Throughout the meal, she grimaced each time she crunched into it. “Thank goodness for the delicious alayti-palayti. Without the gravy this raw roughage would stick in my throat.”
“Now tell me, Aunty,” he said when they finished eating. “Are your eyes any better?”
“Good enough to see you for the devil that you are.”
The sewing picked up speed after lunch, but late in the afternoon Dina’s eyelids grew heavy. “I have to stop now for tea. Okay, boss?”
“Fifteen minutes only, remember. And one cup for me too, please.”
She went to the kitchen, smiling and shaking her head.
Seven o’clock, and her mind turned to dinner duties. “That alayti-palayti sitting in the kitchen is making me hungry earlier than usual. What about you? Now, or wait till eight?”
“Whenever you like,” he mumbled through lips clutching an empty needle. He unrolled a length of thread from the spool.
“Look at that! First time sewing, and already acting like a crazy tailor! Take it out of your mouth! At once! Before you swallow it!”
He removed the needle, a little sheepish. She had hit the mark – he was trying to copy Om’s jaunty way of sticking things between his lips: pins, needles, blades, scissors, the daredevilry of juxtaposing sharp, dangerous objects with soft, defenceless flesh.
“How will I explain to your mother if I return her son with a needle stuck in his craw?”
“You never shouted at Om for doing it.”
“That’s different. He’s trained, he grew up with tailors.”
“No, he didn’t. His family used to be cobblers.”
“Same thing – they know how to use tools, to cut and sew. And besides, I should have stopped him. His mouth can bleed just like yours.” She went to the kitchen, and he kept working till dinner was on the table.
Halfway through the meal, she remembered what he had said about the tailors. “They were cobblers? Why did they change?”
“They requested me not to tell anyone. It’s to do with their caste, they are afraid of being treated badly.”
“You can tell me. I don’t believe in all those stupid customs.”
So he briefly related the story Ishvar and Om had shared with him in bits and pieces, over weeks, over cups of tea in the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel, about their village, about the landlords who had mistreated the Chamaars all their lives, the whippings, the beatings, the rules that the untouchable castes were forced to observe.
She stopped eating, toying with her fork. She rested an elbow on the table and balanced her chin on the fist. As he continued, the fork slipped from her fingers, clattering outside the plate. He concluded quickly when he came to the murders of the parents and children and grandparents.
Dina retrieved her fork. “I never knew … I never thought… all those newspaper stories about upper- and lower-caste madness, suddenly so close to me. In my own flat. It’s the first time I actually know the people. My God – such horrible, horrible suffering.” She shook her head as though in disbelief.
She tried to resume eating, then gave up. “Compared to theirs, my life is nothing but comfort and happiness. And now they are in more trouble. I hope they come back all right. People keep saying God is great, God is just, but I’m not sure.”
“God is dead,” said Maneck. “That’s what a German philosopher wrote.”
She was shocked. “Trust the Germans to say such things,” she frowned. “And do you believe it?”
“I used to. But now I prefer to think that God is a giant quiltmaker. With an infinite variety of designs. And the quilt is grown so big and confusing, the pattern is impossible to see, the squares and diamonds and triangles don’t fit well together anymore, it’s all become meaningless. So He has abandoned it.”
“What nonsense you talk sometimes, Maneck.”
While she cleared the table he opened the kitchen window and miaowed. Out went bits of bread and alayti-palayti. Hoping it was not too pungent for the cats, he returned to the sewing room and picked up another dress, reminding Dina Aunty to hurry.
“This boy is going crazy. Not letting me rest even five minutes after dinner. I’m an old woman, not a young puppy like you.”
“You’re not old at all, Aunty. In fact, you’re quite young. And beautiful,” he added daringly.
“And you, Mr. Mac, are getting too smart,” she said, unable to hide her pleasure.
“There’s only one thing that puzzles me.”
“What?”
“Why someone who looks so young should sound so elderly, grumpy all the time.”
“You rascal. First you flatter me, then you insult me.” She laughed as she folded and pinned the hem, holding up the dress to check if the border was even. Adjusting the edges, she said, “Now I can appreciate the long nails on the tailors’ fingers. You really became friends with them, didn’t you? And them telling you all about their life in the village.”
He looked up briefly, and shrugged.
“Day after day they sat here working, and wouldn’t say anything to me. Why?”
He shrugged again.
“Stop speaking with your shoulders. Your quiltmaking God has sewn a tongue inside your mouth. Why did they talk to you but not to me?”
“Maybe they were afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me? What nonsense. If anything, I was afraid of them. That they would find the export company and cut me out. Or that they would get better jobs. Sometimes I was afraid even to point out their errors – I would correct the mistakes myself at night, after they left. For what reason could they be afraid of me?”
“They thought you’d find better tailors and get rid of them.”
She considered it in silence for a moment. “I wish you had told me before. I could have reassured them.”
He shrugged again. “That wouldn’t change anything, Aunty. You could have saved them only by giving them a place to sleep.”
She flung down the sewing. “You keep on saying that! Keep on, don’t worry about my feelings! Repeat it till I am blinded by guilt!”
Maneck pricked himself as the needle surfaced through the button. “Ouch,” he sucked the thumb.
“Go on, you callous boy! Tell me I am responsible, tell me I left them out on the street because I am heartless!”
He wished he could cancel the hurt of his words. She fumbled with the hem, beginning to cough as though something was stuck. It sounded like an attention-getting cough to him, and he brought her a glass of water.
She said, after drinking, “You were right about carrots. I can see much better.”
“It’s a miracle!” He raised his hands theatrically, bringing a smile to her face. “Now I am incarnated as Maharishi Carrot Baba, and all the opticians will lose their business!”
“Oh stop being silly,” she said, draining the glass. “Let me tell you what I can see better. When I was twelve my father decided to go and work in an area of epidemic. It worried my mother very much. She wanted me to change his mind – you see, I was his favourite. Then my father died while working there. And my mother said if I had followed her advice I might have saved him.”
“That wasn’t fair.”
“It was and it wasn’t. Just like what you said.”
He understood.
Dina rose, lifted the glass hen squatting on the worktable, and put away the thimble, scissors, and needle in its porcelain bowels.
“Where are you going, Aunty?”
“Where do you think – to a Lalya’s wedding? It’s ten o’clock, I’m going to bed.”
“But we only finished sixteen dresses. Today’s quota is twenty-two.”
“Listen to the senior manager.”
“My plan is to do twenty-two today, thirty tomorrow, and eight the day after, so everything can be delivered by noon.”
“Wait a minute, mister. What about college, tomorrow and the day after – what about studies? I don’t think they give a refrigeration diploma for sewing buttons.”
??
?Lectures are cancelled for the next two days.”
“Right. And I’m winning the State Lottery on the third day.”
“Forget it, Aunty. You’re always doubting me.” He continued to sew, exhaling injury and martyrdom in his sighs, dragging the needle as though its thread were an iron chain. “It’s okay, I’ll keep working, you go to bed.”
“And miss your Oscar-winning performance?”
He dropped a button, groaned, and bent to find it, feeling about with his fingers like an old man. “Go, Aunty, go and rest, don’t worry about me,” he waved a trembling hand.
“You said you were good at acting, but I didn’t think you were this good. Okay, let’s finish one more dress.”
The bidding was open; he sat up briskly. “We need six more for today’s quota.”
“Forget your quota. I said one.”
“At least three, then.”
“Two is my final offer. And no more argument. But first I need something from the kitchen.”
She returned shortly, a steaming mug hooked in the fingers of each hand, and set one down beside him. “Horlicks. To refresh us.” As proof, she took a swallow and sat tall in her chair, shoulders back, face beaming.
“You sound like an advertisement,” he said. “And it doesn’t even need a professional model, you look so pretty.”
“Don’t think flattery will get you a cup every day. I cannot afford that.”
Blowing and sipping, they joked their way through two more dresses. Near midnight, Dina’s was the only light left on in the building. The lateness of the hour, the streets fallen silent outside the window, the flat enveloped in darkness, all lent a conspiratorial air to their innocent activity.
“That makes eighteen,” she said, as they finished after midnight. “And not a single stitch left in these fingers. Now can we go to sleep, boss?”
“Soon as they are properly folded.”
“Yes, Mr. Mac Kohlah.”
“Please – I hate that name.”
While passing through to their rooms she hugged him, whispering, “Good night. And thank you for helping.”
“Good night, Aunty,” he said, and floated happily to bed.
An hour before sunrise the whistle blast ended the night, snatching back the labourers from its dark, comforting bosom. They spilled out from the tin huts in a trickle towards the food area. Two pariah dogs sniffed at dusty feet, lost interest and slunk away around the kitchen. Tea was served with last night’s chapatis. Then the whistle blew again to commence work.
The newcomers were assembled separately and assigned their chores by the foreman. There were jobs for everyone with the exception of the beggar on the rolling platform. “You stay here,” said the foreman. “I will decide later for you.”
Om was teamed with a group of six to start a new ditch. Ishvar’s task was to carry gravel where concrete was being mixed. The foreman came to the end of the list, and the scraggy army dispersed to their locations as directed by the overseers. The tailors waited till everyone had gone.
“There is a mistake, sahab,” said Ishvar, approaching the foreman with his palms together.
“Name?”
“Ishvar Darji and Omprakash Darji.”
The foreman read off their assignments again. “No mistake.”
“The mistake is that we should not be here, we –”
“All you lazy rascals think you should not be here. The government will no longer tolerate it. You will work. In return you will get food and a place to sleep.”
“We have work, we are tailors, and the policeman said to speak to you —
“My duty is to give you jobs and shelter. You say no, and the security men will take you away.”
“But why are we being punished? What is our crime?”
“You are using the wrong word. It’s not a question of crime and punishment – it’s problem and solution.” He beckoned to two khaki-uniformed men patrolling with sticks. “We have no trouble here, all the people are happy to work. Now you decide.”
“Okay,” said Ishvar. “But we would like to talk to the top man.”
“The project manager will come later. He is busy with his morning prayers.”
The foreman personally escorted the tailors to the worksite. He handed them over to their respective supervisors with instructions to watch them carefully, to make sure they worked without slacking. The beggar rolled alongside them on his platform. Where the path ended, the rough terrain was impossible for his castors. He turned back, waving to the tailors, promising to wait by their hut in the evening.
The hillside was alive with a flock of tiny crouching figures. At first the children seemed frozen by sunlight; then the sound of their hammers revealed the movement of their hands. Pounding rock, making gravel. Clumps of dead grass pocked the sere slope. The greening hand of rain had yet to touch this earth. Occasionally, a boulder got away and crashed somewhere below. In the distance, the rumbling of earth movers, cranes, and cement mixers rose like a wall upon which the steady ring of stone-chipping hammers carved a pattern. From the sky, the sledge of heat pounded relentlessly.
A woman filled Ishvar’s gravel basket and helped him hoist it to his head. The effort made her hands tremble, quivering the wrinkled skin pouches under her arms. He staggered beneath the weight. When she let go, he felt the load start to unbalance. He clawed the sides desperately, tilting his head the other way, but the falling basket fell, jerking his neck sharply.
“I have never done this kind of work,” he said, embarrassed by the heavy shower of gravel that stung their feet.
Wordlessly she slanted the basket against her shins and bent over to fill it again. Her skimpy grey plait slid forward over the shoulder. Wouldn’t be much use to Rajaram the hair-collector, thought Ishvar absently. With each pull of the hoe her plastic bangles made dull clinks. Soft echoes of the stone-hammering children. He watched her forearms glisten with sweat, the powerful back and forth movement. Then he noticed, behind him, others in the backed-up gravel chain. He knelt to assist her, anxious to make up for his clumsiness. He scooped gravel into the basket with his hands.
“Filling is my task, carrying is yours,” she said.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
“You don’t, but the overseer will.”
Ishvar desisted, and asked if she had done this work a long time.
“Since I was a child.”
“Pay is good?”
“Enough to keep from starving.” She showed him how to hold his head and shoulders to carry the weight, and they raised the load. He staggered again but managed to retain the basket.
“See, it’s easy once you learn to balance,” she encouraged, and pointed him on his way towards the men mixing concrete. Tottering, faltering several times, he reached his destination and dumped the gravel. Then it was back with the empty basket to the woman who filled it. Again, and again, and again.
A few trips, and the sweat was streaming down his face; the ground spun; he asked if he could go for a drink of water. The overseer refused. “The bhistee will come when it’s time for water.”
With the man watching, the woman filled the basket as slowly as she dared. Ishvar was grateful for the restful seconds she stole for him. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths.
“Pile it to the brim!” The overseer screamed. “You are not paid for filling half-baskets!” She pulled in four additional hoefuls. While lifting the load she tipped it slightly to get rid of the extra weight.
Ishvar stumbled back and forth, fighting dizziness as the morning ground him down. His mind was emptied of all thought. The blasting at the other end of the site sent dust clouds rolling through the gravel area, and women pulled their saris over their noses. He felt that were it not for the pounding hammers to guide him, he would lose his way in the fog. The feeling of sightlessness persisted even when the air cleared. Clinging to the rope of sound, he hovered between the gravel and the concrete mixers.
It seemed an age before the water-c
arrier arrived. The stone-breaking hammers fell silent. Ishvar heard the slurp of thirsty tongues before he saw the man. The swollen waterskin hung from the bhistee’s shoulder like a dark-brown animal, its leather strap cutting deep into him. His steps unsteady under the heavy bulge of water, the blind man passed among the labourers. Whoever was thirsty touched his hand to stop him. He sang softly, a song he had made up:
O call to me and I
Will quench your thirst for water.
But who, on earth, can grant
My parched eyes’ desire?
Ishvar fell on his knees before the bhistee, positioned his mouth under the leather spout and drank. Then he moved his mouth, and cold water splashed over his grateful face. The overseer shouted, “Careful, don’t waste! That’s for drinking only!” Ishvar rose hurriedly and returned to his gravel basket.
By the time the bhistee reached the place where Om was working, the waterskin had grown lighter. So had the bhistee’s steps. The six ditch-diggers drank first, and then the women who were assigned to carry away the loosened earth. Their babies played near the ditch. The women scooped water in their palms to let the children slurp it.
Om wet his fingers and slicked back his hair. He pulled out his half-comb and whipped it through. “Aray, hero-ka-batcha!” yelled the overseer. “Get back to work!”
Om put away the comb, returning his ragged attention to the digging. He enjoyed the moment when the women bent over to gather up the rubble, their breasts hanging forward in their cholis. With the load on their heads, they repositioned their saris and walked away, tall and stately, their limbs flowing with liquid smoothness. Like Shanti at the tap, he thought, with the brass pot that made her hips sway.
As the hours strained to pass, the women were not enough to distract him from the torment of the work. Bent double at the ditch, the pickaxe unwieldy in hands accustomed to scissors and needle and thread, he struggled with the hard ground. The shame of seeming weak in the women’s eyes kept him going. Blisters which had flared within minutes of commencing the job were now in full eruption. He could barely straighten his back, and his shoulders were on fire.