“It was the foreman’s fault, he…”
“But that was before the Facilitator came…”
“Anyway, after my ankle was hurt, it was impossible…”
The thread of events eluded their grasp, Ishvar picking up a piece of it here, Om grabbing something there. Then they lost track of the narrative altogether. Ishvar’s voice faded. He pressed his head with both hands, trying to squeeze out the words. Om stammered and started to cry.
“It was terrible, the way they treated us,” he sobbed, clawing at his hair. “I thought my uncle and I were going to die there …”
Maneck patted his back, saying they were safe now, and Dina insisted the best thing to do was to have a good rest, then talk in the morning. “You still have your bedding. Just spread it here on the verandah and go to sleep.”
Now it was Ishvar’s turn to break. He fell on his knees before her and touched her feet. “O Dinabai, how to thank you! Such kindness! We are very afraid of the outside… this Emergency, the police…”
His display embarrassed her. She pulled her toes out of his reach. So urgent was his grasp, her left slipper stayed behind between his clutching fingers. He reached forward and gently restored it to her foot.
“Please get up — at once,” she said with a confused sternness. “Listen to me, I will say this one time only. Fall on your knees before no human being.”
“Okayji,” he rose obediently. “Forgive me, I should have known better. But what to do, Dinabai, I just can’t think of how to thank you.”
Still embarrassed, she said there had been enough thanks for one night. Om unrolled the bedding after wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He asked if they could wash the dust from their hands and faces before sleeping.
“There’s not much water, just what’s in the bucket, so be frugal. If you are thirsty, take from the drinking pot in the kitchen.” She locked the verandah door and went inside with Maneck.
“I’m so proud of you, Aunty,” he whispered.
“Are you, now? Thank you, Grandpa.”
Morning light did not bring answers to the questions Dina had wrestled with all night. She could not risk losing the tailors again. But how firm to stand, how much to bend? Where was the line between compassion and foolishness, kindness and weakness? And that was from her position. From theirs, it might be a line between mercy and cruelty, consideration and callousness. She could draw it on this side, but they might see it on that side.
The tailors awoke at seven, and packed up their bedding. “We slept so well,” said Ishvar. “It was peaceful as paradise on your verandah.”
They took a change of clothes from the trunk and prepared to leave for the railway bathroom. “We’ll have tea at Vishram, then come back straight — if it’s all right.”
“You mean, to start sewing?”
“Yes, for sure,” said Om with a weak smile.
She turned to Ishvar. “What about your ankle?”
“Still hurts, but I can push the treadle with one foot. No need to delay.”
She noticed their cracked and bruised feet. “Where are your chappals?”
“Stolen.”
“Sometimes there is broken glass on the street. Drunks smashing their bottles. You cannot gamble with your three remaining feet.” She found an old pair of slippers which fit Om; Maneck gave Ishvar his tennis shoes.
“So comfortable,” said Ishvar. “Thank you.” Then he inquired timidly if they could borrow five rupees for tea and food.
“There is much more than five rupees coming to you from the last order,” she said.
“Hahnji? Really?” They were overjoyed, having presumed that leaving the work incomplete meant forfeiting the right to any payment, and said as much.
“It may be the practice with some employers. I believe in honest pay for honest work.” She added jokingly, “Maybe you can share it with Maneck, he deserves something.”
“No, I only helped with a few buttons. Dina Aunty did it all.”
“Forget your college, yaar,” said Om. “Become a partner with us.”
“Right. And we’ll open our own shop,” said Maneck.
“Don’t give bad advice,” she scolded Om. “Everyone should be educated. I hope when you have children you will send them to school.”
“Oh yes, he will,” said Ishvar. “But first we must find him a wife.”
After Maneck left reluctantly for college and Dina went to Au Revoir Exports for new cloth, the tailors idled away the time at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The cashier-cum-waiter welcomed back his regulars with delight. He finished attending to the customers at the front counter — a tumbler of milk, six pakoras, a scoop of curds — and soon joined them at the solitary table.
“You two have lost weight,” he observed. “Where have you been so long?”
“Special government diet,” said Ishvar, and told him about their misfortune.
“You fellows are amazing,” the sweaty cook roared over the stoves. “Everything happens to you only. Each time you come here, you have a new adventure story to entertain us.”
“It’s not us, it’s this city,” said Om. “A story factory, that’s what it is, a spinning mill.”
“Call it what you will, if all our customers were like you, we would be able to produce a modern
“Please, bhai, no more adventures for us,” said Ishvar. “Stories of suffering are no fun when we are the main characters.”
The cashier-waiter brought them their tea and bun-muska, then went to serve more customers at the counter. The milk in the tea had formed a creamy skin. Om spooned it into his mouth, licking his lips. Ishvar offered him his own cup, and he skimmed that off too. They separated the halves of the bun-muska to check if both sides were buttered. They were, lavishly.
During a pedestrian lull on the pavement, Shankar, who was already begging outside when they had arrived, rolled up by the door to greet them. Ishvar waved. “So, Shankar. Happy to be back and working hard, hahn?”
“Aray babu, what to do, Beggarmaster said it’s the first day, relax, sleep. So I fell asleep here. Then coins began falling into my can. A terrible clanging sound — right beside my head. Every time I close my eyes, they fly open in fright. The public just won’t let me rest.”
His routine this morning was simple. He rattled the coins and made a whining noise, or coughed hoarsely at intervals till tears ran down his cheeks. For visual interest, sometimes he paddled the platform a few feet to the left, then back to the right. “You know, I specially asked Beggarmaster to move me here from the railway station,” he confided. “Now we can meet more often.”
“That’s good,” said Om, waving goodbye. “We’ll see you again soon.”
The flat was padlocked, and they waited by the door. “Hope that crazy rent-collector is not prowling around the building,” said Om. It was an anxious ten minutes before the taxi drove up. They helped Dina unload the bolts of cloth and carry them to the back room.
“Not too much weight, careful with your ankle,” she cautioned Ishvar. “By the way, there’s going to be a strike in the mill. No more cloth till it’s over.”
“Hai Ram, trouble never ends.” Suddenly, Ishvar’s mind returned to what he had done the night before, and he apologized again for having fallen at her feet. “I should have known better.”
“That’s what you said last night. But why?” asked Dina.
“Because someone did it to me once. And it made me feel very bad.”
“Who was it?”
“It’s a very long story,” said Ishvar, unwilling to tell her everything about their lives, but eager to share a little. “When my brother — Om’s father — and I were apprenticed to a tailor, we gave him some help.”
“What did you do?”
“Well,” he hesitated. “Ashraf Chacha is Muslim, and it was the time of Hindu-Muslim riots. At independence, you know. There was trouble in the town, and — we were able to help him.”
