“Call it what you will, if all our customers were like you, we would be able to produce a modern Mahabharat – the Vishram edition.”
“Please, bhai, no more adventures for us,” said Ishvar. “Stories of suffering are no fun when we are the main characters.”
The cashier-waiter brought them their tea and bun-muska, then went to serve more customers at the counter. The milk in the tea had formed a creamy skin. Om spooned it into his mouth, licking his lips. Ishvar offered him his own cup, and he skimmed that off too. They separated the halves of the bun-muska to check if both sides were buttered. They were, lavishly.
During a pedestrian lull on the pavement, Shankar, who was already begging outside when they had arrived, rolled up by the door to greet them. Ishvar waved. “So, Shankar. Happy to be back and working hard, hahn?”
“Aray babu, what to do, Beggarmaster said it’s the first day, relax, sleep. So I fell asleep here. Then coins began falling into my can. A terrible clanging sound – right beside my head. Every time I close my eyes, they fly open in fright. The public just won’t let me rest.”
His routine this morning was simple. He rattled the coins and made a whining noise, or coughed hoarsely at intervals till tears ran down his cheeks. For visual interest, sometimes he paddled the platform a few feet to the left, then back to the right. “You know, I specially asked Beggarmaster to move me here from the railway station,” he confided. “Now we can meet more often.”
“That’s good,” said Om, waving goodbye. “We’ll see you again soon.”
The flat was padlocked, and they waited by the door. “Hope that crazy rent-collector is not prowling around the building,” said Om. It was an anxious ten minutes before the taxi drove up. They helped Dina unload the bolts of cloth and carry them to the back room.
“Not too much weight, careful with your ankle,” she cautioned Ishvar. “By the way, there’s going to be a strike in the mill. No more cloth till it’s over.”
“Hai Ram, trouble never ends.” Suddenly, Ishvar’s mind returned to what he had done the night before, and he apologized again for having fallen at her feet. “I should have known better.”
“That’s what you said last night. But why?” asked Dina.
“Because someone did it to me once. And it made me feel very bad.”
“Who was it?”
“It’s a very long story,” said Ishvar, unwilling to tell her everything about their lives, but eager to share a little. “When my brother – Om’s father – and I were apprenticed to a tailor, we gave him some help.”
“What did you do?”
“Well,” he hesitated. “Ashraf Chacha is Muslim, and it was the time of Hindu-Muslim riots. At independence, you know. There was trouble in the town, and – we were able to help him.”
“So he touched your feet, this Ashraf?”
“No.” The memory embarrassed Ishvar, even after twenty-eight years. “No, his wife did, Mumtaz Chachi did. And it made me feel very bad. As though I was taking advantage in some way of her misfortune.”
“That’s exactly how I felt last night. Let’s forget about it now.” She had a dozen more questions to ask, but respected his reluctance. If they wanted to, they would tell her more some day when they were ready.
For now, she added the pieces to what Maneck had already revealed about their life in the village. Like her quilt, the tailors’ chronicle was gradually gathering shape.
Throughout that first day, Dina continued to struggle with words to construct the crucial question. How would she phrase it when the time came? What about: Sleep on the verandah till you find a place. No, it seemed like she was anxious to have them there. Start with a question: Do you have a place for tonight? But that sounded hypocritical, it was plain they didn’t. A different question: Where will you sleep tonight? Yes, not bad. She tried it again. No, it expressed too much concern – much too open. Last night had been so easy, the words had sprung of their own accord, simple and true.
She watched the tailors work all afternoon, their feet welded to the treadles, till Maneck came home and reminded them of the tea break. No, they said, not today, and she approved. “Don’t make them waste money. They have lost enough in these last few weeks.”
“But I was going to pay.”
“Yours is not to waste either. What’s wrong with my tea?” She put the water on for everyone and set out the cups, keeping the pink rose borders separate. Waiting for the kettle to start chattering, she mulled her word-puzzle. What if she started with: Was the verandah comfortable? No, it sounded hopelessly false.
At quitting time the tailors placed the covers mournfully over the sewing-machines. They rose heavily, sighed, and walked towards the door.
For a moment Dina felt like a magician. She could make everything become shining and golden, depending on her words – the utterance was all.
“What time will you return?”
“Whenever you wish,” said Om. “As early as you like.” Ishvar nodded in silence.
She took the opening; the pieces fell into place. “Well, no need to rush. Have your dinner, then come back. Maneck and I will also finish eating by then.”
“You mean we can…?”
“On the verandah?”
“Only till you find yourselves a place,” she said, pleased at how neutral her statements were – the line drawn precisely.
Their gratitude warmed her, but she cut short the offer of payment. “No. Absolutely no rent. I am not renting anything, just keeping you out of those crooked police hands.”
And she made it clear that their comings and goings had to be reduced, the risk with the landlord was too great. The washing trip to the railway station every morning, for one, could be eliminated. “You can bathe and have tea here. As long as you wake up early, before the water goes. Keep in mind, I have only one bathroom.” Which made Om wonder why anybody would be silly enough to have more than one, but he didn’t ask.
“And remember, I don’t want a mess in there.”
They agreed to all her conditions and swore they would be no bother. “But we really feel bad staying for free,” said Ishvar.
“If you mention money once more, you’ll have to find somewhere else.”
They thanked her again and left for dinner, promising to be back by eight and sew for an hour before bedtime.
“But Aunty, why refuse their offer of rent? They’ll feel good if you take a little money. And it will also help you with the expenses.”
“Don’t you understand anything? If I accept money, it means a tenancy on my verandah.”
Stooped over the basin, Dina brushed her teeth with Kolynos. Ishvar watched the foam drip from her mouth. “I’ve always wondered if that’s good for the teeth,” he said.
She spat and gargled before answering, “As good as any other toothpaste, I think. Which one do you use?”
“We use charcoal powder. And sometimes neem sticks.”
Maneck said that Ishvar and Om’s teeth were better than his. “Show me,” she said, and he bared them. “And yours?” she asked the tailors.
The three lined up before the mirror and curled their lips, exposing their incisors. She compared her own. “Maneck is right, yours are whiter.”
Ishvar offered her a bit of charcoal powder to try, and she squeezed half an inch of Kolynos on his finger. He shared it with Om. “Taste is delicious,” they concurred.
“That’s all very well,” she said. “But paying for taste is a waste, unless you are talking about food. I think I will switch to charcoal and save money.” Maneck decided to follow suit.
The enlarged household turned the wheel of morning with minimal friction. Dina was the first to rise, Maneck the last. When she had finished in the bathroom the tailors took their turns. They were in and out so fast, she suspected a deficiency in matters of personal hygiene, till she saw their well-scrubbed faces and wet hair. A deep breath in their proximity confirmed the clean odour of freshly bathed skin.
Though the bathroom was unimaginabl
e luxury, the tailors did not linger. High-speed washing came naturally to them. Over the last several months they had honed their skills in public places, where time was critical. The faucet in the alley near Nawaz’s awning; the single tap at the centre of the hutment colony; the crumbling toilets in the overcrowded railway bathroom; the trickling spout at the irrigation project: all these had helped to perfect their technique to the point where each could finish within three minutes. They never operated Dina’s immersion heater, preferring cold water, and their tidy habits left everything neat.
But the thought of their bodies in her bathroom still made Dina uncomfortable. She was watchful, waiting to pounce if she found evidence that her soap or towel had been used. If they were to live here for a few days, it would be on her terms, there would be no slackening of the reins.
What she disliked most was Ishvar’s morning ritual of plunging his fingers down his throat to retch. The procedure was accompanied by a primal yowling, something she had often heard emanating from other flats, but never at such close quarters. It made her skin crawl.
“Goodness, you frightened me,” she said when the series of yips and yelps rang out.
He smiled. “Very good for the stomach. Gets rid of stale, excess bile.”
“Careful, yaar,” said Om, siding with Dina. “Sounds like your liver is coming out with the bile.” He had never approved of his uncle’s practice; Ishvar had tried to teach him its therapeutic effects and had given up, faced with a lack of cooperation.
“What you need is a plumber,” said Maneck. “To install a little tap in your side. Then all you do is turn it on and release the excess bile.” He and Om began baying an accompanying chorus when Ishvar started howling again.
After a few days of their combined teasing, Ishvar moderated his habit. The yowls were more restrained, and his fingers no longer explored his gullet to quite the same daredevil depths.
Om sniffed Maneck’s skin. “Your smell is better than mine. Must be your soap.”
“I use powder as well.”
“Show me.”
Maneck got the can from his room.
“And where do you put it? All over?”
“I just take a little in my palm and spread it in the armpits and chest.”
On the next payment day, Om purchased a cake of Cinthol Soap and a can of Lakmé Talcum Powder.
The pattern of each day, thought Dina at the end of the first week, was like the pattern of a well-cut dress, the four of them fitting together without having to tug or pull to make the edges meet. The seams were straight and neat.
Ishvar, however, was still troubled that he and his nephew were taking advantage of Dina’s goodness. “You won’t accept any rent from us,” he said. “You let us use your verandah and bathroom. You give us tea. This is too much, it makes us feel bad.”
His declaration reminded her of her own guilt. She knew that everything she did was done from self-preservation – to keep the tailors from being picked up again by the police, and to have them out of sight of nosey neighbours and the rent-collector. Now Ishvar and Om were wrapping her in the mantle of kindness and generosity. Deceit, hypocrisy, manipulation were more the fabrics of her garment, she thought.
“So what is your plan?” she said brusquely. “To insult me with fifty paise for tea? You want to treat me like a roadside chaiwalla?”
“No no, never. But is there not something we can do for you in return?”
She said she would let them know.
At the end of the second week, Ishvar was still waiting to hear. Then he took matters into his own hand. While she was bathing, he fetched the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and swept the verandah, the front room, Maneck’s room, and the sewing room. As he finished in each, Om got busy with the bucket and cloth, mopping the floors.
They were still at it when Dina emerged from the bathroom. “What’s going on here?”
“Forgive me, but I have decided,” said Ishvar firmly. “We are going to share the daily cleaning from now on.”
“That does not seem right,” she said.
“Seems just fine,” said Om, briskly squeezing out the mop.
Deeply moved, she poured the tea while they were finishing up. They came into the kitchen to replace the cleaning things, and she handed two cups to Om.
Noticing the red rose borders, he started to point out her error, “The pink ones for us,” then stopped. Her face told him she was aware of it.
“What?” she asked, taking the pink cup for herself. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” his voice caught. He turned away, hoping she did not see the film of water glaze his eyes.
“Someone at the door for you,” said Dina. “The same long-haired fellow who came once before.”
Ishvar and Om exchanged glances – what did he want now? Apologizing for the interruption, they went to the verandah.
“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram, putting his hands together. “Sorry to bother you at work, but the nightwatchman said you didn’t sleep there anymore.”
“Yes, we have another place.”
“Where?”
“Nearby.”
“Hope it’s nice. Listen, can I meet you later to talk? Any time today, anywhere, your convenience.” He sounded desperate.
“Okay,” said Ishvar. “Come to Vishram at one o’clock. You know where it is?”
“Yes, I’ll be there. And listen, can you please bring my hair from your trunk?”
After Rajaram had left, Dina asked the tailors if something was wrong. “He’s not connected with that other man, I hope – the one who’s squeezing you for money every week.”
“No no, he does not work for Beggarmaster,” said Ishvar. “He’s a friend, probably just wants a loan.”
“Well, you be careful,” said Dina. “These days, friends and foes look alike.”
The Vishram was crowded, and Rajaram was waiting nervously on the pavement when they arrived. “Here’s your hair,” Ishvar handed him the package. “So. What will you eat?”
“Nothing, my stomach is full,” said Rajaram, but his mouth betrayed his hunger, masticating phantom food in response to aromas from the Vishram.
“Have something,” said Ishvar, feeling sorry for him. “Try something, it’s our treat.”
“Okay, whatever you two are eating.” He forced a laugh. “A full stomach is only a small obstacle.”
“Three pao-bhajis and three bananas,” Ishvar told the cashier-waiter.
They carried their food to the site of a collapsed building, just down the road, and chose a window ledge in the shade of a half-crumpled wall. A horizontal door served as their table. Its hinges and knobs had been scavenged; the collapse was several weeks old. Four children with gunny sacks were clambering in the rubble, sifting and searching.
“So how’s your work as a Family Planning Motivator?”
Rajaram shook his head, wolfing a large mouthful. “Not good.” He ate as though he hadn’t seen food for days. “They asked me to leave two weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“They said I wasn’t producing results.”
“Suddenly? After two months?”
“Yes,” he hesitated. “I mean, no, there were problems from the very beginning. After the training course, I was following the procedure they showed me. I visited different neighbourhoods every day. I carefully repeated the things they taught me, using the correct tone, sounding kind and knowledgeable, so no one would get scared. And usually people listened patiently, took the leaflets; sometimes they laughed, and young fellows made dirty jokes. But no one would sign up for the operation.
“A few weeks later, my supervisor called me into his office. He said I wasn’t pursuing the right customers. He said it was a waste of time trying to sell a wedding suit to a naked fakir. I asked him exactly what he meant.”
Rajaram repeated for the tailors the supervisor’s reply – that people in the city were too cynical, they doubted everything, it was difficult to motivate
them. Suburban slums were the places to tackle. After all, there lived the ignorant people most in need of the government’s help. The programme, with its free gifts and incentives, was specifically designed for them.
“So I took his advice and went outside the city. And would you believe it? On the very first day my cycle got a puncture.”
“A bad beginning,” said Ishvar, shaking his head.
“Puncture was only a small problem. The real trouble came later.” While the tyre was being fixed at a cycle shop, said Rajaram, he got to talking with an elderly man waiting in a bus shelter, not far from a fire hydrant. The elderly man needed a wash, and was hoping that street urchins would come along and turn on the hydrant.
For the sake of practice, and to see how long he could hold the fellow’s attention, Rajaram began telling him he was a Motivator involved in the good works of the Family Planning Centre. He described the birth-control devices, named the sterilization operations, and the cash inducement for each: a tubectomy was awarded more free gifts than a vasectomy, he explained, because the government preferred intervention that was final and irreversible.
That’s the one I want, interrupted the old man, the expensive one, the tube-whatever one. Rajaram almost fell off his perch on the bus-shelter railing. No no, grandfather, it’s not for you, I was just talking about it for the sake of talking, he said. I insist, said the old man, it’s my right. But tubectomy can only be performed on a woman’s parts, explained Rajaram, for a man’s parts there is vasectomy, and at your age even that is unnecessary. I don’t care about age, I’ll take it, whichever is meant for my parts, persisted the old man.
“Maybe he badly wanted a transistor radio,” said Om.
“That’s exactly what I assumed,” said Rajaram. “I thought to myself, if this grandfather desires it so much, who am I to argue? If music makes him happy, why deny him?”
So he got out the proper form, took a thumbprint, paid the tyre-repairer, and escorted his patient to the clinic. That evening, he received the money for his commission, his very first.
Now he regarded the puncture as the harbinger of good fortune: the pointed finger of fate, flattening his tyre and his bad fortune. The badge of Motivator clung with more honesty to his shirt. Brimming with confidence, he returned to the suburban area, certain that he could round up vasectomies and tubectomies by the score.