everything is fine, you can return.”

“I was thinking the same,” said Ishvar. “We will go to the nightwatchman. And Maneck can try at the hostel.”

“But we must keep in touch,” said Om. “Maybe we can sew in your brother’s house. Other companies will give you business, even if this one cancels.”

“Yes, we’ll do something,” she said, not having the heart to tell them Nusswan would forbid it. “But you shouldn’t depend only on me, you must also look for work elsewhere.”

Maneck was silent as they persevered to rescue the shreds of their livelihood. Not all their skills with needle and thread could sew it together again, he thought. Did life treat everyone so wantonly, ripping the good things to pieces while letting bad things fester and grow like fungus on unrefrigerated food? Vasantrao Valmik the proofreader would say it was all part of living, that the secret of survival was to balance hope and despair, to embrace change. But embrace misery and destruction? No. If there were a large enough refrigerator, he would be able to preserve the happy times in this flat, keep them from ever spoiling; and Avinash and chess, which soured so soon, he would save that too; and the mountains of snow, and the General Store, before it all went gloomy, before Daddy became unrecognizable, and Mummy his willing slave.

But it was an unrefrigerated world. And everything ended badly. What could he do now? The thought of the hostel was more nauseating than ever. And if he went home, the fighting would start with Daddy. There was no way out, it was checkmate for him.

“Listen, the cats have stopped screaming,” said Ishvar. “So quiet now.” They strained to hear. The silence was as perturbing as the screeching had been.

The tailors had a quick early-morning wash before the tap went dry. There was no telling when they would have again the luxury of a bathroom. In their immediate future they could only see alleyways and standpipes.

Maneck was not in a hurry. His lip was better today, the swelling reduced, and his headache was gone. He sat around listlessly, or moved from room to room as though searching for something.

“Come on, Maneck,” said Dina, “it’s getting late. Do something, pack your boxes. Or go to the hostel first, see if they have a place for you.”

He returned to his room, pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and opened it. When she looked in a few minutes later, he had the chessboard set up, and was staring at the pieces.

“Are you crazy?” she yelled at him. “Time is running out, you have still so much to do!”

“I’ll do it when I feel like it. I’m an independent person, even if you are giving up.” He deliberately picked the word she used when talking about herself.

It stung, but she ignored it. “Big talk is easy. We’ll see how independent you are when the goondas come back and break your head open. One beating wasn’t enough for you, it looks like.”

“Why should you care? You are packing up and leaving, not even showing a little regret.”

“Regret is a luxury I can’t afford. And why should you make such a long face? You would have gone anyway, when you finished your diploma. If not now, then six months later.” She left the room angrily.

Ishvar left the trunk he was packing on the verandah, and came in. He sat on the bed, putting his arm around him. “You know, Maneck, the human face has limited space. My mother used to say, if you fill your face with laughing, there will be no room for crying.”

“What a nice saying,” he answered bitterly.

“Right now, Dinabai’s face, and Om’s, and mine are all occupied. Worrying about work and money, and where to sleep tonight. But that does not mean we are not sad. It may not show on the face, but it’s sitting inside here.” He placed his hand over his heart. “In here, there is limitless room — happiness, kindness, sorrow, anger, friendship — everything fits in here.”

“I know, I know,” said Maneck, and began putting away the chess pieces. “Are you going to meet the nightwatchman now?”

“Yes, we’ll fix up with him and return. To help Dinabai pack her things.”

“Don’t forget to give us your hostel address before leaving,” said Om. “We’ll come see you there.”

Maneck emptied out the cupboard and folded his clothes into the suitcase. Dina looked in with a word of praise for his quickness. “Can you do me a favour, Maneck?”

He nodded.

“You know the nameplate on the door? Can you get the screwdriver from the kitchen shelf and remove it? I want to take it with me.”

He nodded again.

Ishvar and Om returned with bad news. The nightwatchman had been replaced, and the new man wanted to have nothing to do with the tailors’ old arrangement. In fact, he thought they were trying to take advantage of his inexperience.

“Now I don’t know what to do,” said Ishvar wearily. “We’ll have to go searching street by street.”

“And I’ll have to carry the trunk,” said Om.

“No, you mustn’t,” said Dina. “You’ll hurt your arm again.” She offered to take the trunk with her to Nusswan’s house, pretend it was part of her belongings. The tailors could come to the back door whenever they needed clothes. It was a big house, she said, Nusswan would see nothing, he never went to the kitchen unless he was on one of his inspection and economy rampages.

“Listen, I know where you two can sleep,” said Maneck.

“Where?”

“In my hostel room. You can sneak in at night, and sneak out early every morning. Your trunk can also stay there.”

While they were considering the feasibility of his idea, the doorbell rang. It was Beggarmaster.

“Thank God you’ve come!” Ishvar and Dina rushed to welcome him like a saviour.

It reminded Om of the way Shankar, whimpering on his rolling platform, had fawned over the man when he had appeared at the irrigation project. He squirmed at the memory. How proudly Ishvar and he had proclaimed then to Beggarmaster: We are tailors, not beggars.

“What happened?” asked Dina. “You said you would return yesterday evening.”

“Sorry, I was delayed by an emergency,” he replied, enjoying the attention. He was accustomed to being apotheosized by beggars, but the veneration of normal people was far sweeter.

“This wretched Emergency — creating trouble for everyone.”

“No, not that Emergency,” said Beggarmaster. “I mean a business problem. You see, after I left you yesterday morning, I got a message that two of my beggars, a husband-and-wife team, were found murdered. So I had to rush there.”

“Murdered!” said Dina. “What evil person would kill poor beggars?”

“Oh, it happens. They are killed for their beggings. But this case is very peculiar — money was not touched. Must be some kind of maniac. Only their hair was taken.”

Ishvar and Om started visibly, gulping.

“Hair?” said Dina. “You mean from their heads?”

“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “Cropped right off. Husband and wife both had lovely long hair. Which was very unusual. The lovely part, I mean — most beggars do have long hair, they cannot afford haircuts, but it’s always dirty. These two were different. They used to spend hours cleaning it for each other, picking out the nits, combing it, washing it every time it rained or a water pipe burst on their pavement.”

“How sweet,” said Dina, nodding in empathy with Beggarmaster’s tender description of the loving couple.

“You’d be surprised how much beggars are like ordinary human beings. The result of all their grooming was, of course, this beautiful hair. And it was not good for business. I often told them to mess it up, make it look pathetic. But they would say they had nothing in the world to be proud of except their hair, and was I going to deny them even that?”

He paused, considering the question afresh. “What could I do? I’m softhearted, I gave in. Now those beautiful tresses have cost them their lives. And deprived me of two good beggars.”

He turned to the tailors. “What’s the matter? You both look very upset.”

“No — not upset,” stammered Ishvar. “Just very surprised.”

“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “That’s what the police were as well — surprised. They had been receiving a few complaints, that long plaits and ponytails were disappearing mysteriously. Women would go to the bazaar, do their shopping, go home, look in the mirror and find their hair missing. But never anything like this, no one was ever killed or injured. So the detectives are very interested in my beggars’ case. They love variety. They are calling it the Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide.”

He opened the briefcase secured to his wrist and took out a thick wad of rupees. The chain jangled as he counted the notes. “Getting back to business — here’s the money to cover your damage. You can start working again.”

Ishvar deferred the responsibility of accepting the cash to Dina; his hands were shaking violently.

Clasping two thousand rupees, she still found it hard to believe Beggarmaster had defeated the landlord. “You mean we can stay? It’s really safe?”

“Of course you can stay. I told you there would be no trouble. Those men made a mistake.”

The tailors nodded rapidly to transfer their conviction to Dina. “Only one problem,” said Ishvar. “What if the landlord sends new goondas?”

“While you pay me, the landlord won’t find a single man to come here. I have seen to that.”

“And when the instalments are paid up?”

“That’s up to you. Our contract can always be renewed. I’ll give you good rates, you’re Shankar’s friends. And — oh yes, Shankar sends you his greetings. Says he hasn’t seen you recently.”

“With all this landlord trouble, we haven’t gone to Vishram for a few days,” said Ishvar. “We’ll meet him tomorrow. And, I was wondering, how are Monkey-man and his two children?”

“Good, good — the children I mean. They’re learning fast. Monkey-man I haven’t seen again. I haven’t been back to the work camp. But he was beaten up too badly, probably dead by now.”

“The old woman’s prophecy has almost come true, then,” said Om.

“What prophecy?” asked Beggarmaster.

The tailors described the night in the hutment colony, when Monkey-man had discovered his little monkeys slain by his dog, when the old woman uttered her cryptic words. “I remember exactly what she told us,” said Om. “ ‘The loss of two monkeys is not the worst loss he will suffer; the murder of the dog is not the worst murder he will commit.’ And later, he did kill Tikka to avenge Laila and Majnoo.”

“What a horrible story,” said Dina.

“Pure coincidence,” said Beggarmaster, “I don’t believe in prophecies or superstitions.”

Ishvar nodded. “And are the two children happy without Monkey-man?”

Beggarmaster flipped his unchained hand in a who-knows gesture. “They will have to get used to it. Life does not guarantee happiness.” He raised the same hand in farewell and began walking out the door, then stopped.

“There is something you can do for me. I need two new beggars. If you see someone who qualifies, will you let me know?”

“Sure,” said Ishvar. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”

“But there has to be a unique feature about the candidates. Let me show you.” From the briefcase, he removed a large sketchbook containing his notes and diagrams relating to the dramaturgy of begging. The binding was well-worn, the corners of the pages curling.

He opened the book to an old pencil drawing titled Spirit of Collaboration. “Here’s what I have been trying to create for a long time.”

They crowded around to look at the sketch: two figures, one sitting aloft on the shoulders of the other. “For this, I need a lame beggar and a blind beggar. The blind man will carry the cripple on his shoulders. A living, breathing image of the ancient story about friendship and cooperation. And it will produce a fortune in coins, I am absolutely certain, because people will give not only from pity or piety but also from admiration.” The hitch was in finding a blind beggar who was strong enough or a lame beggar who was light enough.

“Wouldn’t Shankar be suitable?” asked Maneck.

“Without legs, and only quarter thighs, he could never balance upon someone’s shoulders — he would slide right down the back. I need a cripple whose legs are not amputated, but lifeless and mutilated, so they can dangle nicely over the carrier’s chest. In any case, Shankar is very successful with his rolling platform. We don’t want to spoil that.”

They promised to watch out for Beggarmaster’s requirements. He said he would appreciate any suggestions. “By the way, you know the two goondas who came with your rent-collector?”

“Yes?”

“They have sent their apologies for not being here to clean up the mess they made.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They had an unfortunate accident — broke all their fingers. Who knows, if they have a few more accidents they may even qualify to join my team of beggars.” He was pleased at his own wit, and they returned weak smiles.

“Now you really must excuse me,” he said. “I have to go and look after my two murdered beggars.”

“Will you cremate them today?”

“No, that’s too expensive. When the morgue releases the corpses, I’ll sell them to my agent.” Seeing their shocked expressions, Beggarmaster felt obliged to justify his action. “With rising prices and inflation, I have no choice. Besides, it’s much better than leaving the bodies in the street for the municipal workers, like in the old days.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Dina, as though she bought and sold cadavers on a daily basis. “And what does your agent do with the — bodies?”

“He sells some to colleges, to teach students who want to become doctors. Just imagine, my beggars might participate in the pursuit of knowledge.” His face took on a visionary aspect, gazing out the window to a limitless horizon. “Some bodies are also bought by practitioners of black magic. And a lot of bones are exported. For fertilizer, I think. I can find out more if you are interested.”

Dina shook her head to decline the offer.

Beggarmaster left a chill in the air as he departed. “We must be careful with that man,” she said. “What a peculiar fellow. And that briefcase chained to his wrist — a slave to money. He looks capable of selling our bones before we’re finished with them.”

“He’s just a thoroughly modern businessman, with his eye on the bottom line,” said Maneck. “I saw many like him in the cola business, when they came to meet Daddy, pressuring him to sell off Kohlah’s Cola.”

Ishvar shook his head sadly. “Why are business people so heartless? With all their money, they still look unhappy.”

“It’s a disease without a cure,” said Dina. “Like cancer. And they don’t even know they have it.”

“Anyway,” said Maneck, his spirits rising again, “Om is the only one who needs to fear Beggarmaster. There could be a genuine mistake about a walking skeleton.”

“You better be careful too,” retaliated Om. “Your healthy mountain-grown bones, watered by the pure melting Himalayan snows, will fetch more by the kilo than mine.”

“Enough of this ghoulishness,” said Dina.

But Maneck was unable to curb his silly talk, relieved that the household was preserved. “Just think, Aunty. Now that we have gleaming teeth cleaned with charcoal powder, they must be worth a lot. We could sell them individually or by the dozen. Maybe as a necklace.”

“Enough, I said. Laughing aside, this fellow is someone to be careful of, remember.”

“As long as he is paid on time, there is nothing to worry about,” said Ishvar.

“I hope so. From now on I will pay half the instalment, since he is protecting me as well.”

“Never,” said Ishvar indignantly. “That’s not why I mentioned it. You don’t take any rent, so this is our share.” He refused to be budged on the matter.

They went to the sewing room to calculate how much restitution was due to Au Revoir Exports. He whispered that it was good to see Maneck and Om laughing and joking again.

“Yes, these last two days have been miserable for all of us,” she agreed, then requested the boys to screw back the nameplate on the front door.

“We will never see Rajaram again, for sure,” said Om that night while spreading out the bedding. “If he’s the killer.”

“Of course he is,” said his uncle. He gazed at the streetlamp from the verandah window, thinking of their erstwhile friend. “It’s unbelievable. Someone who seemed such a nice person, murdering two beggars. We should have been more careful, that very first morning in the hutment colony — with all his dirty toilet talk on the train tracks. And what sane person makes a living by collecting hair?”

“That’s not the point, yaar. People collect and sell all kinds of things. Rags, paper, plastic, glass. Even bones.”

“But aren’t you glad now that I wouldn’t let you grow your hair long? That murderer would have slaughtered you for it while you slept next door to him.”

Om shrugged. “I am worried about Dinabai. Suppose the police find the haircutting kit that she gave Rajaram? Her fingerprints and ours will be on it. We will all be arrested and hanged.”

“You’ve been seeing too many crazy films with Maneck. That sort of thing only happens in the cinema. What worries me is him coming to us again for help. Then what to do? Call the police?”

Ishvar lay awake for a long time, unable to get Rajaram out of his mind. They had lived beside this murderer in the hutment colony, eaten his food and shared theirs with him. The thought made him shudder.

Om knew that his uncle was having trouble sleeping. He raised himself on one elbow and chuckled in the dark: “You know the cook and waiter at Vishram who enjoy our stories? Wouldn’t they just love to hear this one.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” warned Ishvar, “or we’ll be trapped in unending police problems.”

The pavement was crowded with the morning rush of domestics, schoolchildren, officegoers, hawkers. The tailors waited for a lull when Shankar could paddle over to the Vishram’s back alley. He kept waving to them, which made Ishvar jittery — the less attention drawn the better, considering the gruesome cargo on his platform.

After a few minutes, Shankar grew impatient and ventured across the pavement, steering his transport through the thick of the pedestrian throng. “O babu! Careful!” he called, dodging and being dodged by an endless flurry of legs and feet.

The platform collided with someone’s shin. Curses rained down on Shankar, and he looked up timidly. The man threatened to kick his head off. “Saala bhikhari thinks he owns the pavement! Stay in one place!”

Shankar begged forgiveness and sped away. In his haste the package fell from the platform. The tailors watched worriedly, not daring to go to his help. Shankar grappled and wheeled and spun, somehow managing to rescue the package and bring it over.

“Well done,” said Ishvar. He imagined the traffic policeman regarding them with suspicion from the busy intersection — what if he came over and demanded to open the bag? “So,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “When did our longhaired friend deliver this?”

“Two days ago,” he answered, and Ishvar almost flung the parcel away. “No, I am wrong,” Shankar changed his mind, rubbing his forehead with a bandaged palm. “Not two days. It was the day after I last saw you — four days ago.”

Ishvar nodded with relief at Om. The parcel did not contain that hair. “Our friend won’t be coming to see you from now on.”

“No?” Shankar was disappointed. “I used to enjoy playing with his packages. Such lovely hair.”

“You mean you looked inside?”

“Did I do wrong?” he asked anxiously. “Aray babu, I didn’t damage anything, I just touched it to my cheek because it made me feel good. It was so soft and nice.”

“That it was, for sure,” said Om. “Our friend only collects the best quality hair.”

The gibe was lost on Shankar. “I wish I had one bunch for myself,” he sighed. “I could put it on my platform at night and sleep with my face resting against it. How it would soothe me, after the meanness of people all day. Even the ones who throw coins, they look at me as though I was robbing them. What a comfort the hair would be.”

“Why not?” said Om, on an impulse. “Here, keep this packet — our friend doesn’t need it.”

Ishvar was about to protest, then let it go. Om was right, what did it matter now?

With Shankar’s gratitude thawing the chill of Rajaram’s deed, they walked back to the flat. “I want to throw away all his rubbish from our trunk,” said Ishvar. “God knows where it’s from, how many others he killed.”

That night, when Dina and Maneck were asleep, Ishvar removed the plaits from the trunk and placed them in a small cardboard carton for ultimate disposal. He felt better afterwards, for their clothes were no longer polluted by the madman’s collection.

Noises from the kitchen woke Dina early, well before water time, when the sky was still dark as night. Two months had passed in peace since Beggarmaster had proven his worth, and the flat was back to normal. But drifting half-awake, she was convinced the rattle of pots and pans meant only one thing: the landlord’s goondas were back. Heart pounding, hands heavy with sleep, her fingers pecked at the sheet in a bid to uncover herself.

Then again, maybe it was just a nightmare that would play itself out — if she lay still… kept her eyes closed…

The noises subsided. Good, the strategy was working, no goondas, only a dream, yes, and Beggarmaster was protecting the flat. Nothing to worry about, she felt, floating back and forth over the threshold of slumber.

Eventually, a persistent miaowing pushed her into full wakefulness, and she sat up with a start. Nuisance of a cat! Disentangling herself from the sheet, she got out of bed and blundered into the wooden stools. One fell over with a thud, waking Maneck in the next room, succeeding where the pots and pans had failed.

“Are you all right, Aunty?”

“Yes, it’s a rascal cat in the kitchen. I’m going to break its head. You go back to sleep.”

He found his slippers and followed Dina, as much to make sure she would not really hurt the cat as out of curiosity. She switched on the light, and they saw it dart out the window: his favourite, Vijayanthimala, the brown and white tabby.

“The wicked animal,” she fumed. “God knows what it has been licking with its filthy mouth.”

Maneck examined the chicken wire ripped off the broken windowpane. “It must have been really desperate to do this. Hope it didn’t injure itself.”

“You’re more worried about the dirty beast than the trouble it creates for me.” She began picking up the utensils that had been tumbled from their place and would have to be thoroughly scrubbed.

“Wait,” she stopped. “What’s that sound?”

Hearing nothing, they continued to tidy the kitchen. Moments later she froze again, and this time a feeble whimper threaded its way through the silence. There was no mistaking it, it was in the kitchen.

In the corner, in the hollow where coal fires used to burn for cooking in the old days, lay three brown and white kittens. A chorus of tiny miaows greeted Dina and Maneck as they bent over to look.

“Oh my!” she gasped. “How sweet!”

“No wonder Vijayanthimala was looking fat lately,” he grinned.

The kittens struggled to get to their feet, and she felt she had never seen anything so helpless. “I wonder if she gave birth to them right here.”

He shook his head. “They seem a few days old to me. She must have brought them in during the night.”

“I wonder why. Oh, they are so sweet.”

“Would you still like to make violin strings out of them, Aunty?”

She gave him a reproachful look. But when he stroked them gently she pulled him back. “Don’t touch. How do you know what germs they have?”

“They are only babies.”

“So? They can still carry disease.” She spread open a page from an old newspaper and grasped it in the middle.

“What are you doing?” he asked in alarm.

“Protecting my hands. I’ll place all three right outside the window, where the cat can see them.”

“You can’t do that!” He argued that if the mother had abandoned the kittens they would starve to death. That is, if crows and rats didn’t attack them first, peck out their tiny eyes, tear open the little bodies, rip out their entrails, and gnaw at the delicate bones.

“There’s no need for so many details,” she said. The kittens kept up a pitiful wailing in concurrence with his gruesome scenario. “What do you want to do?”

“Feed them.”

“Out of the question,” she declared — once they were fed, they would never leave. And the mother, even if she were contemplating a return, would shirk her duties. “I cannot be responsible for all the homeless creatures in the world.”

He finally managed to win a reprieve for the kittens. She agreed not to move them for the time being, to give Vijayanthimala a chance to hear her litter calling. Perhaps their cries would persuade her to come back.

“Look,” he pointed outside. “It’s dawn.”

“What a beautiful sky,” she paused, staring dreamily through the window.

The taps began to flow, interrupting her reverie. She hurried to the bathroom while he examined the yard for sleeping cats. He gazed beyond, where the warren of alleys began. In that optimistic first light, the promise of transformation shone down upon the sleeping city. He knew the feeling wouldn’t stay more than a few minutes — he had experienced it before, it always faded under stronger light.

Still, he was grateful while it lasted. When the tailors awoke he told them the news and took them to the kitchen. Their approach caused the steady whimpers to increase in volume.

Dina hustled them out. “With such a big crowd watching, that cat will never return.” Then she went in herself, ostensibly to make tea, and stood in the corner smiling, sighing, watching the kittens wobbling around inside the coal fireplace, clambering over one another, collapsing in a heap. Their mother had chosen the spot well, she thought, the hollow deep enough to keep them from climbing out and wandering.

Not much work was done that morning. Maneck claimed he had no classes till noon. “How convenient,” said Dina, as he kept up his vigil at the kitchen door and reported back with fresh bulletins. The tailors silenced their machines frequently to listen for the kittens.

Time passed, and their wails grew loud enough to be heard over the Singers. “How much they are crying,” said Om. “Must be hungry.”

“Just like human babies,” said Maneck. “They need to be fed regularly.” He watched Dina from the corner of his eye. He knew the whimpering was starting to bother her. She inquired casually if such tiny creatures could tolerate cow’s milk.

“Yes,” he answered promptly. “But diluted with water, or it’s too heavy for them. After a few days they can also eat pieces of bread soaked in it. That’s what my father feeds the puppies and kittens at home.”

For another hour she refused to give in, fending off the pleas from the kitchen. Then, “Oh, it’s hopeless,” she said. “Come on, Mr. Mac, you’re the expert.”

They warmed the mixture of milk and water before pouring it in an aluminium saucer. The squirming kittens were lifted out of the coal fireplace onto newspaper spread upon the floor. “Let me also carry them,” demanded Om, and Maneck let him take the last one.

The three cowered on the paper, unable to stop shivering. Gradually, the smell of milk drew them closer, and they gave a few tentative licks along the rim. Soon they crowded the saucer, lapping furiously. When it was empty they stood with their paws in it and looked up. Maneck refilled it, let them drink again, then removed it.

“Why so stingy?” said Dina. “Give them more.”

“After two hours. They’ll be sick if they overeat.” From his room he fetched an empty cardboard box and lined the bottom with fresh newspaper.

“I won’t have them in the kitchen,” she objected. “It’s unhygienic.”

Om volunteered to keep the box on the verandah.

“Fine,” she said. At night, though, she wanted the kittens returned to the hollow of the fireplace. She was still hoping the mother would retrieve her offspring. The broken windowpane was left unrepaired to welcome back the cat.

For seven nights Dina cleared the kitchen of pots and pans, secured the cabinet, and shut the kitchen door. Seven dawns she went to the coal fireplace as soon as she rose, wishing it to be empty, and the kittens greeted her happily, eager for their breakfast.

She began to look forward to the morning reunion. By the end of the week she found herself worrying when she went to bed — what if it was tonight, what if the cat took them away? She ran to the kitchen on waking and — ah, relief! They had not disappeared!

The nightly ritual of transfer from box to fireplace was discontinued. The tailors were happy to share their quarters with the kittens. Growing fast, the three took to exploring the verandah, and the adjoining doors had to be kept shut to stop them wandering into the sewing room and messing up the fabric. Soon they were making brief outdoor forays through the bars on the verandah window.

“You know, Dinabai,” said Ishvar one night after dinner. “The cat paid you a great tribute. By leaving her babies here she was saying she trusted this house — which is an honour to you.”

“What complete nonsense.” She was having none of this sentimental rubbish. “Naturally the cat came here with her kittens. This was the window from which three softhearted fools regularly tossed food for her.”

But Ishvar was determined to wring some moral, some kind of higher truth out of the situation. “No matter what you say, this house is blessed. It brings good fortune. Even the wicked landlord couldn’t hurt us in here. And the kittens are a good omen. It means Om will also have lots of healthy children.”

“First he must have a wife,” she said drily.

“Bilkool correct,” he said earnestly. “I have been thinking hard about it, and we mustn’t wait much longer.”

“How can you talk so foolishly?” she said, a little annoyed. “Om is just starting in life, money is short, you don’t have a place for yourselves. And you think about a wife for him?”

“Everything will come in time. We must have faith. The important point is, he must marry soon and start a family.”

“You hear that, Om?” she called to the verandah. “Your uncle wants you to marry soon and start a family. Just make sure it’s not in my kitchen again.”

“You must forgive him,” said Om, putting on a paternalistic tone. “Sometimes, my poor uncle’s screw comes a little loose, and he says crazy things.”

“Whatever you do, don’t rely on me for accommodation,” said Maneck. “I have no more cardboard boxes to spare.”

“What, yaar,” complained Om. “I was hoping you would stack two boxes for me, make me a two-storey bungalow.”

“It’s not nice to make fun of auspicious events,” said Ishvar, a little offended. He didn’t think his proposal warranted ridicule.

The kittens returned from their wanderings punctually at mealtimes, through the bars on the verandah window. “Look at them,” said Dina fondly. “Coming and going like this was a hotel.”

Then the absences grew longer as they learned to forage for food, haunting the alleys with their kin. The gutters and garbage heaps beckoned with irresistible smells, and the kittens answered the call.

Their random disappearances saddened everyone. Maneck and Om kept saving tidbits carefully piled high in one plate. Each day they hoped that the kittens would deign to put in an appearance. After waiting till late at night they got rid of the scraps, before it attracted vermin; they fed whatever was prowling outside the kitchen window, eyes gleaming anonymously in the dark.

When the kittens did show up, it became an occasion for rejoicing. If there were no suitable leftovers, Maneck or Om would dash out to buy bread and milk from the Vishram. Sometimes the kittens lingered after the snack, ready to play a little, worrying the snippets of cloth near the sewing-machines. More often, they departed immediately.

“Eating and running,” said Dina, “as though they owned the place.”

By and by, the visits grew less frequent and briefer in duration. The kittenish curiosity displayed at every little thing was outgrown; the milk and bread was completely ignored. Outdoor scrounging had evidently endowed them with a more adventurous palate.

To draw their attention, Om and Maneck got down on all fours beside the bowl. “Miaow!” they chorused. “Mii-aooow!” Om sniffed loudly along the rim, and Maneck let his tongue flap in and out in a manic display of lapping. The kittens were not impressed. They watched the performance detachedly, yawned, and began cleaning themselves.

Three months after they were discovered in the coal fireplace, the kittens disappeared altogether. When a fortnight passed without a sign of them, Dina was convinced they had been run over. Maneck said they could equally well have been attacked by a crazy pariah dog.

“Or those big rats,” said Om. “Even full-grown cats are scared of them.”

Considering these gloomy possibilities, they grew morose, though Ishvar continued to believe the kittens were all right. They were smart, tough little creatures, he reminded the others, and used to life on the streets. No one shared his optimism. They became annoyed with him, as though he had suggested something morbid.

Into their grief and dejection arrived Beggarmaster to collect his instalment. The dusk seemed darker than usual because the streetlights had not come on. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is the landlord bothering you again?”

“No,” said Dina. “But our sweet little kittens have disappeared.”

Beggarmaster began to laugh. The sound startled them, for it was the first time they had heard it from him. “Look at your gloomy faces,” he said. “You did not seem so upset even about those goondas.” He laughed again. “I’m sorry I can’t help you — I’m not Kittenmaster. But I do have some happy news, maybe it will cheer you up.”

“What?” asked Ishvar.

“It’s about Shankar.” He smiled from ear to ear. “I cannot tell him the news right now, for his own good. But I simply have to share it — it’s so wonderful — and you are his only friends. You must swear not to mention anything to him.”

They all gave him their word.

“It happened a few weeks after I took Shankar and you from that irrigation project. One of my beggarwomen, who was very sick, began telling me things about her childhood, and about Shankar’s youth. Every time I came for collection, she would start reminiscing. She was old, very old for a beggar, about forty. Last week she finally died. But just before her death, she told me she was Shankar’s mother.”

Now this in itself had not been a surprise, explained Beggarmaster, for he had always suspected it. As a small boy, when he used to accompany his father on rounds, he would often see her suckling a baby. Everyone called her Nosey because of her noseless face. She was young then, about fifteen, with a perfect body that would have fetched a decent price, the brothel-keepers had agreed, had it not been for the disfigured face. It was said that when she was born, her drunken father had slashed off her nose in his rage, disappointed with the mother for producing a daughter instead of a son. The mother had nursed the wound and saved the newborn’s life, though the father kept saying let her die, her ugly face was the only dowry in store for her, let her die. Because of his continuing harassment and persecution, the child was sold into the begging profession.

“I don’t know exactly at what age my father acquired Nosey,” said Beggarmaster. “I only remember seeing her with her little baby.” Then, a few months later, the infant who was called Shankar was separated from her and sent for professional modifications.

The child was not returned to the mother. It was more profitable to circulate him among beggarwomen in various neighbourhoods. Also, strangers giving him suck found it easier to display the utter despair in their faces that made for successful begging, whereas if Nosey had had the pleasure of clasping her little son to her bosom all day, it would have been impossible to keep a spark of joy, however tiny, out of her eyes, which would have adversely affected the takings.

“So Shankar grew up, branched out on his own, and got the rolling platform, never knowing his mother,” said Beggarmaster. “And by the time I took over the business, I had forgotten my childhood suspicion that he was Nosey’s son. Till recently.”

It was Nosey who had reminded him, as she lay dying on the pavement. Not only that, she claimed that Beggarmaster’s father was also Shankar’s father. At first, Beggarmaster was stunned that she would have the temerity to suggest something so offensive. He threatened to remove her from his list of clients if she did not apologize. She said it was all the same to her, this close to death she couldn’t care.

Still refusing to believe her, he wondered why she would utter such a pointless falsehood. What was she hoping to gain by it? He watched in a daze of anger as pedestrians continued to throw coins in Nosey’s tin can. Unaware of the drama taking place, some of them stopped and began eyeing him suspiciously.

“They probably thought you were waiting to steal from her,” said Maneck.

“You are right. And I was so upset, I felt like yelling at them to go fuck themselves.”

Dina flinched, almost admonishing him for his language. The front room had grown dark, and she switched on the light. It made everyone blink and shade their eyes for a moment.

“But I controlled myself,” said Beggarmaster. “In my profession, we have a saying — the almsgiver is always right.”

So, ignoring the inquisitive rabble, he focused on Nosey’s claim. After the outrage came the uncertainty. He accused her of a cheap lie, of playing a vicious trick on him while passing through death’s door, leaving him forever in doubt.

Be quiet and listen, she said to Beggarmaster, I am your stepmother, whether you like it or not. And I have proof. Did you ever massage your father’s back and shoulders?

Yes, he answered, I have been a good son. I regularly massaged my father whenever he summoned me, right till the day of his passing.

In that case, said Nosey, you would have been familiar with a larger-than-normal bump, a big swelling at the nape of your father’s neck, just where the backbone began.

“I wondered how in the world she knew about it,” said Beggarmaster. “But she insisted on an answer, did he or didn’t he have a lump in that place? She would not say another word until I admitted, reluctantly, that yes, my father possessed the feature she had described. Then she was anxious to continue.”

It had happened long, long ago, when Nosey was young and her body had just learned to bleed. Beggarmaster’s father had come to her corner of the pavement late one night, when he was drunk, too drunk to be repulsed by hier physiognomy, and had slept with her. The liquor-stinking mouth made her want to refuse, but she averted her face and controlled the impulse. She lay inert, as though dead under him, letting him do what he wanted. After he finished she sat and threw up beside his snoring, rumbling body. During the night he awoke and enlarged her little splash with a torrent of bilious vomit. Later, she heard a slurping and opened her eyes; rats were supping at their mingled effluent.

Nosey assumed he must have enjoyed her body, for he kept returning on other nights, even when he was not drunk. Now she hated it less. When he lay on top of her and looked at her face without the armour of alcohol, she started to like it. She let her flesh come alive, and enjoyed melting with him. Her hands explored his body then, discovering the large knob at the nape. She giggled, and asked him about it. He joked that he had grown it for her pleasure — so she would have not one but two big bones to play with.

And thus it was that the man who could look upon her hideous face and still love her found a place in her heart. He explained what the doctor had told him about his special bone. He had been born with thirty-four vertebrae instead of the normal thirty-three, the extra one having fused at the top of the column, and responsible for his chronic pain.

Is it not your father I am describing, said Nosey, is there any doubt remaining now?

Beggarmaster agreed that all this was true. But it was only evidence of his father’s drunken fornications, and nothing else.

Not only drunken, she corrected him with pride, but sober as well. This distinction was the dearest thing in her life, and of the utmost importance to her even at death’s door.

Grudgingly he admitted it. But it was still not proof, he maintained, that Shankar was his father’s son and his own half-brother. Yes, it was, said Nosey, because Shankar had the identical protuberance at the nape of his neck, and it would take only a moment to verify it. Beggarmaster could, of course, pretend it was a coincidence, she said, but he would know the truth in his heart.

“And she was right, the truth was in my heart. Also in my heart was a great, hopeless mixture of feelings. I was angry and frightened and confused. But also happy. For I realized that I, an only child, left in the world without parents, without any relatives, was suddenly blessed with a brother. And a stepmother, even if she was close to my own age, and close to death.”

So, having accepted the truth, all his rage and resentment towards the dying woman was replaced by gratitude. He asked why she had not told him earlier. She said out of fear of what he might have done if the secret angered or shamed him — maybe killed her and Shankar, or sold them to a less pleasant owner in a far-off place where they would have been strangers. Her greatest terror was to lose the familiar pavements of her youth.

But now it did not matter, she would be dead in a short while, and he would be the sole keeper of the knowledge, to do with it as he wished. It would be up to him to tell or not tell Shankar.

He reassured her that her confidences had brought him nothing but happiness. The urgent matter was to get her to a good hospital. He wanted to make her comfortable for whatever time was left to her, and went to hail a taxi.

The first few to stop refused the fare when they saw the sick beggar-woman, concerned about the car’s interior. Finally, he flagged one down by waving a thick wad of rupees at the driver. The taxi had a broken headlight and a clanking bumper. In the back seat, with Nosey cradled in his arms through the journey, Beggarmaster heard the driver’s hard-luck story about a policeman who had maliciously damaged the vehicle because the driver had been late that week in slipping him the envelope with his parking hafta.

At the hospital there was a long delay. Nosey was left on the floor in a corridor crowded with destitutes awaiting treatment. The antiseptic odour of phenol from the stone tiles penetrated faintly through the human fetor. Beggarmaster did his best to motivate the people in charge, and spoke to a kind-looking doctor. His white coat was torn at the large lower pocket into which he had squeezed his stethoscope. Beggarmaster asked him to please hurry and attend his mother, he would make it worth his while. The doctor said in a gentle voice not to worry, everyone would be looked after. Then he rushed away with his hand in the torn pocket.

Beggarmaster assumed that medical people, dedicated to their noble calling, were not impressed by his sweat-soaked roll of rupees like most of society. But he was unable to sample more doctors and nurses to arrive at an actuarially valid conclusion. Before his stepmother could be treated, her life had ended. He consoled himself by paying for a good funeral instead of a hospital bill.

“And when all this was dealt with, I went to see Shankar,” sighed Beggarmaster. “Of course, I did not mention the main news right away, because I first wanted to think in peace and quiet about what Nosey had told me.”

He asked Shankar how the begging was going, if the platform was working well, if the castors needed oiling — the usual chitchat of inspection rounds. Shankar complained that almsgiving was drying up in this neighbourhood of misers, people were so bad-tempered. Beggarmaster knelt by his side and put a hand on his shoulder. He said it was the same trouble everywhere — it was a real crisis of human nature, a revolution was needed in people’s hearts. But he would look into it, maybe assign him a new location. He patted Shankar’s back and said not to worry, then let his fingers slip under the collar to feel the nape of his neck.

“And there, beneath my fingertips, was my father’s backbone. The same large bump. My hand was trembling with emotion. My whole body shook with excitement, I could barely keep my balance as I knelt. There was my brother before me, and there, also, my father, living in that spinal column. It was all I could do to keep from embracing Shankar, pressing him to my chest, and confessing everything.”

With a superhuman effort he had restrained himself. Premature divulgence could have caused untold anguish. First, he had to decide on the best course for Shankar. It was all very well to imagine he could take his brother home, keep him in comfort for the rest of his life, and live happily together. Such dreams were cheap, people had them all the time.

But what if Shankar could not adjust to the new life? Suppose it seemed purposeless, or worse than purposeless? A prison, where his inadequacies were highlighted instead of being put to use as they were in begging on the pavement? And more important, what if the horrific story of the early years became an ulcer on Shankar’s spirit, eating him from within, turning the remainder of his life into one bitter and ravaging accusation of Beggarmaster and his father? After such knowledge, could there be forgiveness?

“I felt it was better for me to wrestle with my own soul, contain within its bounds the truth imparted by Nosey. To involve my poor unfortunate brother in the misery, just for my own comfort — that would have been too selfish.” He reasoned that Shankar’s life had already been wrecked once, in infancy. But Shankar had learned to inhabit that wreckage. To wreak a second destruction upon him would be unforgivable.

“So I have decided to wait. To wait, and talk to him about his childhood. Perhaps I will share little things, and watch his reaction. By and by, I will know which is the best course for us. And here is where I need your help.”

“What can we do?” asked Ishvar.

“Ask Shankar questions, make him speak about his past. See what kind of memories he has. He is still a little scared of me, he probably tells you more. Will you keep me informed?”

“Sure, we can do that.”

“Thank you. Meanwhile, I want to make his life on the pavement as pleasant as possible. I have begun to buy him his favourite sweetmeats every day — laddoo and jalebi. And on Sundays, rasmalai. I have also improved his platform with cushioning, and got him a better place to sleep at night.”

“Now it makes sense,” said Ishvar. “He keeps telling us how nice you have been to him.”

“It’s the least I can do. I am also planning to send him my personal barber, to provide the full deluxe treatment — hair trim, shave, facial massage, manicure, everything. And if people give fewer alms because of good grooming, then fuck them.”

Again Dina curbed the urge to say: Language. But this time it wasn’t as great a shock to her ears. “The news you have brought is wonderful,” she said. “How happy Shankar will be when you finally tell him.”

“Not when, but if. Will I ever have the courage? Do I have the wisdom to make the right decision?”

The weight of these questions suddenly plunged him into despair. The news which was to have cheered everyone became cloud across the sun.

“I’m sure it will be clear to you in time,” said Ishvar.

“What has become clear is a fine line between Shankar and me. Finer than the silken hair of my poor murdered beggars. I did not draw it — it is the trace of destiny. But now I have the power to rub it out.” He sighed. “Such an awesome, frightening power. Do I dare? For once that line is erased, it can never be redrawn.” He shivered. “What a legacy my stepmother left me.”

He opened his briefcase, took out his sketchbook and showed them his latest drawing. “I did it last night, when I was very depressed and could not sleep.”

The picture consisted of three figures. The first was seated on a platform with tiny wheels. He had no legs or fingers, and the thigh stumps jutted like hollow bamboo. The second was an emaciated woman without a nose, the face with a gaping hole at its centre. But the third figure was the most grotesque. A man with a briefcase chained to his wrist was standing on four spidery legs. His four feet were splayed towards the four points of the compass, as though in a permanent dispute about which was the right direction. His two hands each had ten fingers, useless bananas sprouting from the palms. And on his face were two noses, adjacent yet bizarrely turned away, as though neither could bear the smell of the other.

They stared at the drawing, uncertain how to respond to Beggarmaster’s creation. He saved them the embarrassment by offering his own interpretation. “Freaks, that’s what we are — all of us.”

Ishvar was about to say he was being too hard on himself, that he should not take Shankar’s and Nosey’s fates entirely upon his own person, when Beggarmaster clarified himself. “I mean, every single human being. And who can blame us? What chance do we have, when our beginnings and endings are so freakish? Birth and death — what could be more monstrous than that? We like to deceive ourselves and call it wondrous and beautiful and majestic, but it’s freakish, let’s face it.”

He shut his sketchbook and returned it to the briefcase with a certain snappiness, indicating that his saga of happiness and misery and doubt and discovery was over, the human emotions were being packed away, and now it was back to business. “Your year will be up in another four months. I need to know in advance — are you planning to renew the contract with me?”

“Oh yes,” said Ishvar. “Most definitely. Or the landlord will again start his harassment.”

They followed Beggarmaster to the verandah to see him off. Outside, the night remained unbroken by streetlights. There appeared to be a power outage, for the entire line of lamps was unlit.

“I hope Shankar’s lamppost is working,” said Beggarmaster. “I better hurry and check on him, he gets frightened if the pavement is dark.”

He strode across the black asphalt in his white shirt and trousers, like chalk across a blank slate. He turned once to wave, then gradually became invisible.

“What a weird story,” said Om. “Our friends at Vishram would really enjoy this one. It’s got everything — tragedy, romance, violence, and a suspenseful unresolved ending.”

“But you heard what Beggarmaster told us,” said Ishvar. “It must be kept secret, for Shankar’s sake. It’s one more story that cannot be included in the cook’s Mahabharat.”