Returning to solid earth after working twenty hours a day for three days, they found the absence of vibrations quite strange. They thanked Jeevan, helped him dismantle the loft, and returned exhausted to their awning.
“Now for some rest,” said Omprakash. “I want to sleep the whole day.”
Nawaz came repeatedly to register his disapproval while they lay recovering. He posed in the back door, looking disgusted, or muttering to Miriam about useless, lazy people. “The thing is, work only comes to those who genuinely want it,” he preached. “These two are wasters.”
Ishvar and Omprakash were too tired to feel indignation, let alone anything stronger. After their day of recuperation, it was back to the routine: asking for directions in the morning and searching for work until evening.
“God knows how much longer we have to suffer those two,” the complaint emerged through the kitchen window. Nawaz did not trouble to lower his voice. “I told you to refuse Ashraf. But did you listen?”
“They do not bother us,” she whispered. “They only –”
“Careful, that one hurts, you’ll cut my toe!”
Ishvar and Omprakash exchanged questioning looks while Nawaz continued his harangue. “The thing is, if I wanted people living under my back awning, I would rent it for good money. You know how dangerous it is, keeping them for so long? All they have to do is file a claim for the space, and we’d be stuck in court for – aah! Haramzadi, I said be careful! You’ll make a cripple out of me, slashing away with your blade!”
The tailors sat up, startled. “I have to see what’s going on,” whispered Omprakash.
He stretched up on tiptoe and peered through the kitchen window. Nawaz was seated on a chair, his foot upon a low stool. Miriam knelt before it with a safety razor blade, slicing away slivers of tough skin from his corns and calluses.
Omprakash lowered himself from the window and described the sight for his uncle. They chuckled a long time about it. “What I am wondering is, how that chootia gets corns if he sits at his sewing-machine all day,” said Omprakash.
“Maybe he walks a lot in his dreams,” said Ishvar.
Roughly four months after the tailors’ arrival, Nawaz began scolding them one morning when they asked him for advice. “Every day you pester me while I am working. This is a very big city. You think I know the names of all the tailors in it? Go search for yourself. And if you cannot find tailoring, try other things. Be a coolie at the railway station. Use your heads, carry wheat and rice for ration-shop customers. Do something, anything.”
Omprakash could see his uncle discomposed by the outburst, so he was quick to retort. “We wouldn’t mind that at all. But it would be an insult to Ashraf Chacha who trained us for so many years and gave us his skills.”
Nawaz was embarrassed by the reminder of that name. “The thing is, I am very busy right now,” he mumbled. “Please go.”
In the street, Ishvar patted his nephew’s back. “Sabaash, Om. That was a first-class reply you gave him.”
“The thing is,” mimicked Omprakash, “the thing is, I am such a first-class fellow.” They laughed and toasted their tiny victory with half-glasses of tea at the street corner. The celebration was short-lived, however, extinguished by the reality of their dwindling savings. Out of desperation Ishvar took up work for a fortnight in a cobbler’s shop that specialized in custom-made shoes and sandals. His job was to prepare the leather for soles and heels. To induce the hardness required in this type of leather, the shop used vegetable tanning. He was familiar with the process from his village days.
They kept the job a secret, for Ishvar was much ashamed of it. The reek from his hands was strong, and he preserved his distance from Nawaz.
Another month passed, their sixth in the city, with their prospects bleak as ever, when Nawaz opened the back door one evening and said, “Come in, come in. Have some tea with me. Miriam! Three teas!”
They approached and put their heads around the doorway. Had they heard him correctly, they wondered?
“Don’t stand there – come, sit,” he said cheerfully. “There is good news. The thing is, I have work for you.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Ishvar, instantly bursting with gratitude. “That’s the best news! You won’t be sorry, we will sew beautifully for your customers –”
“Not in my shop,” Nawaz rudely snuffed out the exuberance. “It’s somewhere else.” He tried to be pleasant again, smiling and continuing. “You will enjoy this job, believe me. Let me tell you more about it. Miriam! Three teas, I said! Where are you?”
She entered with three glasses. Ishvar and Omprakash stood up, joining their palms: “Salaam, bibi.” They had heard her gentle silvery voice often, but it was the first time they found themselves face to face with her. In a manner of speaking, that is, for a black burkha hid her countenance. Her eyes, caged behind the two lace-covered openings, were sparkling.
“Ah, good, tea is ready at last,” said Nawaz. He pointed out the spot where he wanted the glasses set down, then waved his hand at her in a curt dismissal.
After a few sips he got back to business. “A rich Parsi lady came here this afternoon while you were out. Her shoe fell in the gutter.” He snickered. “The thing is, she has a very big export company, and is looking for two good tailors. Her name is Dina Dalai and she left her address for you.” He drew it out of his shirt pocket.
“Did she say what kind of sewing?”
“Top quality, latest fashions. But easy to do – she said paper patterns will be provided.” He watched them anxiously. “You will go, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Ishvar.
“Good, good. The thing is, she said she was handing out these slips at many shops. So lots of tailors will be applying.” On the back of the paper he wrote down directions and the train station where they should get off. “Now don’t get lost on your way there. Go to sleep early tonight, wake up early in the morning. Nice and fresh, clear-headed, so you can win the job from the lady.”
Like a mother bustling her charges on the first day of school, Nawaz opened the back door at dawn and roused them by shaking their shoulders, presenting a big smile to their reluctant eyelids. “You don’t want to be late. Please come in for tea after washing and gargling. Miriam! Two teas for my friends!”
He murmured encouragement, advice, caution while they drank. “The thing is, you have to impress the lady. But it must not sound like big talk. Answer all her questions politely, and never interrupt her. Don’t scratch your head or any other part – fine women like her hate that habit. Speak with confidence, in a medium voice. And take a comb with you, make sure you look neat and tidy before you ring her doorbell. Bad hair makes a very bad impression.”
They listened eagerly, Omprakash making a mental note to buy a new pocket-comb; he had broken his, last week. When the tea was drunk Nawaz sped them on their way. “Khuda hafiz, and come back soon. Come back successful.”
They returned after three o’clock, explaining sheepishly to an anxious Nawaz that though they had got there on time, finding the train station for the return journey had been difficult.
“But that would be the same station you got off at in the morning.”
“I know,” Ishvar smiled embarrassedly. “I just cannot tell what happened. The place was so far, we had never been there before, and we-”
“Never mind,” said Nawaz, magnanimous. “A new destination always seems further away than it really is.”
“Every street looks the same. Even when you ask people, the directions are confusing. Even that nice college boy we met on the train had the same problem.”
“You be careful who you talk to. This is not your village. Nice boy could steal your money, cut your throat and throw you in the gutter.”
“Yes, but he was very kind, he even shared his watermelon sherbet with us and –”
“The thing is, did you get the work?”
“Oh yes, we start from Monday,” said Ishvar.
“Tha
t’s wonderful. Many, many congratulations and felicitations. Come inside, sit with me, you must be tired. Miriam! Three teas!”
“You are too generous,” said Omprakash. “Just like Ashraf Chacha.”
The sarcasm was lost on Nawaz. “Oh, it’s my responsibility to help Ashraf’s friends. And now that you have found jobs, my next duty is to find you a place to stay.”
“No rush, Nawazbhai,” said Ishvar, mildly alarmed. “We are happy where we are, your awning is beautiful, very comfortable.”
“Just leave it to me. The thing is, it’s almost impossible in this city to find a house. When something becomes available you must grab it. Come on, finish your tea, let’s go.”
“Last stop!” called the conductor, clanging his ticket punch against the chrome railing. The bus skirted the gloomy slum lanes, groaned as it turned the corner, and stopped.
“This one is the new colony,” said Nawaz, indicating the field which was in the process of being annexed by the slum. “Let’s find the man in charge.”
They entered between two rows of shacks, and Nawaz asked someone if Navalkar was around. The woman pointed. They found him in a shack that was his office.
“Yes,” said Navalkar, “we still have a few places for rent.” His straggly moustache fluttered with studied exaggeration in front of his mouth when he spoke. “Let me show you.”
They returned through the two rows of shacks. “This corner house,” said Navalkar. “It’s vacant, if you want it. Come, look inside.”
As he opened the door of the shack, a pariah dog departed through a hole in the back. The mud floor was partially covered with planks. “You can put more pieces of wood if you like,” suggested Navalkar. The walls were a patchwork, part plywood and part sheet metal. The roof was old corrugated iron, waterproofed in corroded areas with transparent plastic.
“The tap is out there, in the middle of the lane. Most convenient. You won’t have to go far for water, like they do in other inferior colonies. This is a nice place.” He swept his arm around to take in the field. “Newly developed, not too crowded. The rent is one hundred rupees per month. In advance.”
Nawaz tapped the walls with his fingers like a doctor examining a chest, then stamped his foot on a floor plank, making it wobble. He made an approving face. “Well built,” he whispered to the tailors.
Navalkar gave a circular nod. “We have even better huts. You want to see?”
“No harm in looking,” said Nawaz.
They were led behind the rows of tin-and-plastic jhopadpattis to a set of eight brick-walled huts. The roofs once again were of rusted corrugated metal. “These are two hundred and fifty rupees per month. But for that money you get a pukka floor, and electric light.” He pointed to the poles that fed wires to the huts, pirated from the street-lighting supply.
Inside, Nawaz inspected the bare bricks and scratched one with his thumb nail. “Very good quality,” he said. “You want to know what I think? For the first month, take the cheaper house. Then if your job goes well and you can afford it, move to this one.”
Navalkar kept up his circular nodding. The tailors’ silence made Nawaz uneasy. “What’s the matter, you don’t like it?”
“No no, it’s very nice. But money is the problem.”
“Money is a problem for everyone,” said Navalkar. “Unless you are a politician or a blackmarketeer.”
When the forced laughter concluded, Ishvar said, “The advance rent is difficult.”
“Don’t you have even a hundred rupees?” asked Nawaz disbelievingly.
“It’s because of the tailoring lady. She told us we must bring our own sewing-machines. And we have just enough for the rental deposit. These last few months without work, we have been spending and-”
“You useless people!” Nawaz spat, seeing his plan to be rid of them begin to disintegrate. “Wasting your money!”
“If we can stay with you a little longer,” pleaded Ishvar, “we could save enough-”
“You think this house is going to wait for you?” he snarled, and Navalkar shook his head on cue.
Desperate, Nawaz turned to him. “Can you make an exception, Mr. Navalkar? Twenty-five rupees today, which I will pay. And twenty-five from the tailors each week, for the rest.”
Navalkar curled his lips, gnawing at the moustache with his lower incisors. He brushed back the wet hairs with his knuckles. “For your sake only. Because I trust you.”
Nawaz counted out the money before any minds could be changed. They returned to the first shack, where Navalkar put a lock on the plywood door and gave the key to Ishvar. “Your house now. Live well.”
They picked their way through the cracked earth of the field and waited at the bus stop. The tailors looked worried. “My congratulations and felicitations to you again,” said Nawaz. “In one day you have found jobs and a new house.”
“Only with your help,” said Ishvar. “Is Navalkar the landlord?”
Nawaz laughed. “Navalkar is a little crook working for a big crook. A slumlord called Thokray, who controls everything in this area – country liquor, hashish, bhung. And when there are riots, he decides who gets burned and who survives.”
Seeing the apprehension on Ishvar’s face, he added, “You don’t have to deal with him. Just pay your rent regularly, you will be all right.”
“But then, whose land is this?”
“No one’s. The city owns it. These fellows bribe the municipality, police, water inspector, electricity officer. And they rent to people like you. No harm in it. Empty land sitting useless – if homeless people can live there, what’s wrong?”
On this last night, Nawaz’s relief spurred him to greater generosity. “Please eat with me,” he invited them in. “Honour me at least once before you go. Miriam! Three dinners!”
He inquired if they were happy under the back awning. “If you prefer, you can sleep indoors. The thing is, that’s where I was going to put you anyway, when you first arrived. But I thought to myself, the house is so cramped and crowded, better outside in the fresh air.”
“Yes yes, much better,” said Ishvar. “We have to thank you for your kindness for six months.”
“Has it really been that long? How fast the time has flown.”
Miriam brought the food to the table and left. Even obscured by the burkha, Ishvar and Omprakash had been able to see her eyes cloud with embarrassment at her husband’s hypocrisy.
IV
Small Obstacles
MIRROR, RAZOR, SHAVING BRUSH, plastic cup, loata, copper water pot – Ishvar arranged them on an upturned cardboard carton in one corner of the shack. Trunk and bedding took up most of the remaining space. He hung their clothes from rusted nails protruding through the plywood walls. “So everything fits nicely. We have jobs, we have a house, and soon we’ll find a wife for you.”
Om did not smile. “I hate this place,” he said.
“You want to go back to Nawaz and his awning?”
“No. I want to go back to Ashraf Chacha and his shop.”
“Poor Ashraf Chacha – deserted by his customers.” Ishvar picked up the copper pot and moved to the door.
“I’ll get the water,” offered Om.
He went to the tap in the lane where a grey-haired woman watched him fumble with the handle to start the flow. Nothing happened. He kicked the standpipe and rattled the spout, shaking out a few drops.
“Don’t you know?” the woman called. “It only runs in the morning.”
Om turned to see who was speaking. She was standing very short in her darkened doorway. “Water only comes in the morning,” she repeated.
“No one told me.”
“Are you a child that you must be told everything?” she scolded, stepping out of her shack. Now he could see she was not short, just badly stooped. “Can’t you use your own intelligence?”
He tried to decide which would best demonstrate his intelligence: retorting or walking away. “Come,” she said, and retreated within. He glanced in the doorwa
y. She spoke again from the darkness, “Are you planning to wait by the tap till dawn?”
Opening the lid of a round-bottomed earthen matka, she transferred two glassfuls into his copper pot. “Remember, you have to fill up early. Wake up late, and you go thirsty. Like the sun and moon, water waits for no one.”
A long queue had formed at the tap in the morning when the tailors emerged with toothbrushes and soap to await their turn. From the next shack a man came out smiling, blocking their way. He was bare above the waist, and his hair hung to his shoulders. “Namaskaar,” he greeted them. “But you cannot go like that.”
“Why not?”
“If you stand at the tap, brushing your teeth, soaping and scrubbing and washing, you’ll start a big fight. People want to fill up before the water goes.”
“But what to do?” said Ishvar. “We don’t have a bucket.”
“No bucket? That’s only a small obstacle.” Their neighbour disappeared inside, and came back with a galvanized pail. “Use this till you get one.”
“What about you?”
“I have another – one bucketful is enough for me.” He gathered his hair in a tail and tugged it before spreading it out again. “Now. What else do you need? A small can or something, for toilet?”
“We have a loata,” said Ishvar. “But where should we go?”
“Come with me, it’s not far.” They collected their water, deposited the heavy pail in their shack, then walked towards the railway lines beyond the field with their loata. The water in it sloshed a little as they scrambled over mounds of concrete rubble and broken glass. A foul-smelling stream, greyish yellow, trickled through the mounds, carrying a variety of floating waste in its torpid flux.
“Come to the right side,” he said. “The left side is for ladies only.” They followed, glad to have a guide; it would have been awkward to have blundered. Women’s voices, mothers coaxing their children, rose from that direction, along with the stench. Further down, men were squatting on the tracks or by the ditch to the side, near the prickly scrub and nettles, their backs to the railroad. The ditch was a continuum of the roadside sewer where the hutment colony pitched its garbage.