“You are right,” the salesman admitted, uncovering more boxes. “I just sell the clothes, I don’t make them. What to do, no one takes pride in good workmanship anymore.”
“Very true,” said Ishvar. “It’s like that everywhere.”
Lamenting the changing times, it became easier to find acceptable shirts. The man folded their choices along the original creases and slipped them back in the transparent bags. The cellophane crackled opulently. The illusion of value and quality was restored, while string and brown paper secured it in place. He gnawed through the string to sever the required length from the large reel. “Please come back, I will be happy to serve you.”
“Thank you,” said Ashraf.
They stood in the street and debated what to do next. “We could roam in the bazaar,” said Om, “see if there is anyone we know.”
“I have a better plan,” said Ashraf. “Tomorrow is market day. Let’s come in the morning. Everyone from the villages will be here, you will get to meet lots of friends.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Ishvar. “And now let me treat you to paan, before we go home.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve picked up the paan habit,” said Ashraf disapprovingly.
“No no, it’s only because this is a special day, we are seeing you after so long.”
Their mouths bulging with the mixture of betel nut, chunam, and tobacco, they walked back towards Muzaffar Tailoring, passing the Family Planning Centre again, where Ashraf relieved his juice-laden mouth in the ditch and pointed to a parked car. “That’s Thakur Dharamsi’s new motor. He must be inside, counting his victims.”
Ishvar immediately began steering them across the road.
“What are you running for?” said Om. “We don’t have to be scared of that dog.”
“Better to avoid any trouble.”
“I agree,” said Ashraf. “Why see the demon’s face if you can help it?”
Just then, Thakur Dharamsi emerged from the building, and Om strode boldly towards him on a collision course. Ishvar tried to pull him back beside Ashraf Chacha. The smooth leather soles of Om’s sandals slipped on the pavement. He felt foolish. His uncle was winning the tug of war, and his defiance was turning into humiliation before the Thakur.
Om spat.
The arc of red ended several feet short; the sticky juice soaked the earth between them. The Thakur stopped. The two men with him awaited instructions. In their vicinity, people faded like the light, fearful of witnessing what might follow.
The Thakur said very softly, “I know who you are.” He got in the car, slammed the door, and drove off.
The rest of the way home, Ishvar was frantic with rage and anxiety. “You are mad! Bilkool paagal! If you want to die why don’t you swallow rat poison? Have you come for a wedding or a funeral?”
“My wedding, and the Thakur’s funeral.”
“Leave your clever talk! I should give your face one backhand slap!”
“If you hadn’t stopped me, I could have spat over him. Exactly in his face.”
Ishvar raised his hand to strike, but Ashraf made him desist. “What’s happened has happened. We have to stay out of that demon’s way from now on.”
“I’m not scared of him,” said Om.
“Of course you’re not. We just don’t want any trouble to spoil the wedding preparations, that’s all. Our joy doesn’t need to be darkened by that demon’s shadow.”
He had to keep applying his words like balm upon Ishvar’s anguish. But now and again the terror broke through, erupting in a bitter condemnation of his nephew’s stupidity. “Acting like a hero and thinking like a zero. My fault only, for buying paan for you. A bad-tempered owl, as Dinabai used to call you. What has become of your humour and your joking? Without Maneck you have forgotten how to laugh, how to enjoy life.”
“You should have brought him with you, if you think he’s so wonderful. I would have stayed back.”
“You are talking bilkool nonsense. We are here for just a few days. Soon we return to our jobs. You can’t behave sensibly even for this short time?”
“That’s what you said in the city – that we would be there for a short while only, and soon go back to our native place.”
“So? Is it my fault that it’s tougher than we expected, making money in the city?”
Then they abandoned the topic altogether. Quarrelling on would have meant Ashraf Chacha learning about the misery concealed in the details they had spared him.
Market day was noisier than usual because the Family Planning Centre was promoting its sterilization camp from a booth in the square, its loudspeakers at full blast. Banners were strung across the road, exhorting participation in the Nussbandhi Mela. The usual paraphernalia of the fairground – balloons, flowers, soap bubbles, coloured lights, snacks – were employed to lure the townsfolk and visiting villagers. The film songs were interrupted often with announcements about the nation’s need for birth control, the prosperity and happiness in store for those willing to be sterilized, the generous bonuses for vasectomies and tubectomies.
“Where will they perform the operations?” wondered Om. “Right here?”
“Why? You want to watch or what?” said Ishvar.
Ashraf said the Centre usually erected tents outside town. “They set it up like a factory. Cut here, snip there, a few stitches – and the goods are ready to be shipped.”
“Sounds just like the tailoring business, yaar.”
“Actually, we tailors take more pride in our work. We show more consideration for fabric than these monsters show for humans. It is our nation’s shame.”
Not far from the birth-control booth was a man selling potions for the treatment of impotency and infertility. “The quack is getting a bigger crowd than the government people,” said Ishvar.
The man, his hair combed out in a black shiny halo, wore an animal pelt over his shoulders. His chest was bare, and a tight thong cutting into his upper right arm made his veins stand out in a show of power all the way along his limb. He brandished his muscular forearm, engorged and hard, whenever some reproductive matter needed graphic illustrating.
Spread out on a mat before him were several jars containing herbs and chunks of bark. And lest these be mistaken for the trappings of an insipid apothecary, he had interspersed among them an assortment of dead lizards and snakes, to imbue the display with a feral virility, a reptilian electricity. In one corner sat a human skull. The centre of the mat was occupied by a bear’s head, the eyes large and gleaming, jaws open wide. This trophy had suffered in its travels, losing two teeth; tiny wooden cones painted white had taken their place. The risible dentures undercut the bear’s ferocious glare, and the overall effect was clownish.
The Potency Pedlar pointed with a stick at charts listing symptoms and cures, and at diagrams that might have depicted electrical circuits. Midway through the exegesis, he raised the hem of his dhoti and pulled it up – up until it revealed his calves, his knees, and finally his muscular thighs. His dark-brown skin shone under the sun. For a hairy-chested man, his legs were questionably smooth. Then, to emphasize what he was saying, he slapped the firm flesh of his thighs several times. The report was sharp, like the clapping of perfect hands.
His sales pitch followed a question-and-answer routine. “Are you having difficulty in producing children? Is your hathiyar reluctant to rise up? Or does it sleep and forget to wake?” His pointer drooped disconsolately. “Fear not, there is a cure! Like a soldier at attention it will stand! One, two, three – bhoom!” He whipped up his pointer.
Some in the audience sniggered, others were bold in their loud laughter, while a few produced dark, censorious frowns.
“Does it stand, but not straight enough? Is there a bend in the tool? Leaning left like the Marxist-Leninist Party? To the right, like the Jan Sangh fascists? Or wobbling mindlessly in the middle, like the Congress Party? Fear not, for it can be straightened! Does it refuse to harden even with rubbing and massage? Then try my ointm
ent, and it will become hard as the government’s heart! All your troubles will vanish with this amazing ointment made from the organs of these wild animals! Capable of turning all men into engine-drivers! Punctual as the trains in the Emergency! Back and forth you will shunt with piston power every night! The railways will want to harness your energy! Apply this ointment once a day, and your wife will be proud of you! Apply it twice a day, and she will have to share you with the whole block!”
The last bit provoked a great quantity of laughter from some young men. Women hid their smiles behind their hands; a few giggles escaped before they could be strangled. The frowning censors walked away in disgust.
The Potency Pedlar picked up the grinning human skull and held it aloft. “If I were to rub my ointment on this fellow’s head, even he would start jumping! But I dare not, I have to think of the ladies present, and the safety of their virtue!” The audience applauded heartily.
He continued in this vein for a bit longer before addressing women’s problems. Now he spoke in his alternate role – the fakir of fertility. “Is there sadness in your life because your neighbour has more children than you? Do you need more hands to help you with the endless work in the fields, to carry water, to search for firewood? Are you worried about who will look after you in your helpless old age, because you have no sons? Fear not! This tonic will make strong children flow forth from your belly! One spoon a day, and you will give your husband six sons! Two spoons, and your womb will produce an army!”
Despite the large crowd around the vendor, actual customers were few. Mainly, they were there for the entertainment. Besides, to purchase the products in broad daylight meant a public admission of inadequate loins. The sales would take place later, after the performance wound down and the fun-seekers drifted away.
“Are you planning to buy?” Ishvar tickled Om in the ribs, who was listening with grave intent.
“I don’t need all this rubbish.”
“Of course not,” said Ashraf, putting his arm over Om’s shoulder. “Inshallah, sons and daughters will appear at the proper time.”
They resumed their stroll through the bazaar till they came to the Chamaar stalls. “Don’t say anything, just stand quietly,” said Om. “Let’s see how long before they spot us.”
They pretended to inspect the sandals, waterskins, purses, belts, barber’s strops, harnesses. The rich smell of fresh leather travelled deep, waking forgotten memories. Then someone from their village recognized them.
A shout of delight went up, echoed by others. The welcome was euphoric. People gathered around, and the conversation began to overflow. Everyone was eager to fill the void the tailors’ lengthy absence had created.
Ishvar and Om learned from the villagers that Dukhi’s lifelong friend, Gambhir, who had had molten lead poured in his ears many years ago, had died recently. Though the burn injury had always festered, it was blood poisoning from cutting his leg on a rusty scythe that had finally taken him. The old women, Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri, were well. They were the ones who most remembered the tailors’ family; their favourite story was still the one about going by bus with Roopa and Dukhi and several dozen others to inspect Narayan’s wife-to-be.
After homage was paid to the dead and the elderly, they turned to the present. News of the impending bride-viewing had spread in the Chamaar community. Two men lifted Om to their shoulders and paraded him like a conquering hero, as though the wedding were already accomplished. Felicitations poured from every mouth, embarrassing Om. For once, he was left incapable of making a smart retort, while his uncle beamed and nodded.
For those who had known his father, the occasion had a special significance. They were happy that the line of one as remarkable as Narayan, the Chamaar-turned-tailor who had defied the upper castes, was not going to die out. “We prayed that the son will return one day,” they said, “and our prayers are answered. Om must carry on the work of his father. And the grandsons will do likewise.”
To Ishvar’s ears the yearnings of his community were ill-considered, and recklessly tempted fate. The fear born out of Om’s foolhardiness with Thakur Dharamsi yesterday was still trembling in his veins. He cut short the well-wishers. “There is no chance of coming back. We have very good jobs in the city. The future there is bright for Omprakash.”
The Chamaars talked about the years when Ishvar and his brother had first left the village as apprentices to Muzaffar Tailoring. They told Om what a brilliant tailor his father had been, while Ashraf, the proud teacher, smiled, nodding to indicate that yes, it was all true. “It was like magic,” they said. “Narayan could take the discards of a fat landlord and alter them with his machine to fit us like brand-new. He could take our rags and turn them into clothes suitable for a king. We will never again see the like of him. So generous, so brave.”
Ishvar changed the subject once more, worried about the effect their reminiscing would have on his nephew. “Ashraf Chacha has been talking to us of the old days ever since we arrived,” he said. “Tell us what is happening in these new days.”
So Ishvar and Om learned that recently a stream had run dry, and in its bed was discovered a perfectly spherical rock with sickness-curing properties. In another village, a sadhu had meditated under a tree, and when he departed, furrows developed on the trunk in the image of Lord Ganesh. Elsewhere, during the religious procession of Mata Ki Sawari, someone had entered a trance and identified a Bhil woman as the witch causing the community’s woes. She was beaten to death, and the village was expecting better times; unfortunately, a year later they were still waiting.
Before the conversation could stray again into the past, Ishvar said, “We’ll see you at the wedding, if everything goes well,” and they took their leave to cheers and laughter.
They wandered into the vegetable section of the market where he selected peas, coriander, spinach, and onions. “Tonight I’ll cook my specialty for us.”
“And the chapati expert will favour us with his skills,” said Ashraf, putting his arm around Om again. It was hard for him to restrain himself from constantly touching and embracing the two who were like son and grandson to him. Besides, he was trying to ward off the dreaded day of departure that would dawn when the celebrations were over.
“One more stop before we go home,” said Ishvar. He led them towards the religious merchandise, and purchased an expensive string of prayer beads. “A small gift from us,” he said to Ashraf. “We hope you will use it for many years to come.”
“Inshallah,” he said, and kissed the beads of amber. “You have chosen the right item for me.”
“My idea,” claimed Om. “We noticed you are spending more time in prayer.”
“Yes, awareness of death and old age tend to have that effect on us mortals.” He stopped the vendor, who was making a newspaper pouch to package the beads. “No need for that,” he said, and wound the precious string round his fingers.
Nearby, the candy-floss man issued his inviting call: “Aga-ni-dadhi! Aga-ni-dadhi!”
“I want one,” said Om.
“Aray eat more, have two!” He tinkled his little brass bell.
Ishvar held up one finger, and the candy-floss man switched on the machine.
They watched the whirring, humming centre spin out wisps of pink. The man whisked a stick around inside the tub, stroking the air to harvest the sweet strands. When the ball reached the size of a human head, he switched off the machine.
“You know how that works, nah?” said Ashraf. “There is a large spider sitting inside the machine, feeding on sugar and pink dye. At the man’s command, it starts spinning its web.”
“For sure,” said Om and chucked him under the chin, fingering his fine white beard. “Is that how your dadhi was also made?”
It was a little before noon. Empty trucks rumbled up the main road and parked outside the market square. No one paid attention. Traffic was always heavy on this day of the week.
“Want to taste?” Om held out the stick.
Ishvar declined. Ashraf decided to try some, gamely negotiating the fluff through his whiskers. Bits of it stuck, pink on white, and Om roared. He led him to the window of a sari shop and showed him his candy-floss beard. “Looks very handsome, Chachaji. You could start a new style.”
“Now you know why it’s called aga-ni-dadhi,” said Ashraf, plucking the wisps out of his hair.
Ishvar watched contentedly, smiling with happiness. In spite of everything, life was good, he thought. How could he complain when Om and he were blessed with the friendship of people like Ashraf Chacha, and Dinabai, and Maneck.
More trucks appeared around the square, occupying the lanes leading into the bazaar. These were garbage trucks, round-roofed with openings at the rear.
“Why so early?” wondered Ashraf. “Market still has many hours to go, cleanup does not begin till evening.”
“Maybe the drivers also want to do some shopping.”
Suddenly, horns blaring, police vans swept into the marketplace. The sea of humans parted. The vehicles stopped in the centre and disgorged a battalion of constables who took up positions inside the square.
“A police guard for the bazaar?” said Ishvar.
“Something is wrong,” said Ashraf.
The shoppers watched, perplexed. Then the police began to advance and grab people. The bewildered captives resisted, shouting and questioning, “First tell us! Tell us what we’ve done! How can you catch people just like that? We have a right to be here, it’s market day!”
The constables answered by moving relentlessly through the crowd. Resistance was met with swinging lathis. Panic filled the marketplace as people pushed, pleaded, struggled with the police, tried to break through the cordon. But the square had been efficiently surrounded. Those who made it to the periphery were beaten back into the waiting hands of more police.
Stalls and stands came crashing down, baskets were overturned, boxes smashed. In seconds the square was littered with tomatoes, onions, earthen pots, flour, spinach, coriander, chillies – patches of orange and white and green, dissolving in chaos out of their neat rows. The Potency Pedlar’s bear was trampled underfoot, losing more of its teeth, while his dead lizards and snakes died a second death. The music from the Family Planning booth continued to blare over the screams of people.