while they teased him.
“Would you like to smoke a beedi? Take your mind off?” asked Ishvar. “I’m sure Dinabai will make an exception today.”
“Of course I will. Shall I bring the matches?”
“Go ahead, laugh,” said Om darkly, “while I choke to death on these fumes.”
At lunchtime he told his uncle he was not going to the Vishram, he couldn’t possibly eat with the stink in his nose. So Ishvar stayed back as well.
Later in the afternoon, Maneck came home and started sniffing around. “Smells like a kitchen in here.” Keeping his nose low like a bloodhound, he followed the scent to Om. “Are you starting a new career as a stove?”
“Yes, he is,” said Dina. “Tonight we’ll cook our meal on top of his head. He has always been a hotheaded fellow.”
It was her own joke that first made Dina consider giving the tailors dinner in the flat that night. Other factors reinforced the idea. It would throw off that rascal Ibrahim completely; the tailors hadn’t gone for lunch, and they wouldn’t emerge for dinner. And besides, Om sitting patiently all day wearing kerosene deserved a reward.
So she chopped another onion and boiled three more potatoes to include them. The breadman arrived at dusk. Instead of two small loaves she bought four. “Maneck, come here,” she called from the kitchen, and took him into her confidence.
“Really? That’s great, Aunty! They’ll be thrilled to eat with us!”
“Who said anything about eating with us? I’m going to put their plates on the verandah.”
“Are you trying to be nice or offensive?”
“What’s offensive about it? It’s a good, clean verandah.”
“Fine. In that case, I’ll also eat on the verandah. I cannot take part in such an insult. My father feeds only stray dogs on the porch.”
She grimaced, and he knew he had won.
Dina remembered the last time all sides of the table had been occupied: on her third wedding anniversary, the night Rustom had been killed, eighteen years ago. She set out four plates and called in the tailors. Their faces plainly showed what an immense honour they considered it.
“You have taken your cure like a good boy,” she said to Om, “and now you get your dinner.” She brought the pot to the table, and a scraped carrot for herself. The tailors regarded her curiously as she bit into it. “You are not the only one taking a home remedy. This is medicine for my eyes. Right, Dr. Mac?”
“Yes, it’s a prescription for improving vision.”
“You know, I’ve grown to like raw carrots. But I hope Om doesn’t get fond of his medicine. Or we’ll have to suffer the kerosene stink every day.”
“But how does it work? Does it poison the lice in my hair?”
“I can tell you,” said Maneck.
“You are a champion fakeologist,” said Om.
“No, listen. First, every little louse soaks itself in the kerosene. Then, in the middle of the night, after you are asleep, Dina Aunty gives each one a tiny matchstick. At the count of three they commit suicide in bursts of tiny flames without hurting you. There’ll be a beautiful halo round your head when it happens.”
“That’s not funny,” said Dina.
“Suicide isn’t supposed to be, Aunty.”
“I don’t want such a subject at dinnertime. Not even as a joke. You shouldn’t even say the word.”
She started eating, and Maneck picked up his fork, winking at Om. The tailors sat motionless, watching the food. When she looked up, they smiled nervously. Exchanging glances, they touched the cutlery, uncertain, hesitating to pick it up.
Dina understood.
How stupid of me, she thought, to set it out tonight. Abandoning her own knife and fork, she used fingers to convey a piece of potato to her mouth. Maneck caught on as well, and the tailors started their meal.
“Very tasty,” said Ishvar, and Om nodded agreement with his mouth full. “You eat bread every day?”
“Yes,” said Dina. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh, it’s very good,” said Ishvar. “No, I was just thinking, must be expensive to buy ready-made bread every day. You don’t get wheat on your ration card?”
“It’s available. But taking it to the mill for grinding, mixing flour, making chapati — that’s too much for me to do. I used to when my husband was alive. Afterwards, I didn’t care. Nothing worse than cooking for just one.” She broke a piece of her loaf to soak up some gravy. “Must be expensive for you also, eating at Vishram.”
Ishvar said yes, it was difficult, especially with having to pay Beggarmaster weekly. “When we had our own place in the colony and a Primus stove, we spent much less, even without the benefit of a ration card. We made chapatis every day.”
“You can buy wheat on my card if you like. I only take rice and sugar.”
“Problem is, where to cook?”
The question was rhetorical, but Maneck had an answer. He let the silence linger over the table for a few moments, then spoke up brightly. “I have a great idea. Ishvar and Om are used to making chapatis, right? And Dina Aunty has all that grain quota on the ration card, right? So you can share the cost of food, and we can eat together. Both sides will save money.”
More than money, it would save trouble with the landlord, thought Dina, by defeating Ibrahim. He could wait twenty-four hours outside the flat and see no one. Nosey neighbours too, if they were planning to snitch to him, get into his good books to solve their own problems. And besides, fresh puris and chapatis were absolutely delicious.
But was this reason enough to get more familiar with the tailors? Was it wise to tamper with the line she had drawn so carefully? “I don’t know,” she said. “Ishvar and Om might not like to have my food every day.”
“Not like? It’s so tasty!” said Om.
She chewed slowly, giving herself time to think. “Well, we can try it for a week.”
“That will be very good,” said Ishvar.
“I’ll make the chapatis,” said Om. “I’m the chapati champion.”
The government truck was delivering fresh stock at the ration shop. Dina and the tailors joined the queue while two coolies unloaded fifty-kilo gunnies upon their backs. Sunlight flashed from the large steel hooks they swung to claw a grip into the burlap. Their dripping sweat, when it chanced to fall upon the beige jute sacking, created dark-brown dots. Inside the shop, the sacks of grain landed neatly in a row, like dead bodies in a morgue, beside the scales hanging from the ceiling by a heavy chain.
“These fellows are taking too long,” said Ishvar, “carrying one at a time. Go on, Om, show them how to carry two.”
“Don’t tease the poor boy,” said Dina, as he pretended to roll up his sleeves. “Why is he so thin anyway? Are you sure he does not have worms?”
“No no, Dinabai, no worms, trust me. Bas, I’ll soon get him married, and his wife’s cooking will put weight on him.”
“He’s too young for marriage.”
“Almost eighteen — that’s not young.”
“Dinabai is right, forget your crazy idea,” scowled Om. “Sour-lime face.”
The line was growing longer. Someone shouted from the back to hurry up, and the banya emerged belligerently, ready to take on the heckler. “Use your sense when you speak! If the truck is not allowed to unload, what am I going to give you? Rocks and sand?”
“That’s what you usually sell us!” the heckler yelled back, and people laughed. “Have you ever tasted your own stock?” He was a small man with a large goitre, which drew the stares of the people in line.
“Aray saala, go! Nobody is forcing you to buy!”
Those near the heckler tried to prevent the argument from overheating. They reminded him it wasn’t wise to
