“Hahnji, please, we will be very grateful.”
He sized them up doubtfully. “Do you have any experience?”
“Oh yes. Many years’ experience,” said Ishvar.
Beggarmaster was sceptical. “It doesn’t look to me like you could be successful.”
Om was indignant. “I can tell you we are very successful.” He held up his two little fingers like votive candles. “Our long nails have broken in all this rough work, but they will grow back. We are fully trained, we can even take measurements straight from the customer’s body.”
Beggarmaster began to laugh. “Measurements from the body?”
“Of course. We are skilled tailors, not hacks who –”
“Forget it. I thought you wanted to work for me as beggars. I have no need for tailors.”
Their hopes crashed. “We are no good here, we keep falling sick,” they pleaded. “Can you not take us? We can pay you for your trouble.” Shankar added his appeal to theirs, that they had been so kind to him from the moment the police had thrown him in the truck that terrible night, almost two months ago.
Beggarmaster and the Facilitator discussed the deal in low voices. The latter wanted two hundred rupees per tailor, because, he said, he would have to make it attractive for the foreman to release two able-bodied specimens: Ishvar’s sprained ankle did not qualify.
Gripping his tea glass, Beggarmaster returned to the tailors. “You can come if the foreman agrees. But it will cost you.”
“How much?”
“Usually, when I look after a beggar, I charge one hundred rupees per week. That includes begging space, food, clothes, and protection. Also, special things like bandages or crutches.”
“Yes, Shankar – Worm – told us about it. He praised you and said you are a very kind Beggarmaster. What luck for him that you came here.”
Pleased as he was with the compliment, he clarified the matter without undue modesty. “Luck has little to do with it. I am the most famous Beggarmaster in the city. Naturally, the Facilitator contacted me. Anyway, your case is different, you don’t need looking after in the same way. Besides, you’ve been good to Worm. Just pay me fifty a week per person, for one year. That will be enough.”
They were staggered. “That means almost two thousand five hundred each!”
“Yes, it’s minimum for what I am offering.”
The tailors calculated the payments between them. “Three days’ worth of sewing each week will go to him,” whispered Ishvar. “That’s too much, we won’t be able to afford it.”
“What choice?” said Om. “You want to toil to death, in this Narak of heartless devils? Just say yes.”
“Wait, I’ll bring him down a bit.” Ishvar approached the man with a worldly expression on his face. “Listen, fifty is too much – we’ll give you twenty-five a week.”
“Get one thing straight,” said Beggarmaster coldly. “I’m not selling onions and potatoes in the bazaar. My business is looking after human lives. Don’t try to bargain with me.” He turned away disdainfully to go back to the kitchen bench.
“Now look what you’ve done!” said Om, panicking. “Our only chance is finished!”
Ishvar waited a moment and shuffled back to Beggarmaster. “We talked it over. It’s expensive, but we’ll take it.”
“You’re sure you can afford it?”
“Oh yes, we have good jobs, regular work.”
Beggarmaster nibbled his thumbnail and spat. “Sometimes, one of my clients will vanish without paying, after enjoying my hospitality. But I always manage to find him. And then there is big trouble for him. Please remember that.” He finished his tea and accompanied the Facilitator to make a renewed offer to the foreman.
When the lunch hour ended, the tailors were reluctant to rejoin the gravel gang and ditch-diggers. With the promise of rescue so close, their resignation to the back-breaking labour vaporized; fatigue overwhelmed them.
“Aray babu, just be a little patient,” said Shankar. “It’s only one more day, don’t cause any trouble. You don’t want them to beat you. Stop worrying now, the foreman will agree, my Beggarmaster is very influential.”
Bolstered by Shankar’s encouragement, they found the strength to return to the overseer. In the late afternoon, they listened anxiously for the bhistee’s song. His arrival signalled the last two hours of work. They drank from his waterskin and got through the remainder of the day.
At dusk, when they stumbled back to their hut, Shankar was waiting, squirming excitedly on his platform. “It’s all decided. They are taking us tomorrow morning. Stay ready with your bedding, don’t miss the truck. Now I must make my preparations.”
He went to find the mechanic in charge of heavy machinery, who gave him oil for his castors. The grit and dust of the construction site was beginning to slow them down. Shankar wanted the platform in prime condition for his return to the pavement. He brought back the can cradled against his stomach. Om helped to lubricate the sluggish wheels.
Early next morning, a security guard ordered Shankar, the tailors, and the injured to assemble at the gate with their things. Those unable to walk were carried by men seconded from a work detail. They did it resentfully, grudging the invalids their imminent freedom. It was the tailors, however, who bore the brunt of the embittered glances.
“See how lucky we are, Om,” said Ishvar, gazing upon the damaged bodies accumulating in the truck. “We could be lying here with broken bones if our stars were not in the proper position.”
Monkey-man was still comatose from his head injury, and Beggarmaster refused to take him. But he wanted the children; they had real potential, he said. The little boy and girl resisted removal, weeping and clinging to their motionless uncle. They had to be dragged away when the truck was ready to leave.
The Facilitator and foreman balanced the debits and credits with a rebate towards the next delivery. Then there was a short delay. The foreman insisted that clothing issued on arrival be removed before departure – he had to account for every article to his superiors.
“Take what you want,” said Beggarmaster. “But please hurry, I have to get back in time for a temple ceremony.”
The ones who had been carried to the truck were incapable of undressing themselves. The workers, about to return to their regular tasks, were ordered to assist them. They vented their frustration by tugging the garments roughly off the injured bodies. Beggarmaster did not pay attention to it. When Shankar’s turn came, however, he made sure they were gentle with his vest.
Now the pavement-dwellers were as naked, or half-naked, as the day they had entered the labour camp; the gate opened and the truck was allowed to leave.
Dressing up to visit Nusswan’s office was Maneck’s idea. “We should go there looking tiptop. He’ll give you more respect. Appearances are very important to some people.”
In Dina’s present state, anything that sounded like half-sensible advice was welcome. She touched up his grey gabardine trousers with the iron. For herself, she selected her most effective frock, the blue one from her second wedding anniversary, with the vivacious peplum that came alive with walking. Would it still fit? she wondered. Shutting the adjoining door, she tried it on, pleased to discover that a little squeezing was all it took to fasten the zipper. She went into the front room.
“How about some makeup, Aunty?”
Unused for years, the lipstick poked up its head reluctantly as she rotated the base. She made a false start and smudged the lip line, but the labial acrobatics soon came back to her, the pursing and puckering and tautening, the simian contortions that seemed so absurd in the mirror.
The rouge was caked stiff, but under the discoloured crust there was enough to blush her cheeks. The round velvet pad had desiccated into a leathery scab. Once, Rustom had teased her while she was making up, and she retaliated by rouging his nose with the pad. Soft as a rose petal, he had said.
If Nusswan mentioned marriage today, she didn’t know what she would do – overtu
rn his desk, perhaps. She surveyed herself in the mirror. Her reflection nodded approvingly. She hoped that Maneck’s theory linking appearance and respect was correct.
“Are you ready?” she called into his room.
“Wow! You look absolutely beautiful.”
“That’s enough from you,” she scolded, inspecting him from head to toe. He passed muster except for his shoes. She made him shine them before they left.
The office peon made the two wait in the corridor while he disappeared to check with the boss. “Just watch, Nusswan will be busy,” she predicted.
The man returned to announce in a regretful voice, “Sahab is busy.” The peon had worked here for many years, but it always embarrassed him to have to abet his employer’s charade. “Please sit for a few minutes.” He lowered his head and withdrew.
“Goodness knows why Nusswan still tries to impress me in these silly ways,” said Dina. “His busyness will end in exactly fifteen minutes.”
But in her second prediction she was proved wrong, for the peon had mentioned to Nusswan that his sister was beautifully dressed today and accompanied by someone.
“Who?” said Nusswan. “Have we seen her before?”
“Not her, sahab. Him.”
Very curious, thought Nusswan, feeling his chin where he had nicked it that morning. “Young? Old?”
“Young,” said the peon. “Very young.”
Even more curious, decided Nusswan, his imagination wandering wishfully. Boyfriend, maybe? Dina was very attractive at forty-two. Almost as beautiful as she was twenty years ago, when she married that poor, unfortunate Rustom. Unfortunate from beginning to end. In looks, in money, in his life span…
Nusswan paused in his thoughts, gazed ceilingward, and patted his cheeks alternately, reverently, with his right fingertips, to ensure that his brother-in-law rested in peace. He had no desire to speak ill of the departed. So sad, his death. But also a God-given second chance for Dina to set things right, find a more suitable husband. If only she had grabbed the chance.
Such a terrible thing her pride was, and her strange idea of independence. Working like a slave to earn a pittance, humiliating the whole family. And now this latest fiasco with the export company. Slowly, he had learned to let his skin grow thick. But shaking off embarrassment was easier than discarding his sense of duty. She was still his little sister, he had to do his best for her.
What a waste, he thought, what a waste of a life. Like watching a tragic play. Only, instead of three hours it had lasted almost three decades – a family estranged, Xerxes and Zarir growing up deprived of the love and attention of their Dina Aunty, she hardly knowing her two nephews. So much sadness and misery.
But perhaps there was still a chance of a joyful ending. There could be nothing better than becoming one happy, united family again. Soon it would be time for grandchildren in his own life. If Dina had abdicated as aunty, she could be a grand-aunty.
And this young man with her today, her boyfriend. If they were serious and got married, how wonderful. Even if the chap was only thirty, he should consider himself lucky to have Dina – so attractive that she could put women half her age in the shade.
Yes, that was it – she wanted to introduce the fellow and get her older brother’s approval. Or why bring him along? As to their age difference, there could be no objection, Nusswan decided reluctantly. One had to be broad-minded, in these modern times. Yes, he would give them his blessing, even pay for this second wedding. As long as the expenses were reasonable – one hundred guests, modest flower arrangements, a small band…
Reviewing a lifetime, brooding, regretting, revising, it seemed like ages to Nusswan since their arrival had been announced. He checked his watch – it had been less than five minutes. He put the dial to his ear: it was working. Astonishing, how time and mind conspired in their tricks.
He told the peon to send in the visitors immediately. He wanted to continue in reality the celebration he had begun in imagination.
“What?” said Dina to the peon. “So soon?” She whispered to Maneck, “See, already you have brought us good luck – he never calls me in so fast.”
Nusswan rose and shot his cuffs, ready to extend a warm greeting to the man who would be brother-in-law. When he saw Maneck’s youth enter the office, his knees almost gave way. His crazy sister had done it again! He clenched the edge of the desk, pale with visions of shame and scandal in the community.
“Are you turning into a European, Nusswan? Or are you sick?” asked Dina.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he answered stiffly.
“How are Ruby and the boys?”
“They are well.”
“Good. I’m sorry to trouble you when you are so busy.”
“It’s all right.” Not two seconds in his office, and she was at him. Stupid to have raised his hopes. Where Dina was concerned, it was wiser to despair. Not one paisa would he spend on this wedding. If child marriage was a terrible ancient scourge, child-and-adult marriage was a modern madness. He wanted no part of it. And the doctor telling him to watch his blood pressure, to curtail his activities on the Share Bazaar – while here was his own sister, doing her share to shorten his life.
“But where are my manners,” said Dina. “Talking on without introductions. Maneck, this is my brother, Nusswan.”
“How do you do?” said Maneck.
“Plea… pleased to meet you.” Nusswan fell back in his chair after shaking hands. A typewriter pounded away in the next room. The ceiling fan hiccuped discreetly. Under a paperweight, a sheaf of papers fluttered like a bird in trouble.
“Maneck has heard a lot about you from me,” said Dina, “and I wanted the two of you to meet. He came to live with me a few months ago.”
“Live with you?” His sister had gone mad! Where did she think she was, in Hollywood?
“Yes, live with me. What else would a paying guest do?”
“Oh yes! Of course! What else?” The relief was so keen, it was unbearable. He wanted to fall to his knees. Oh, thank God! Saved! Thank God Almighty!
Then, hiding behind the sunshine and rainbow that had burst on the horizon, Nusswan discovered his pot of sludge: there would be no wedding. He felt cheated. Just like her. Cruel, unfeeling, leading him on with false hopes. To think how genuinely happy he had been for her a few minutes ago. Once again she had mocked him.
“The prices keep going up,” she said. “I couldn’t manage, I had to take a boarder. And I was so lucky to find a wonderful boy like Maneck.”
“Yes, of course. Very nice to meet you, Maneck. And where do you work?”
“Work?” said Dina indignantly. “He is just seventeen, he goes to college.”
“And what are you studying?”
“Refrigeration and air-conditioning.”
“Very wise choice,” said Nusswan. “These days only a technical education will get you ahead. The future lies with technology and modernization.” Filling the silence with words was a way of dealing with the tumult of emotions his sister had exploded in him. Empty words, to carry away the foolishness he felt.
“Yes, the country has been held back for too long by outdated ideologies. But our time has come. Magnificent changes are taking place. And the credit goes to our Prime Minister. A true spirit of renaissance.”
Dina didn’t mind his rambling, relieved that at least the matrimonial topic had not been revived. “I have a boarder, but I have lost my tailors,” she said.
“What a pity,” said Nusswan, slightly confused by her interruption. “The main thing is, now we have pragmatic policies instead of irrelevant theories. For example, poverty is being tackled head-on. All the ugly bustees and filthy jhopadpattis are being erased. Young man, you are not old enough to remember how wonderful this city once was. But thanks to our visionary leader and the Beautification Programme, it will be restored to its former glory. Then you will see and appreciate.”
“I was able to finish the last dresses only because Maneck helped,” put in Di
na. “He worked so hard, side by side with me.”
“That’s very good,” said Nusswan. “Very good indeed.” The sound of his own voice had made him loquacious as usual. “Hardworking, educated people like Maneck is what we need. Not lazy, ignorant millions. And we also need strict family planning. All these rumours of forced sterilization are not helping. You must have heard that nonsense.”
Dina and Maneck shook their heads in unison.
“Probably started by the CIA – saying people in remote villages are being dragged from their huts for compulsory sterilization. Such lies. But my point is, even if the rumour is true, what is wrong in that, with such a huge population problem?”
“Wouldn’t it be undemocratic to mutilate people against their will?” asked Maneck, in a tone that suggested total agreement rather than a challenge.
“Mutilate. Ha ha ha,” said Nusswan, avuncular and willing to pretend it was a clever joke. “It’s all relative. At the best of times, democracy is a seesaw between complete chaos and tolerable confusion. You see, to make a democratic omelette you have to break a few democratic eggs. To fight fascism and other evil forces threatening our country, there is nothing wrong in taking strong measures. Especially when the foreign hand is always interfering to destabilize us. Did you know the CIA is trying to sabotage the Family Planning Programme?”
Maneck and Dina shook their heads again, again in perfect unison and with straight faces. There was the subtlest touch of burlesque about it.
Nusswan eyed them suspiciously before continuing. “What’s happening is, CIA agents are tampering with consignments of birth-control devices and stirring up trouble among religious groups. Now don’t you agree that Emergency measures are necessary against such dangers?”
“Maybe,” said Dina. “But I think the government should let homeless people sleep on the pavements. Then my tailors wouldn’t have disappeared and I wouldn’t have come here to bother you.”
Nusswan lifted his index finger and waggled it like a hyperactive windshield wiper. “People sleeping on pavements gives industry a bad name. My friend was saying last week – he’s the director of a multinational, mind you, not some small, two-paisa business – he was saying that at least two hundred million people are surplus to requirements, they should be eliminated.”