A Fine Balance

VI. Day at the Circus, Night in the Slum

THE EARLY-MORNING GATHERING of red double-deckers outside the slum was noticed first by a child from the drunk’s family. The little girl came running in to tell her mother. She saw Ishvar and Om awake outside their shack, and told them too. Her father was adrift in his alcoholic slumber.

The drivers honked flurries of greetings to one another as they parked; twenty-two buses lined up in two perfect rows. The tailors collected their water and proceeded towards the train tracks. Rain had fallen during the night. The ground was soft, the mud sucking at their feet like a many-mouthed creature.

“Let’s go early to Dinabai today,” said Om.

“Why?”

“Maneck will have arrived.”

They found a spot that was to Ishvar’s liking, and squatted. He was glad that the hair-collector with his pointless chatter was not in sight. He hated conversations at toilet, even sensible ones.

His luck did not last; Rajaram materialized along the curve in the tracks, spotting them at the far end of the ditch. He squatted beside them and began speculating about the buses.

“Maybe they are starting a new terminal,” said Om.

“Would be convenient for us.”

“But wouldn’t they first build a station office or something?”

They washed up and went to the mud-spattered vehicles to investigate. Khaki-uniformed drivers leaned in the doorways or rested on their haunches along the kerb, reading newspapers, smoking, or chewing paan.

“Namaskaar,” called out Rajaram to no one in particular. “Where are you taking your red chariots today?”

One of them shrugged. “Who knows. Supervisor said to bring the buses, wait for special assignment.”

The rain started again. Drops rang out on the roofs of the empty buses. The drivers withdrew inside their vehicles and shut the grimy windows.

Soon, the twenty-third bus arrived, its windshield wiper swinging ineffectively, loose and slow, like a wet pendulum. This one was packed full, the upper deck devoted to uniformed policemen who stayed on board while the lower deck spewed out men with briefcases and pamphlets.

They stretched, eased their pants riding high at the crotch, and entered the slum. To save their leather sandals in the rain-muddied field, some walked tiptoe with heels aloft, balancing under open umbrellas. Others squelched along on their heels to favour the soles, scrutinizing the ground for grass tufts, stones, broken bricks — anything that might provide a less mucky step.

Their performance on the tightrope of mud soon collected a crowd. A puff of wind caught the umbrellas; the men wobbled. A stronger gust pulled them off balance. The audience began to laugh. Some children imitated the funny walk. The visitors abandoned their sandals to the mud and, mustering dignity, walked towards the water-tap queue.

The one with the finest footwear said they were party-workers with a message from the Prime Minister. “She sends her greetings and wants you all to know that she is holding a big meeting today. Everyone is invited to attend.”

A woman placed her empty bucket under the tap. The drumroll of water blurred the man’s words, and he modified his pitch. “The Prime Minister especially wants to talk to honest, hardworking people like you. These buses will take you to the meeting, free of charge.”

The water queue moved forward disinterestedly. A few whispered among themselves, and there was laughter. The party-worker tried again. “The Prime Minister’s message is that she is your servant, and wants to help you. She wants to hear about things from your own lips.”

“Tell her yourself!” someone shouted. “You can see in what prosperity we live!”

“Yes! Tell her how happy we are! Why do we need to come?”

“If she is our servant, tell her to come here!”

“Ask your men with the cameras to pull some photos of our lovely houses, our healthy children! Show that to the Prime Minister!”

There was more scornful laughing, and murmurings about unpleasant things that could be done to party-workers who bothered poor people at watertime. The visitors retreated for a brief consultation.

Then the leader spoke again. “There will be a payment of five rupees for each person. Also, free tea and snack. Please line up outside at seven-thirty. Buses will leave at eight.”

“Go push the five rupees up your arse!”

“And set fire to the money!”

But the insults tapered off quickly, for the new offer was creating interest. The party-workers fanned out through the slum to spread the message.

A ragpicker asked if his wife and six children could come too. “Yes,” said the organizer, “but they won’t get five rupees each. Only you.” The hopeful father turned away, crestfallen, and was tempted again when the offer of free tea and snack was extended to the whole family.

“It sounds like fun for sure,” said Om. “Let’s go.”

“Are you crazy? Waste a day of sewing?”

“Not worth it,” Rajaram agreed with Ishvar. “These people are giving us bogus talk.”

“How do you know? Have you been to such a meeting?”

“Yes, they are always the same. If you were jobless, I would say go, take their five rupees. It’s fun the first time to see the government’s tamasha. But to give up a day of tailoring or hair-collecting? No.”

At seven-thirty the queue by the buses was barely long enough to fill one double-decker. There were unemployed day-labourers, some women and children, and a handful of injured dockyard mathadis. The party-workers discussed the situation and agreed to put into motion their alternate plan.

Shortly, Sergeant Kesar, who was in charge of the constables, gave his men the order to alight. A dozen were instructed to block the slum exits, the rest followed him inside. He tried to move with a slow swaggering walk, but his flat feet in the mud made it more of a slippery waddle. He had a megaphone, which he raised to his mouth with both hands, holding it like a trumpet.

“Attention, attention! Two people from each jhopdi must get on the bus! In five minutes — no delay. Otherwise, you will be arrested for trespassing on municipal property!”

People protested: how could they be trespassing when rent had been paid in full? The hutment dwellers went in search of Navalkar, the one who collected the rent, but his shack was empty.

“I wonder if the Prime Minister knows they are forcing us,” said Ishvar.

“She only knows important things,” said Rajaram. “Things her friends want her to know.”

The policemen began rounding up the busloads. The double-deckers filled slowly, looking redder now with the dust and mud washed off by rain. Arguments in some shacks were easily settled when the policemen raised their lathis to emphasize the importance of complying.

Monkey-man was willing to go, but wanted to take his monkeys too. “They will enjoy the ride, they have such a good time on the train when we go to work,” he explained to a party-worker. “And I won’t ask for extra tea or snack, I’ll share mine with them.”

“Don’t you understand plain language? No monkeys. It’s not a circus or something.”

Behind him, Rajaram whispered to his friends, “That’s exactly what it is.”

“Please, sahab,” implored Monkey-man. “The dog can stay alone. But not Laila and Majnoo, they will cry all day without me.”

Sergeant Kesar was called to arbitrate. “Are your monkeys properly trained?” he asked.

“Police-sahab, my Laila and Majnoo are beautifully trained! They are my obedient children! Look, they will give you a salaam!” He signalled; the monkeys raised their paws to their heads in unison.

Sergeant Kesar was greatly amused, and returned the salute, laughing. Monkey-man slapped the leashes against the ground, and the monkeys genuflected. Sergeant Kesar’s delight overflowed.

“Actually speaking, I see no harm in allowing the monkeys,” he said to the party-worker.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” said the party-worker, taking him aside.

“The problem is, the monkeys might be seen as some kind of political comment, and the enemies of the party could use it to ridicule us.”

“It’s possible,” said Sergeant Kesar, swinging his megaphone. “But it could also be seen as proof of the Prime Minister’s power to communicate not only with humans but with animals too.”

The party-worker rolled his eyes. “Do you want to take responsibility for it in writing? With a memorandum in triplicate?”

“Actually speaking, that is not part of my jurisdiction.”

Sergeant Kesar returned sadly to Monkey-man and broke the news. “I’m sorry, this is an important meeting for the Prime Minister. No monkeys allowed.”

“Wait and see,” said Rajaram softly to the people in line. “The stage will be full of them.”

Monkey-man thanked Sergeant Kesar for trying. He locked Laila and Majnoo in the shack with Tikka and returned looking miserable. The buses were almost full now, and the convoy was ready for departure as soon as the few remaining stubborn cases were persuaded with caning and slapping to climb aboard.

“I have seen nothing so unfair,” said Ishvar. “And what will Dinabai be thinking?”

“We cannot help it,” said Om. “Just enjoy the free ride.”

“Right,” said Rajaram. “If we have to go, might as well have fun. You know, last year they took us in lorries. Packed like sheep. This bus is more comfortable.”

“At least a hundred people in each one,” said Ishvar. “Over two thousand altogether. What a big meeting it will be.”

“That’s only from our colony,” said Rajaram. “Buses must have been sent everywhere. The meeting will have fifteen or twenty thousand people in all, wait and see.”

After travelling for an hour, the buses reached the outskirts of the city. Om announced that he was hungry. “I hope they give us our tea and snack when we arrive. And the five rupees.”

“You’re always hungry,” said Ishvar in a falsetto. “Do you have worms?” They laughed, explaining the joke about Dina Dalai to Rajaram.

Soon they were on rural roads. It had stopped raining. They passed villages where people stood and stared at the buses. “I don’t understand,” said Ishvar. “Why drag us all the way here? Why not just take these villagers to the meeting?”

“Too complicated, I think,” said Rajaram. “They would have to visit so many villages, with people scattered all over — two hundred here, four hundred there. Much easier to get them wholesale in the city jhopadpattis.” He broke off excitedly, pointing. “Look! Look at that woman — at the well! What beautiful long hair!” He sighed. “If only I could wander the countryside with my scissors, harvesting what I need. I’d soon be rich.”

They knew they were nearing their destination when the traffic increased and other vehicles passed them, also ferrying the Prime Minister’s made-to-measure audience. Occasionally, the buses moved over to allow a flag-flying car filled with VIPS to sweep past in an orgy of blaring horns.

They stopped near a vast open field. As the passengers alighted, an organizer told them to memorize their bus number for the return journey. He directed people to their seating area, repeating applause instructions for each batch. “Please watch the dignitaries on stage. Whenever they begin to clap, you must also clap.”

“What about the money?”

“You will get it when the rally is finished. We know your tricks. If we pay you first, you crooks run off halfway in the speech.”

“Keep moving! Keep moving!” called an usher, helping the new arrivals along with a pat on the back.

“Don’t push!” snarled Om, sweeping the hand off his back.

“Aray Om, stay calm,” said Ishvar.

Bamboo posts and railings divided the field into several enclosures, the main one being at the far end, containing a covered stage at an elevation of thirty feet. In front of the stage was the area for prominent personages. This was the sole section furnished with chairs, and arguments were in progress to determine their allocation. The chairs were of three types: padded, with arms, for WIPS; padded, but without arms, for VIPS; and bare metal, folding, for the mere IPS. Invitees were bickering and wrangling with the ushers, pressuring them to add a v to their status.

“Try to stay near the edge of the field, near that tent,” said Rajaram. “That’s where they must have the tea and snacks.” But volunteers wearing round tricolour cloth badges herded the arrivals into the next available enclosure.

“Look at that, yaar!” said Om in awe, pointing at the eighty-foot cutout of the Prime Minister to the right of the stage. The cardboard-and-plywood figure stood with arms outstretched, waiting as though to embrace the audience. An outline map of the country hung suspended behind the head, a battered halo.

“And look at that arch of flowers!” said Ishvar. “Like a rainbow around the stage. Beautiful, hahn? You can smell them from here.”

“See, I told you you’d enjoy it,” said Rajaram. “First time, it’s always fun.”

They made themselves comfortable on the ground and examined the faces in their vicinity. People smiled and nodded. The soundman went on stage to check the microphones, making the loudspeakers screech. A hush of anticipation descended on the audience and dissipated almost instantly. Buses continued to disgorge passengers by the thousands. The sun was hot now, but Ishvar said that at least it wasn’t raining.

Two hours later the enclosures were full, the field was packed, and the first casualties to fall to the sun were carried away to be revived under the shade of nearby trees. People questioned the wisdom of holding a rally at the hottest time of the day. An organizer explained there was no choice, the Prime Minister’s astrologer had charted the celestial bodies and selected the hour.

Eighteen dignitaries began taking their places on stage. At twelve o’clock there was a roar in the sky and twenty-five thousand heads turned upwards. A helicopter circled the field thrice, then began its descent to land behind the stage.

A few minutes later, the Prime Minister, in a white sari, was escorted up to the stage by someone in a white kurta and Gandhi cap. The eighteen notable personages took turns garlanding their leader, bowing, touching her toes. One dignitary outdid the rest by prostrating full length before her. He would stay at her feet, he said, till she forgave him.

The Prime Minister was baffled, though no one could see her look of puzzlement because of the eighteen garlands engulfing her face. An aide reminded her of some minor disloyalty on the man’s part. “Madamji, he is repenting, he says he is sorry, most sincerely.”

The live microphones ensured that the sun-scorched audience was at least able to enjoy the onstage buffoonery. “Yes, okay,” she said impatiently. “Now get up and stop making a fool of yourself.” Chastened, the man jumped up like a gymnast completing a somersault.

“See?” said Rajaram. “I told you it’s going to be a day at the circus — we have clowns, monkeys, acrobats, everything.”

When the storm of manufactured adulation had passed, the Prime Minister tossed her garlands, one by one, out into the audience. The VIP seats and dignitaries cheered wildly at this grand gesture.

“Her father also used to do that, when he was Prime Minister,” said Ishvar.

“Yes,” said Rajaram. “I saw it once. But when he did it, he looked humble.”

“She looks like she is throwing rubbish at us,” said Om.

Rajaram laughed. “Isn’t that the politician’s speciality?”

The member of parliament for the district started the welcome address, thanking the Prime Minister for showing such favour to this poor, undeserving place. “This audience is small,” he said, sweeping his hand to indicate the captive crowd of twenty-five thousand. “But it is a warm and appreciative audience, possessing a great love for the Prime Minister who has done so much to improve our lives. We are simple people, from simple villages. But we understand the truth, and we have come today to listen to our leader…”

Ishvar rolled up his sleeves, undoing two buttons and blowing down his shirt. “How long will it last, I wonder.”

“Two, three, four hours — depends on how many speeches,” said Rajaram.

“… and take note, all you journalists who will write tomorrow’s newspapers. Especially the foreign journalists. For grave mischief has been done by irresponsible scribbling. Lots of lies have been spread about this Emergency, which has been declared specially for the people’s benefit. Observe: wherever the Prime Minister goes, thousands gather from miles around, to see her and hear her. Surely this is the mark of a truly great leader.”

Rajaram took out a coin and began playing Heads or Tails with Om. Around them, people were making new friends, chatting, discussing the monsoon. Children invented games and drew pictures in the dust. Some slept. A mother stretched out her sari-draped legs, nestled her baby in the valley of her thighs, and began exercising it while singing softly, spreading the arms, crossing them over the chest, raising the tiny feet as far as they would go.

The minders and volunteers patrolled the enclosures, keeping an eye on things. They did not care so long as people amused themselves discreetly. The only prohibited activity was standing up or leaving the enclosure. Besides, this was just a warm-up speech.

“… and yet there are people who say she must step down, that her rule is illegal! Who are these people uttering such falsehoods? Brothers and sisters, they are the pampered few, living in big cities and enjoying comforts that you and I cannot even dream about. They do not like the changes the Prime Minister is making because their unfair privileges will be taken away. But it is clear that in the villages, where seventy-five per cent of our people live, there is nothing but complete support for our beloved Prime Minister.”

Near the end of his speech he gave a hand signal to someone waiting in the wings with a walkie-talkie. Seconds later, coloured lights hidden in the floral proscenium arch began to flash powerfully enough to compete with the midday sun. The audience was impressed. The feeble mandatory clapping for the member of parliament’s speech now became genuine applause for the visual display.

While the flashing lights still dazzled, the noise of a helicopter filled the sky again, its whup-whup-whup approaching from behind the stage. Something dropped from the belly of the turbulent machine. Out of the package floated — rose petals!

The crowd cheered, but the pilot had mistimed it. Instead of showering the Prime Minister and dignitaries, the petals fell in a pasture behind the stage. A goatherd who was grazing his animals thanked the heavens for the honour, then hurried home to tell his family about the miracle.

The second package, intended for the VIP enclosure, landed on target but failed to open. Someone was carried away on a stretcher. By the time the third package was released over the general audience, the pilot had mastered the technique, and it was a perfect drop. An obliging breeze came up, scattering the petals generously. Children in the crowd had a lovely time chasing them down.

On stage there was more bowing and scraping, then the Prime Minister approached the cluster of microphones. One hand maintaining the sari at her neck, she began speaking. Every sentence was followed by thunderous applause from the stage and the VIP enclosure, which, in turn, set off the conscientious ones in the audience. Her speech seemed in danger of being strangled by an excess of clapping. Finally, she stepped away from the podium and whispered something to an aide, who gave instructions to the dignitaries. The effect was immediate. From now on, the clapping was more sensibly apportioned.

She adjusted the white sari that was slipping off her head and continued. “There is nothing to worry about just because the Emergency is declared. It is a necessary measure to fight the forces of evil. It will make things better for ordinary people. Only the crooks, the smugglers, the blackmarketeers need to worry, for we will soon put them behind bars. And we will succeed in this despite the despicable conspiracy, which has been brewing since I began introducing programmes of benefit for the common man and woman. There is a foreign hand involved against us — the hand of enemies who would not wish to see us prosper.”

Rajaram took out a deck of cards and began shuffling, to Om’s delight. “You came prepared, for sure,” he said.

“Of course. Sounds like it’s going to be a long one. Playing?” he asked Ishvar, and dealt him in. The people near them perked up, grateful for the distraction. They shifted around and formed a circle to watch the game.

“… but no matter, for we are determined that disruptive forces will be put down. The government will continue to fight back until there is no more danger to democracy in our country.”

Om refused to clap now, he said his hands were aching. He played his card, and someone near him blurted: Mistake, mistake. Om realized his error, took back the card and played another, while the features of the new Twenty-Point Programme were outlined.

“What we want to do is provide houses for the people. Enough food, so no one goes hungry. Cloth at controlled prices. We want to build schools for our children and hospitals to look after the sick. Birth control will also be available to everyone. And the government will no longer tolerate a situation where people increase the population recklessly, draining the resources that belong to all. We promise that we will eliminate poverty from our cities and towns and villages.”

The card game had gradually become quite boisterous. Om was smacking his cards down with gusto, accompanied by fanfares. “Tan-tan-tana-nana!” he sang at his next turn.

“Is that all?” said Rajaram. “So much noise for that? Only a small obstacle! Beat this if you have the strength!”

“Hoi-hoi — wait for my chance,” said Ishvar, trumping the hand and making the other two groan. The onlookers provided a chorus of approval for his smart play.

Before long, an audience-monitor came over to investigate. “What is this nonsense? Show some respect for the Prime Minister.” He threatened to withhold their money and snack if they did not behave themselves and pay attention to the speech. The cards were ordered put away.

“… And our newly formed flying squads will catch the gold smugglers, uncover corruption and black money, and punish the tax evaders who keep our country poor. You can trust your government to fulfil the task. Your part in this is very simple: to support the government, support the Emergency. The need of the hour is discipline — discipline in every aspect of life, if we are to reinvigorate the nation. Shun all superstitions, don’t believe in horoscopes and holy men, only in yourself and in hard work. Avoid rumours and loose talk if you love your country. Do your duty, above all else! This, my brothers and sisters, is my appeal to you! Jai Hind!”

The eighteen on stage rose as one to congratulate the Prime Minister on a most inspiring speech. Another brisk round of fawning commenced. At the end of it, the party official who would officially thank the Prime Minister went smirking and simpering to the microphone.

“Oh, no!” said Om. “One more speech? When do we get our snack?”

After the stock acknowledgements and hackneyed tributes were exhausted, the speaker pointed dramatically at the sky towards the far end of the field. “Behold! Yonder in the clouds! Oh, we are truly blessed!”

The audience looked up and around for the source of his rapturous seizure. There was no whirring helicopter this time. But on the horizon, floating towards the field, was a huge hot-air balloon. The canopy of orange, white, and green drifted across the cloudless blue sky in the silence of a dream. It lost some height as it neared the crowds, and now the sharp of sight could recognize the high-hovering face behind dark glasses. The figure raised a white-clad arm and waved.

“Oh, we are twice blessed today in this meeting!” the man sang into the microphone. “The Prime Minister on stage with us, and her son in the sky above us! What more could we ask for!”

The son in the sky, meanwhile, had started throwing leaflets overboard. With a flair for the theatric, he first released a single sheet to tantalize the audience. All eyes were riveted on it as it swooped and circled lazily. He followed this with two more leaflets, and waited, before getting rid of the lot in fluttering handfuls.

“Yes, my brothers and sisters, Mother India sits on stage with us, and the Son of India shines from the sky upon us! The glorious present, here, now, and the golden future, up there, waiting to descend and embrace our lives! What a blessed nation we are!”

Down to earth floated the first few leaflets, containing the Prime Minister’s picture and the Twenty-Point Programme. Once again, the children had fun running after them to see who could capture the most. The hot-air balloon cleared the airspace, leaving the field to the helicopter for a final assault.

This time it was flying much lower than before. The risk paid off in accuracy: a grand finale of rose petals showered the stage. But the Prime Minister’s eighty-foot cutout began to sway in the tempest of the helicopter’s blades. The crowd shouted in alarm. The figure with outstretched arms groaned, and the ropes strained at their moorings. Security men waved frantically at the helicopter while struggling to hold on to the ropes and braces. But the whirlwind was much too strong to withstand. The cutout started to topple slowly, face forward. Those in the vicinity of the cardboard-and-plywood giant ran for their lives.

“Nobody wants to be caught in the Prime Minister’s embrace,” said Rajaram.

“But she tries to get on top of everyone,” said Om.

“Shameless boy,” said his uncle.

They hurried to the refreshments, where an endless line was being kept in order by security men. A shortage of cups prevented it from moving faster. The snack — one pakora per head — had run out. The servers’ hands grew ungenerous with the diminishing supply of tea. They began doling out half-cups. “It’s not less tea,” they explained to those who protested the stinginess. “It’s just more concentrated.”

While the queue crawled forward, ambulances swept past the edge of the field, sirens blaring, come to collect the casualties of the eighty-foot Prime Minister’s collapse. After an hour of waiting, Ishvar, Om, and Rajaram were still at the back of the line when the tea was depleted. Simultaneously, there was an announcement: the buses would be leaving in ten minutes. Frantic about being stranded, everyone abandoned the quarrel with the tea-dispensers and rushed to the departure area. They were paid four rupees each as they boarded the bus.

“Why four?” asked Ishvar. “They told us five when we came.”

“One rupee for bus fare, tea and snack.”

“We didn’t even get tea and snack!” Om thrust his face furiously before the other’s. “And they said the bus was free!”

“Heh? You want free bus ride? Your father’s Divali or what?”

Om tensed. “I’m warning you, don’t take my father’s name.”

Ishvar and Rajaram coaxed him onto the bus. The man laughed about someone looking like an insect and talking like a tiger.

They sat glumly through the return journey, thirsty and tired. “What a waste of a day,” said Ishvar. “We could have stitched six dresses. Thirty rupees lost.”

“And how much hair I would have collected by now.”

“Maybe I should visit Dinabai when we get back,” said Ishvar. “Just to explain. Promise her we’ll come tomorrow.”

Two hours later, the bus stopped in unfamiliar surroundings. The driver ordered everyone off. He had his instructions, he said. As a precaution, he rolled up his window and locked himself in the cabin.

The hutment dwellers rattled the door, spat on it, kicked the sides a few times. “You indecent people!” shouted the driver. “Damaging public property!”

A few more blows were rained on the bus before the crowd moved on. Ishvar and Om had no idea where they were, but Rajaram knew the way. There was thunder, and it began raining again. They walked for an hour. It was night in the slum when they arrived.

“Let’s eat something quickly,” said Ishvar. “Then I’ll go and pacify Dinabai.”

While he pumped up the Primus stove and struck a match, the darkness was torn to shreds by a terrifying shriek. It seemed neither human nor animal. The tailors grabbed their hurricane-lamp and ran with Rajaram towards the noise, towards Monkey-man.

They found him behind his shack, trying to strangle his dog. Tikka was on his side, his eyes bulging, with Monkey-man’s knees upon him. The dog’s legs pawed the air, seeking a purchase to help him flee the inexplicable pain around his neck.

Monkey-man’s fingers squeezed harder. His insane screams mingled with Tikka’s fearful howling. The terrible harmony of human and animal cries continued to rend the night.

Ishvar and Rajaram succeeded in prying loose Monkey-man’s fingers. Tikka struggled to stand. He did not run, waiting faithfully nearby, coughing, pawing at his face. Monkey-man tried to grab him again but was foiled by others who had gathered.

“Calm down,” said Rajaram. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“Laila and Majnoo!” he wept, pointing to the shack, unable to explain. He tried to lure back the dog, making kissing sounds. “Tikka, Tikka, come my Tikka!”

Seeking pardon, the beast approached trustingly. Monkey-man got in a kick to his ribs before the others pulled him back. They raised the lantern and looked inside the shack.

The hissing light fell on the walls, then found the floor. They saw the monkeys’ corpses lying in a corner. Laila and Majnoo’s long brown tails, exuberant in life, seemed strangely shrunken. Like frayed old rope, the tails draggled on the earthen floor. One of the creatures had been partially eaten, the viscera hanging out, dark brown and stringy.

“Hai Ram,” said Ishvar, covering his mouth. “What a tragedy.”

“Let me look,” said someone trying to push through the crowd.

It was the old woman who had shared her water with Om on the first day, when the tap was dry. The harmonium player said she should be let through immediately, she could read entrails as fluently as a swami could read the Bhagavad Gita.

The crowd parted, and the old woman entered. She asked that the lantern be brought closer. With her foot she nudged the corpse till the entrails were better exposed. Bending, she stirred in them with a twig.

“The loss of two monkeys is not the worst loss he will suffer,” she pronounced. “The murder of the dog is not the worst murder he will commit.”

“But the dog,” started Rajaram, “we saved him, he is — ”

“The murder of the dog is not the worst murder he will commit,” she repeated with grim forcefulness, and left. Her audience shrugged, assuming that the old woman, despite her fierce demeanour, was a little disoriented and upset by the event.

“I’ll kill him!” Monkey-man began wailing again. “My babies are dead! I’ll kill that shameless dog!”

Someone led Tikka to safety while others tried to talk sense into Monkey-man. “The dog is a dumb animal. When animals get hungry, they want to eat. What’s the point of killing him? It’s your fault for locking them in together.”

“He played with them like brother and sister,” he wept. “All three were like my children. And now this. I’ll kill him.”

Ishvar and Rajaram led Monkey-man away from his shack. Comforting him would be easier if the gory little bodies were out of sight. They entered Rajaram’s shack, then quickly marched out again. The bundles of hair all over the place, like macabre hairy little corpses, were not something Monkey-man could tolerate in his present condition. So they went into the tailors’ shack, and gave him a drink of water. He sat with the glass in his hands, whimpering, shaking, muttering to himself.

Ishvar decided that dropping in on Dinabai now was out of the question, it was too late. “What a day it’s been,” he whispered to Om. “We’ll explain to her tomorrow.”

They stayed with Monkey-man past midnight, letting him grieve for as long as he liked. A burial was planned for Laila and Majnoo, and they convinced him to forgive the dog. The question of livelihood was raised by Rajaram: “How long will it take you to train new monkeys?”

“They were my friends — my children! I don’t want any talk of replacing them!”

He was silent for a while, then, oddly enough, broached the subject himself. “I have other talents, you know. Gymnastics, tightrope walking, juggling, balancing. A new act without monkeys is possible. I’ll think later about what to do. First, I must finish mourning.”

Dina displayed her displeasure when Maneck returned late from college. And this on his very first day, she thought. Nobody believed in punctuality anymore. Perhaps Mrs. Gupta was right, the Emergency wasn’t such a bad thing if it taught people to observe the time.

“Your tea was ready over an hour ago,” she said, pouring him a cup and buttering a slice of Britannia Bread. “What kept you?”

“Sorry, Aunty. Very long wait at the bus stop. I was late for class in the morning as well. Everybody is grumbling that the buses seem to have disappeared from the road.”

“People are always grumbling.”

“The tailors — they finished work already?”

“They didn’t come at all.”

“What happened?”

“If I knew, would I look so worried? Coming late is like a religion for them, but it’s the first time they’ve been absent for the whole day.”

Maneck bolted the tea and went to his room. Kicking off his shoes, he sniffed the socks — a slight smell — and put on his slippers. There were some boxes left to unpack. Might as well do it now. Clothes, towels, toothpaste, soap went into the cupboard. A nice odour came from the shelf. He breathed deeply: reminded of Dina Aunty, she was lovely — beautiful hair, kind face.

The unpacking finished, he was at a loss for things to do. The umbrella hanging from the cupboard caught his eye. He opened it, admired the pagoda shape, and pictured Dina Aunty walking down the street with it. Like the women at the racecourse in My Fair Lady. She looked much younger than Mummy, though Mummy had written they were the same age, forty-two this year. And that she had had a hard life, many misfortunes, her husband dying young, so Maneck was to be kind to her even if she was difficult to get along with.

That would explain Dina Aunty’s tone, he thought, the hard life. The way she talked, her voice sounding old, having endured a vast range of weather. Her words always sharp — the words of a tired, cynical person. He wished he could cheer her up, make her laugh once in a while.

The little room was getting on his nerves. What a bore this was, and the rest of the academic year was going to just drag on and on. He picked up a book, flipped through it, tossed it back on the desk. The chessmen. He arranged the board and made a few mechanical moves. For him, the joy had seeped out of the plastic shapes. He tumbled them back into the maroon box with its sliding top — from the prison of their squares into the prison of the coffin.

But he, at least, had escaped his prison, he thought, had seen the last of that bloody hostel. His only regret was not being able to say goodbye to Avinash, whose room remained locked and silent. Probably still hiding at his parents’ — it would be foolhardy to return while the Emergency regime governed the campus and people continued to disappear.

Maneck remembered the early days with him, when their friendship was new. Everything I do is chess, Avinash had once said. Now he was under a serious check. Had he castled in time, protected by three pawns and a rook? And Dina Aunty, playing against her tailors, making her moves between front room and back room. And Daddy, attempting to take on the soft-drink opponents who did not observe the rules of the game, who played draughts using chess pieces.

Evening deepened the shadows in the room, but Maneck did not bother with the light. His whimsical thoughts about chess suddenly acquired a dark, depressing hue in the dusk. Everything was under threat, and so complicated. The game was pitiless. The carnage upon the chessboard of life left wounded human beings in its wake. Avinash’s father with tuberculosis, his three sisters waiting for their dowries, Dina Aunty struggling to survive her misfortunes, Daddy crushed and brokenhearted while Mummy pretended he was going to be his strong, smiling self again, and their son would return after a year of college, start bottling Kohlah’s Cola in the cellar, and their lives would be full of hope and happiness once more, like the time before he was sent away to boarding school. But pretending only worked in the world of childhood, things would never be the same again. Life seemed so hopeless, with nothing but misery for everyone…

He slapped shut the folding chessboard: a puff of air kissed his face. Where his cheeks were wet with tears, the kiss felt cold. He dried his eyes and slapped the two sides together again, like bellows, then fanned himself with the board.

Dina Aunty’s call of “Dinnertime,” when it finally came, was like a release from jail. He was at the table instantly, hovering about, not sitting till his place was indicated.

“Have you got a cold?” she asked. “Your eyes look watery.”

“No, I was resting.” She didn’t miss much, he thought.

“I forgot to ask yesterday — do you prefer knife and fork, or fingers?”

“Anything, it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you do at home?”

“We use cutlery.”

She set a knife, fork, and spoon around his plate, leaving hers unadorned, and brought the food to the table.

“I can also eat with fingers,” he protested. “You don’t have to give me special treatment.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, cheap stainless steel is not special.” She filled his plate and sat opposite him. “When I was young, we always had proper place settings. Sterling silver. My father was very particular about such matters. After he died our habits changed. Especially when my brother Nusswan married Ruby. She got rid of it. She said we didn’t need to ape foreigners while God had given us perfectly good fingers. Which is true in a way. But I think she was just lazy about cleaning all the cutlery.”

Halfway through the meal Dina washed her hands and fetched a knife and fork for herself. “You’ve inspired me,” she smiled. “It’s been twenty-five years since I used these things.”

He looked away, trying not to make her fingers nervous. “Will the tailors come tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” she said, dismissing the topic briefly.

Then her anxiety drew her back to it. “Unless they’ve found better jobs, and disappeared. But what else can I expect from such people? Ever since I started this tailoring business, they’ve made my life a misery. Day after day, they drive me mad with worry about finishing the dresses on time.”

“Maybe they are sick or something.”

“Both together? Maybe it’s the sickness that comes out of a booze bottle — I did pay them yesterday. No discipline at all, no sense of responsibility. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m bothering you with my problems.”

“That’s okay.” He helped her carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen. The stray cats were mewing outside. He had heard them last night while falling asleep, and dreamt of the pariah dogs congregating on the front porch of the General Store, and Daddy feeding them, making his usual joke, that he would soon have to open a new branch for his canine customers.

“Not through the window, Maneck — in the garbage pail,” said Dina, as he tossed out the scraps.

“But I want to feed the cats, Aunty.”

“No, don’t encourage them.”

“They’re hungry — see how they’re waiting.”

“Nonsense. Nuisances outside my window, that’s what they are. And they break in to make a mess in the kitchen. Only good thing about them is their intestines. To make violin strings, my husband used to say.”

Maneck was sure she would see it his way if he talked about the cats every day as though they were human; that was the trick Daddy used. When her back was turned he threw out the remainder. Already he knew which was his favourite: the brown and white tabby with a misshapen ear who was saying, Hurry with the food, I haven’t got all day.

After clearing up, Dina invited him to sit with her in the front room, read or study, do whatever he liked. “You don’t have to lock yourself away in there. Treat this as your home. And if you need something, don’t be shy to ask.”

“Thank you, Aunty.” He had been dreading the return to his jail cell before bedtime. He took the armchair across from her and riffled a magazine.

“Have you been to see your mummy’s family yet?”

He shook his head. “I hardly know them. And we have never got along with them. Daddy always says they are so dull, they are in danger of boring themselves to death.”

“Tch-tch-tch,” she frowned and smiled simultaneously, sorting her fabric remnants and patches. The half-dozen squares she was shaping to fit together were spread out on the sofa.

Maneck came closer. “What are these?”

“My cloth collection.”

“Really? What for?”

“Does there have to be a reason? People collect all kinds of things. Stamps, coins, postcards. I have cloth, instead of a photo album or scrapbook.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding doubtfully.

She let him watch for a while, then said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going crazy. These pieces are to make a quilt. A nice counterpane for my bed.”

“Oh, now I see.” He began looking through the heap, making suggestions, picking out fragments which he thought would go well together. Some, like the swatches of chiffon and tusser, felt gorgeous between his fingers. “Too many different colours and designs,” he said.

“Are you trying to be a critic or what?”

“No, I mean it’s going to be very difficult to match them properly.”

“Difficult, yes, but that’s where taste and skill come in. What to select, what to leave out — and which goes next to which.”

She snipped off some jagged edges and temporarily tacked the six selections together, to obtain a better perspective. “What do you think?” she asked.

“So far so good.”

A nice friendly boy, she felt. Her fears about a spoilt brat could not have been more unfounded. And it was good to have someone to talk to. Someone besides the tailors, who were always mistrustful of her — not that she trusted them either.

Next afternoon she intercepted Maneck on the verandah when he returned from college and whispered that the tailors had turned up. “But don’t say a word about how upset I was yesterday.”

“Okay.” The queen’s gambit, he thought, tossing his books on the bed. He went into the front room as the tailors emerged for their tea break.

“Ah, there he is, there he is!” said Ishvar. “After a whole month we meet again, hahn?”

He put out his hand and asked Maneck how he was, while Om stood by grinning. Maneck said he was fine, and Ishvar said they were both first class, thanks mainly to the regular work provided by Dinabai, who was such a good employer. He smiled at her to include her in the conversation.

Throughout the afternoon, she watched the three disapprovingly — behaving as if they were long-lost friends. And to think they had met just once before, on the train, trying to find her flat.

In the evening, when the tailors were getting ready to put away the skirts, she gave them some parting advice: “Better tell the Prime Minister your jobs are in danger if she takes you again to a meeting. There are two more tailors begging me for work.”

“No no,” said Ishvar. “We definitely want to work for you. We are very happy working for you.”

Dina sat alone in the back room after the tailors left. The space still seemed to vibrate with the Singers. Soon the evening gloom would materialize, infect the fibre-filled air, drape itself over her bed, depress her from now till morning.

But as dusk fell and the streetlamps came on, her spirit remained buoyant. Like magic, she thought, the difference made by another human presence in the flat. She returned to the front room to have her little planned talk with Maneck.

Queen to king’s knight, he thought.

“You realize why I have to be strict with them,” she said. “If they know I’m desperate, they’ll sit on my head.”

“Yes, I understand. By the way, Aunty, do you play chess?”

“No. And I should tell you right now — I don’t like your chatting so much with them. They are my employees, you are Aban Kohlah’s son. A distance has to be kept. All this familiarity is not good.”

Things were worse the following afternoon. She could not believe her ears — the impudence of that Omprakash, boldly asking Maneck, “You want to come with us for tea?” And worst of all, on Maneck’s face glimmered the inclination to say yes. Time to step in, she decided.

“He has his tea here. With me.” There was ice in Dina’s voice.

“Yes, but maybe… maybe just for today I can go out, Aunty?”

She said if he wanted to waste his parents’ payment for boarding and lodging, it was fine with her.

At the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel the air was alive with hearty cooking smells. Maneck felt he had only to stick out his tongue to sample the menu. His stomach rumbled hungrily.

They sat at the solitary table and ordered three teas. The spills from countless spicy meals had imparted a pungent varnish to the wood. Ishvar took the packet of beedis from his pocket and offered it to Maneck.

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

The tailors lit up. “She won’t let us smoke at our machines,” said Om. “And now the room is so crowded with her bed also in there. Place is like a dingy godown.”

“So what?” said Ishvar. “It’s not as if you have to run around in it catching goats or something.”

The cook in one corner of the restaurant was working within a circle of pots and pans. They could see their tea simmering in an open kettle. Three roaring stoves sent clouds of greasy smoke to the ceiling. Flames licked the black bottom of a huge karai full of boiling oil, bubbling dangerously and ready for frying. A drop of sweat from the cook’s shining brow fell into the oil; it spat viciously.

“You like your room?” asked Ishvar.

“Oh yes. Much better than the hostel.”

“We also found a place,” said Om. “At first I hated it, but now it’s all right. There are some nice people living near us.”

“You must come visit one day,” said Ishvar.

“Sure. Is it far?”

“Not very. Takes about forty-five minutes by train.” The teas arrived with a splash, the cups sitting in little brown-puddled saucers. Ishvar slurped from the saucer. Om poured his puddle back into the cup and sipped. Maneck followed his example.

“And how is college?”

Maneck made a wry face. “Hopeless. But I’ll have to finish it somehow, to please my parents. Then home I go, on the first train.”

“Soon as we collect some money, we’re also going back,” said Ishvar, coughing and hawking. “To find a wife for Om. Hahn, my nephew?”

“I don’t want marriage,” he scowled. “How many times to tell you.”

“Look at that sour-lime face. Come on, finish your tea, time’s up.” Ishvar got up to leave. The boys swallowed the last draughts and tumbled out of the little tea shop after him. They hurried back to Dina’s flat, past the beggar on his rolling platform.

“Remember him?” said Om to Maneck. “We saw him on the first day. He’s become our friend now. We pass him every day, and he waves to us.”

“O babu!” sang the beggar. “Aray babu! O big paisawalla babu!” He smiled at the trio, rattling his begging tin. Maneck tinkled into it the small change from the Vishram.

“What’s that smell?” Dina leaned forward angrily to sniff Maneck’s shirt. “Were you smoking with those two?”

“No,” he whispered, embarrassed that they would hear in the back room.

“Be honest. I stand in your parents’ place.”

“No, Aunty! They were smoking, and I was sitting next to them, that’s all.”

“If I ever catch you, I will write straight to your mummy, I’m warning you. Now tell me, did they say anything else about yesterday? The real reason they were absent?”

“No.”

“What did you talk about?”

He resented the cross-examination. “Nothing much. This and that.”

She did not pursue it, snubbed by his taciturnity. “There’s another thing you better be warned about. Omprakash has lice.”

“Really?” he asked interestedly. “You’ve seen them?”

“Do I put my hand in the fire to check if it’s hot? All day long he scratches. And not just his head. Problems at both ends — worms at one, lice at the other. So take my advice, stay away if you know what’s good for you. His uncle is safe, he’s almost bald, but you have a nice thick thatch, the lice will love it.”

Dina’s advice went unheeded. As the days turned to weeks, the afternoon break at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel became a regular affair for the three. Once, Maneck was delayed in returning from college, and Om whispered to Ishvar that they should wait for him.

“My, my,” said Dina, overhearing. “Postponing your tea. Are you feeling well? Are you sure you will survive that long?”

Ishvar reflected upon why it annoyed Dinabai so much, their going off together. When Maneck arrived and Om leapt up from his Singer, he decided to stay behind. “You boys go, I want to finish this skirt.”

Dina was all praise for him. “Listen to your uncle, learn from his example,” she said to Om as the two left. She poured Maneck’s tea into the segregated pink roses cup and brought it to Ishvar. “You might as well drink it.”

He thanked her for her trouble. He took a sip and remarked that Maneck and Om were getting on well, enjoying each other’s company. “They are both the same age. Om must be fed up being with his old uncle all the time. Night and day we are together.”

“Nonsense.” She said that in her opinion, if it weren’t for the uncle’s steadying presence, Om would turn into a wastrel. “I only hope he is not a poor influence on Maneck.”

“No no, don’t worry. Om is not a bad boy. If sometimes he is disobedient or bad-tempered, it’s only because he is frustrated and unhappy. He has had a very unfortunate life.”

“Mine has not been easy either. But we must make the best of what we have.”

“There is no other way,” he agreed.

From that day, he stayed behind more and more while Dina continued to make tea in Maneck’s name but poured it in Ishvar’s cup. They chatted about matters both tailoring and non-tailoring. His half-smile of gratitude was always something she looked forward to, with the frozen half straining to catch up as his face beamed at the pink roses along the rim of the saucer.

“Om’s sewing is improving, hahn, Dinabai?”

“He makes fewer mistakes.”

“Yes yes. He is much happier since Maneck came.”

“I am worried about Maneck, though. I hope he is studying properly — his parents are relying on it. They have a small shop, and it’s not doing well.”

“Everybody has troubles. Don’t worry, I will talk to him, remind him to work hard. That’s what these two young fellows have to do, work hard.”

Ishvar noted that the tea breaks upset Dinabai no more. It confirmed his suspicion, that she was longing for company.

The boys’ conversation inevitably took a different turn when they were on their own. Om was curious about the hostel Maneck had abandoned. “Were there any college girls living there?”

“You think I would leave if there were? They have a separate hostel. Boys are not allowed inside.”

From the Vishram they could see a cinema advertisement on a roof across the road, for a film called Revolver Rani. The billboard was a diptych. The first panel showed four men tearing off a woman’s clothes. An enormous bra-clad bosom was exposed, while the men’s lips, parted in lewd laughter, revealed carnivorous teeth and bright-red tongues. The second panel depicted the same woman, her clothes in tatters, mowing down the four men with automatic gunfire.

“Why is it called Revolver Rani?” said Om. “That’s a machine-gun in her hands.”

“They could have called it Machine-Gun Maharani. But that doesn’t sound as good.”

“Should be fun to see it.”

“Let’s go next week.”

“No money. Ishvar says we must save.”

“That’s okay, I’ll pay.”

Om searched Maneck’s face while drawing on the beedi, trying to decide if he meant it. “No, I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“I’ll ask my uncle.” His beedi went out and he reached for the matches. “You know, there’s a girl who lives near our house. Her breasts look like that.”

“Impossible.”

The outright dismissal made Om study the poster again. “Maybe you’re right,” he yielded. “Not exactly that big. They always paint them gigantic. But this girl has a solid pair, same beautiful shape as that. Sometimes she lets me touch them.”

“Go, yaar, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I swear she does. Her name is Shanti. She opens her blouse and lets me squeeze them whenever I like,” he said, giving his imagination free rein. Seeing Maneck laugh and slap his knee, he inquired innocently, “You mean you’ve never done that to a girl?”

“Of course I have,” Maneck answered hastily. “But you said you live with your uncle in a small house. How would you get the chance?”

“Easy. There is a ditch at the side of the colony, and lots of bushes behind it. We go there after dark. But for a few minutes only. If she’s away longer, someone would come looking for her.” He puffed airily at the beedi as he fabricated explorations that involved Shanti’s hair and limbs, and complicated excursions into her skirt and blouse.

“Good thing you’re a tailor,” said Maneck. “You know all the ins and outs of clothing.”

But Om continued undiscouraged, stopping short only of the final foray. “Once, I was on top of her, and we almost did it. Then there was a noise in the bushes so she got scared.” He drained his saucer and poured more from the cup. “What about you? Ever done it?”

“Almost. On a railway train.”

It was Om’s turn to laugh. “You’re a champion fakeologist, for sure. On a train!”

“No, really. A few months ago, when I left home to come to college.” Catalysed by Om’s fantasies, Maneck’s inventiveness took the field at a gallop. “There was a woman in the upper berth opposite mine, very beautiful.”

“More beautiful than Dinabai?”

The question made him pause. He had to think for a moment. “No,” he said loyally. “But the minute I got on the train, she kept staring at me, smiling when no one was watching. The problem was, her father was travelling with her. Finally night came, and people began going to sleep. She and I kept awake. When everyone had fallen asleep, including her father, she pushed aside the sheet and pulled one breast out from her choli.”

“Then what?” asked Om, happy to enjoy the imaginary fruits.

“She began massaging her breast, and signalled for me to come over. I was scared to climb down from my berth. Someone could wake up, you know. But then she put her hand between her legs and began rubbing herself. So I decided I had to go to her.”

“Of course. You’d be a fool not to,” Om breathed hard.

“I got down without disturbing anyone, and in a second I was stroking her breast. She grabbed my hand, begging me to climb in with her. I wondered what was the best way to get up there. I didn’t want to jolt her father’s berth underneath. Suddenly there was a movement. He turned over, groaning. She was so frightened that she pushed me away and started snoring loudly. I pretended I was on my way to the bathroom.”

“If only the bastard had kept sleeping.”

“I know. It’s so sad. I’ll never meet that woman again.” Maneck felt suddenly desolate, as though the loss was real. “You’re lucky Shanti lives near you.”

“You can see her one day,” said Om generously. “When you visit me and Ishvar. But you won’t be able to talk to her, just look at her from far. She’s very shy, and meets me secretly, as I said.”

They gulped their tea and ran all the way back, for they had exceeded the time.

Batata wada, bhel puri, pakora, bhajia, sherbet — Maneck paid for all the snacks and drinks at the Vishram because Om got just enough from Ishvar for one cup of tea. The allowance from Maneck’s parents was sufficient for the treats, since he no longer needed to supplement canteen food. The following week he kept his word and took Om to see Revolver Rani after the day’s sewing was done. He offered to pay for Ishvar too, who refused, saying his time would be better spent finishing one more dress.

“How about you, Aunty? Want to come?”

“I wouldn’t see such rubbish if you paid me,” said Dina. “And if your money weighs too much in your pocket, let me know. I can tell your mummy to stop sending it.”

“Bilkool correct,” said Ishvar. “You young people don’t understand the value of money.”

Undeterred by the reproaches, they set off for the cinema. She reminded Maneck to come straight home after the film, his dinner would be waiting. He agreed, grumbling to himself that Dina Aunty was taking her self-appointed role of guardian too seriously.

“The old woman’s prophecy came true,” said Om, as they started towards the train station. “Half of it, anyway — Monkey-man finally took his revenge.”

“What did he do?”

“A terrible thing. It happened last night.” Tikka had been back living with Monkey-man, and his neighbours assumed the two were friends again. But after the hutment dwellers had gone to sleep, Monkey-man put a wooden crate outside his shack and adorned it with flowers and an oil lamp. A photograph of Laila and Majnoo riding on Tikka’s back was propped up in the centre. It was a Polaroid shot taken long ago by an American tourist charmed by the act. The altar was ready. Monkey-man led Tikka before it, made the dog lie down, and slit his throat. Then he went around letting people know he had fulfilled his duty.

“It was horrible,” said Om. “We got there and saw poor Tikka floating in his blood. He was still twitching a little. I almost vomited.”

“If my father was there, he would have killed Monkey-man,” said Maneck.

“Are you boasting or complaining?”

“Both, I guess.” He kicked a stone from the footpath into the road. “My father cares more about stray dogs than his own son.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, yaar.”

“Why rubbish? Look, he feeds the dogs every day on the porch. But me he sent away. All the time I was there, he kept fighting with me, didn’t want me around.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, your father sent you here to study because he cares for your future.”

“You’re an expert on fathers or what?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you?”

“Because my father is dead. That quickly makes you an expert. You better believe me — stop talking rubbish about your father.”

“Okay, my father is a saint. But what happened to Monkey-man?”

“People in the colony were angry, they said we should tell the police, because ever since the monkeys died, Monkey-man has two small children living with him, three-four years old. They are his sister’s son and daughter, training for his new act. And if he went mad, it would be dangerous for the children. But then others in the colony said there was no point putting crooks in charge of the insane. Anyway, Monkey-man loves the children. He has been taking very good care of them.”

They alighted from the train, pushing their way through the crowd waiting to climb on. Outside the platform, a woman sat in the sun with a small basket of vegetables beside her. She was drying her laundered sari, one half at a time. One end was wound wet round her waist and over her shrunken breasts, as far as it would go. The drying half was stretched along the railway fence, flowing from her body like a prayer in the evening sun. She waved to Om as the two passed by.

“She lives in our colony,” he said, weaving through the traffic to cross the lane towards the cinema. “She sells vegetables. She has only one sari.”

Revolver Rani ended later than they had expected. While the credits rolled, they began inching down the aisles, lingering, not wanting to miss the reprise of the soundtrack. Then the fluttering national flag appeared on the screen, “Jana Gana Mana” started to play, and there was a rush for the exits.

But the outward-bound audience ran into an obstacle. A squad of Shiv Sena volunteers guarding the doors blocked their way. People at the back, unaware of the reason for the bottleneck, began shouting. “Side please! Aray bhai, side please! Move on, mister! Filmshow finished!”

The crowd in the front couldn’t go forward, however, threatened by the Shiv Sena’s waving sticks and an assortment of signs: RESPECT THE NATIONAL ANTHEM! YOUR MOTHERLAND NEEDS YOU DURING THE EMERGENCY! PATRIOTISM is A SCARED DUTY! No one was allowed to leave till the flag faded on the screen and the lights came on.

“Why is patriotism a scared duty?” laughed Om. “They need to frighten people to be patriotic?”

“These idiots can’t even spell sacred, and they are telling us what to do,” said Maneck.

Om observed that the protesters were about fifty in all, whereas the audience was over eight hundred strong. “We could have easily overpowered them. Dhishoom! Dhishoom! Like that fellow in the film,” he said, clenching his fists before his chest.

In high spirits, they began repeating some of the more dramatic lines they remembered from Revolver Rani. “Blood can only be avenged by blood!” growled Maneck, with a swordfighting flourish.

“Standing on this consecrated earth, I swear with the sky as my witness that you will not see another dawn!” proclaimed Om.

“That’s because I wake up late every day, yaar,” said Maneck. The sudden departure from the script made Om lose his pose with laughing.

Outside the railway station, the woman was still sitting with her vegetable basket. The dry half of the sari was now wrapped around her, with the wet stretch taking its turn along the fence. The basket was almost empty. “Amma, time to go home,” said Om, and she smiled.

On the station platform, they decided to try the machine that said Weight amp; Fortune 25p. Maneck went first. The red and white wheel spun, lightbulbs flashed, there was a chime, and a little cardboard rectangle slid out into the curved receptacle.

“Sixty-one kilos,” said Maneck, and read the fortune on the reverse. “ ‘A happy reunion awaits you in the near future.’ That sounds right — I’ll be going home when this college year is finished.”

“Or it means you will meet that woman on the train again. You can finish her breast massage. Come on, my turn.” He climbed on, and Maneck fished in his pocket for another twenty-five-paise coin.

“Forty-six kilos,” said Om, and turned it over. “ ‘You will soon be visiting many new and exciting places.’ That doesn’t make sense. Going back to our village — that’s not a new place.”

“I think it means the places in Shanti’s blouse and skirt.”

Om struck a stance and raised his hand, reverting to the film dialogue. “Until these fingers are wrapped around your neck, squeezing out your wretched life, there shall be no rest for me!”

“Not when you weigh only forty-six kilos,” said Maneck. “You will have to first practise on a chicken’s neck.”

The train arrived, and they ran from the ticket window to get on. “These train tickets look exactly like the weight cards,” said Om.

“I could have saved the fare,” said Maneck.

“No, it’s too risky. They’ve become very strict because of Emergency.” He described the time when Ishvar and he had been trapped in a raid on ticketless travellers.

The rush hour was over, and the compartment was sparsely occupied. They put up their feet on the empty seat. Maneck unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, flexing his toes. “We walked a lot today.”

“You shouldn’t wear those tight shoes, yaar. My chappals are much more comfortable.”

“My parents would get very upset if I went out in chappals.” He kneaded the toes and soles, then pulled up his socks and put on the shoes.

“I used to massage my father’s feet,” said Om. “And he would massage my grandfather’s feet.”

“Did you have to do it every day?”

“I didn’t have to, but it was a custom. We sat outside in the evenings, on the charpoy. There would be a cool breeze, and birds singing in the trees. I enjoyed doing it for my father. It pleased him so much.” They swayed slightly in their seats as the train rocked along. “There was a callus under the big toe of his right foot — from treadling his sewing-machine. When I was small, that callus used to make me laugh if he wiggled the toe, it looked like a man’s face.”

Om was silent for the rest of the way, gazing pensively out the window. Maneck tried to distract him by imitating the characters in Revolver Rani, but a weak smile was all he could get out of him, so he lapsed into silence as well.

“You should have come with us,” said Maneck. “It was fun. What thrilling fights.”

“No, thank you, I’ve seen enough fighting in my life,” said Ishvar. “But when are you visiting our house?” Maneck’s spending regularly on Om was creating too much obligation, he felt, it was time to reciprocate in some small way. “You must have dinner with us soon.”

“Sure, any time,” answered Maneck, reluctant to make a commitment. It would upset Dina Aunty — the cinema trip had been bad enough.

Fortunately, Ishvar did not press for a firm date right then. He put the cover over his Singer and left with Om.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself,” said Dina. “Going against my wishes, mixing more and more with him in spite of what I told you.”

“It was just one filmshow, Aunty. For the first time Om went to a big theatre. He was so thrilled.”

“I hope he is able to sew tomorrow, and you can concentrate on your studies. These films about fighting and killing can only have a bad effect on the brain. In the old days the cinema was so sweet. A little dancing and singing, some comedy, or a romance. Now it’s all just guns and knives.”

Next day, as though to vindicate Dina’s theory, Om joined the bodice of a size-seven dress to the skirt of a size eleven, squeezing the excess into the gather at the waist. The mistakes were repeated in three garments and not discovered till the afternoon.

“Leave everything else, fix this first,” said Dina, but he ignored her.

“It’s all right, Dinabai,” said Ishvar. “I will separate the seams and stitch them again.”

“No, he made the mistakes and he should correct them.”

“You do them,” scowled Om, scratching his scalp. “I have a headache. You gave me the wrong pieces so it’s your mistake.”

“Listen to him! Lying shamelessly! And take your fingers out of your hair before you get oil on the cloth! Scratch-scratch-scratch the whole day!”

The argument was still going when Maneck returned from college. The tailors did not break for tea. He went to his room and shut himself in, wishing they would stop. For the rest of the afternoon the squabble kept dribbling under his door, creating a pool of distress around him.

At six, Dina knocked and asked him to come out. “Those two have left. I need the company of a sane person.”

“Why were you fighting, Aunty?”

“I was fighting? How dare you! Do you know the whole story, to say who was fighting?”

“I’m sorry, Aunty. I meant, what was the fight about?”

“Same reason as always. Mistakes and shoddy work. But thank God for Ishvar. I don’t know what I would do without him. One angel and one devil. Trouble is, when the angel keeps company with the devil, neither can be trusted.”

“Maybe Om behaves this way because something is upsetting him — maybe it’s because you lock them in when you go out.”

“Ah! So he’s told you that, has he? And did he say why I do it?”

“The landlord. But he thinks it’s just an excuse. He says you make them feel like criminals.”

“His guilty conscience makes him feel that way. The landlord’s threat is real, you remember it too. Don’t let the rent-collector’s sweet smile fool you into admitting anything. Always pretend you are my nephew.” She began tidying the room, picking up the scraps, stuffing the fragments in the bottom shelf. “That Ibrahim’s eyeballs can see the whole flat right from the front door, the way they wander, round and round. Faster than Buster Keaton’s. But you are too young to know Buster Keaton.”

“I’ve heard Mummy mention the name. She said he was funnier than Laurel and Hardy.”

“Never mind that — there is also a second reason. The tailors will put me out of business if I don’t lock them in. Do you know Om tried to follow me to the export company? Did he tell you that? No, of course not. My tiny commission sticks in their throats. As it is, I can barely manage.”

“Shall I tell Mummy to send more money? For my rent and food?”

“Absolutely not! I am charging a fair price and she is paying it. You think I am telling you all this because I want charity?”

“No, I just thought — ”

“My problems are not a beggar’s wounds! Only a beggar removes his cloth to shock you with his mutilation. No, Mr. Mac Kohlah, I’m telling you all this so you understand your beloved Omprakash Darji a little better.”

The next time she went to Au Revoir Exports, Dina decided to take Maneck further into her confidence. “Listen, I’m not padlocking the door today. Since you are home, I’ll leave you in charge.” The responsibility would draw him over to her side, she was sure; besides, Om wouldn’t attempt the bicycle caper twice.

After Dina had departed, Ishvar continued sewing, uncomfortable about taking his customary rest on her sofa with Maneck present. But Om stopped immediately, and escaped to the front room. “Two hours of freedom,” he announced, stretching and letting himself drop on the sofa next to Maneck.

While he smoked, they browsed through Dina’s old knitting books. Models wearing various styles of sweaters adorned the inside pages. Luscious red lips, creamy skin, and luxuriant hairdos dazzled them from the dog-eared glossy paper. “Look at those two,” said Om, indicating a blonde and a redhead. “You think the hair between their legs is the same colour?”

“Why don’t you write a letter to the magazine and ask? ‘Dear Sir, We wish to make an inquiry regarding the colour of your models’ choot hair — specifically, if it matches the hair on their heads. The models in question appear on page forty-seven of your issue dated’“ — he flipped to the cover — “ ‘July 1961.’ Forget it, yaar, that’s fourteen years ago. Whatever colour it was then, it must be grey or white by now.”

“I should ask Rajaram the hair-collector,” said Om. “He’s an expert on hair.”

The boys restored the knitting books to their corner and went into Maneck’s room. The pagoda parasol amused them for a while, then they explored the kitchen, calling to the cats, who refused to approach the window since it was not dinnertime. Om wanted to throw water at them, make them yowl, but Maneck wouldn’t let him.

In the back room they examined the collection of cloth pieces, the beginnings of the quilt. “You boys don’t meddle with Dinabai’s things,” warned Ishvar, glancing up from the machine.

“Just look at all this cloth,” said Om. “She steals from us, not paying us properly, and also from the company.”

“You are talking nonsense, Omprakash,” his uncle said. “Those are little garbage pieces that she puts to good use. Come on, get back to your machine, stop wasting time.”

Om replaced the makings of the quilt and pointed to the trunk on the trestle in the corner. Maneck raised his eyebrows at the daring suggestion. They opened it, and discovered her supply of homemade sanitary pads.

“You know what those are for?” whispered Om.

“Little pillows,” said Maneck, grinning, picking up a couple of the lumpy pads. “Little pillows for little people.”

“My little man can rest his head on it.” Om slung one between his legs.

“Stop fooling with the trunk there,” said Ishvar.

“Okay, okay.” They took a handful of pads into the front room and continued clowning.

“What’s this?” said Maneck, holding two above his head.

“Horns?”

“No,” he waggled them. “Donkey’s ears.”

Om held one behind him. “Rabbit’s tail.”

They held them at their crotches like phalluses and pranced around the room, making large masturbatory gestures. The knot at the end of Maneck’s pad came undone. The stuffing fell out, leaving the casing flopping in his hand.

“Look at that!” laughed Om. “Your lund has already gone to sleep, yaar!”

Maneck took a firm new pad and struck Om’s with it. A duel ensued but the weapons collapsed quickly, scattering fabric snippets around the room. They picked up two more and began rushing at each other in a gallop, like jousters on horseback, their sanitary lances sticking out at their flies.

“Tan-tanna tan-tanna tan-tanna!” they trumpeted and attacked. Backing up to their corners, they adjusted the pads at their crotches while Om reared and neighed like a charger champing at the bit.

Just as they were ready to tilt again, Dina opened the front door and entered through the verandah. The fanfare died in mid-flourish. She got as far as the sofa, then froze. The scene left her speechless: the floor littered with the scraps of her carefully prepared sanitary pads, the two boys standing guiltily, clutching their embarrassing toys.

They dropped their hands and started to hide the pads behind their backs, then realized the gesture was as futile as it was silly. They lowered their heads.

“You shameless boys!” she managed to utter. “You shameless boys!”

She ran to the back room where Ishvar was still ploughing away at his machine, blissfully unaware of the goings-on in the front room. “Stop!” she said, her voice trembling. “Come and see what those two have been doing!”

Om and Maneck had put aside the pads, but Dina thrust one each into their hands. “Go on!” she said. “Do it for him, let him see your shameless behaviour!”

Ishvar did not need to see. He gathered that something filthy had been going on, especially if she was so upset. He went to Om and slapped him across the face. “You I cannot slap,” he said to Maneck. “But someone should. For your own good.”

He led Om into the back room and flung him upon his stool. “I don’t want another word from you, now or ever. Just do your work quietly till it’s time to leave.”

Dinner was a silent meal; only the knives and forks spoke. Dina cleared up quickly, then went into the sewing room and bolted her door.

As if I was a sex maniac or something, thought Maneck, feeling miserable. He waited for a while in the front room, hoping she would come out, give him a chance to apologize. His ears picked up the opening and closing of a drawer. The creaking of her bed. A clatter that could be her hairbrush. The thud of the tailors’ stools being pushed aside. He heard the sound of the trunk lid, and his face burned with shame. Then the bright line under her door went dark, and his wretchedness engulfed him.

Would she write to his parents and complain? Surely he deserved it. For almost two months now, she had treated him so well in her flat, and he had behaved disgustingly. For the first time since leaving home, he had felt at peace, unthreatened, thanks to Dina Aunty. Rescued from the hostel that had made him ill, with that tightness in the chest, that nauseated feeling every morning.

Now he had brought it all back, through his own doing. He switched off the light beside the sofa and dragged himself to his room.

Morning could not alleviate Maneck’s shame from last night. To help keep it burning, Dina slammed the plate of two fried eggs before him at breakfast. When it was time to leave for college and he called out “Bye, Aunty,” she would not come to wave. Woefully, he shut the door upon the empty, accusing verandah.

The first hint of forgiveness quivered in the air after dinner. Like the night before, she retreated to the back room instead of bringing the quilt to the sofa; however, she kept her door ajar.

Waiting hopefully in the front room, he passed the time listening to the neighbours. Someone screamed retributive warnings — at a daughter, he presumed. “Mui bitch!” came a man’s voice. “Behaving like a slut, staying out so late at night! You think eighteen years is too old to get a thrashing? I’ll show you! When we say back by ten o’clock, we mean ten o’clock!”

Maneck glanced at his watch: ten-twenty. Still Dina Aunty did not emerge. Neither did the light go off. At their usual bedtime of ten-thirty, he decided to peek in and say good night.

She was in her nightgown, her back to the door. He changed his mind and tried to retreat, but she saw him through the crack. Oh God, he thought, panicking — now she would assume he was spying.

“Yes?” she said sharply.

“Excuse me, Aunty, I was just coming to say good night.”

“Yes. Good night.” Her stiffness persisted.

He re-echoed the words and began edging away, then stopped. He cleared his throat. “Also…”

“Also what?”

“Also, I wanted to say sorry… for yesterday…”

“Don’t mumble from outside the room. Come in and say what you have to say.”

He entered shyly. Her bare arms in the nightgown looked so lovely, and through the light cotton, the shape of… but he dared not let his eyes linger. Mummy’s friend was the unsummoned thought that terrified him as he finished his apology.

“I want you to understand,” she said. “I was not angry with your shameful act because of any harm to me. I was ashamed for you, to see you behaving like a loafer. Like a roadside mavali. From Omprakash I cannot expect better. But you, from a good Parsi family. And I left you to watch after them, I trusted you.”

“I’m sorry,” he hung his head. She raised her hands to her hair, reinserting a clip that had become ineffective. He found the fuzz in her armpits extremely erotic.

“Go to bed now,” she said. “Next time, use better judgement.”

As he fell asleep, thinking of Dina Aunty in the nightgown, she began to merge with the woman on the train, in the upper berth.