A Fine Balance

XIV. Return of Solitude

DUST AND FLECKS OF FIBRE made Dina sneeze as she cleaned out the sewing room and sorted the leftovers. The rush of breath lifted bits of fabric. The last dresses had been delivered to Au Revoir, and Mrs. Gupta was informed about the six-week break.

Now Dina regarded the approaching emptiness of time with curiosity. Like a refresher course in solitude, she thought. It would be good practice. Without tailors, without a paying guest, alone with her memories, to go through them one by one, examine like a coin collection, their shines and tarnishes and embossments. If she forgot how to live with loneliness, one day it would be hard for her.

She set aside the best swatches for the quilt, stuffing the remainder in the bottom shelf. The Singers were pushed into a corner and the stools stacked on top, which provided more room around the bed. The tailors’ trunk, packed and ready, stood on the verandah. The things they were not taking were stored in cardboard boxes.

With two days to departure and nothing to do, the passing hours had a strangeness to them, loose and unstructured, as though the stitches were broken, the tent of time sagging one moment, billowing the next.

After dinner Dina resumed work on the quilt. Except for a two-square-foot gap at one end, it had grown to the size she wanted, seven by six. Om sat on the floor, massaging his uncle’s feet. Watching them, Maneck wondered what it might be like to massage Daddy’s feet.

“That counterpane looks good, for sure,” said Om. “Should be complete by the time we return.”

“Could be, if I add more pieces from old jobs,” she said. “But repetition is tedious. I’ll wait till there is new material.” They took opposite ends of the quilt and spread it out. The neat stitches crisscrossed like symmetrical columns of ants.

“How beautiful,” said Ishvar.

“Oh, anyone can make a quilt,” she said modestly. “It’s just scraps, from the clothes you’ve sewn.”

“Yes, but the talent is in joining the pieces, the way you have.”

“Look,” Om pointed, “look at that — the poplin from our first job.”

“You remember,” said Dina, pleased. “And how fast you finished those first dresses. I thought I had found two geniuses.”

“Hungry stomachs were driving our fingers,” chuckled Ishvar.

“Then came that yellow calico with orange stripes. And what a hard time this young fellow gave me. Fighting and arguing about everything.”

“Me? Argue? Never.”

“I recognize these blue and white flowers,” said Maneck. “From the skirts you were making on the day I moved in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it was the day Ishvar and Om did not come to work — they had been kidnapped for the Prime Minister’s compulsory meeting.”

“Oh, that’s right. And do you recall this lovely voile, Om?”

He coloured and pretended he didn’t. “Come on, think,” she encouraged. “How can you forget? It’s the one on which you spilled your blood, when you cut your thumb with the scissors.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Maneck.

“It was in the month before you came. And the chiffon was fun, it made Om lose his temper. The pattern was difficult to match, so slippery.”

Ishvar leaned over to indicate a cambric square. “See this? Our house was destroyed by the government, the day we started on this cloth. Makes me feel sad whenever I look at it.”

“Get me the scissors,” she joked. “I’ll cut it out and throw it away.”

“No no, Dinabai, let it be, it looks very nice in there.” His fingers stroked the cambric texture, recapturing the time. “Calling one piece sad is meaningless. See, it is connected to a happy piece — sleeping on the verandah. And the next square — chapatis. Then that violet tusser, when we made masala wada and started cooking together. And don’t forget this georgette patch, where Beggarmaster saved us from the landlord’s goondas.”

He stepped back, pleased with himself, as though he had elucidated an intricate theorem. “So that’s the rule to remember, the whole quilt is much more important than any single square.”

“Vah, vah!” exclaimed the boys with a round of applause.

“That sounds very wise,” said Dina.

“But is it philosophy or fakeology?”

Ishvar rumpled his nephew’s hair in retaliation.

“Stop it, yaar, I’ve got to look good for my wedding.” Om pulled out his comb and restored the parting and puff.

“My mother collects string in a ball,” said Maneck. “We used to play a game when I was little, unravelling it and trying to remember where each piece of string came from.”

“Let’s try that game with the quilt,” said Om. He and Maneck located the oldest piece of fabric and moved chronologically, patch by patch, reconstructing the chain of their mishaps and triumphs, till they reached the uncompleted corner.

“We’re stuck in this gap,” said Om. “End of the road.”

“You’ll just have to wait,” said Dina. “It depends on what material we get with the next order.”

“Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past.”

Ishvar’s lighthearted words washed over Maneck like cold rain; his joy went out like a lamp. The future was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching — what? A bit of string, scraps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present…

“Are you listening?” asked Dina. “How strong is your memory? Can you remember everything about this one year without looking at my quilt?”

“Seems much longer than one year to me,” said Om.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Maneck. “It’s just the opposite.”

“Hoi-hoi,” said Ishvar. “How can time be long or short? Time is without length or breadth. The question is, what happened during its passing. And what happened is, our lives have been joined together.”

“Like these patches,” said Om.

Maneck said the quilt did not have to end when the corner was filled in. “You could keep adding, Aunty, let it grow bigger.”

“Here you go again, talking foolishly,” said Dina. “What would I do with a monster quilt like that? Don’t confuse me with your quiltmaker God.”

In the midst of the morning Dina was becalmed. The water chores were done, last night’s dishes were scrubbed, clothes were washed. Without the chatter and hammer of the Singers, the rest of the day stretched emptily. She sat and watched Maneck eat a late breakfast.

“You should have gone with Ishvar and Om,” he tried to cheer her up. “You could have helped to choose the wife.”

“Are you being smart again?”

“No, I’m sure they’d have been happy to take you. You could have joined the Bride Selection Committee.” He choked on his toast, retaining the morsel with difficulty.

She patted his back till the fit passed. “Weren’t you taught not to speak with your mouth full?”

“It’s Ishvar in my throat,” he grinned. “Taking revenge because I am making fun of his auspicious event.”

“Poor man. I just hope he knows what he is doing. And I hope that whoever they pick, she tries to fit in, get along with all of us.”

“I’m sure she will, Aunty. Om is not going to get a bad-tempered or unfriendly wife.”

“Oh, I know. But he may not have a choice. In these arranged marriages, astrologers and families decide everything. Then the woman becomes the property of the husband’s family, to be abused and bullied. It’s a terrible system, turns the nicest girls into witches. But one thing she will have to understand it’s my house, and follow my ways, like you and Ishvar and Om. Or it will be impossible to get along.”

She stopped, realizing she was sounding like a mother-in-law. “Come on, finish that egg,” she changed the subject. “Your final exams begin tomorrow?”

He nodded, chewing. She began to clear the breakfast things. “And five days later you leave. Have you made your reservation?”

“Yes, it’s all done,” he said, gathering his books for the library. “And I’ll be back soon, don’t give away my room to anyone, Aunty.”

The mail arrived, with an envelope from Maneck’s parents. He opened it, handed the rent cheque to Dina, then read the letter.

“Mummy-Daddy are all right, I hope?” she said, watching his face start to cloud.

“Oh yes, everything is normal. Same as always. Now their complaints are starting again. They say: ‘Why are you going to college for three more years? Your fees are not the problem, but we will miss you. And there is so much work in the shop, we cannot manage alone, you should take over.’“ He put the letter down. “If I do decide to go back, it will be fighting and shouting with Daddy every day.”

She saw his fist clench, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Parents are as confused by life as anyone else. But they try very hard.”

He gave her the letter, and she read the rest of it. “Maneck, I really think you should do what your mummy is requesting — visit the Sodawalla family. You haven’t seen them even once in this whole year.”

Shrugging, he made a face and went to his room. When he emerged, she noticed the box under his arm. “Are you taking your chess set to college?”

“It’s not mine. Belongs to a friend. I’m going to return it today.”

On the way to the bus stop he deliberated about the letter — Daddy’s turmoil, Mummy’s anguish, their doubts and fears writhing through the words. What if they really meant it? Maybe it would work out fine this time, maybe the year’s absence really had helped Daddy come to terms with the changes in his life.

He made a little detour past the Vishram in order to wave to Shankar. The beggar did not notice him, distracted, craning and staring down the pavement towards the corner. Maneck bent over, waving again, and Shankar acknowledged him by tapping his tin against the platform. “O babu, are you fine? My friends departed safely?”

“Yesterday,” said Maneck.

“How exciting for them. And today is an exciting day for me also. Beggarmaster’s barber is coming to shave me. But I wish Ishvar and Om were here. How they would enjoy seeing my face afterwards.”

“I’ll be here, don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Maneck, and continued to the bus stop.

Shankar’s eyes followed Maneck until he disappeared around the corner, then resumed their vigil for the barber. The platform stood motionless by the kerb. The begging tin remained empty, the begging song unheard. Shankar did nothing to attract the attention of almsgivers. All he could think of was the sumptuous grooming, the full luxury treatment that awaited him at the hands of Beggarmaster’s personal barber.

Shankar did not know that earlier in the morning the personal barber had declined the commission. Pavement work was something he did not do, he had told Beggarmaster. Instead, he had presented someone else for the job. “This is Rajaram. He is very good and very cheap, and does pavement work.”

“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram.

“Listen,” said Beggarmaster, “Shankar may be just a beggar but I love him dearly — I want the very best for him. No offence to you, but I cannot help questioning your skills. How much can a bald man know about hair?”

“That’s not a fair question,” said Rajaram. “Does a beggar possess a lot of money? No. Yet he knows how to handle it.”

Beggarmaster had liked the answer, and given his approval. So it was Rajaram who arrived outside the Vishram, armed with his barber’s kit.

Shankar thought he recognized the man from somewhere. “Babu, have I met you before?”

“Never seen you in my life,” said Rajaram, haunted by their hair connection, and anxious to disown it. Staying on in the city was risky, he knew, but he had decided it would be safer to commence his journey to the Himalayas in a sanyasi’s outfit. Saffron robes and beads and a hand-carved wooden bhiksha bowl didn’t come cheap, however; Beggarmaster’s bonus for this special job would certainly help.

He tied a white sheet round the beggar’s neck and whipped up a cup of lather with the shaving brush. Shankar bowed his head towards it to catch the fragrance, almost losing his balance. Rajaram pushed him back. “Sit still,” he said, his tone surly to discourage conversation.

Surliness was regular fare for Shankar, and could not diminish his good cheer. “Looks like a cream puff,” he said, when the froth rose in the cup.

“Why don’t you eat a bowlful?” Rajaram moistened the jowls and slapped on the soap. The careless brush strokes pushed some lather into Shankar’s open mouth. Rusty as Rajaram was, he also forgot to pinch the nostrils shut while lathering the upper lip. He opened the razor and began to strop the gleaming blade.

Shankar loved the swishing sound. “Do you ever make a mistake with your razor?” he asked.

“Lots of times. Some people’s throats are such weird shapes, they cut easily. And police cannot arrest barbers for occupational accidents, it’s the law.”

“You better not make a mistake on my throat, it’s the proper shape! And Beggarmaster would punish you!”

Despite the bravado Shankar kept very still, tense till the blade had finished its dangerous tour of his map. Rajaram mopped up bits of lather missed by the razor, then glided an alum block over the shaved areas. The callow skin had been badly nicked in places.

“Show me the mirror,” demanded Shankar, feeling the smart and worrying that the razor had erred after all.

Rajaram held up the glass. The beggar’s anxious face peered back, but the styptic had checked the bleeding and there were no drops of red.

“Okay, next is face massage. That’s what Beggarmaster instructed.” From a bottle in his box he scooped out a dab of cream and spread it over the jowls.

Shankar went stiff, not sure what those muscular hands were up to. Then he allowed his head to roll with the rubbing, stroking movements. He began oohing and aahing with pleasure as the fingers kneaded his cheeks, worked under the eyes, around and over the nose, forehead and temples, massaging away a lifetime of pain and suffering.

“A little more,” he pleaded when the barber stopped and wiped his hands. “One extra minute, I beg you, babu, it feels so wonderful.”

“It’s all done,” said Rajaram, wrinkling his nose. He had never enjoyed giving face massages, not even to middle-class faces in the heyday of his career. He flexed his fingers before taking up the scissors and comb. “Now your haircut,” he said.

“No, that I don’t want.”

“Beggarmaster has told me what to do.” He jerked the head down to trim around the nape, anxious to finish and get away.

“Aray babu, I don’t want it!” Shankar started screaming. “I said I don’t want it! I like long hair!” He shook his tin to make noise, but it had been a slow morning, the tin remained silent. He banged it on the pavement.

Passersby slowed to examine the duo curiously, and Rajaram ceased to press him, worried about attracting more attention. “Don’t be scared, I will cut your hair very carefully, very handsomely.”

“I don’t care how handsome! I don’t want a haircut!”

“Please don’t shout. Tell me what you want, I’ll do it for you. Scalp massage? Dandruff treatment?”

Shankar reached under his platform and took out a package. “You are the hair expert, right?”

He nodded.

“I want you to fix this to my hair.” He pushed the package towards him.

Rajaram opened it, and quailed as two lovely ponytails slid out. “You want me to tie these to your hair?”

“Not just tie. I want it permanent. It must grow from my own head.”

Rajaram was at a loss. He had, in his time as a barber, had his share of unusual assignments: grooming a circus’s bearded lady; shaping a gigolo’s private hair into little plaits; designing artistic pubic coiffures for a brothel moving upmarket to target ministers and corporate executives; shaving (blindfolded in the interest of modesty) the crotch of a caste-conscious man’s wife because the husband didn’t want her polluted by performing the lowly task herself. With these and other challenges, Rajaram had dealt with a barber’s professional aplomb. But Shankar’s request was beyond his skills.

“It’s not possible,” he said flatly.

“You must, you must, you must!” screamed Shankar. Of late, Beggarmaster’s attentions, sudden and excessive, had had a spoiling effect on the gentle, accepting beggar. He refused to listen to the barber’s explanation. “A rose can be grafted!” he yelled. “So graft my hair! You’re the expert! Or I’ll complain to Beggarmaster about you!”

Rajaram begged him to speak softly, to put away the ponytails for now, he would come back tomorrow with special equipment for the complicated job.

“I want it today!” shouted Shankar. “I want my long hair right now!

The cashier-waiter of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel watched from the doorway, and so did the cook. More passersby stopped, expecting something interesting to develop. Then a lottery-ticket vendor brought up the case of the beggars who had been killed many months ago for their hair. What a coincidence, he said, that two thick tails of hair should be in this beggar’s possession.

Speculation flourished. Perhaps there was a connection — a ritual of beggars that involved human sacrifice. Or maybe this beggar was a psychopath. Someone mentioned the gruesome Raman Raghav serial killings a few years ago; the beggars’ murders suggested a similar bloodthirsty pattern:

Trembling with fear, Rajaram tried to dissociate himself from Shankar. He packed up his kit and edged backwards till he became part of the crowd confronting the beggar. At the first opportunity he slipped away.

People moved in closer around Shankar. It frightened him. Now he was sorry he had made a fuss with the barber. He regretted forgetting the cardinal rule of all good almsmen: beggars could be seen, and also heard, but not too loudly — especially not on non-begging matters.

He felt claustrophobic as the crowd towering over him blotted out the sun. His pavement went dark. He tried to appease them by singing the begging song, “O babu ek paisa day-ray,” his bandaged palm repeatedly touching his forehead. It didn’t work. Opinion continued to churn menacingly.

“Where did you steal that hair, you crook?” shouted someone.

“My friends gave it to me,” whined Shankar, frightened yet indignant about the accusation.

“Saala murderer!”

“What a monster he is!” marvelled another, torn between repulsion and admiration. “Such dexterity! Even without fingers or legs, he can commit these violent crimes!”

“Maybe he is just hiding his fingers and legs. These people have ways to modify their body.”

Shankar wept that he had not committed any bad acts, he was a good beggar who did not harass anyone and stayed in his proper place. “May God watch over you forever! O babu, please listen, I always give a salaam to the people who pass by! Even when I am in pain I smile for you! Some beggars curse if the amount is insulting, but I always give a blessing, whether the coin is big or small! Ask anyone who walks by here!”

A policeman approached to see what the commotion was about. He bent down, and Shankar spied his face outside the forest of legs. The crowd parted to let the constable take a better look. Shankar decided it was now or never. He pushed off on his platform and shot through the opening.

The crowd laughed to see him crouch low, paddling with his arms for all he was worth. “Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi!” said someone, eliciting more laughter from those who remembered the old film.

“The beggars’ Grand Prix!” said another.

A hundred yards past the Vishram, Shankar found himself in unexplored territory. Here, the pavement sloped quite steeply, and the castors began to spin faster. Turning the corner at high speed was going to be impossible. But Shankar had not thought so far ahead. The terrifying crowd had to be escaped, that was all.

He reached the end of the pavement and screamed. The platform took flight, sailing out into the busy intersection.

Maneck stayed in the centre of the stairway, away from the paan-stained banisters and the ugly daubs of God-knows-what on the wall. The old revulsion returned as he climbed the hostel stairs. Empty cigarette packs, a shattered lightbulb, a blackened banana peel, chapati in newspaper, orange rind littered the corridors. Was the jharoowalla late, or had the garbage descended since the morning sweep? he wondered.

He did not expect to find Avinash in, but decided he would leave the box with someone, maybe at the counter in the lobby. Reaching his floor, he held his breath while passing the toilets. The stench confirmed their continuing state of disrepair, the stink so deep it could be tasted in the throat.

His old room was vacant, the door unlocked. No one had occupied it since his departure, it was exactly the way he had left it. Eerie to look at, as though he were split in two — one half still living here, the other half with Dina Aunty. And the bed, a foot away from the wall, its four legs in cans of water. Avinash’s method, to discourage crawling things — it had worked really well. Avinash used to joke that what he didn’t know about cockroaches and bedbugs after being raised in the mill tenements wasn’t worth knowing.

Maneck went closer, half-expecting to see water in the cans. They were dry, empty except for brown cockroach eggs, a dead moth, and a drowsy spider. The water had left rings on the wooden legs. His watermark: Maneck Was Here. Desk and chair, the faithful witnesses to so many games of chess, were near the window, where they had been shifted to catch a better light. Seemed so long ago.

He withdrew and shut the door gently on the past. To his surprise, there were sounds coming from the next room. What would Avinash say when he saw him? What would he say to Avinash? He collected himself, he didn’t want to look anxious or uncertain.

He knocked.

The door opened, and a middle-aged couple gazed at him questioningly. They both had grey hair, the man hollow-cheeked and coughing terribly, the woman red-eyed. Must be the parents, he decided.

“Hello, I’m Avinash’s friend.” Perhaps they were expecting him back soon, he could be around somewhere in the building. “Are you waiting for him?”

“No,” the man spoke in a small voice. “The waiting is over. Everything is over.” They moved back slowly, weighed down by invisible burdens, and beckoned him inside. “We are his mother and father. Today we cremated him.”

“Pardon? Today what?”

“Cremated today, yes. And after a very long delay. For months and months we have been searching for our son. Going to all different police stations, begging for help. Nobody would help us.”

His voice quavered, and he stopped, making an effort to control it. “Four days ago they told us there was a body in the morgue. They sent us to check.”

The mother began to cry, and hid her face in a corner of her sari. The father’s coughing stabbed the air as he tried to comfort her; he touched her arm lightly with his fingers. A door slammed somewhere in the corridor.

“But what — I mean … nothing, no one …” stammered Maneck. The father put a hand on his shoulder.

Maneck cleared his throat and tried again. “We were friends.” And the parents nodded, seeming to take comfort in the feeble fact. “But I didn’t know… what happened?”

The mother spoke now, her words fluttering away almost unheard. “We don’t know either. We came here straight from the cremation ceremony. It went well, thanks to God’s grace. No rain, and the pyre flamed brilliantly. We stayed with it all night.”

The father nodded. “They told us the body was found many months ago, on the railway tracks, no identification. They said he died because he fell off a fast train. They said he must have been hanging from the door or sitting on the roof. But Avinash was careful, he never did such things.” His eyes were watering again, he paused to wipe them. The mother touched his arm lightly with her fingers.

He was able to continue. “At last, after such a long time, we saw our son. We saw burns on many shameful parts of his body, and when his mother picked up his hand to press it to her forehead, we could see that his fingernails were gone. So we asked them in the morgue, how can this happen in falling from a train? They said anything can happen. Nobody would help us.”

“You must report it!” said Maneck, angrily fighting his tears. “You must! To… to the minister — I mean, the governor. Or the police commissioner!”

“We did, we made a complaint. The police wrote it all down in their book.”

They resumed the task of gathering Avinash’s belongings. Maneck watched helplessly as they carried clothes, textbooks, papers, and placed them in the trunk with reverence, now and then putting their lips to some object before packing it. The room was silent except for their soft footsteps.

“Did he tell you about his three sisters?” said the mother suddenly. “When they were small, he used to help me look after them. He very much enjoyed feeding them. Sometimes they bit his fingers and made him laugh. Did he ever tell you that?”

“He told me everything.”

In a few minutes they were ready to leave. He insisted on carrying the trunk downstairs for them, glad for the exertion that kept his eyes from overflowing. The parents’ gratitude reminded him how little he could do to help with the weight of their grief. All he could think of was that first day, when Avinash had appeared at the door with the Flit pump. They had killed cockroaches. They had played draughts. They had told each other their life stories. And now he was dead.

He said goodbye, and proceeded to the technical building. Then he remembered that he still had the chessmen and board. He hurried to the gate. There was no sign of the parents. How stupid of me, he thought, it would have meant so much to them, the remembrance, Avinash’s high-school prize for winning the tournament.

He started walking back aimlessly, and found himself in the hostel lobby again. Then he stopped, and decided: the chess set — somehow he had to give it back to the parents. He felt like a thief, robbing them of a source of comfort. He was adding to their grief, the longer he kept it.

The task of returning the set assumed an overriding urgency, a matter of life and death. He was weeping silently now as he climbed the stairs, watched by a handful of curious students. Someone hooted and shouted something he couldn’t catch. They began chanting: “Baby, baby, don’t cry, Mummy making chilli-fry, Daddy catching butterfly…”

He slipped into his old room and sat down on the musty bed. Maybe there was something in Avinash’s room, in the wastepaper basket, an old envelope or letter with the address. He went to look. Nothing. Not a scrap of paper. The address, he had to find the parents’ address, to send them the set. He could ask around on this floor. But those bastards in the corridor would start their juvenile teasing again, watching him stumbling in and out of rooms, making a fool of himself.

Clutching the box against his chest, he closed his eyes, trying to think calmly. The address. The answer was simple — the warden’s office. Yes, they would have the address. He could mail it to Avinash’s parents.

He opened his eyes and gazed at the maroon plywood box as it swam through his tears. He remembered that day in the canteen: white to play and mate in three — and then the vegetarians vomited. The memory made him smile. Revolution through regurgitation, Avinash had said. And he had asked him to look after the chess set.

And he never asked for it back. His gift. The game of life. To send it back would be wrong. He would keep it. He would keep it now forever.

Dina urged Maneck to stay calm, to mentally recite one Ashem Vahu before reading the exam paper and one more before beginning to write the answers. “I am not a very religious person myself,” she said. “But think of it as insurance. I find it helps. And good luck.”

“Thanks, Aunty.” He opened the door to leave and almost stumbled into Beggarmaster on the other side, his index finger poised to ring the bell.

“Excuse me,” said Beggarmaster. “I have come with very bad news.” He was utterly exhausted, his eyes strained from weeping. “May I please see the tailors?”

“But they left two days ago”

“Oh, of course. I forgot — the wedding.” He looked as though he would collapse.

“Come in,” said Dina.

He stepped onto the verandah and, choking back a sob, revealed that Shankar was dead.

Disbelief, the sort that allowed time to deal with shock, was what Maneck reached for. “But we talked to him three days ago — Ishvar and Om and I, when we went for tea. And yesterday morning he spoke to me about the barber coming. He was hale and hearty, rolling as usual.”

“Yes, till yesterday morning.”

“What happened then?”

“Terrible accident. He lost control of his gaadi. Flew off the pavement … straight into a double-decker bus.” He swallowed and said he hadn’t witnessed it himself but had identified the remains. “With all my years in this profession, my eyes have seen much that is gruesome. But never anything this horrible. Both Shankar and the gaadi were crushed completely — not possible to separate the two. Removing the wood and castors embedded in his flesh would have meant mutilating his poor body still more. It will have to be cremated with him.”

They coped in silence with the grisly picture. Beggarmaster broke down and wept uncontrollably. Attempts to muffle the sobs made him tremble. “I should have told him we were brothers. I waited too long. And now it’s too late. If only he had brakes for his platform … I thought about it once, but the idea seemed silly. He could barely drag it around … not a fast car or something. Maybe I should have taken him off the street.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Dina. “You were trying to do the best for him, as you said.”

“Was I? Did I? How can I be sure?”

“He was such a nice person,” said Maneck. “Ishvar and Om told us how he nursed them when they were sick in that work camp. You never met him, Aunty, but in most ways he was like everyone else. He even made funny jokes sometimes.”

“I feel like I knew him. Ishvar and Om brought his measurements and described him for me, remember? And the special vest I designed for him?”

“That was very kind of you,” said Beggarmaster, in tears again at the thought of how he had lovingly ripped and soiled the garment, customizing it for Shankar’s requirements.

“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked. He nodded, and Maneck fetched it.

Beggarmaster regained his composure after the drink. “I wanted to invite the tailors to Shankar’s cremation. Tomorrow at four o’clock. They were his only friends. There will be plenty of beggars there, but Ishvar and Om would have been special.” He returned the empty glass.

“I’ll go,” said Maneck.

Beggarmaster’s surprise shone through his sorrow. “Will you really? I will be so grateful.” He took Maneck’s hand and shook it. “The funeral procession begins outside Vishram. I thought it a suitable place for everyone to gather — out of respect for Shankar. Don’t you think? His last location?”

“Yes, I’ll meet you there.”

“What about your exam?” asked Dina.

“It finishes at three.”

“Yes, but what about the exam the day after?” She tried to discourage him. The idea of his attending a beggar’s funeral made her uneasy. “Shouldn’t you come straight home and study for it?”

“I will, after going to the cremation.”

“Excuse me for a minute,” she said to Beggarmaster, and retreated inside. “Maneck!” she called from the back room. He shrugged and followed.

“What is this nonsense? Why do you have to go?”

“Because I want to.”

“Don’t give smart answers! You know how that man scares me. The only reason I put up with him is because he protects the flat. No need to get more familiar.”

“I don’t want to argue, Aunty. I am going to the cremation.” His voice was soft, emphasizing each word.

It puzzled Dina that he should feel so intensely about the beggar’s funeral. She attributed his behaviour to the pressure of his final exams. “Fine. I cannot stop you. But if you go, I go with you.” To keep an eye on him if nothing else, she decided.

They returned to the verandah. “We were discussing about tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Both of us will come.”

“Oh, that is wonderful,” said Beggarmaster. “How shall I ever thank you? You know, I was just thinking, in a way it’s good that Ishvar and Om left two days ago. The grief would have ruined the wedding. And marriage is like death, only happens once.”

“How true,” she said. “I wish more people would understand this.” She was surprised that his words so perfectly fitted her feelings on the matter.

Beggarmaster gave everyone the afternoon off to attend the cremation ceremony. The assembly of crippled, blinded, armless, legless, diseased, and faceless individuals on the pavement soon attracted an audience. Onlookers inquired whether some hospital, for lack of space, was conducting an outdoor clinic.

Dina and Maneck joined Beggarmaster having tea inside the Vishram. “Look at that crowd,” he said disgustedly. “They think it’s a circus.”

“And not a single coin are they donating,” said Dina.

“That’s not surprising. Pity can only be shown in small doses. When so many beggars are in one place, the public goes like this” — he put his fists to his eyes, like binoculars. “It’s a freak show. People forget how vulnerable they are despite their shirts and shoes and briefcases, how this hungry and cruel world could strip them, put them in the same position as my beggars.”

Maneck studied Beggarmaster’s excessive chatter, his attempt to hide his heartache. Why did humans do that to their feelings? Whether it was anger or love or sadness, they always tried to put something else forward in its place. And then there were those who pretended their emotions were bigger and grander than anyone else’s. A little annoyance they acted out like a gigantic rage; where a smile or chuckle would do, they laughed hysterically. Either way, it was dishonest.

“Also,” said Beggarmaster, “the public apathy you are witnessing illustrates an important point. In this business, as in others, the three most crucial things are location, location, and location. Right now, if I move these beggars from Vishram to a major temple or a place of pilgrimage, the money would come flowing in.”

Shankar’s body lay on a fresh bamboo bier outside the Vishram’s back door, next to a storage shed containing plates, utensils, spare stoves, and fuel. Beggarmaster explained that the face was not left uncovered for the mourners to see because the sight was unbearable. A sheet concealed the mutilated corpse, and over the sheet, a blanket of fresh flowers: roses and lilies.

Gazing at the bier, Maneck wondered if Avinash’s parents had started his funeral procession from the morgue. Or was it permitted to take the body home for prayers? Probably depended on the state of decomposition, and how long it would keep at room temperature. In the unrefrigerated world. Where everything ended badly.

“It’s nice of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel to let Shankar lie here before the funeral,” said Dina.

“Nice nothing. I paid the cook and waiter handsomely.” Beggarmaster craned to look through the window, and waved at four men who had just arrived. “Good, we can start now.”

The four men were porters from the railway station hired to carry the bier. “I had no choice,” he explained regretfully. “I’m the only relative. Of course I will shoulder my brother from time to time, to honour him, but I cannot allow any of the beggars. They’re not strong enough. Whole thing might come crashing down.”

He had spared no expense for Shankar, purchasing the best ghee and incense, and mountains of sandalwood. It was all waiting at the cremation site, along with a well-qualified mahapaatra to perform the funeral rites. There were baskets of rose petals for the mourners to shower the bier during the long walk. And after the death ceremonies, Beggarmaster would make a donation to the temple in Shankar’s name.

“There’s only one thing worrying me,” he said. “I hope the other beggars don’t assume this is standard procedure, that they will each get the same lavish farewell.”

The slowest-moving procession ever to wind its way through city streets started towards the cremation grounds just after four. The great number of cripples kept it at a snail’s pace. The deformities of some had atrophied their bodies, reducing them to a froglike squat: they swung along using their arms as levers. A few could only manage the sideways shuffle of a crab. Others, doubled over, crawled forward on their hands and feet, their behinds raised in the air like camels’ humps. By a tacit consensus, the cortège proceeded at the lowest common velocity, but their spirits were high as they laughed and chatted among themselves, enjoying a new experience, so that it seemed more a festival than a funeral.

“It’s very sad,” said Dina disapprovingly. “There is a death but no mourning. And Beggarmaster is not even telling them to behave properly.”

“What do you expect, Aunty,” said Maneck. “They are probably envying Shankar.” And anyway, he thought, what sense did mourning make? It could be himself on that bier and the world would be no different.

Beggarmaster drifted up and down the length of the column like a line monitor, making sure there were no avoidable delays. Dina beckoned to him as he approached the tail end of the procession. “Neither Maneck nor I have ever been to a Hindu funeral,” she confessed. “What should we do when we get there?”

“Nothing,” said Beggarmaster. “You are honouring Shankar by just being there. The pujari will perform the prayers. And I will have to light the pyre and break the skull at the end, since Shankar does not have a son.”

“Is it hard to watch? Someone told me there is a very strong smell. Can you actually see the flesh burning?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, it’s a beautiful sight. You will come away feeling good, feeling that Shankar has been properly seen off on his continuing journey. And, I hope, not needing a platform anymore. That’s the way I always feel after watching a burning pyre — a completeness, a calmness, a perfect balance between life and death. In fact, for that reason I even go to strangers’ cremations. Whenever I have some free time, if I see a funeral procession, I just join it.”

He hurried now to the front of the column to placate some disgruntled policemen. The sluggish funeral march was annoying the traffic constables, who felt the tempo was all wrong. “Keep Moving” was their one credo in life, and they had a phobia about anything in slow motion, whether it was cars, handcarts, pariah dogs, or people. If they made an occasional exception, it was for cows. Anxious to get the mourners through at a healthy clip, they waved their arms, tooted their whistles, shouted and pleaded, gesticulated, grimaced, clutched their foreheads, and shook their fists. But these tried-and-true methods were employed in vain: absent limbs could not respond, no matter how piercing the whistle or vigorous the wave.

The railway porters, accustomed to fast trotting with heavy luggage, also had trouble adjusting to the unorthodox pace. Whenever the chants of “Ram naam satya hai!” began to fade behind them, they realized they had raced too far ahead, and called a halt till the gap was closed.

Halfway to the cremation grounds, after an hour’s inching along, a small contingent of helmeted riot police charged the cortège without warning, swinging their sticks. Shankar’s corpse rolled off the bier as the porters swerved to avoid the blows. Screaming in terror, the beggars tumbled to the ground. Rose petals scattered from half a dozen baskets, and a delicate puddle of pink spread across the road.

“See? This is why I was afraid to let you go,” said Dina, panting as she and Maneck ran to the safety of the pavement. “These are bad times — trouble can come without warning. But what is wrong with the stupid police? Why are they beating up the beggars?”

“Maybe they are grabbing people for another work camp. Like they took Ishvar and Om.”

Then, just as abruptly, the troops withdrew. Their commanding officer sought out Beggarmaster and apologized profusely for violating the sanctity of the occasion. “I myself am a prayerful man, and most sensitive to religious matters. This is a very unfortunate mistake. All due to faulty intelligence.”

He said a report had been received on the wireless that a mock funeral was underway, intended to make some kind of political statement, which would most definitely have contravened Emergency regulations. Suspicion had been aroused, in particular, by the assembly of so many beggars, he explained. “They were mistaken for political activists in fancy dress — troublemakers indulging in street theatre, portraying government figures as crooks and criminals embarked on beggaring the nation. You know the sort of thing.”

“An understandable mistake,” said Beggarmaster, accepting the explanation. He was more upset with the people who had prepared the bier — they must have been very careless while tying down Shankar’s body, for it to slide off so easily. At the same time, he reasoned, it was not entirely their fault, they probably had little experience in readying remains as segmented as Shankar’s.

Still squirming with embarrassment, the commanding officer continued to apologize. “Soon as we saw that the corpse was not a symbolic dummy, we realized our error. It’s all very regrettable.” He took off his black-visored cap. “May I offer my condolences?”

“Thank you,” said Beggarmaster, shaking hands.

“Trust me, heads will roll for this blunder,” promised the commanding officer, while his men hurried to retrieve the one which already had: off the bier and into the road, along with a few other body parts.

To make up for the debacle, he insisted on providing an official entourage for the rest of the way. The riot squad was ordered to reassemble the bier and refill the beggars’ baskets with the rose petals strewing the asphalt. “Don’t worry,” he assured Beggarmaster. “We’ll soon have everyone marching shipshape to the cremation grounds.”

As the procession cleared the scene of the ambush, a car stopped by the kerb and honked. “Oh no,” said Dina. “It’s my brother. He’s probably on his way home from the office.”

Nusswan waved from the back seat and rolled down the window. “Are you part of the procession? I didn’t know you had any Hindu friends.”

“I do,” said Dina.

“Whose funeral is it?”

“A beggar’s.”

He began to laugh, then stopped and came out of the car. “Don’t make jokes about serious matters.” Must be a fairly important person, he imagined, to have a police escort. Some high-up from the Au Revoir corporation, maybe — chairman or managing director. “Come on, stop teasing, who is it?”

“I told you. It’s a beggar.”

Nusswan opened and shut his mouth: opened, in exasperation, then shut, in horror, becoming aware of the procession’s character. He realized she was not joking.

Now the mouth was open again, in speechlessness, and Dina said, “Shut it, Nusswan, or a fly will get in.”

He shut it. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. “I see,” he said slowly. “And all these beggars are — friends of the deceased?”

She nodded.

A dozen questions crossed his mind: Why a funeral for a beggar? With a police escort? And why was she attending, and Maneck? Who was paying for it? But the answers could wait till later. “Get in,” he ordered, opening the car door.

“What do you mean, get in?”

“Come on, don’t argue. Get in, both of you. I’m taking you back to your flat.” His list of grievances, compiled over thirty years, flashed through his mind. And now this. “You’re not walking another step in the procession! Of all things — going to a beggar’s funeral! How low can you sink? What will people say if they see my sister — ”

Beggarmaster and the commanding officer approached them. “Is this man bothering you?”

“Not at all,” said Dina. “He’s my brother. He is just offering condolences for Shankar’s death.”

“Thank you,” said Beggarmaster. “May I invite you to join us?”

Nusswan faltered. “Uh … I’m very busy. Sorry, another time.” He slipped inside the car, hurriedly pulling the door shut.

They waved and went to regain their places, not that there was much catching up to do; the column had barely moved another dozen metres. Beggarmaster went to the front and reshouldered the bier from one of the railway porters.

“That was fun,” said Dina to Maneck. “He’ll be having bad dreams tonight, I think. Nightmares of funeral pyres — his reputation going up in smoke.”

Maneck smiled, but his thoughts were of the other cremation, three days ago. Where he should have been. Where the generational order of dying was out of joint. Avinash’s hollow-cheeked father would have lit the pyre. Crackle of kindling. Smoke smarting the eyes. And fingers of fire teasing, playing, tickling the corpse. Causing it to arch, as though trying to sit up … a sign, they said, the spirit protesting. Avinash used to often arch like that when playing chess, lying back, almost flat on the bed, turning his head sideways, contemplating the board. Rising on his elbow to reach the piece, to make his move.

Checkmate. And then the flames.

Time passed slowly, as though it had lost interest in the world. Dina dusted the furniture and the Singers in the corner of the room. Nothing so lifeless as silent sewing-machines, she thought.

She busied herself with the quilt again. Straightening a seam, trimming a patch, adjusting what did not look right to her eye. The afternoon sun through the ventilator glass dappled the squares in her lap.

“Move it a little to your left, Aunty,” said Maneck.

“Why?”

“I want to see how the yellow bit looks with circles of sunlight.”

Clicking her tongue, she obliged.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“Remember how doubtful you were the first time you saw it?”

He laughed self-deprecatingly. “I had no experience with colours and designs in those days.”

“And now you are a big expert, right?” She hauled the opposite corner into her lap.

“Will you spread it on your bed when it’s done?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to sell it then, Aunty?”

She shook her head. “Can you keep a secret? It’s going to be Om’s wedding gift.”

He couldn’t have been more pleased if he had thought of it himself. His face went soft, touched by her intention.

“Don’t look so hurt,” she said. “I’ll make one for your wedding as well.”

“I’m not hurt, I think it’s a superb idea.”

“But don’t go blabbing to Ishvar and Om the minute you see them again. I’ll finish it when tailoring resumes, after we get new cloth from Au Revoir. Not a word till then.”

Maneck’s exams concluded; he felt he had done quite badly on most of them. He prayed that the marks would at least be good enough to get him into the three-year degree programme.

Dina asked how he had fared, and he answered “Fine.”

She heard the lack of conviction in his voice. “We’ll have to wait for the results, to see how fine.”

On the last evening, goaded by Dina, he surrendered to the pleas in his mother’s letter and finally went to visit his relatives. He spent two hours enduring the gushing Sodawalla family and fending off a dozen different types of snacks and cold drinks. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”

“Next time, you must come with an empty stomach,” they said. “We want the pleasure of feeding you.” They put away the snacks and tried to make him join them for a cinema show and late dinner, inviting him to stay the night.

“Please excuse me, I should leave now,” said Maneck when he felt he had done his time. “I have to start early tomorrow.”

Back in Dina’s flat, he accused her of ruining his evening. “I’m never going again, Aunty. They talk nonstop, and behave like silly children.”

“Don’t be mean, they are your mother’s family.”

She helped to take down his empty suitcase from the top of the cupboard, then dusted it for him. Watching him pack, she interrupted often with advice, reminders, instructions: don’t forget, take this, do that. “And most of all, be nice to your parents, don’t get into any arguments with them. They have missed you so much this year. Enjoy your vacation.”

“Thank you, Aunty. And please don’t forget to feed the cats.”

“Oh yes, I’ll feed them. I’ll even cook their favourite dishes. Shall I serve with cutlery, or do they eat with fingers?”

“No, Aunty, save the cutlery for your daughter-in-law. She’ll be here in three weeks.”

She threatened to spank him. “Trouble is, your mother didn’t do it often enough when you were small.”

Early next morning he hugged her and was gone.

The return of solitude was not quite as Dina expected it to be. These many years I made a virtue of inescapable reality, she thought, calling it peace and quiet. Still, how was it possible to feel lonely again after living alone most of her life? Didn’t the heart and mind learn anything? Could one year do so much damage to her resilience?

For the umpteenth time she consulted the dates on the calendar: three weeks before Ishvar and Om returned; and then three more, for Maneck.

The days shuffled along unhurriedly. She decided this was a good opportunity to give the flat a thorough going-over. In every room she heard the echoes of the tailors’ tireless banter, haunting her while she scoured the kitchen, swept the ceilings with the long-handled broom, cleaned the windows and ventilators, washed all the floors.

In Maneck’s room she found his friend’s chess set in the cupboard. To be returned when college reopens, she assumed.

Next, her own cupboard was emptied out, all but the bottommost shelf. She wiped the interior, stacked the Au Revoir remnants, and sorted her clothes. The things she did not wear anymore went in a separate pile. To offer to Om’s wife. Depending, of course, on her size. And what type of person she turned out to be.

Then Dina tackled the bottommost shelf, crammed with a year’s worth of the snippets from each sewing day, the tiny bits, useless for anything except stuffing the homemade sanitary pads. She dug her arms in and out tumbled the mountain of fragments, making her laugh aloud. Not even another fifty years of periods would use up so much cotton filling. She stocked a bag with a reasonable amount and prepared to get rid of the rest.

Then she thought of Om’s wife again. Surely her youth and vitality could use a healthy lot of it. Better save it for now, she thought, happily pushing the shreds back onto the shelf.

The spate of cleaning eased the passage of many days. She turned her mind to the verandah, soon to be home for the married couple and the uncle. The tailors’ one bedding roll was insufficient, she decided, and set to making extra sheets and covers out of Au Revoir’s bounty.

The foot treadle of Ishvar’s Singer was hard going for her. She had never worked on this type of model during her sewing years. She switched to Shirin Aunty’s little hand-cranked machine, and it was fun. With every seam she ran off, she said to herself: how fortunate, to have all this cloth for all our needs.

The picture of Ishvar, Om and his wife sleeping on the verandah bothered her. Just imagine, she thought, if on my wedding night Darab Uncle and Shirin Aunty had slept in the same room with Rustom and me.

The only solution she could come up with was to string a curtain down the middle of the verandah. She measured the distance, then stitched together the thickest fabrics from the hoard of remnants. Better a token wall than nothing.

She hoped Ishvar and Om would be pleased with her efforts. She had done what she could. If the new wife tried half as hard, she was certain they would get along well.

Two nails plus a length of twine, and the symbolic partition was erected. She stood back, examining each side of the curtain. The lives of the poor were rich in symbols, she decided.