“How?”
“How, I don’t know exactly. But I feel it here.” He put his hand over his shirt pocket again.
He felt it in his pens? Then Maneck realized that the proofreader meant his heart. “And what are you doing nowadays, Mr. Valmik?”
“I am in charge of Bal Baba’s mail-order business. He does prophecies by correspondence too. People send in clippings of hair. I open the envelopes, throw away the hair, cash the cheques, and write answers to their questions.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Very much indeed. The scope is unlimited. I can use all kinds of devices in my replies – essay form, prose poem, poetic prose, aphorism.” He patted the pen pocket and added, “My little darlings are at full flow, creating fiction after fiction, which will become more real in the recipients’ lives than all their sad realities.”
“It’s been good to see you,” said Maneck.
“And when shall we meet again? You really must tell me all about yourself.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I’m planning to bring two friends of Bal Baba.”
“Good, good. See you soon.”
At the exit, the attendant held out a brass bowl containing a little loose change. “Anymuch donation is welcome.”
Maneck threw in some coins, feeling he had certainly got his money’s worth.
The door took a while to open in answer to Maneck’s ring. The stick-wristed figure looked nothing like the Dina Aunty he had left eight years ago. Eight years in passing were entitled to take their toll; but this – this was more than a toll, it was outright banditry.
“Yes?” she asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were pinpoints through lenses twice as thick as he remembered them. The grey in her hair had thoroughly subjugated the black.
“Aunty,” his voice snagged on the obstacle course his throat had become. “It’s Maneck.”
“What?”
“Maneck Kohlah – your paying guest.”
“Maneck?”
“I’ve grown a beard. That’s why you don’t recognize me.”
She came closer. “Yes. You’ve grown a beard.”
He felt the coldness in her voice. Stupid of me to expect anything else, he thought. “I went to your flat… and… you were not there.”
“How could I? It’s not my flat.”
“I wanted to see you again, and the tailors, and –”
“There are no more tailors. Come inside.” She shut the door, leading the way with small, careful steps, using the walls and furniture to guide herself in the dark hallway.
“Sit,” she said, when they reached the drawing room. “You have appeared suddenly. Out of nowhere.”
He heard the accusation, and nodded. He had no defence.
“That beard. You should shave it off. Makes you look like a toilet brush.”
He laughed, and so did she, a little. He was relieved to hear the silver flash in hers, but it was not entirely enough to cancel the chill. The room they sat in was opulent. Rich old furniture, antique porcelain in showcases, an exquisite silk Persian carpet on one wall.
“Next time you see me, the beard will be gone for sure, Aunty, I promise.”
“Maybe then I will recognize you sooner.” She struggled with a hairpin and patted it down. “My eyes are terrible now. Those carrots you forced me to eat were wasted. Nothing can save these eyes.”
He laughed tentatively, but this time she did not join in.
“You came after very long. A few more years, and I won’t see you at all. Even now, you’re a shadow in this room.”
“I was away, working in the Gulf.”
“And what was it like?”
“It was… it was – empty.”
“Empty?”
“Empty… like a desert.”
“But it is a desert country.” She paused. “You didn’t write to me from there.”
“I’m sorry. But I didn’t write to anyone. It seemed so … so pointless.”
“Yes,” she said. “Pointless. And my address changed, in any case.”
“But what happened to the flat, Aunty?”
She told him.
He leaned forward to whisper, “And you are okay here? Nusswan treats you all right?” He lowered his voice still further. “Does he give you enough to eat?”
“You don’t have to whisper, no one is home to hear you.” She removed her spectacles, wiped them with the hem of her skirt, and put them on again. “There is more food than I have an appetite for.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “And what about Ishvar and Om? Where are they working now?”
“They are not working.”
“Then how are they managing? Especially with Om’s wife, and children?”
“There is no wife, no children. They have become beggars.”
“Sorry – what, Aunty?”
“They are both beggars now.”
“That’s impossible! Sounds crazy! I mean – aren’t they ashamed to beg? Couldn’t they do some other work, if there’s no tailoring? I mean –”
“Without knowing everything you want to judge them?” she cut him off.
Her scathing tone made him curb his outburst. “Please tell me what happened.”
While she spoke, cold like a knife sliced through his insides. He sat frozen, like one of the figurines in the glass-fronted cabinets around him.
When she reached the end, he had still not stirred. She leaned forward to shake his knee. “Are you listening?”
He gave a slight nod. Her eyes missed the small movement, and she asked again, irritated, “Are you listening or am I wasting my breath?”
This time he used words for his answer. “Yes, Aunty. I am listening.” His voice was lifeless.
Empty as his face, she thought. “You wouldn’t recognize them if you saw them. Ishvar has shrunk, not just because his legs are gone – all of him. And Om has become very chubby. One of the effects of castration.”
“Yes, Aunty.”
“You remember how we used to cook together?”
He nodded.
“You remember the kittens?”
He nodded again.
She tried once more to breathe life into him. “What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“If you are not in a rush, you could meet Ishvar and Om. They will come here at one o’clock.”
Emotion re-entered his voice, but not the sort she was hoping for. “I’m sorry – I cannot stay.” The refusal was tinged with terror, his words spilling out in a rush. “I have so many things to do … before my plane leaves tomorrow. My mother’s relatives, and some shopping, and then to the airport. Maybe when I come next time.”
“Next time. Yes, okay. We’ll all be waiting for you next time.”
They rose and walked down the hallway. “Wait,” she said when they reached the door. “I have something for you.”
She returned with her small, careful steps. “You left this behind in my flat.”
It was Avinash’s chess set.
“Thank you.” He swayed, but his voice remained calm. He put out a hand to accept the board and the maroon plywood box. Then he said, “I don’t really need it, Aunty. You keep it.”
“And what would I do with it?”
“Give it to someone… to your nephews?”
“Xerxes and Zarir don’t play. They are very busy men.”
Maneck nodded. “Thank you,” he said again.
“You’re welcome.”
He hesitated, turning the box around and around in his hands, gently running his fingers along the edge. “Bye-bye, Aunty.”
She nodded silently. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek lightly, quickly. She raised her hand as though to wave, stepped back, and began to close the door. He turned and hurried down the cobbled walkway.
He stopped when he heard the door shut. He was under a tree at the end of the path. A bird sang in the branches. He listened, staring at the board and box in his hands. Something fell on his head, and he jumped asi
de to avoid a second dropping. His fingers felt the sticky splotch. Using leaves from the tree, he wiped his hair and looked up. There was only a crow, the singing bird had flown. He wondered which one was in his hair. Daddy used to say a common crow’s droppings brought uncommon good luck.
He glanced at his watch: twenty to one. Ishvar and Om would be arriving soon. If he spent a few minutes here, he could see them. And they would see him. But – what would he say?
In the quiet street outside the house, he began strolling along the footpath. Up, towards the end of the street, then down again, to Dina Aunty’s house. After several turns, he saw two beggars rounding the corner from the main road.
One sat slumped on a low platform that moved on castors. He had no legs. The other pulled the platform with a rope slung over his shoulder. His plumpness sat upon him strangely, like oversized, padded clothes. Under his arm he carried a torn umbrella.
What shall I say? he asked himself desperately.
They drew nearer, and the one on the platform jiggled the coins in his tin can. “O babu, ek paisa?” he pleaded, looking up shyly.
Ishvar, it’s me, Maneck! Don’t you recognize me! The words raced uselessly inside his head, unable to find an exit. Say something, he commanded himself, say anything!
The other beggar demanded, “Babu! Aray, paisa day!” His voice was high-pitched, challenging, his look direct and mocking. They stopped expectantly, hand held out, tin rattling.
Om! Sour-lime face, my friend! Have you forgotten me!
But his words of love and sorrow and hope remained muted like stones.
The legless beggar coughed and spat. Maneck glanced at the gob; it was tinged with blood. The platform started to roll past him, and he saw that Ishvar was sitting on a cushion. No, not a cushion. It was dirty and fraying, folded to the size of a cushion. The patchwork quilt.
Wait, he wanted to call out – wait for me. He wanted to hurry after them, go back to Dina Aunty with them, tell her he had changed his mind.
He did nothing. The two turned into the cobbled walkway and disappeared from sight. He could hear the castors clattering briefly over the uneven stones. The sound died; he continued on his way.
Past the cricket maidaan, past Bal Baba’s marquee, past the injured carpenter by the kerb, Maneck hurried till he was in familiar surroundings again. He saw the new neon sign of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The place seemed like a prosperous restaurant now, enlarged by having swallowed the shops on either side, its lights humming and flickering fatuously in the afternoon sun. EAT DRINK, ENJOY IN OUR AIR-CONDITIONED COMFORT, said the smaller board under the neon.
He entered, and was shown to a shiny glass-topped table. A neat, uniformed waiter appeared, bearing a large, glossy menu. Maneck placed the chess set on an empty chair beside him and ordered a coffee.
The eating house was busy; it was lunchtime. The waiter hurried back with a glass of water. “Making fresh coffee, sahab. Two more minutes.”
Maneck nodded. On a high shelf behind the cash desk, a loudspeaker emitted vapid instrumental music, purposeless above the restaurant bustle. He gazed at the tables around him, at office workers in bush shirts, ties, jackets, eating energetically, their animated conversations supplementing the clatter of cutlery – office talk, about management treachery and dearness allowances, budgets and promotions. This was a new class of clientele, far removed from the peons and sweaty labourers who used to eat here in the old days.
The coffee arrived. Maneck added sugar, stirred at length, sipped a little. Immediately the waiter, lingering nearby, stepped forward. “Is it good, sahab?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The man adjusted the salt and pepper containers and wiped the ashtray with vigour. “So, sahab, the Prime Minister’s son has taken over. You think he will be a good ruler?”
“Who knows. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“That’s true. They all say one thing, do something else.” He left to attend another table, where the customers had finished eating. Maneck watched him stack the plates, then add to this stack at the next table, and the next, before staggering off to the kitchen with the lot.
He soon returned and inspected Maneck’s half-empty cup. “Anything to eat, sahab?”
Maneck shook his head.
“We have nice tasty ice cream also.”
“No, thank you.” The over-attentiveness was getting on his nerves – the polite smile like part of the new decor, he felt, in the new Vishram. Where he was alone. In the old Vishram, he had always come with Om and Ishvar. Afternoons, at that single, smelly table. And Shankar rolling outside, waving his incomplete hands, wiggling his truncated legs, smiling, rattling his tin. And then his funeral pyre. The priest’s chanting, the burning sandalwood, the fragrant smoke. Completeness. In the crematorium with Daddy this was missing, an open pyre was definitely better. Better for the living…
A group of customers noisily pushed back their chairs to leave; a new batch took their place. They greeted the staff by name. Regulars, apparently. Maneck picked up the maroon plywood box and pushed open the sliding lid, fishing out a piece at random. A pawn. He rolled it between his thumb and fingers, observed that the green felt on its base was peeling.
The waiter saw it too. “You should use Camel Paste, sahab, it will stick it strong.”
Maneck nodded. He drank what remained of the coffee and dropped the pawn back in the box.
“My son also plays this game,” said the waiter proudly.
Maneck looked up. “Oh? Does he have his own set?”
“No, sahab, it is too expensive. He plays in school only.” Noticing the empty cup, he offered the menu again. “Two o’clock, sahab, kitchen is closing soon. We have very nice karai chicken, also biryani. Or some small thing? Mutton roll, pakora with chutney, puri-bhaji?”
“No, just one more coffee.” Maneck rose and went to the back, looking for the wc.
It was occupied. He waited in the passage, where he could observe the brisk kitchen activity. The cook’s perspiring helper was chopping, frying, stirring; a skinny little boy was scraping off dirty plates and soaking them in the sink.
Despite the chrome and glass and fluorescent lights, something of the old Vishram remained, thought Maneck – kerosene and coal fuelled the stoves. Then the wc door creaked open, and he went in.
When he came out, the table nearest the kitchen had been vacated. He decided to take it. The waiter darted across to remind him his second coffee was waiting at the other table.
“I’ll have it here,” said Maneck.
“But it’s not good, sahab. Kitchen noise, and smell and all, over here.”
“That’s okay.”
The waiter complied, fetching the coffee and the chess set before retreating to discuss with a colleague the whims and idiosyncrasies of customers.
Someone called out an order of shish kebab to the kitchen. The cook’s helper stoked the coals and, when they had caught, arranged a few on a brazier. Skewers loaded with chunks of lamb and liver were placed over it. The coals perked up as they were fanned.
How they glowed, thought Maneck – live creatures breathing and pulsating. Starting small, with modest heat, then growing to powerful red incandescence, spitting and snapping, their tongues of flame crackling, all heat and passion, transforming, threatening, devouring. And then – the subsidence. Into mellow warmth, compliance, and, finally, a perfect stillness…
The Vishram’s lunch hours had ended. Past three o’clock, the waiter began hinting apologetically, with a weak attempt at humour. “Everybody ran back to office long time ago, sahab,” he smiled. “Scared of their bosses. But you must be a very big boss, only you are left behind here.”
Yes, only I, thought Maneck. Only slow coaches get left behind.
“You are on holiday?”
“Yes. Bill, please.” He glanced inside the kitchen again. The stoves were off; the cook’s helpers were cleaning the place to get ready for the dinner patrons. On the brazier, the coals had cr
umbled to ashes.
The total for two coffees was six rupees. Maneck placed ten in the saucer and walked to the door.
“Wait, sahab, wait!” called the waiter, running after him. “Sahab, you forgot your paakit on the chair! And also your game!”
“Thank you.” Maneck slipped the wallet into his hip pocket, and took the chess set.
“All your things you are forgetting today,” the waiter laughed a little. “Be careful, sahab.”
Maneck smiled and nodded, then opened the door, stepping from the air-conditioned chill of the Vishram into the afternoon sun’s harsh embrace.
Gradually, it became difficult for Maneck to make his way along the pavement. He realized he was walking against the flow. Evening had fallen while he had wandered the city streets; people were spilling urgently out of office buildings, heading for home. His watch showed a quarter after six. He turned towards the railway station, to let the human tide carry him forward.
The brunt of the rush hour had passed, but the high-ceilinged concourse continued to reverberate with the thunder of trains. There was a line at the ticket-window. He remembered a story he had heard about ticketless travel, once upon a time.
Abandoning the queue, he jostled through the crowds to get to the platform. The display indicated that the next train was an express, not scheduled to stop here.
He looked around at the waiting passengers – lost inside newspapers, fidgeting with luggage, drinking tea. A mother was twisting her child’s ear to drive home some lesson. A distant rumbling was heard, and Maneck moved to the front of the platform. He stared at the rails. How they glinted, like the promise of life itself, stretching endlessly in both directions, silver ribbons skimming over the gravel bed, knitting together the blackened, worn-out wood of the railway ties.
He noticed an elderly woman in dark glasses standing next to him. He wondered if she was blind. It could be dangerous for her so close to the edge – perhaps he should help her move to safety.
She smiled and said, “Fast train, not stopping here. I checked the board.” She took one step backwards, motioning with her hand to draw him back too.
Not blind then, just stylish. He returned her smile and remained where he was, hugging the chess set to himself. Now the express could be seen in the distance, having cleared the bend in the tracks. The rumble was louder, growing to a roar as it approached. When the first compartment had entered the station, he stepped off the platform and onto the gleaming silver tracks.