A Fine Balance

XVI. The Circle Is Completed

THE FIRST THING ZENOBIA SAW when Dina opened the door was the patchwork curtain rigged down the middle of the verandah. “What’s this, your washing?” she giggled. “Or are you starting a dhobi service?”

“No, that’s the bridal suite,” said Dina, breaking into laughter. She had endured four weeks of enforced solitude with resentment. Her friend dropping in was a great relief.

Zenobia found the joke hilarious without understanding what it meant. They went into the front room. Between renewed bursts of laughter, she learned why the verandah was partitioned.

“They should be back any day now,” said Dina. “The curtain isn’t thick enough to muffle the newlyweds’ noises, but it’s the best I can do.”

Zenobia no longer thought it funny. She stared at Dina as though she had gone mad. “How you’ve changed. Are you listening to what you are saying? Only a year ago you were against keeping a harmless paying guest. It took me days to convince you that Aban Kohlah’s son was no threat, that he was not going to eat up your flat.”

“And you were absolutely right — Maneck is a lovely boy. Two more weeks, and he’ll be back too. Look at this quilt I made. It’s going to be Om’s wedding present.”

Zenobia ignored it and continued. “Suddenly you became very brave, letting the tailors live here. That was bad enough. Now you are allowing them to bring a wife? You’ll regret it, believe me. The whole jing-bang clan will end up on the verandah. Half their village. And you’ll never be able to get rid of them. The place will turn into a pigsty, with all their primitive unhygienic habits.”

The grim prognostication amused Dina, but this time she was laughing alone. To placate her friend she employed a more serious tone. “They would never take advantage of me. Ishvar is a perfect gentleman. And Om is a good, intelligent boy, just like Maneck. Only less fortunate.”

Zenobia stayed for another half-hour, pleading, threatening, cajoling, doing her best to change her friend’s decision. “Don’t be foolish, just let them go. We can always find new tailors for you. Mrs. Gupta will help us, I’m sure.”

“But that’s not the point. I would let them stay even if they weren’t working for me.”

By the time Zenobia realized she was getting nowhere, she had already invested her emotions in the argument. To rescue her pride, she departed in a huff.

The letter from Maneck made Dina’s hands shake as she opened it. “Dear Aunty,” she read, “I hope you are well and in the pink of perfection, as are all of us at our end. Mummy and Daddy send you their best wishes. They said they were very happy to see me, and that they missed me.

“I finally heard from my college. Sorry to write that my marks were not very good. They have refused me admission to the degree programme, so I will have to be satisfied with my one-year certificate.”

She knew what was coming, but read on, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “You should have seen the acting that went on when the news arrived. If you remember, when I first suggested doing three more years, my parents had been against it. But now they got upset with me for the opposite reason. What are you going to do with your life, Daddy kept repeating, finished, it’s all finished, this boy has no idea what a disaster this is, all my life has been one disaster after another, I thought my son would change the pattern, but I should have known better, the lines on my palm are permanent, no alterations permitted, it is my fate, I cannot fight it.

“Do you remember Ishvar’s theatrics about finding a wife for Om? That was nothing, Aunty, compared to Daddy’s performance. I should never have told them I was planning to take that silly degree programme.

“Fortunately, after all the acting was over, a friend of my parents brought some good news. Brigadier Grewal has contacts in those rich Arab countries in the Gulf, where money grows on trees. He has promised me a good job in a refrigeration and air-conditioning company in Dubai. The Brigadier thinks he is a great comedian. He said everyone owns a unit to cool their tent in the desert, and with sandstorms and simoons choking the motor and fan, there is constant demand for new air-conditioners and maintenance work.

“Due to Brigadier Grewal’s pathetic sense of humour, I have decided to accept the job. If I go to Dubai, I won’t have to listen to his jokes. And the salary, benefits, living allowance is fantastic. They say over there a person can save a small fortune in just four or five years. Maybe I will be able to come back and start my own air-conditioning business in the city. Or even better, we could start a tailoring business. With all my experience last year, I would be the boss, of course. (Ha ha, just joking.)”

It was getting difficult to read with the tears stinging her eyes. She blinked rapidly a few times and took a deep breath. “I have to be in Dubai in three weeks, so Mummy is driving everyone crazy trying to get things ready for me. It’s a repeat performance of what she went through last year when I was leaving for college. And Daddy is the same as before. He hasn’t talked properly to me even once since I returned, although I’ve done exactly what he wanted. He now makes it sound like I am abandoning him and the General Store. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. What does he expect if he runs things in his same old-fashioned way. When I try to make suggestions, he just gives me that tragic look of his. He’ll feel better once I’ve gone, he just does not enjoy having me around. I knew it the day he sent me to boarding school in the fifth standard.

“Please tell Om I am sorry not to be there to meet his wife. I am sure she will be very happy with a wonderful mother-in-law like you. (Ha ha, joking again, Aunty.) But next year, when I come home from the Gulf on vacation, I am planning to stop over and see all of you.

“Lastly, I want to thank you for letting me stay in your flat, and for looking after me so well.” The next sentence had been cancelled out, but she could decipher two fragments under the heavy scratches: “the happiest” and “life.”

There was not much more after this. “Good luck with the tailoring. Lots of love to Ishvar and Om, and to you.”

Below his name he had added a postscript. “I have asked Mummy to write the enclosed cheque for three months’ rent, since I did not give proper notice. I hope this is all right. Thanks again.”

The writing went quite blurry now. She removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes. Such a wonderful boy. Would she ever get used to being without his company? His teasing, his constant chatter, his helpful nature, the good-morning smile, his antics with the cats, even if his ideas about life and death were a bit grim. And how generous the cheque was; she was certain he had pressured his mother into writing it.

But it was selfish to feel sad, she thought, when she should be happy about Maneck’s opportunity. He was right, lots of people had made fortunes by working in these oil-rich countries.

Two days after receiving the letter, Dina went to the Venus Beauty Salon. The receptionist returned from the rear and announced that Zenobia was with a customer. “Please wait in the waiting area, madam.”

Dina sat near a withered plant and picked up a stale issue of Woman’s Weekly, smiling to herself. Clearly, Zenobia was still miffed about the business of Om’s wife, and this was her way of letting her know, or she would have come running, clutching scissors and comb, breathless, said hello, and run back.

Forty-five minutes passed before Zenobia emerged to escort her customer to the door. The extravagantly coiffed woman was none other than Mrs. Gupta. “What a surprise to see you here, Mrs. Dalai,” she said. “Is Zenobia doing your hair?” Despite the smile, something about the left corner of her upper lip suggested she did not approve of the idea.

“Oh no, I could never afford her services! I just dropped in to chat.”

“I hope her charges for chatting are more reasonable than for hairstyling,” tittered Mrs. Gupta. “But I’m not complaining, she is a genius. Just look — what a miracle she has performed today.” She moved her head in a slow rotation from left to right and back again, letting it come to rest statuesquely in a gaze frozen at the ceiling fan.

“So lovely,” said Dina without wasting time. Mrs. Gupta was capable of holding her pose indefinitely if a compliment were not forthcoming.

“Thank you,” she said coyly, and allowed her cranium to move again. “But when are we going to see you at Au Revoir? Have your tailors returned or not?”

“I think we’ll start next week.”

“Let’s hope they don’t ask for honeymoon leave when their wedding leave finishes. Or there will be another population increase.” Mrs. Gupta tittered again, glancing in the mirror behind the reception counter. She patted her hair and departed reluctantly; the angle of that particular glass had given her immense satisfaction.

Alone with her friend, Dina smiled confidentially, sharing a wordless opinion of Mrs. Gupta. But Zenobia’s response was cold. “You wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes, I got a letter from Maneck Kohlah. He doesn’t need my room anymore.”

“I’m not surprised,” she sniffed. “Must be fed up of living with tailors.”

“Actually, they all got along very well.” She was aware, as she mouthed the words, that the statement did not do justice to her household. But what else to say? Could she describe for Zenobia the extent to which Maneck and Om had become inseparable, and how Ishvar regarded both boys like his own sons? That the four of them cooked together and ate together, shared the cleaning and washing and shopping and laughing and worrying? That they cared about her, and gave her more respect than she had received from some of her own relatives? That she had, during these last few months, known what was a family?

It was impossible to explain. Zenobia would say she was being silly and imagining fancy things, turning a financial necessity into something sentimental. Or she would accuse the tailors of manipulating her through fawning and flattery.

So Dina merely added, “Maneck isn’t coming back because he has got a very good job in the Gulf.”

“Well,” said Zenobia. “Whatever the real reason, you need a replacement paying guest.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. Do you have someone?”

“Not right now. I’ll keep it in mind.” She rose to return to work. “It’s going to be difficult. Anyone who sees your Technicolour curtain and a tribe of tailors on the verandah will run from that room.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remove the curtain.” Dina expected her friend would come through; when Zenobia was upset, she took a few days to recover, that was all.

She went home and made sure Maneck’s room was spotless. But she must stop thinking of it now as Maneck’s room, she resolved. Dusting and cleaning, she found the chess set in the cupboard. Should she send it to Maneck? By the time it reached the hill-station, he would have left for the Gulf. Better to save it till he visited next year, as he had written.

Dina liked this idea, and tucked away the set among her own clothes in the sewing room. It seemed to fix Maneck’s visit more definitely in time. It was a comforting thought, drowning the other, painful one — that he would never live here again.

At night, she went to the kitchen window and fed the cats, calling them by the names he had given them.

The full six weeks had elapsed, and yet she kept waiting patiently, certain at every ring of the doorbell that Ishvar and Om had returned. Then the hire-purchase man arrived to demand the overdue amount on the two Singers.

“The tailors are coming next week,” she stalled. “You know how busy it gets when there is a wedding.”

“They have been late too often,” grumbled the man. “The company shouts at me that I am not collecting on time.” He agreed to wait for seven more days.

Later that morning, the doorbell rang again. She ran to the verandah.

It was Beggarmaster. He was carrying a small wedding gift. “An aluminium tea kettle,” he said, disappointed that the tailors were not yet back.

“I’m hoping for next week, latest,” said Dina. “The export company is also getting impatient.”

“I’ll bring the gift next Thursday.”

She knew what he was getting at: his instalment, like the hire-purchase maris, was overdue. “There won’t be any problem with the landlord, will there? Because the tailors haven’t paid? I can give you a little right now, if you insist.”

“Not at all. I am looking after the flat, don’t worry. With such good people I am not concerned about temporary arrears. You came to Shankar’s funeral, I won’t forget that.”

He made a collection note in his diary and shut the briefcase. “Yesterday I finally made the donation to the temple in Shankar’s memory. There was a small puja, and as the priest was ringing the bell, I felt such peace. Maybe it’s time for me to give up this business, devote myself to prayer and meditation.”

“Are you serious? What will happen to all your beggars? And to the tailors and me?”

Beggarmaster nodded wearily. “That’s the thing. For the sake of my worldly duties, I must keep in check my spiritual urges. Don’t worry, I will not abandon any of my dependants.” The briefcase chain on his wrist rattled softly as he left. She noticed it had started to rust.

The reassurance bestowed by his solemn pledge evaporated within minutes. After the morning’s two visitors, the anxiety she had kept at bay began closing in, prowling and circling like a predator. Now she was certain that the tailors’ failure to return meant more than a brief delay. And not even the courtesy of a postcard. What could have happened that they could not let her know in a few words: please excuse us, Dinabai, we have decided to settle again in our village, Om and his wife prefer it. Just a few lines. Was that too much to expect? Zenobia was right, it was foolish to trust their type of people. They had used her, and discarded her.

To complete the day, the bell taunted her a third time, late in the afternoon. She turned the knob without putting on the chain. The bright sun made the precaution seem unnecessary. Then the opening door presented a fearful apparition.

“Ohhh!” she screamed, badly scared. The man, wasted and with freshly healed scars on his forehead, a wild gaze about his eyes, looked as though he had risen from his deathbed.

She tried to push the door shut. But he spoke, and her fears diminished. “Don’t be frightened, ma-ji,” he gasped. “I mean no harm.” It was the pitiful whine of a wounded creature, the wheezing of damaged lungs. “Two tailors work here? Ishvar and Omprakash?”

“Yes.”

The man almost collapsed with relief. “Please, can I see them?”

“They are away for a few days,” said Dina, stepping back; his smell was strong.

“They will come back soon?” his words groped desperately.

“Maybe. Who are you?”

“A friend. We lived in the same jhopadpatti, till government flattened it.”

For a moment Dina wondered if this could be Rajaram, the one who wanted to renounce the world and become a sanyasi. She had seen him only once or twice — could the hardship of sanyas have already altered him so greatly? “You are not the hair-collector, are you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I am Monkey-man. But my monkeys are dead.” He fingered his forehead, touching the itchy scars delicately. “The tailors had told me they worked in this neighbourhood. Since yesterday, I’ve been going to every building on this road, knocking at every flat. And now — they are not here.” He looked ready to cry. “Ishvar and Om are still with Beggarmaster, yes?”

“I think so.”

“You know where he lives?”

“No. Beggarmaster always comes here to collect. In fact, he was here today.”

Monkey-man’s eyes lit up. “How long ago? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know — hours ago, in the morning.” The hope vanished from his face. Like light from a bulb, she thought, on and off.

“I have very important business with him. And I don’t know how to find him.”

His helplessness, the sight of his battered body, the despair in his voice made Dina wince. “Beggarmaster is coming again next Thursday,” she volunteered.

Monkey-man touched his forehead and bowed. “May God bless you and grant all your wishes for helping a wretch like me.”

The hire-purchase man returned the following week and said he could not wait any longer for payment. Expecting more excuses from Dina, he was determined to be firm this time.

“I don’t want you to wait,” she snapped. “Take the machines right now, I refuse to keep them another minute.”

“Thank you,” he said, astonished. “Our van will pick them up tomorrow morning.”

“Did you hear me? I said right now. If they are not gone in one hour, I will push them out of my flat. I’ll leave them in the middle of the road.” The man hurried off to telephone the office for an urgent pickup.

Expelling the sewing-machines made her feel better. Let the rascals come back and find their Singers vanished, she thought. That would teach them a lesson for life.

Next, she waited for Beggarmaster and his wedding gift. With him, too, she decided to change tactics and let him know the tailors had disappeared. His missing instalments would make him act quickly, track them down wherever they were.

But Beggarmaster did not keep his appointment. How unlike his punctual habit, she thought, as the day passed. Could he and the tailors have formed a wicked alliance against her, planning to get rid of her and take over the flat? Anxiety stimulated her imagination, causing nefarious plots to flower, to plague her with their scent till next morning, when a knock on the door finally revealed the truth.

Disappointment, betrayal, joy, heartache, hope — they all entered her life through the same door, she thought. She listened for the clink of Beggarmaster’s briefcase chain. Nothing. And then another soft knock. Whoever it was, was staying clear of the jangling bell. She opened the door, leaving on the security chain.

A wisp of white beard came through the crack, and then the voice: “Please sister, let me in! I’ll be punished if someone from the office sees me, I’m hot supposed to be here!”

Reluctantly, she unhooked the chain and allowed Ibrahim inside. “What do you mean, not supposed to be here? You’re the rent-collector.”

“Not anymore, sister. Landlord dismissed me last week. He said I was destructive with office property, that I was breaking too many folders. He showed me the stationery records since I started there forty-eight years ago. Seven folders I had been through — one leather-bound, three buckram, and three plastic. Seven is the limit, the landlord told me, seven folders and you’re out.”

“What nonsense,” said Dina. “You were always so careful with it, keeping it clean, opening and shutting it gently. It’s not your fault if they give you cheap-quality folders that fall apart in a few years.”

“He just wanted an excuse to get rid of me, sister. I know the real reason.”

“What is the real reason?”

He waited, as though debating whether to share it with her, and sighed. “The real reason is: I no longer have a passion for my duties. I am no longer mean enough with the tenants, I do not menace them in a way that scares them, I have lost my fire. And so I am useless to the landlord:”

“Can’t you try harder? Use more threatening language or something?”

He shook his head. “Once the flame goes out, it cannot be rekindled. It came to pass right here, in this flat, sister. Don’t you remember? The night I brought those goondas, months ago? After what happened here, I couldn’t frighten a little baby. And I thank God for that.”

She reminded herself of the terror he had inflicted upon her that night, but instead of anger she felt somehow responsible for the loss of his job. “Have you found other work?”

“At my age? Who will hire me?”

“Then how are you managing?”

He looked shamefully at the floor. “Some of the tenants help me a little. Recently, I have made a few friends among them. I stand outside the building and they, you know, give me — help. But never mind all that, sister, let me tell you the reason for my visit. I have come to warn you, you are in great danger from the landlord.”

“I’m not scared of that rascal. Beggarmaster is looking after me.”

“But sister, Beggarmaster is dead.”

“What are you saying? Have you gone crazy?”

“No, he was murdered yesterday. I saw it all, I was standing outside, it was horrible! Horrible!” Ibrahim started to tremble, staggering sideways. She led him to a chair and made him sit.

“Now take a deep breath and tell me properly,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “Yesterday morning I was standing near the gate with my tin can, waiting for help from my tenants — I mean, my friends. I was able to see everything. The police said I was their star witness, and took me along to give a full statement. They kept me till night, asking questions.”

“Who killed Beggarmaster?”

He took another deep breath. “A very sick-looking man. He was hiding behind the stone pillar at the gate. When Beggarmaster entered, he jumped upon his back and tried to stab him. But he was such a weak fellow, his blows were too soft, the knife would not go in. Anyone could have escaped such a feeble attacker.”

“Then why didn’t Beggarmaster?”

“Because Beggarmaster’s luck was not with him that day.”

What was with him, explained Ibrahim, was the large bag full of coins, chained to his wrist, which he had been out gathering from his beggars. Anchored to the ground by this deadweight, one hand immobilized, he was trapped. He thrashed and flailed with the free arm, kicking his legs about, while the frail murderer laboured on, sitting astride his victim’s back, trying to make the blade pass through the clothes, break the skin, enter the flesh and pierce the heart.

“At first it looked so comic. As if he was playing with a plastic folding knife from the balloonman. But he took his time, and finally Beggarmaster stopped moving. He who had lived by the beggings of helpless cripples died by those beggings, rooted by their heaviness. You see, sister, once in a while there is a tiny piece of justice in the universe.”

But Dina was remembering all the beggars at Shankar’s funeral. True, they were free now. But of what use was freedom to them? Scattered about the miserable pavements of the city, orphaned, uncared for — weren’t they better off in Beggarmaster’s custody?

“He wasn’t a completely bad man,” she said.

“Who are we to decide the question of good or bad? It’s just that for once, the scales look level. To be honest, sister, yesterday morning as I saw Beggarmaster approach, even I was thinking of asking him for help — to set me up somewhere in a good location. But the killer got to him first.”

“Did he try to steal the money?”

“No, he wasn’t interested in the bag. And if he was, he would have had to chop the wrist. No, he just threw down his knife and shouted that he was Monkey-man, he had killed Beggarmaster for revenge.”

Dina turned pale and slipped into a chair. Ibrahim struggled out of his own to touch her arm. “Are you all right, sister?”

“The one who said he was Monkey-man — did he have a big scar on his forehead?”

“I think so.”

“He came here last week, wanting to meet Beggarmaster for some business. I told him he was visiting on Thursday — yesterday.” She bunched her fingers in a fist and covered her mouth with it. “I helped the murderer.”

“Don’t say that, sister. You didn’t know he was going to kill.” He patted her hand, and she saw his nails were dirty. A few months ago she would have been repulsed by the touch. Now she was grateful for it. His skin, wrinkled and scaly, like a harmless reptile’s, filled her with wonder and sorrow. Why did I dislike him so much, she asked herself? Where humans were concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure; and sorrow, for the hopelessness of it all. And maybe Maneck was right, everything did end badly.

“Don’t blame yourself, sister,” he said, patting her hand again.

“Why do you keep calling me sister? You are more my father’s age.”

“Okay, I’ll say daughter, then.” He smiled, and it was not his automatic smile. “You see, this Monkey-man fellow would have found Beggarmaster sooner or later, whether you helped him or not. The police said he is a mental case, he didn’t even try to run, just stood there and shouted all kinds of nonsense, that Beggarmaster had stolen two children from him while he was unconscious, and cut off their hands, blinded them, twisted their backs, and turned them into beggars, but now he had fulfilled the prophecy, now his vengeance was complete. Who knows what devils are tormenting the poor man’s mind.”

He touched her hand again. “Now that Beggarmaster is dead, the landlord will soon send someone to throw you out. That’s why I came to warn you.”

“There is not much I can do against his goondas.”

“You must act before he does. You may have a little time. Your paying guest and tailors are gone, so he will need a new excuse. Get a lawyer and — ”

“I can’t afford expensive lawyers.”

“A cheap lawyer will do. He must — ”

“I don’t know how to find one.”

“Go to the courthouse. They will find you. Soon as you walk through the gate, they will come running to you.”

“And then?”

“Interview them, select one you can afford. Tell him you want to seek an injunction against the landlord, to cease and desist from threatening actions and other forms of harassment, that the status quo must be maintained until such time as — ”

“Let me write this down, I won’t remember.” She fetched paper and pencil. “You think it will work?”

“If you are quick. Don’t waste time, my daughter. Go — go now.”

She dug into her purse and found a five-rupee note. “Just till you find a job,” she said, pressing it into his scaly hand.

“No, I cannot take from you, you have enough troubles.”

“Can a daughter not help her old father?”

His eyes were wet as he accepted the money.

The courthouse gates swarmed with the bustle of an impromptu bazaar set up right outside the precinct, where people who had spent hours in the pursuit of justice, and had days, weeks, months more to go, were trying to purchase sustenance from vendors. Spotting the experienced litigants was easy — they were the ones come prepared with food packets, standing to the side and munching calmly. The man frying bhajia had drawn a large hungry crowd. No wonder, thought Dina, the aroma was delicious. Next to him, there was pineapple chilling on a large slab of ice. She admired the neatly serrated round slices, watching the woman notch the fruit with her long, sharp knife to remove the eyes.

Central to the activity outside the courthouse were the typists. They sat cross-legged in their stalls before majestic Underwoods as though at a shrine, banging out documents for the waiting plaintiffs and petitioners. On sale were legal-sized paper, paperclips, file folders, crimson cloth ribbon to secure the typed briefs, blue and red pencils, pens, and ink.

Black-jacketed members of the legal profession prowled among the crowds, hunting for cases. Dina avoided them carefully, deciding to first look around the courthouse compound. “No, thank you,” she repeated to those who offered their help.

Nearer the main building, the crowds grew dense, and an overwhelming sense of chaos hung over the area. People were surging in and out through the entranceway, those inside gesticulating frantically to their contacts in the compound, others on the outside yelling to the insiders to come out. Every now and then someone dropped their precious documents, and in trying to retrieve them, set off a scrimmage during which other things like hankies, chappals, caps, dupattas were lost.

While one great surge was flowing inwards, Dina allowed herself to be carried along. She found herself in a corridor overlooking the compound. Here, too, people were in perpetual motion, pouring into or out of overbrimming courtrooms, up and down the stairs, as though an epidemic of disorientation had overcome everyone. The rooms and hallways resounded in a constant din of voices. Sometimes it was a steady buzz with intermittent flashes of clamour. Dina wondered how anyone could follow the legal arguments.

She stood awhile in a doorway where a case appeared to be in progress. The judge sucked the stem of his spectacles meditatively. The defence lawyer had the floor. Not a word could be heard. His precise hand movements and bulging throat tendons were the only signs that he was engaged in presenting the facts.

Occasionally, people stopped dead in their tracks in the corridor and urgently yelled out a name or a number. Sometimes the search party split up and dashed off in various directions with that name or number on their lips. Could something have gone wrong in the judicial system, wondered Dina, a strike, perhaps? Maybe the peons and clerks and secretaries had phoned in sick, thus plunging the courthouse into this mad muddle.

She decided to closely follow one family who seemed to know what they were doing. She ran where they ran, she listened to what they said, she followed the gaze of their eyes. And after careful observation, she began to see a pattern emerge from the turmoil and disorder. Just like working with a new dress, she thought. Paper patterns also seemed haphazard, till they were systematically pieced together.

Now she was able to realize that all of the frantic commotion was part of a normal day at the courthouse. The stampeding crowds in the corridors, for example, were merely trying to find the notice board displaying their case number with the room location where the case would be heard. The groups huddling suspiciously in dark corners were middlemen negotiating bribes. The ones yelling out names were lawyers looking for their clients, or vice versa, because their cases were about to come up. After waiting for months, and sometimes years, the litigants’ frenzy was understandable. Nothing would have been more devastating than to have the bench reschedule the hearing because the solicitor had chosen that crucial moment to go to the toilet, or for a cup of tea, without informing the clerk.

Once Dina had traced the filament of order within the confusion, she felt more confident. She returned outside to the compound and inspected the lawyers for hire. Some were displaying handwritten signs listing their services and specialities: DIVORCE CASES HANDLED HERE; WILLS AND PROBATES; KIDNEY SALES ARRANGED; DEPOSITIONS DRAFTED WITH QUICKNESS amp; CLARITY IN GOOD ENGLISH.

Others preferred to call out their offerings like vendors in the marketplace: “True copies, five rupees only! Affidavits, fifteen rupees! All cases, all offences, low rates!”

She stopped by one whose billboard stated, at the top of the menu: RENT ACT DISPUTES — RS. 500 ONLY. As she was preparing to speak to him, a horde of them, sensing an opportunity, descended on her, their black jackets flapping. Many of these barely passed for black, the dye having faded to grey in the wash.

The lawyers jostled for her attention but maintained their dignity by keeping the contest impersonal. The professional rivalry did not show on their faces; there was not a frown or a cross word among them. Each seemed oblivious to the others’ presence while pleading to be considered.

One got in front of the rest and thrust his law credentials under her face. “Please, O madam! Look at this — genuine degree from good university! Lots of crooked fellows are pretending to be lawyers! Whoever you pick, be careful, always remember to check the qualifications!”

“Special offer!” yelled a man from the rear of the pack. “No extra charges for typing of documents — all inclusive in one low fee!”

They had her completely surrounded. Harried by the unwanted attention, she tried to extricate herself from the melee. “Excuse me please, I am — ”

“What are the charges, madam?” shouted someone standing on his toes to be seen. “I can handle criminal and civil!”

Specks of his spit landed on her glasses and cheeks. She flinched, and tried again to free herself. Then, in the crush, a hand squeezed her bottom, while another passed neatly over her breast.

“You rogues! You shameless rascals!” She struck out with her elbows, and managed to kick a shin or two before they scattered. She wished she had her pagoda parasol with her — what a lesson she would teach them.

Her hands were shaking, and she had to concentrate hard to place one foot in front of the other without losing her step. She retreated toa less crowded part of the compound, at the side of the building. Devoid of lawyers, the area was quiet. Wooden benches lined the compound railing. People were resting on the grass, taking naps with their sandals under their heads for safekeeping and for pillows. Others were eating from shiny stainless steel tiffin boxes. A mother peeled a chickoo with a penknife and fed the sweet brown fruit to her child. Music from a soft transistor radio buzzed like a dragonfly through the hot afternoon.

In this tranquil setting, on a broken bench, sat a man gazing up into a mango tree. Three little boys were throwing stones at the hard green fruit while their parents dozed on the lawn. Their efforts managed to dislodge one mango. They took bites and passed it around, the tart raw flesh making their mouths shrink. Shuddering with delight, eyes tightly shut, they clenched their teeth to savour its astringent pleasures.

The man on the broken bench smiled and nodded, relishing memories evoked by the children. His shirt pocket bulged with pens clipped inside a special plastic case. At his feet was a cardboard rectangle, about fifteen inches by ten, propped up with a brick.

Curious, Dina went closer and read the inscription on the board: Vasantrao Valmik — B.A., LL.B. Strange, she thought, that he should be content to sit here passively if he was a lawyer. And without so much as a black jacket, making no effort to obtain business.

“Madam, on behalf of my profession, I would like to apologize for that disgraceful display near the entrance,” said Mr. Valmik.

“Thank you,” said Dina.

“No, please, I must thank you for accepting the apology. It was shameful, the way they mobbed you. I saw it all from here.” He uncrossed his legs, and his toe nudged the cardboard sign, making it collapse. He straightened it and adjusted the supporting brick.

“From my seat here on the bench, there is much that I observe every day. And most of it makes me despair. But what else to expect, when judgement has fled to brutish beasts, and the country’s leaders have exchanged wisdom and good governance for cowardice and self-aggrandizement? Our society is decaying from the top downwards.”

He shifted to the edge of the ramshackle bench, making room for her on the less broken part of it. “Please, do sit down.”

Dina accepted, impressed by his speech and manners. She felt he was out of place in these surroundings. A tastefully appointed office with a mahogany desk, leather-upholstered chair, and well-stocked bookcases would have better suited him. “On this side of the courthouse everything is so calm,” she said.

“Yes, isn’t it nice? Families relaxing peacefully, passing the time till the Wheels of Justice grind out their cases. Who would believe that this beautiful locale is really the shabby theatre for rancour and revenge, the splintered stage where tragedies and farces are played out? Out here it looks more like a picnic ground than a battlefield. A few months ago I even witnessed a woman going into labour and giving birth right here, most happily. She didn’t want to go to hospital, didn’t want any more postponements of her case. She was my client. We won.”

“So you are also a practising lawyer?”

“Yes, indeed,” he pointed to the sign. “Fully qualified. But once upon a time, many years ago, when I was in college, in First Year Arts, my friends used to say I didn’t need to study, that I was already an LL.B.”

“How was that?”

“Lord of the Last Bench,” said Mr. Valmik, smiling. “They gave me this honorary degree because I always took the rearmost seat in the classroom — it gave me a good view of things. And I must confess, the location taught me more about human nature and justice than could be learned from the professors’ lectures.”

He touched the sheaf of pens in his shirt pocket as though to make sure they were all present and accounted for. They bristled formidably in their plastic protector, like a quiverful of arrows. “Now here I am, with a new degree: L.BB. — Lord of the Broken Bench. And my education continues.” He laughed, and Dina joined him politely. Their rickety seat shook.

“But why is it, Mr. Valmik, that you are not out in front like the other lawyers, trying to get clients?”

He directed his gaze into the mango tree and said, “I find that kind of behaviour utterly uncouth, quite infra dig.” Quickly he added, “It’s below my dignity,” worried that she might construe the Latinism as a form of snobbery.

“But if you just sit here, how can you make a living?”

“My living makes itself. A little at a time. Eventually people discover me. People like you, who are disgusted with those legal louts and tawdry touts. Of course, they are not all bad characters — just desperate for work.” He waved genially at a passing court clerk and touched his pens again. “Even if I had the temperament for vulgar conduct, my vocal disability would not let me compete in that loud contest. You see, I have a serious throat impediment. If I raise my voice, I lose it altogether.”

“Oh, how unfortunate.”

“No, not really,” Mr. Valmik reassured her. He considered genuine sympathy a precious commodity, and hated to see it squandered. “No, it matters not a jot to me. There is not much call these days for lawyers who can make their voices ring out sonorously through the courtroom, holding judge and jury spellbound in webs of brilliant oratory.” He chuckled. “No demand here for a Clarence Darrow — there are no more Scopes Monkey Trials taking place. Although monkeys there are in plenty, in every courtroom, willing to perform for bananas and peanuts.”

He sighed heavily, and his sarcasm was displaced by grief. “What are we to say, madam, what are we to think about the state of this nation? When the highest court in the land turns the Prime Minister’s guilt into innocence, then all this” — he indicated the imposing stone edifice — “this becomes a museum of cheap tricks, rather than the living, breathing law that strengthens the sinews of society.”

Touched by the weight of his anguish, Dina asked, “Why did the Supreme Court do that?”

“Who knows why, madam. Why is there disease and starvation and suffering? We can only answer the how and the where and the when of it. The Prime Minister cheats in the election, and the relevant law is promptly modified. Ergo, she is not guilty. We poor mortals have to accept that bygone events are beyond our clutch, while the Prime Minister performs juggling acts with time past.”

Mr. Valmik stopped suddenly, realizing that he was rambling while a potential client sat beside him. “But what about your case, madam? You seem like a veteran of this institution.”

“No, I’ve never been to court before.”

“Ah, then you have led a blessed life,” he murmured. “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but is there need for a lawyer?”

“Yes, it’s concerning my flat. The trouble started nineteen years ago, after my husband passed away.” She told him everything, starting with the landlord’s first notice a few months after Rustom’s death on their third wedding anniversary, and about the tailors, the paying guest, the rent-collector’s continuing harassment, the goondas’ threats, Beggarmaster’s protection, and Beggarmaster’s death.

Mr. Valmik steepled his fingertips and listened. He did not move once, not even to caress his beloved pens. She marvelled at how carefully he attended — almost as carefully as he spoke.

She finished, and he put his hands down. Then he said in his soft voice, which was beginning to turn hoarse, “It’s a very difficult situation. You know, madam, sometimes it may appear expeditious to act ex curiar Seeing her quizzical, he added, “That is, out of court. But in the end it leads to more problems. True, there are goondas galore in the wilderness of our time. After all, this is a Goonda Raj. So who can blame you for taking that route? Who would want to enter the soiled Temple of Justice, wherein lies the corpse of Justice, slain by her very guardians? And now her killers make mock of the sacred process, selling replicas of her blind virtue to the highest bidder.”

Dina began to wish Mr. Valmik would stop talking in this high-flown manner. It had been entertaining for a while but was rapidly becoming wearisome. How people loved to make speeches, she thought. Bombast and rhetoric infected the nation, from ministers to lawyers, rent-collectors to hair-collectors.

“So are you saying there is no hope?” she interrupted him.

“There is always hope — hope enough to balance our despair. Or we would be lost.”

Now he took out a writing pad from his briefcase, lovingly selected a pen from the well-stocked pocket, and began making notes. “Perhaps the ghost of Justice is still wandering around, willing to help us. If a decent judge hears our petition and grants the injunction, you will be safe till the case is tried. Your name, madam?”

“Mrs. Dalai. Dina Dalai. But how much do you charge?”

“Whatever you can afford to pay. We’ll worry later about that.” He jotted the landlord’s name and office address, and relevant details about the case history. “My advice to you is, don’t leave the flat unoccupied. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. And goondas are basically cowards. Is it possible to have someone, relatives or friends, stay with you?”

“There is no one.”

“Yes, never is, is there? Forgive my question.” He paused, then broke into a fearful coughing fit. “Excuse me,” he croaked, “I think I have exceeded my throat’s quota of conversation.”

“My goodness,” said Dina, “it sounds really bad.”

“And this is after treatment,” he said, in a tone that sounded like bragging. “You should have heard me a year ago. All I could do was squeak like a mouse.”

“But what was it that damaged your throat so badly? Were you in an accident or something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he sighed. “After all, our lives are but a sequence of accidents — a clanking chain of chance events. A string of choices, casual or deliberate, which add up to that one big calamity we call life.”

Here he goes again, she thought. But his words did ring true. She tested them against her own experience. Random events controlled everything: her father’s death, when she was twelve. And the tailors’ entire lives. And Maneck — one minute coming back, next minute off to Dubai. She would probably never see him again, or Ishvar and Om. They came from nowhere into her life, and had vanished into nowhere.

Mr. Valmik, meanwhile, to answer her question, stroked his precious pens and began his story. Dina felt there was something slightly obscene about this habit of his. Still, touching pens was preferable to touching crotches, the way some men did, to push their things to left or right, or for no reason at all.

His voice was guttural as he told of the enthusiastic young student at law college whose promise was recognized early by his teachers, but who, after being called to the bar, craved peace and solitude, and found it in proofreading. “For twenty-five years I enjoyed the civilized companionship of words. Till one day, when my eyes turned allergic, and my world turned upside down.”

The rasping noises from his throat were so distorted that Dina was having trouble understanding him. But her ears became attuned to the rare timbres and bizarre frequencies. She realized that although Mr. Valmik depicted life as a sequence of accidents, there was nothing accidental about his expert narration. His sentences poured out like perfect seams, holding the garment of his story together without calling attention to the stitches. Was he aware of ordering the events for her? Perhaps not — perhaps the very act of telling created a natural design. Perhaps it was a knack that humans had, for cleaning up their untidy existences — a hidden survival weapon, like antibodies in the bloodstream.

As he spoke, he absently pulled out a fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and put the nib to his nose. She watched, perplexed, as each nostril in turn was pressed shut and the ink fragrance inhaled deeply.

Fortified by his fix of Royal Blue, he continued, “Now I had to contend with the noisy world of morcha productions and protest marches, in order to put food in the tummy-tum-tum. Slogan-making and slogan-shouting became my new profession. And thus began the devastation of my vocal cords.”

The lawyer’s tale reminded her of her languishing patchwork quilt. Om’s wedding gift. And Mr. Valmik had his own fragments to fashion his oral quilt, which he was now reciting for her benefit. Like a conjuror pulling an endless chain of silk scarves from his mouth.

“Ultimately, it was just another chance event — my finding the sergeant-major when I did. Shouting was second nature to him. He shouted even when there was no need. His rawhide throat thrived on it, and I was finally able to give mine a rest.”

He stopped to offer her a cough lozenge; she declined. He popped one in his own mouth. “Such plans I had, to expand, to open branch offices in every big city. I envisioned buying a helicopter and training a unit of Flying Sloganeers. Wherever there was a strike or unrest, whenever a protest march was required, one phone call and my men would descend from the sky, banners at the ready.”

The entrepreneurial gleam in his eye faded with reluctance. “Unfortunately, during this Emergency, morchas and demonstrations are banned by the government. So for the past year I have sat on this broken bench, armed with my law degree. The circle is completed.”

He crunched up the half-sucked lozenge, having run out of patience with shifting it from cheek to cheek. “How much I have lost, in describing the circle. Ambition, solitude, words, eyesight, vocal cords. In fact, that is the central theme of my life story — loss. But isn’t it the same with all life stories? Loss is essential. Loss is part and parcel of that necessary calamity called life.”

She nodded, not quite convinced.

“Mind you, I’m not complaining. Thanks to some inexplicable universal guiding force, it is always the worthless things we lose — slough off, like a moulting snake. Losing, and losing again, is the very basis of the life process, till all we are left with is the bare essence of human existence.”

Now Dina grew extremely impatient with Mr. Valmik. This last bit sounded like a lot of tiresome nonsense. “The snake has a brand-new skin underneath,” she cut him off. “I would prefer not to lose my flat, unless a new one will rise in its place.”

Mr. Valmik looked as though he had been struck in his diaphragm. But he recovered quickly and smiled, appreciating her argument. “Very good. Very good indeed, Mrs. Dalai. That was a poor example I gave. And you caught me. Very good. And a good sense of humour too. One of the drawbacks of my profession is the total lack of humour. The Law is a grim, unsmiling thing. Not Justice, though. Justice is witty and whimsical and kind and caring.”

He picked up his signboard and packed it away, stowing the brick under the bench till he should need it again. He dusted its red powder off his hands and declaimed, “I will arise and go now, and go to write this plea, and a convincing petition build, of words and passion made.”

The strange diction made her regard Mr. Valmik curiously. She wondered if she had chosen the right lawyer after all.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m inspired by the poet Yeats. I find his words especially relevant during this shameful Emergency. You know-things falling apart, centre not holding, anarchy loosed upon the world, and all that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” said Dina. “And everything ends badly.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Valmik. “Now that is too pessimistic for Mr. Yeats. He could never have written that line. But please come to my office, day after tomorrow, and I will bring you up to date.”

“Office? Where?”

“Right here,” he laughed. “This broken bench is my office.” He tenderly patted the pen he had reinserted into the plastic sheath. “Mrs. Dalai, I must thank you for listening to my story. Not many people have the time these days to indulge me. The last opportunity I had was a year ago, with a college student. We were both on a very long train journey. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Valmik.”

After he left, a fresh group of youngsters became engrossed in plundering the mango tree’s sparse green treasures. Their effort and excitement were amusing to observe. Dina sat for a few minutes longer before starting back to her flat.

A police sergeant and constable were joined in argument with two men over the question of the padlock on the front door. The scene had been rehearsed frequently in Dina’s mind; she felt no sense of crisis. One phase of life was concluding, another beginning. Time for the latest instalment, she thought. A new patch in the quilt.

She recognized the two men, the landlord’s goondas. Their hands looked so different, she realized, thanks to Beggarmaster. The fingers were bent in grotesque ways, misshapen, of incongruous lengths, as in a child’s drawing. The man was dead but his work lived on.

“What is it, what do you want here?” she bluffed.

“Sergeant Kesar, madam,” he said, plucking his thumbs out of his belt where he had stuck them aggressively while addressing the goondas. “Very sorry for the trouble. There is an eviction order for this flat.”

“You can’t do that. I’ve just come from my lawyer, he is applying for a court injunction.”

The bald goonda grinned. “Sorry, sister, we were first.”

“What do you mean, first?” She appealed to Sergeant Kesar: “It’s not a race or something, I have a right to go to court.”

He shook his head sadly; he had a long professional acquaintance with the goondas, and was waiting for the day when they could be put away in the lockup. “Actually speaking, madam, there is nothing I can do. Sometimes the law works just like a lemon-and-spoon race. The eviction has to take place. You can appeal later.”

“I might as well bang my head against a brick wall.”

The goondas agreed with her, nodding sympathetically. “Courts are useless. Arguments and adjournments, testimony and evidence. Takes forever. All those stupid things are unnecessary under the Emergency.” His partner rattled the padlock, reminding the law to get a move on.

“Please, madam,” said Sergeant Kesar, “will you open it now?”

“If I refuse?”

“Then I would have to break the lock,” he said sorrowfully.

“And what will happen after I open it?”

“The flat will be emptied out,” he murmured, shame making his words indistinct.

“What?”

“Emptied out,” he repeated a little louder. “Your flat will be emptied out.”

“Thrown out on the pavement? Why? Why do they behave like animals? At least give me a day or two so I can make arrangements.”

“Actually speaking, madam, that’s up to the landlord.”

“Time has run out,” said the bald goonda. “As the landlord’s agents, we cannot allow any delaying tactics.”

Sergeant Kesar turned to Dina. “Don’t worry, madam, your furniture will be safe. I will make sure they treat everything carefully. My constable will guard it. If you like, I can send him to hire a truck for you.”

She found the key in her purse and unlocked the door. The goondas tried to rush in, as though it might spring shut again, but were foiled by Sergeant Kesar’s arm. Like a traffic policeman, he held it up to block them.

“After you, madam,” he bowed, following behind.

The first things they saw were the tailors’ cardboard cartons stacked in a corner of the verandah. The goondas started to take them out.

“Those are not my boxes, I don’t want them,” Dina burst out, directing her anger at the absent ones — they had abandoned her, they had left her to face this alone.

“Not yours? Good, then we’ll take the boxes.”

She put away clothes and knickknacks into drawers and cupboards, trying to stay a few steps ahead of the goondas as they began to carry the furniture outside. Sergeant Kesar waddled about after her, anxious to help. “Have you decided where to transport everything, madam?”

“I’ll go to Vishram and phone my brother. He will be able to send his office truck.”

“Okay, I’ll keep an eye on those two. Anything else I can do while you are gone, madam?”

“Are you allowed to help a criminal?”

He shook his head sadly. “Actually speaking, madam, the criminals are those two, and the landlord.”

“And yet I am being thrown out.”

“That’s the crazy world we live in. If I did not have a family to feed, you think I would do this job? Especially after the ulcers it has given me? Since the Emergency began, my ulcers began. At first I thought it was just stomach acidity. But doctor has confirmed the diagnosis, I have to be operated soon.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.” She found the screwdriver on the kitchen shelf and handed it to him. “If you like, you can remove the nameplate for me from the front door.”

He seized the tool with joy. “Oh, most certainly. I will be happy to, madam.” He went off, his guilt a tiny bit assuaged, and was soon huffing and puffing over the tarnished brass plate, sweating as he wrestled with the screws.

“What?” screamed Nusswan through the telephone. “Evicted? You call me after the furniture is on the pavement? Digging a well when the house is on fire?”

“It happened suddenly. Can you send your truck or not?”

“What choice do I have? It’s my duty. Who else will help you if I don’t?”

The men had almost finished when she returned to the flat. Pots and pans and the stove from the kitchen were the last to be carried out. The constable stood guard over all of it on the footpath. Her household, stacked in this manner, did not seem like very much, she thought, did not seem capable of filling the three rooms, or the twenty-one years of her life spent in them.

Sergeant Kesar was relieved that rescue was on the way. “You are so fortunate, madam, at least you have somewhere to go. Daily I see cases where people end up making the pavement their home. Lying there exhausted, lost, defeated. The amazing thing is how quickly they learn to use cardboard and plastic and newspaper.”

He requested Dina to inspect the rooms before handing over custody of the flat. “Are you sure you don’t want the stuff on the verandah?” he whispered.

“It’s not mine — garbage, as far as I care.”

“You see, madam, whatever is left here automatically becomes the property of the landlord.”

“That’s us,” said the goondas, grabbing the boxes. They shut the front door and slipped a fresh padlock on the hasp. Sergeant Kesar completed the formalities; cyclostyled documents were signed in triplicate.

Then the two goondas turned their attention to the boxes, eager to examine their unexpected bonus. “Wait a second,” said the bald one, lifting out a handful of black tresses. “What rubbish is this?”

“Why rubbish?” laughed his partner. “Hair is just what you need.”

The bald one was not amused. “See what’s in the other box.”

Sergeant Kesar watched them for a minute, then hitched his thumbs in his belt. He was ready for action. He remembered the murders of the two beggars — the infamous Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide. Here was the chance he was waiting for. He unbuttoned the flap of his holster, just in case, and whispered instructions to the constable.

“Excuse me,” he said politely to the goondas. “You are both under arrest for murder.”

They laughed. “Heh-heh, Sergeant Kesar is becoming a joker.” When their wrists were smartly handcuffed by the constable, they protested that the joke had gone too far. “What are you talking about? We haven’t murdered anybody!”

“Actually speaking, you have: two old beggars. This is a perfect prima facie case. The murdered beggars’ hair was chopped off and stolen. Now the hair is in your possession. It tells the whole story.”

“But we just found it here! You saw us open the box!”

“Actually speaking, I didn’t see anything.”

“You have no evidence of murder! How do you know it’s the same hair?”

“Don’t worry about that. As you were saying earlier, silly things like evidence are not necessary anymore. Nowadays, we have nice things like the Emergency and MISA.”

“What’s MISA?” asked Dina.

“Maintenance of Internal Security Act, madam. Very convenient. Allows detention without trial, up to two years. Extensions also available on request.” He smiled sweetly and turned to the goondas again. “I almost forgot to tell you — you have the right to remain silent, but if you do, my boys at the station will process your bones to help you confess.”

The two were made to squat with their handcuffed hands draped over their heads. Sergeant Kesar was not yet ready to take them in. He stuffed the hair back in the box. “Exhibit A,” he said to Dina. “Don’t worry, madam, I’m waiting here till your truck comes. Who knows how many of your possessions will vanish if I leave. Once you are safely on your way, I’ll take these dogs to the station.”

“Thank you very much,” said Dina.

“No, thank you. You have made my day.” He checked if his holster flap was secure. “You like Clint Eastwood films, madam? Dirty Harry?”

“I’ve never seen them. Are they good?”

“Very thrilling. Highly action-packed dramas.” He added with a wistful smile, “Dirty Harry is a top-notch detective. He delivers justice even when the law makes it impossible.” Lowering to a whisper, he asked, “By the way, madam, how did the hair come to your verandah?”

“I’m not sure exactly. There were two tailors working for me, and they had a friend, a hair-collector, and — I’m not sure, they’ve all disappeared.”

“Lots of people have disappeared in the Emergency,” he said, shaking his head. “But you know, you may have been unknowingly mixed up with homicidal maniacs. Thank your stars, madam, that you escaped unharmed.”

“But then, these two goondas are not really guilty, are they?”

“Actually speaking, they are — of other crimes. They definitely deserve jail, madam. It’s like debit and credit, double-entry bookkeeping. In a way, Dirty Harry is also an accountant. The final balance is what’s important to him.”

She nodded, watching a flock of crows rooting in the congealed gutter across the street. They jostled and squabbled over tidbits. Then the truck arrived.

“You have children?” she asked Sergeant Kesar, while Nusswan’s men loaded the furniture.

“Oh yes,” he said proudly, pleased by her question. “Two daughters. One is five years, other is nine.”

“They go to school?”

“Oh yes. The older one is taking sitar lessons also, once a week after school. Very expensive, but I do overtime for her sake. Children are our only treasure, no?”

When the truck was ready, she climbed in beside the driver and thanked Sergeant Kesar again for his help. “My pleasure,” he said. “All the best, madam.”

“The same to you. I hope your ulcer operation goes well.”

The driver took a while to reverse the truck, for the way was narrow. Emerging through the gate, she saw Ibrahim behind the pillar, holding out his tin can to passersby.

As the truck passed, he tried to lift his hand to his fez in farewell. But the pain in his shoulder stopped him. He tugged at the collar of his sherwani instead, and waved.

Sorry I’m late,” said Nusswan, kissing Ruby’s cheek and then hugging his sister. “These never-ending meetings.” He rubbed his brow. “The truck brought everything safely?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Dina.

“I suppose your beggars and tailors and paying guest have all wished you Au Revoir.” He laughed at his joke.

“Stop it, Nusswan,” said Ruby. “Be nice to her, she has been through a lot.”

“I’m only teasing. I can’t tell you how happy I am that Dina is back.”

His voice grew softer, and filled with emotion. “For years and years I have prayed to God to bring you home. It hurt me so much, you choosing to live alone. In the end, only family will be of help — when the rest of the world turns its back on you.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat, and Dina was touched. She helped Ruby set the table, fetching the water jug and glasses. They were in their usual place in the sideboard. Nothing had changed here in these many years, thought Dina.

“No more humiliation with tailors or beggars,” said Nusswan. “No need for them, you don’t have to worry about money anymore. Just make yourself useful in the house — that’s all I ask.”

“Nusswan!” scolded Ruby. “Poor Dina always used to help me. One thing she is not is lazy.”

“I know, I know,” he chuckled. “Stubborn is what she is, not lazy.”

After dinner, they examined the household effects from the flat. Nusswan was appalled by it. “Where did you find this junk?”

She shrugged. A verbal answer was not always necessary. That was one useful thing she had learned from Maneck.

“Well, there is no room for it here. Look at that ugly little dining table. And that sofa must be from Bawa Adam’s time.” He promised to call a jaripuranawalla and dispose of it within a few days.

She did not argue with him. She did not plead for the memories which fleshed the ribs of her meagre belongings.

Nusswan wondered about the change in his sister. Dina was too docile, far too meek and quiet, not like her old self at all. It made him a little uneasy. Could she be pretending? Was it part of some plan which she would spring when he least expected it?

They transferred the contents of her chest of drawers into the wardrobe standing in her old room. “It’s been waiting for you,” confided Ruby. “Your father’s cupboard. I’m really happy you’ve come back.”

Dina smiled. She removed the cover from the mattress and stored it in the bottom of the wardrobe. In its place she draped her own quilt, folded, at the foot of the bed.

“That is beautiful!” said Ruby, spreading it out to admire. “Absolutely gorgeous! But what happened in that one corner, why the gap?”

“I ran out of cloth.”

“What a pity.” She thought for a moment. “You know, I have some lovely material, it will provide the perfect finishing touch. You can complete it with that.”

“Thank you.” But Dina had already decided there was nothing further to add.

At night in bed, she covered herself with the quilt and took to recounting the abundance of events in the tightly knit family of patches, the fragments that she had fashioned with needle, thread, and affection. If she stumbled along the way, the quilt nudged her forward. The streetlight through the open window was just bright enough to identify the motley of its making. Her bedtime story.

Once, after midnight, Nusswan and Ruby knocked on the door and barged in while she was halfway through the narrative. “Dina? Do you need something?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.”

“We heard voices,” said Ruby. “We thought you were talking in your sleep, having a bad dream or something.”

Then Dina knew she had slipped from a silent recitation into reading aloud. “I was only saying my prayers. Sorry I disturbed you.”

“It’s all right,” said Nusswan. “But I couldn’t recognize the passage at all. You better take some lessons from Dustoor Daab-Chaab’s successor at the fire-temple.” They laughed at his joke and returned to bed.

He whispered to Ruby, “Remember how she was, after Rustom’s death? How she would call out his name almost every night?”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. Why should she still be upset about that?”

“Maybe she never got over it.”

“Yes. Maybe you never recover from certain things.”

In her room, Dina folded up the quilt. The patchwork had transformed her silence into unbidden words; it had to be locked away now in the wardrobe. She was frightened of the strange magic it worked on her mind, frightened of where its terrain was leading her. She did not want to cross that border permanently.

Nusswan gave up teasing Dina because it was no fun if she did not retaliate. There were times when he sat alone in his room, recalling the headstrong, indomitable sister, and regretted her fading. Well, he sighed to himself, that was what life did to those who refused to learn its lessons: it beat them down and broke their spirit. But at least her days of endless toil were behind her. Now she would be cared for, provided for by her own family.

Not long afterwards, the servant who came in the mornings to sweep and swab and dust the furniture was dismissed. “Bloody woman wanted more money,” Nusswan offered by way of explanation. “Saying there was an extra person in the house, creating more work for her broom and mop. The excuses these rascals come up with.”

Dina took the hint and assumed the chores. She absorbed everything like a capacious sponge. During her private moments she wrung herself out and then was ready to blot up more.

Ruby was gone most of the day now. But before leaving, she always inquired if she could help. Dina encouraged her to run along, preferring to be alone.

“It’s thanks to Dina that I am at last able to use my Willingdon Club membership,” she told Nusswan in the evening. “Previously the fees were all going to waste.”

“Dina is one in a million,” he agreed. “I have always said that. We had many fights and arguments, right, Dina? Especially about marriage. But I’ve always admired your strength and determination. I’11 never forget how bravely you behaved when poor Rustom passed away on your third anniversary.”

“Nusswan! Do you have to remind us at dinner and upset poor Dina?”

“Sorry, very sorry.” He obediently changed the topic, to the Emergency. “Problem is, the excitement has gone out of it. The initial fear which disciplined people, made them punctual and hardworking — that fear is gone. Government should do something to give a boost to the programme.”

The subject of marriage was no longer brought up in their dinner conversations. At forty-three the matter was exhausted and the goods quite shopworn, he confided to Ruby.

On Sunday evenings they played cards. “Come on, everybody,” Nusswan summoned them promptly at five o’clock. “Time for cards.”

He observed the session religiously. It breathed a feeble reality into his dream of a close family. Sometimes, if a visiting friend made a fourth, they played bridge. More often, though, it was just the three of them, and Nusswan steered the hours through round after round of rummy, doggedly enthusiastic in his pursuit of familial happiness.

“Did you know that playing cards originated in India?” he asked.

“Really?” said Ruby. Such items from Nusswan always impressed her very much.

“Oh yes, and so did chess. In fact, the theory is that playing cards were derived from chess. And they did not make their way to Europe till the thirteenth century, via the Middle East.”

“Imagine that,” said Ruby.

He rearranged his hand, discarded a card face-down and announced, “Rummy!”

After presenting his completed sequences, he analysed the errors the others had made. “You should never have thrown away the knave of hearts,” he told Dina. “That’s why you lost.”

“I took a chance.”

He gathered up the cards and started shuffling. “Okay, whose deal is it?”

“Mine,” said Dina, and accepted the deck.