“Stop, please stop!” beseeched the Facilitator. “How will he work if you break his bones?”
“Don’t worry, these fellows are tough. Our sticks will break, they won’t.” The unconscious drunk was thrown into the truck. On the pavement, discussion was adjourned with truncheons in the kidneys and, in extremely voluble cases, a crack on the skull.
“These are not hidden injuries!” the Facilitator protested to Sergeant Kesar. “Look at all that blood!”
“Sometimes it’s necessary,” said Sergeant Kesar, but he did remind his men to curb their zeal or it would stretch out the night’s work by involving doctors and bandages and medical reports.
Still concealed within the chemist’s entrance, the tailors wondered what was happening now. “Are they leaving? They finished?”
“Looks like it,” said the nightwatchman, and the sound of engines starting confirmed it. “Good, you can go to sleep again.”
Sergeant Kesar and the Facilitator checked the roster. “Ninety-four,” said the latter. “Need two more to complete the quota.”
“Actually speaking, when I said eight dozen I was giving an approximate number. One truckload. Don’t you understand? How can I predict in advance exactly how many we are going to catch?”
“But I told my contractor eight dozen. He will think I am cheating him, no. Can’t you look for two more?”
“Okay,” said Sergeant Kesar wearily, “let’s find two more.” Never again would he deal with this fellow. Whining and whimpering nonstop, like a whipped dog. If it weren’t a question of paying for his daughter’s sitar lessons, he would chuck these overtime assignments without a second thought. Not only did he have to deal with scum like the Facilitator; the late nights also kept him from rising before dawn and putting in an hour of yoga as he used to. No wonder he was so short-tempered these days, he reflected. And suffering all this stomach acidity. But what choice? It was his duty to improve his child’s marriage prospects.
The tailors and the nightwatchman heard the approach of thumping feet and sticks. Two silhouettes, faceless as their shadows, looked inside the entrance. “Who’s there?”
“It’s all right, don’t worry, I am the nightwatchman and –”
“Shut up and come out! All of you!” Sergeant Kesar’s patience had been devoured by the Facilitator.
The nightwatchman rose from his stool, decided it would be prudent to leave his night-stick behind, and stepped onto the pavement. “Don’t worry,” he beckoned the tailors forward. “I will explain to them.”
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, buttoning his shirt.
“Actually speaking, sleeping on the street is breaking the law. Get your things and into the truck.”
“But police-sahab, we are sleeping here only because your men came with machines and destroyed our jhopadpatti.”
“What? You lived in a jhopadpatti? Two wrongs don’t make a right. You could get double punishment.”
“But police-sahab,” interrupted the nightwatchman, “you cannot arrest them, they were not sleeping on the street, they were inside this-”
“You understand what shut up means?” warned Sergeant Kesar. “Or you want to find out what lockup means? Sleeping in any non-sleeping place is illegal. This is an entranceway, not a sleeping place. And who said they are being arrested? The government is not crazy that it would go around jailing beggars.” He stopped abruptly, wondering why he was making a speech when his men’s lathis would get quicker results.
“But we are not beggars!” said Om. “We are tailors, look, these long fingernails to fold straight seams, and we work at –”
“If you are tailors then sew up your mouths! Enough, into the truck!”
“He knows us,” Ishvar pointed at the Facilitator. “He said he could sell us a ration card for two hundred rupees, payable in instalments and-”
“What’s this about ration cards?” demanded Sergeant Kesar, turning.
The Facilitator shook his head. “They’re confusing me with some crooked tout, it looks like.”
“It was you!” said Om. “You were sneezing and coughing, snot coming from your nose just like it is now!”
Sergeant Kesar motioned to a constable. The stick came down across Om’s calves. He yelped.
“No, please, no beating,” pleaded the nightwatchman. “It’s all right, they will listen to you.” He patted the tailors’ shoulders. “Don’t worry, this is definitely a mistake, just explain to the people in charge and they will let you go.”
The constable lifted his stick again, but Ishvar and Om began rolling up the bedding. The nightwatchman embraced them before they were led off. “Come back soon, I’ll keep this place for you.”
Ishvar tried one last time. “We really have jobs, we don’t beg –”
“Shut up.” Sergeant Kesar was in the midst of calculating his proceeds for the night’s haul, and arithmetic was not his strong point. The interruption forced him to start the sum over again.
The tailors climbed onto the truckbed, then the tailboard was slammed shut and the bolt shot into place. The men assigned to escort the transport took their seats in the police jeep. The Facilitator settled the final amount with Sergeant Kesar and got in beside the truck driver.
The truck, recently used for construction work, had clods of clay stuck to its insides. Underfoot, stray gravel stabbed the human cargo. Some who were standing tumbled in a heap as the driver threw the gears into reverse to turn around and return the way he had come. The police jeep followed closely behind.
They travelled through what remained of the night, the bumps and potholes making their bodies collide ceaselessly. The beggar on castors had the worst of it, shoved back each time he skidded into someone. He smiled nervously at the tailors. “I see you often on my pavement. You’ve given me many coins.”
Ishvar moved his hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture. “Why don’t you get off your gaadi?” he suggested, and with Om’s help the beggar removed the platform from under him. His neighbours were relieved. Inert as a sack of cement, he clutched the board to his chest with his fingerless hands, then cradled it in his abbreviated lap, shivering in the warm night.
“Where are they taking us?” he yelled above the engine’s roar. “I’m so scared! What’s going to happen?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out,” said Ishvar. “Where did you get this nice gaadi of yours?”
“My Beggarmaster gave it to me. Gift. He is such a kind man.” Fear made his shrill voice sharper. “How will I find Beggarmaster again? He will think I have run away when he comes tomorrow for the money!”
“If he asks around, someone will tell him about the police,”
“That’s what I cannot understand. Why did police take me? Beggarmaster pays them every week – all his beggars are allowed to work without harassment.”
“These are different police,” said Ishvar. “The beautification police – there’s a new law to make the city beautiful. Maybe they don’t know your Beggarmaster.”
He shook his head at the absurdity of the suggestion. “Aray babu, everybody knows Beggarmaster.” He began fidgeting with the castors, finding comfort in spinning the wheels. “This gaadi here, it’s a new one he gave me recently. The old one broke.”
“How?” asked Om.
“Accident. There was a slope, I crashed off the pavement. Almost damaged somebody’s motorcar.” He giggled, remembering the event. “This new one is much better.” He invited Om to inspect the castors.
“Very smooth,” said Om, trying one with his thumb. “What happened to your legs and hands?”
“Don’t know exactly. Always been like this. But I’m not complaining, I get enough to eat, plus a reserved place on the pavement. Beggarmaster looks after everything.” He examined the bandages on his hands and unravelled them using his mouth, which silenced him for a few minutes. It was a slow, laborious procedure, involving a lot of neck and jaw movement.
The palms revealed, he scratched them
by rubbing against the tailors’ bedding. The sackcloth’s delicious roughness relieved the itch. Then he began retying the bandages, the arduous process of neck and jaw in reverse. Om moved his own head in sympathy – up, and down, around, carefully, yes, around again – stopping when, feeling a little foolish, he realized what he was doing.
“The bandage protects my skin. I push with my hands to roll the gaadi. Without bandages they would start bleeding against the ground.”
The casually offered fact made Om uncomfortable. But the beggar kept talking, easing his own fear and anxiety. “I did not always have a gaadi. When I was little, too little to beg on my own, they carried me around. Beggarmaster used to rent me out each day. He was the father of the one who looks after me now. I was in great demand. Beggar-master would say I earned him the highest profits.”
The panic in his voice had been routed by the memory of happier days. He recalled how well the renters would care for him and feed him, because if they were neglectful, Beggarmaster would thrash them and never do business with them again. Luckily, due to his reduced size, he resembled a baby till he was twelve. “A child, a suckling cripple, earns a lot of money from the public. There were so many different breasts I drank milk from during those years.”
He smiled mischievously. “Wish I could still be carried around in women’s arms, their sweet nipples in my mouth. More fun than bumping along all day on this platform, banging my balls and wearing out my buttocks.”
Ishvar and Om were surprised, then laughed with relief. Passing him by on the pavement with a wave or a coin was one thing; sitting beside him, dwelling on his mutilations was another – and quite distressing. They were happy that he was capable of laughter too.
“At last my baby face and baby size left me. I became too heavy to carry. That’s when Beggarmaster sent me out on my own. I had to drag my self around. On my back.”
He wanted to demonstrate, but there was no room in the crammed truck. He described how Beggarmaster had trained him in the technique, as he trained all his beggars, with a personal touch, teaching them different styles – whatever would work best in each case. “Beggarmaster likes to joke that he would issue diplomas if we had walls to hang them on.”
The tailors laughed again, and the beggar glowed with pleasure. He was discovering a new talent in himself. “So I learned to crawl on my back, using my head and elbows. It was slow going. First I would push my begging tin forward, then wriggle after it. It was very effective. People watched with pity and curiosity. Sometimes little children thought it was a game and tried to imitate me. Two gamblers placed bets every day on how long I would take to reach the end of the pavement. I pretended not to know what they were doing. The winner always dropped money in my can.
“But it took me very long to get to the different spots which Beggarmaster reserved for me. Morning, noon, and night – office crowd, lunch crowd, shopping crowd. So then he decided to get me the platform. Such a nice man, I cannot praise him enough. On my birthday he brings sweetmeats for me. Sometimes he takes me to a prostitute. He has many, many beggars in his team, but I’m his favourite. His work is not easy, there is so much to do. He pays the police, finds the best place to beg, makes sure no one takes away that place. And when there is a good Beggarmaster looking after you, no one dare steal your money. That’s the biggest problem, stealing.”
A man in the truck grumbled and gave the beggar a shove. “Simply screeching like a cat on fire. No one’s interested in listening to your lies.”
The beggar was silent for a few minutes, adjusting his bandages and toying with the castors. The tailors’ drowsy heads started to loll, alarming him. If his friends fell asleep he would be left alone in the dark rush of this terrifying night. He resumed his story to drive away their sleep.
“Also, Beggarmaster has to be very imaginative. If all beggars have the same injury, public gets used to it and feels no pity. Public likes to see variety. Some wounds are so common, they don’t work anymore. For example, putting out a baby’s eyes will not automatically earn money. Blind beggars are everywhere. But blind, with eyeballs missing, face showing empty sockets, plus nose chopped off – now anyone will give money for that. Diseases are also useful. A big growth on the neck or face, oozing yellow pus. That works well.
“Sometimes, normal people become beggars if they cannot find work, or if they fall sick. But they are hopeless, they stand no chance against professionals. Just think – if you have one coin to give, and you have to choose between me and another beggar with a complete body.”
The man who had shoved him earlier spoke again. “Shut up, you monkey, I’m warning you! Or I’ll throw you over the side! At a time like this we don’t want to listen to your nonsense! Why don’t you do an honest job like us?”
“What work do you do?” inquired Ishvar politely, to calm him down.
“Scrap metal. Collecting and selling by weight. And even my poor sick wife has her own work. Rags.”
“That’s very good,” said Ishvar. “And we have a friend who is a hair-collector, although he recently changed to Family Planning Motivator.”
“Yes babu, all very good,” said the beggar. “But tell me, metal-collector, without legs or fingers, what could I do?”
“Don’t make excuses. In a huge city like this there is work even for a corpse. But you have to want it, and look for it seriously. You beggars create nuisance on the streets, then police make trouble for everyone. Even for us hardworking people.”
“O babu, without beggars how will people wash away their sins?”
“Who cares? We worry about finding water to wash our skins!”
The discussion got louder, the beggar yelling shrilly, the metal-collector bellowing back at him. The other passengers began taking sides. The drunks awoke and shouted abuse at everyone. “Goat-fucking idiots! Offspring of lunatic donkeys! Shameless eunuchs from somewhere!”
Eventually, the commotion made the truck driver pull over to the edge of the road. “I cannot drive with so much disturbance,” he complained. “There will be an accident or something.”
His headlights revealed a stony verge and tussocks of grass. A hush descended over the truck. The darkness was deep on both sides, betraying nothing – beyond the road’s narrow shoulders, the night could be hiding hills, empty fields, a thick forest, or demon-monsters.
A policeman came through the beam of light to warn them. “If there is any more noise, you will be thrashed and thrown out right here, in the jungle, instead of being taken to your nice new homes.”
The silenced truckload started moving. The beggar began to weep. “O babu, I’m feeling so frightened again.” He fell into a stupor of exhausted sleep after a while.
The tailors were wide awake now. Ishvar wondered what would happen when they didn’t turn up for work in the morning. “Dresses will be late again. Second time in two months. What will Dinabai do?”
“Find new tailors, and forget about us,” said Om. “What else?”
Dawn turned the night to grey, and then pink, as the truck and jeep left the highway for a dirt road to stop outside a small village. The tailboard swung open. The passengers were told to attend to calls of nature. For some, the halt had come too late.
The beggar tilted on one buttock while Om slid the platform under him. He paddled himself to the edge of the truck and waved a bandaged palm at two policemen. They turned their backs, lighting cigarettes. The tailors jumped off and lowered him to the ground, surprised at how little he weighed.
The men used one side of the road, the women squatted on the other; children were everywhere. The babies were hungry and crying. Parents fed them from packages of half-rotten bananas and oranges and scraps scavenged the night before.
The Facilitator went on ahead to arrange for tea. The village chai-walla set up a temporary kitchen near the truck, building a fire to heat a cauldron of water, milk, sugar, and tea leaves. Everyone watched him thirstily. The early sun dabbled through the trees, catching the liquid. Boili
ng and ready in a few minutes, it was served in little earthen bowls.
Meanwhile, word of the visitors percolated swiftly through the little village, and its population gathered round to watch. They took pride in the pleasure the travellers obtained from sipping the tea. The headman greeted the Facilitator and asked the usual friendly, villager questions about who, where, why, ready to offer help and advice.
The Facilitator told him to mind his business, take his people back to their huts, or the police would disperse them. Hurt by the rude behaviour, the crowd left.
The tea was consumed and the little earthen bowls were returned to the chaiwalla. He proceeded to shatter them in the customary way, whereupon some pavement-dwellers instinctively rushed to save them. “Wait, wait! We’ll keep them if you don’t want them!”
But the Facilitator forbade it. “Where you are going, you will be given everything that you need.” They were ordered back into the truck. During the halt, the sun had cleared the tree tops. Morning heat was rapidly gaining the upper hand. The engine’s starting roar frightened the birds, lifting them from the trees in a fluttering cloud.
Late in the day the truck arrived at an irrigation project where the Facilitator unloaded the ninety-six individuals. The project manager counted them before signing the delivery receipt. The worksite had its own security men, and the police jeep departed.
The security captain ordered the ninety-six to empty their pockets, open up their parcels, place everything on the ground. Two of his men moved down the line, passing hands over their clothes in a body search and examining the pile of objects. This need not have taken long, since half of them were near-naked beggars and the possessions were meagre. But there were women too, so it was a while before the guards finished the frisking.