“Laila! Majnoo! Stop it!” scolded their master, tugging the leashes. They bobbed their heads out over the bucket rims.
“It’s okay,” said Om, enjoying their pranks. “Let them have some fun. They must have worked hard all day.”
They walked together to the hutment colony, the tailors, Monkey-man, and his animals, moving to the drum’s hypnotic dhuk-dhuka. Laila and Majnoo soon tired of the buckets and began clambering over Om, sitting on his shoulders or his head, hanging from his arms, clinging to his legs. He laughed all the way home, and Ishvar smiled with pleasure.
Om’s playfulness vanished when he and the monkeys parted company. Once again he sank into his gloom, casting a nauseated look in Rajaram’s direction, who was sorting his bags of hair outside the shack. The little black mounds looked like a collection of shaggy human heads.
Seeing the two laden with purchases, Rajaram complimented them. “Makes me happy to see you started on the road to prosperity.”
“You need spectacles if you think this is the road to prosperity,” snapped Om. He went inside and unrolled the bedding.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Rajaram, hurt.
“I think he’s just tired. But listen, today you must eat with us. To celebrate our new stove.”
“How can I refuse such good friends?”
They prepared the food together, and called Om when it was ready. Halfway through the meal, Rajaram asked if he could borrow ten rupees. The request took Ishvar by surprise. He had assumed the hair-collector was doing well in his line of work, judging by his enthusiastic talk during the past fortnight.
The hesitation showed on his face, for Rajaram added, “I’ll return it in a week, don’t worry. Business is little slow right now. But a new style is coming into fashion for women. Everyone will start chopping off their plaits. Those long chotelas will fall straight into my lap.”
“Stop talking about hair,” said Om. “It makes my stomach sick.” After dinner, instead of sitting outside to chat and smoke with them, he said he had a headache and went to bed.
His uncle came in an hour later and stood watching the back of Om’s head for a minute. Poor child, what a burden of terrible memories he had to carry. He leaned across and saw his eyes were open. “Om? Headache gone?”
He groaned and answered no.
“Patience, Om, it will go.” To cheer him up, he added, “Our stars must be in the proper position at last. Everything is going well, hahn?”
“How can you keep repeating such rubbish? A lousy, stinking house we live in. Our jobs are terrible, that Dinabai watching us like a vulture, harassing us, telling us when to eat and when to belch.”
Ishvar sighed; his nephew was in one of his implacable black moods. He lit two sticks from the jasmine agarbatti package. “This will make our house smell nice. Sleep well, your headache will be gone in the morning.”
Late at night, after the harmonium player’s song was silent and Tikka stopped barking, it was the noises from the hair-collector’s shack that continued to keep Om awake. There was a visitor. A woman giggled, then Rajaram laughed. Soon he was panting, and the sounds through the plywood walls tormented Om. He thought of them naked amid those eerie bags of hair, contorting in the erotic poses of cinema posters. He thought of Shanti by the water tap, her lovely shining hair, the tightness of her blouse when she lifted the big brass pot to her head, the things he could do with her in the bushes by the railroad. He looked at his uncle, sound asleep. He got out of bed, went to the side of the shack, and masturbated. The woman next door was just departing. He hid in the shadows till she was gone.
He fell asleep after midnight only to be awakened by piercing screams. This time Ishvar was roused as well. “Hai Ram! What can that be?”
Outside, they ran into Rajaram, smiling contentedly. Om scowled at him with equal parts of envy and disgust. People were emerging from shacks all down the row. Then word spread that it was a woman in labour, and everyone went back to sleep. The screams ceased after a while.
In the morning, they heard that a girl had been born during the early hours. “Let’s go and give them good wishes,” said Ishvar.
“You go if you like,” said Om gloomily.
“Ah, don’t be so unhappy,” he ruffled his hair. “We will find a wife for you, I promise.”
“Find her for yourself, I don’t need one.” He moved out of reach and snatched the comb on the packing case to restore his hair.
“Back in two minutes,” said Ishvar. “Then off to work.”
Om sat in the doorway, fingering a piece of chiffon he had slipped in his pocket yesterday from the scraps littering Dina Dalai’s floor. How comforting it felt, liquid between his fingers – why couldn’t life be like that, soft and smooth. He caressed his cheek with it, observing the drunkard’s children running about, sprawling in the dust, passing the time till their mother took them out to beg. One of them found a curiously shaped stone, which he showed off to his siblings. Then they chased a crow probing a lump of something rotten. The mettlesome bird refused to fly away, hopping, circling, returning to the putrefying tidbit to provide more fun for the children. How could they be so happy? wondered Om – dirty and naked, ill-fed, sores on their faces, rashes on their skin. What was there for anyone to laugh about in this wretched place?
He slipped the chiffon back into his pocket and wandered to Monkey-man’s shack. Laila was grooming Majnoo, and he settled down to watch. A minute later, they had jumped onto his shoulders, combing their delicate infant-sized fingers through his hair.
Seeing that Om did not mind, Monkey-man smiled and let them be. “They do it to me also,” he said. “Means they like you. Best way of keeping a clean head.”
Laila found something in Om’s hair and held it up to examine. Majnoo grabbed it from her paw and put it in his mouth.
Om chose a black Hercules at the rental shop on the road to Dina Dalai’s flat. It had an impressive spring-loaded carrier over the rear wheel and a large shiny bell on the handlebars.
“But why do you need a cycle?” persisted Ishvar. His nephew smiled cunningly while the man used a spanner to adjust the seat height.
“One month has passed since we started working for her,” said Om. “That’s long enough, I’ve made my plan.” The freshly pumped-up tyres withstood the inspecting squeeze of his fingers. He wheeled it out into the main street. “Today is her day to go to the export company, right? And I’m going to follow her taxi on my cycle.” Swinging one leg lightly over the saddle, he rolled off.
“Careful,” said Ishvar. “Traffic is heavy, it’s not our village road.” On the kerb he quickened his pace to keep up. “The plan is good, Om, but you forgot one thing – her padlocked door. How will you get out?”
“Wait and see.”
Freewheeling alongside his uncle, Om was in high spirits. The mudguards rattled and the brakes were spongy, though the bell worked perfectly. Tring-tring tring-tring, his thumb urged it on, tring-tring. Brimming with confidence, he plunged into the traffic on his carilloning cycle, on the wheels that would help put the future right.
He returned to the safety of the kerb, and Ishvar breathed easier. The scheme was absurd, but he was happy that his nephew was enjoying himself. He watched him swing the handlebars from side to side and backpedal, to keep from racing ahead. Om on the saddle performed an intricate dance, the dance of balancing-at-slow-speed. Soon, hoped Ishvar, he would forsake his crazy ideas and perform with equal facility the arduous dance of sewing-for-the-employer.
At Om’s prompting, Ishvar got on the carrier behind the saddle. He sat sideways, legs straight out. With his feet inches off the ground, sandals grazing the road now and then, they sailed away. Om’s optimism pealed in the tring-tring showers spouting from the bell. For a while the world was perfect.
Soon, the tailors neared the corner where the beggar was wheeling his platform around. They stopped to toss him a coin. It landed with a clink in the empty can.
They hid the bicycle
at a safe distance from Dina Dalai’s door, in a cobwebby stairwell that smelled of urine and country liquor. Chaining it to a disused gas pipe, they emerged brushing off the invisible threads clinging to their hands and faces. Ghosts of the webs continued to bother them for some time. Their fingers kept returning to their foreheads and necks to remove strands that were not there.
Dina’s fingers flitted like skittish butterflies, folding the dresses for delivery to Au Revoir Exports. She checked the paper patterns to make sure everything was accounted for. The manager had been repeatedly dire about them. “Guard the patterns with your life,” Mrs. Gupta always said. “If they fall in the wrong hands my entire company will be ruined.”
Dina thought this was somewhat exaggerated. Nonetheless, she could not help feeling, while sorting through the brown-paper sections of bodice and sleeve and collar, that her own torso and arms and neck were at stake. Of late, she sensed a haughtiness in Mrs. Gupta, as though the manager had discovered they were not social equals. She no longer left her desk to greet her and see her off, nor did she offer tea or a Fanta.
Her fingers returned nervously to the folded garments, picking one up at random, examining its seams and hems. Would this lot pass Mrs. Gupta’s inspection? How many rejections? The angelic tailors had fallen from grace; carelessness was rife now in their handiwork.
From his corner, Om watched as Dina completed her weekly performance of fretfulness. His thoughts were bent on bracing himself; the moment was approaching.
It was now.
She snapped shut her handbag.
He stabbed his left index finger with the scissors.
The pain, sharper than expected, jolted him. He had assumed that because it was anticipated, it would be less intense, the way it was with anticipated pleasure. The blood spurted in bright-red arcs upon the yellow voile.
“Oh my goodness!” said Dina. “What have you done!” She grabbed a snippet of cloth from the floor and pressed it over the cut. “Raise the hand, raise it up or more blood will flow.”
“Hai Ram!” said Ishvar, removing the soiled garment from under the presser foot of the Singer. Just when he thought his nephew was improving, he did this. His obsession to find the export company was not good.
“Quick, soak that dress in the bucket,” said Dina. She got the tincture of benzoin from her first-aid box and applied it liberally. The cut was not as serious as the blood had led her to believe. She indulged in the relief of a scolding.
“Careless boy! What were you trying to do? Where is your mind? A skinny person cannot afford to lose so much blood. But always there is so much anger, so much haste in whatever you do.”
Still stunned by what his scissors had accomplished, a lukewarm scowl was the best Om could reply with. He liked the pungent fragrance of the golden-brown liquid coating his finger. She taped a cotton wad tightly over the cut as the bleeding slowed to a trickle.
“Your finger has made me late. Now the manager will be upset.” She did not mention the cost of the blood-stained garment. Better to see if the voile was salvageable before discussing restitution. She took the bundle of dresses to the door and picked up the padlock.
“It’s paining too much,” said Om. “I want to go to doctor.”
And now Ishvar understood: the encounter of scissors and finger was part of his nephew’s foolish plan.
“Doctor for this? Don’t be a baby,” she said. “Rest with your hand up for a while, you will be all right.”
Om screwed his face into caricatures of agony. “What if my finger rots and falls off because of your advice? It will be on your head, for sure.”
She suspected the act was put on to shirk the afternoon’s work, but it planted the seed of unease in her mind. “What do I care – go if you want,” she said brusquely.
The stress of dealing with these two fellows, their sloppy work, their tardiness, was wearing her out, she felt. Mrs. Gupta was bound to cancel the arrangement sooner or later. The only question was, which would disappear first, the tailors or her health. She envisioned two leaky faucets: one said Money, the other, Sanity. And both were dripping away simultaneously.
Thank goodness that Maneck Kohlah was arriving tomorrow. At least his room and board was one hundred per cent guaranteed income.
Om watched from a distance, holding aloft his punctured finger until Dina was inside the taxi. Then, spurred by the smell of success, he rushed to his hiding place.
By the time he unlocked the bicycle and wheeled it out from under the stairs, the taxi had disappeared. He raced to the side street and – there it was, waiting at the red traffic light.
He caught up, staying two cars away. Keeping her in sight was as important as keeping himself out of sight. He sped up, slowed down, ducked behind buses, changed lanes like a demon. Cars honked in protest. People shouted at him and made nasty gestures. He was forced to ignore them, the taxi and bicycle requiring all his concentration.
So confident was he now of tracking the destination, he was trembling. It was a curious palpitation, the excitement of the hunter mingling with the trepidation of the hunted.
The street merged into the main road, and the traffic was thicker now, deranged and bad-tempered, worse than anything he had encountered so far. Within minutes he was panting with frustration. The taxi was lost and found half a dozen times, slipping farther away. Scores of identical yellow and black Fiats swarming the street, their bulky meters sticking out on the left side, did not make his task easier.
Confused, Om began to lose his nerve. The brief early-morning ride from the train station was no preparation for the hysteria of midday traffic. It was like seeing wild animals lethargic in zoo cages, then coming upon them in the jungle. Making a final desperate bid, he squeezed between two cars and was knocked off his bicycle. People screamed from the pavement.
“Hai bhagwan! Poor boy is finished!”
“Crushed to death!”
“Careful, his bones might be broken!”
“Catch the chauffeur! Don’t let him run! Bash the rascal!”
Feeling bad about generating so much needless concern, Om stood up, dragging the bicycle after him. He had scraped his elbow and bruised one knee, but was otherwise unhurt.
Now it was the chauffeur’s turn. He emerged boldly from the car where he had been cowering. “You have eyes or marbles?” he screamed. “Can’t see where you’re going? Causing damage to people’s property!”
A policeman arrived and checked most solicitously on the passengers in the car. “Everybody all right, sahab?” Om looked on, a little dazed, and also frightened. Were people who caused accidents sent to jail? His finger was bleeding again, throbbing madly.
A man in an ochre-coloured safari suit, snuggled in the back of the car, fished out his wallet. He passed the policeman some money, then beckoned his chauffeur to the window. The chauffeur put something in Om’s hands. “Now go! And be more careful or you’ll kill somebody! Use your God-given eyes!”
Om looked down at what lay in his shaking hands: fifty rupees.
“Come on, you paagal-ka-batcha!” shouted the policeman. “Take your cycle and clear the road!” He waved the car through with his smartest VIP salute.
Om wheeled the bicycle to the kerb. The handlebars were askew and the mudguards rattled more resolutely than before. He dusted off his pants, examining the black smears of grease on the cuffs.
“How much did he give you?” asked someone on the pavement.
“Fifty rupees.”
“You got up too fast,” said the man, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Never get up so fast. Always stay down and make some moaning-groaning noise. Cry for doctor, cry for ambulance, scream, shout, anything. In this type of case, you can pull at least two hundred rupees.” He spoke like a professional; his twisted elbow hung at his side like a qualification.
Om put the money in his pocket. He braced the front wheel between his knees and tugged at the handlebars till they were straight. He walked the bicycle down a side street,
leaving the crowd to continue analysing his accident.
Returning to the flat was useless, the padlock would be on the door, hanging dark and heavy, like a bullock’s lost scrotum. He was also reluctant to turn in the bicycle early – a day’s rent had been paid in advance. He wished he had listened to his uncle in the morning. But the plan seemed so perfect when he had imagined the sequence of events, shining with success, like the sunlight gilding the handlebars. Imagination was a dangerous thing.
He mounted the bicycle where the traffic was less threatening, and took the seaward road. No longer quarry or pursuer, he could enjoy the ride now. The tinkling bell of the candy-floss man outside a school caught his ear. He stopped and squinted into the man’s neck-slung glass container, getting a hazy look at the pink, yellow, and blue cottony balls through the side that was cleanest.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five paise for one. Or try a lottery for fifty paise – win from one to ten balls.”
Om paid and dipped a hand into the brown-paper lottery bag. The chit he pulled out had a 2 scrawled on it.
“What colours?”
“One pink, one yellow.”
The man plopped off the round lid and reached inside. “Not that one, the one next to it,” directed Om.
The sweet fluff melted quickly in his mouth. Got the bigger pink ball for sure, he thought, pleased with himself as he separated a ten-rupee note from the crackling group of five. The man wiped his fingers on the neck-sling before taking it. Om pocketed the change and continued towards the sea.
At the beach he paused to read the chiselled name under a tall black stone statue. The plaque said he was a Guardian of Democracy. Om had studied about the man in his history class, in the story of the Freedom Struggle. The photo in the history book was nicer than the statue, he decided. Letting the bicycle lean against the pedestal, he rested in the statue’s shade. The sides of the pedestal were plastered with posters extolling the virtues of the Emergency. The obligatory Prime Ministerial visage was prominent. Small print explained why fundamental rights had been temporarily suspended.