“What can we do?” asked Ishvar.
“Ask Shankar questions, make him speak about his past. See what kind of memories he has. He is still a little scared of me, he probably tells you more. Will you keep me informed?”
“Sure, we can do that.”
“Thank you. Meanwhile, I want to make his life on the pavement as pleasant as possible. I have begun to buy him his favourite sweetmeats every day – laddoo and jalebi. And on Sundays, rasmalai. I have also improved his platform with cushioning, and got him a better place to sleep at night.”
“Now it makes sense,” said Ishvar. “He keeps telling us how nice you have been to him.”
“It’s the least I can do. I am also planning to send him my personal barber, to provide the full deluxe treatment – hair trim, shave, facial massage, manicure, everything. And if people give fewer alms because of good grooming, then fuck them.”
Again Dina curbed the urge to say: Language. But this time it wasn’t as great a shock to her ears. “The news you have brought is wonderful,” she said. “How happy Shankar will be when you finally tell him.”
“Not when, but if. Will I ever have the courage? Do I have the wisdom to make the right decision?”
The weight of these questions suddenly plunged him into despair. The news which was to have cheered everyone became cloud across the sun.
“I’m sure it will be clear to you in time,” said Ishvar.
“What has become clear is a fine line between Shankar and me. Finer than the silken hair of my poor murdered beggars. I did not draw it – it is the trace of destiny. But now I have the power to rub it out.” He sighed. “Such an awesome, frightening power. Do I dare? For once that line is erased, it can never be redrawn.” He shivered. “What a legacy my stepmother left me.”
He opened his briefcase, took out his sketchbook and showed them his latest drawing. “I did it last night, when I was very depressed and could not sleep.”
The picture consisted of three figures. The first was seated on a platform with tiny wheels. He had no legs or fingers, and the thigh stumps jutted like hollow bamboo. The second was an emaciated woman without a nose, the face with a gaping hole at its centre. But the third figure was the most grotesque. A man with a briefcase chained to his wrist was standing on four spidery legs. His four feet were splayed towards the four points of the compass, as though in a permanent dispute about which was the right direction. His two hands each had ten fingers, useless bananas sprouting from the palms. And on his face were two noses, adjacent yet bizarrely turned away, as though neither could bear the smell of the other.
They stared at the drawing, uncertain how to respond to Beggarmaster’s creation. He saved them the embarrassment by offering his own interpretation. “Freaks, that’s what we are – all of us.”
Ishvar was about to say he was being too hard on himself, that he should not take Shankar’s and Nosey’s fates entirely upon his own person, when Beggarmaster clarified himself. “I mean, every single human being. And who can blame us? What chance do we have, when our beginnings and endings are so freakish? Birth and death – what could be more monstrous than that? We like to deceive ourselves and call it wondrous and beautiful and majestic, but it’s freakish, let’s face it.”
He shut his sketchbook and returned it to the briefcase with a certain snappiness, indicating that his saga of happiness and misery and doubt and discovery was over, the human emotions were being packed away, and now it was back to business. “Your year will be up in another four months. I need to know in advance – are you planning to renew the contract with me?”
“Oh yes,” said Ishvar. “Most definitely. Or the landlord will again start his harassment.”
They followed Beggarmaster to the verandah to see him off. Outside, the night remained unbroken by streetlights. There appeared to be a power outage, for the entire line of lamps was unlit.
“I hope Shankar’s lamppost is working,” said Beggarmaster. “I better hurry and check on him, he gets frightened if the pavement is dark.”
He strode across the black asphalt in his white shirt and trousers, like chalk across a blank slate. He turned once to wave, then gradually became invisible.
“What a weird story,” said Om. “Our friends at Vishram would really enjoy this one. It’s got everything – tragedy, romance, violence, and a suspenseful unresolved ending.”
“But you heard what Beggarmaster told us,” said Ishvar. “It must be kept secret, for Shankar’s sake. It’s one more story that cannot be included in the cook’s Mahabharat.”
XIII
Wedding, Worms, and Sanyas
THE KITTENS’ REAPPEARANCE OUTSIDE the kitchen window a month later was not an occasion for rejoicing. The creatures treated it as no more than a scrounging stop. Om and Maneck would have been happy with some sign of recognition – a loud miaow, perhaps, or a look, a purr, an arching of the back. Instead, the kittens grabbed a fish head and ran off to enjoy it in seclusion.
“Why are you surprised by that?” said Dina. “Ingratitude is not uncommon in the world. One day, you too will forget me – all of you. When you go your own way and settle down, you will not know me.” She pointed at Maneck. “In two months you’ll sit for your final exam, pack your things, then disappear.”
“Not me, Aunty,” he protested. “I will always remember you, and visit you, and write to you wherever I am.”
“Yes, we’ll see,” she said. “And you tailors will some day start on your own and leave as well. Not that I won’t be happy for you when it happens.”
“Dinabai, I’ll bless your mouth with sugar if that ever happens,” said Ishvar. “But before there can be homes or shops for people like us, politicians will have to become honest.” He held up his index finger, crooked it, then extended it. “The bent stick may straighten, but not the government.” In fact, he said, this was his biggest worry – how would Om take a wife if they couldn’t find a place to live?
“Surely something will turn up by the time he’s ready to marry,” said Dina.
“I think he is ready now,” said Ishvar.
“I think he is not,” snapped Om. “Why do you keep talking about marriage? Look at Maneck, same age as me, and no one’s hurrying to fix his wedding. Are your parents in a rush, Maneck? Come on, speak, yaar, teach my uncle some sense.”
Maneck shrugged his shoulders and said no, they weren’t in a rush.
“Go on, tell him the other part. That your parents will wait till you meet someone you like. And if you decide to marry, only then will they make the arrangements. That’s how I want it to be for me also.”
“Omprakash, you are speaking nonsense,” his uncle seethed beneath the absurd suggestion. “We are from different communities, with different customs. Because your parents are not with us, it’s my duty to find you a wife.”
Om scowled.
“Sour-lime face,” said Maneck, trying to head off the battle that was brewing. “Anyway, let me warn you, Aunty. You may not be rid of me in two months.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve decided to go to college for three more years, get a proper degree instead of the technician’s certificate.”
Her delight leapt to her face; she pushed it into a less public place. “That’s a wise decision. A degree is more valuable.”
“So can I stay on with you? After going home for my vacation, I mean.”
“What do you think, you two? Should we let Maneck come back?”
Ishvar smiled. “On one condition. That he does not plant his wild ideas in my nephew’s head.”
The question of his nephew’s marriage continued to haunt Ishvar. He brought it up at every opportunity, while Dina discouraged him gently. “Work is plentiful, and at last you are managing to save some money. Why go jumping into a new responsibility? Just when things are improving?”
“All the more reason,” said Ishvar. “In case things become worse again.”
“They are bound to, whether Om marr
ies or not,” said Maneck. “Everything ends badly. It’s the law of the universe.”
Ishvar looked as though his face had been slapped. “I thought you were our friend,” he said, his voice shrinking with pain.
“But I am. I’m not saying it out of spite. Just look at the world around you. Things seem promising at times, but in the end every –”
“That’s enough philosophy from you,” said Dina. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything. Keep your black thoughts to yourself. I disagree with Ishvar too, but that’s no reason to utter such inauspicious words.”
“But I don’t disagree, it’s just that –”
“Enough! You have hurt Ishvar enough!”
The hurt did not keep Ishvar’s fixation from growing. Two days later he announced, in a voice dripping uncertainty, that his mind was made up. “The best way is to write a letter to Ashraf Chacha, ask him to spread the word in our community.”
Om stopped sewing and looked scornfully at his uncle. “First you kept dreaming we would save, go back to our village and buy a little shop. Now you have a new dream. Why don’t you wake up for a change?”
“What’s wrong in exchanging an impossible dream for a possible one? A shop will take very long. But marriage cannot be postponed. Bas, I’m writing to Chachaji.”
“I’m warning you, write to him only if you want a wife.”
“Did you hear that? My nephew is warning me.” He gave up the pretence of calm; the damaged left cheek eclipsed his face. “You will do as you are told, understood? I have been too lenient with you, Omprakash – hahn, too lenient. Somebody else in my place would have softened your bones over the years.”
“Leave it, yaar, I’m not scared of your threats.”
“Listen to him. Just a few months ago, at the work camp, you were weeping in my arms each night. Scared and sick, vomiting like a baby. Now you are all strong and defiant. And why? Because I want what’s best for you?”
“Nobody is denying that,” Dina broke in, hoping Ishvar would see sense if she added her voice in opposition. “But such blind haste is unwise. If Om was longing for a wife, it would be different. What is your rush?”
He felt they were ganging up on him. “It is my duty,” he murmured with the irritating air of a sage and, in effect, declared himself the winner. Then he got back to work. Reaching absently for a length of cloth, he made the entire stack collapse.
“Wonderful!” she pounced. “Well done! Bring down the whole ceiling, go ahead. See how your urgent duty is affecting you? Mania is what it is – mania, not duty.” She helped him pick up the fallen clothes. “If only that rascal cat had not left her babies in my kitchen. She put this whole crazy idea in your head.”
Over the next few days, Ishvar’s fretting was transformed into clumsiness at the Singer. Errors kept popping up in his sewing like wrong cards in a magic trick, giving Dina occasion to point out the danger of his ways. “Your marriage mania will destroy our business. You will make the food vanish from our plates.”
“I’m sorry, there is much on my mind,” said Ishvar. “But don’t worry, it’s only a passing phase.”
“What do you mean, don’t worry? How can it pass? Once there is a wife, there will be children. Then there will be even more on your mind. Where will they all stay? And all those mouths to feed. How many lives do you want to ruin?”
“It may seem like ruining to you. What I am doing is building the foundation for Om’s happiness. A marriage does not happen in a month or two. It will take at least a year before we get anywhere. If the girl is too young, the parents may wish to wait longer. All I want is to find the right one and reserve her for my nephew.”
“Like a train ticket,” put in Maneck, and Om laughed.
“You have a very bad habit,” said Ishvar. “Always making fun of things you don’t understand.”
What other choice was there, thought Maneck. But the risk of further upsetting Ishvar kept him silent.
Ashraf’s reply came in an envelope bearing black cancellations across the postage stamp. It featured the date, postal district, and a slogan: AN ERA OF DISCIPLINE, followed by a menacing exclamation mark shaped like a cudgel.
They waited impatiently for Ishvar to tear it open and share the news. His eyes travelled across the page with the uncertainty of one unused to reading, stumbling over Ashraf’s shaky hand. He smiled broadly once, then looked puzzled, and frowned towards the end, all of which made Om very nervous.
“Chachaji is in good health,” began Ishvar. “He has missed us. He says the devil must have held time captive, it has been so long in passing. He is happy that Om will marry. He also agrees it should not be delayed.”
“What else?”
Ishvar sighed. “He has spoken to people in our community.”
“And?”
“There are four Chamaar families interested.” He sighed again.
“Hurray” said Maneck, thumping Om on the back. “You’re in big demand.” Om pushed away his hand.
“But Ishvarbhai, the news should please you,” said Dina. “Why so worried? Isn’t it what you wanted?”
He shuffled the two pages as though wishing there were more. “This part pleases me. Difficulty is in the other part.”
They waited. “Are you planning to tell us today or tomorrow?” asked Om.
Ishvar fingered his frozen cheek. “The four interested families are in a hurry. You see, there are other parties with marriageable sons. Luckily, Chachaji has improved our standing – that Om is working for a big export company in the city, a good match for any girl. So the families want us to select and finalize in the next eight weeks.”
“That’s too fast,” said Dina. “You’ll have to refuse them.”
During the year that he and his nephew had worked for Dina, Ishvar had never once raised his voice. When he did it now, it startled everyone, including himself.
“Who are you to say! Who are you to tell me what is best for my nephew in this, the most important decision of his life! What do you know about us, about his upbringing, about my duty, that you think you can advise on such matters!”
Ishvar the peacemaker, gentle and soft-spoken, raged and waved his hands. “You think you own my nephew and me? We are not your slaves, we only work for you! Or would you like to tell us how to live, and when to die?”
And then, because he had no practice with the emotion of anger, and did not know how a tantrum should conclude, he burst into tears, fleeing to the verandah.
“Fine!” she called after him, finding her voice. “Do what you like! But don’t expect me to provide shelter for wife and children and grandchildren!”
“I don’t expect anything from you!” he shouted back, his voice cracking.
Dina escaped to the front room to be alone; she did not trust herself or her tongue. Shaking, she sat on the sofa beside Maneck.
“Calm down, Aunty, he doesn’t really mean it.”
“I don’t care what he means,” her voice trembled. “But you see this? You heard with your own ears. After all I’ve done – taken them into my home, treated them like family – he shouts at me like a dog. I should throw them out right now.”
“Throw, throw!” shouted Ishvar from the verandah. “What do I care!” He snorted to clear his runny nose, and tasted salt.
With a finger to his lips, Maneck-signalled to her to ignore him. “He is completely illogical about this marriage business,” he whispered. “Why argue with him?”
“Only because I feel sorry for Om. But you’re right, it’s between him and his uncle. They can do what they like. This thing has become trouble with a capital t.”
Om heard them in the back room, and buried his face in his hands.
The hours dredged the stagnant afternoon in vain, revealing nothing. Ashraf’s abandoned letter lay on the dining table. The clock’s big hand fell from mark to mark like a stone. No one made tea, no one went out for tea. Ishvar on the verandah, Om in the back, Maneck and Dina in the front room:
the household was frozen.
The sun dropped towards the horizon, and the light started to change. A breeze visited each window, rustling the letter on the table. Soon it would be dinnertime – time to make chapatis. Om was hungry.
He walked around with his chappals flopping purposefully. He drank water, letting his glass clatter against the pot. He wanted his noises to touch the others; friendly noises could melt hostility. He sat down, drummed on the Singer’s bench, rattled the scissors, filled six bobbins. Then he went to the front room.
They were relieved he had come. Maneck winked. “That was something else, yaar. He exploded like a Divali Atom Bomb.”
Om forced a short laugh. “I just don’t know what to do with my uncle,” he confided, his voice hushed. “I’m worried about him.”
His words amused Dina, for they echoed the ones that Ishvar the conciliator would use in the old days when Om was rude, sewed badly, or misbehaved in general. “Be patient,” she said.
“What is it about marriages and weddings that turns people crazy. On this one topic he becomes a madman.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he,” grimaced Dina. “Reminds me of my brother.”
“Just wait, I’ll straighten out my uncle.” He went to the verandah, where Ishvar sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bedding roll.
“Are you crazy, speaking like that to someone who has been so good to us?” Om began scolding, arms folded across his chest.
Ishvar looked up, smiling weakly. He heard the same echo in his nephew’s words that Dina had detected. After his freak outburst of anger, he felt confused, foolish, ready to make amends.
“You go at once and tell Dinabai you are sorry. Tell her you lost your head, you didn’t mean the nasty things. Go right now. Say that you respect her opinions, you realize what she says is out of concern for us. Now get up, go.”
His uncle held out a hand; Om grabbed it, leaned back, hoisted him up. Ishvar shuffled into the front room and stood sheepishly before the sofa to apologize. For Dina it was a reprise: the sermon on the verandah had been audible inside. But she remained stiff, scrutinizing the wall to her right.