join to the growing story of the tailors.
“In those days,” continued Ishvar, “it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain.”
“And later?”
“Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.”
She liked his way of putting it. “You describe it well.”
He chuckled. “Must be my tailor training. Tailors are practised in examining patterns, reading the outlines.”
“And what about you, Om? Did you also help your mother to collect grain?”
“No.”
“He didn’t need to,” added Ishvar. “By the time he was born, his father — my brother — was doing well in tailoring.”
“But he still sent me to learn about the stinking leather,” said Om.
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Maneck.
“There are many things I haven’t told you. Have you told me everything?”
“Learning about leather was to build character,” explained Ishvar. “And to teach Om his history, remind him of his own community.”
“But why did he need reminding?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell us,” said Dina and Maneck, in unintentional unison, which made them laugh.
“In our village we used to be cobblers,” began Ishvar.
“What he means is,” interrupted Om, “our family belonged to the Chamaar caste of tanners and leather- workers.”
“Yes,” said Ishvar, taking the reins again, “a long time ago, long before Omprakash was born, when his father, Narayan, and I were young boys of ten and twelve, we were sent by our father, whose name was Dukhi, to be apprenticed as tailors…”
“Teach me how to use them,” said Om.
“What?”
“The knife and fork.”
“Okay,” said Maneck. “First lesson. Elbows off the table.”
Ishvar nodded approvingly. He commented that it would impress everyone and increase Om’s worth when they went back to the village to find him a wife. “Eating with fancy tools — that’s a great skill, like playing a musical instrument.”
Dina’s quilt started to grow again. With the tailors sailing vigorously through Au Revoir’s export orders, remnants piled up like the alluvial deposits of a healthy river. She sat with the patches after dinner, selecting and blending the best of the recent acquisitions.
“These new pieces are completely different in style from the old ones,” said Maneck. “You think they will look all right?”
“The counterpane critic is starting again,” she groaned.
“Squares and triangles and polygons,” said Om. “They are a bit confusing, for sure.”
“It will look beautiful,” said Ishvar with authority. “Just keep connecting patiently, Dinabai — that’s the secret. Ji-hahn, it all seems meaningless bits and rags, till you piece it together.”
“Exactly,” she said. “These boys don’t understand. By the way, there is lots of cloth in the cupboard, if you also want to make something.”
Ishvar thought of Shankar — it would be nice to present him with a new vest. He described the problem to Dina: the amputated lower half, where nothing would stay put, neither a loincloth nor underwear nor pants, because of his constant squirming and manoeuvring on the platform. And once the garment had slipped off his waist, he was helpless until Beggarmaster came on his rounds.
“I think I have the answer,” said Dina. She found her old school bathing-costume, a one-piece, and explained its design. Copying it would be easy, with a few modifications such as adding sleeves, a collar, and buttons along the front.
“Your idea is bilkool first class,” said Ishvar.
He set aside sections of light-brown poplin, and next afternoon took his tape measure to the Vishram. Blowing on their tea saucers, Om and he watched through the window. Shankar was trying out a new routine on the pavement.
The ever-innovative Beggarmaster had lengthened the platform by attaching an extension. Shankar lay flat on his back, waving his thigh stumps in the air. His testicles dribbled out of the swaddling cloth during the turbulence. He kept tucking them back, but it required an arduous stretch to accomplish, and after a while he let the scrotum hang.
“O babu ek paisa day-ray,” he sang, rattling the begging tin on the first and third beats. It rested on his forehead between his fingerless palms. When he got tired he set it beside his head, leaving the hands free to wave like the thigh stumps.
He was sitting up by the time the tailors finished their tea. The view from the supine position was new for him, and he could only take it in small doses, spending the minutes in dread, afraid that somebody would step on him. Rush hour, when the hordes swept over the pavement, was a period of sheer terror.
Seeing Ishvar and Om emerge, he rowed his platform in from the kerb to chat with them.
“New improved gaadi, hahn Shankar?”
“What to do, have to keep the public satisfied. Beggarmaster thought it was time for variety. He has been very kind since we came back from that horrible place. Even nicer than before. And he does not call me Worm anymore, uses my real name, just like you.”
He was excited by their plans to design a vest uniquely for him. The three moved into the privacy of the Vishram’s back alley where Ishvar could take some measurements.
“Must be nice for you,” said Om. “Being able to sleep on the job now.”
“You have no idea what a paradise it is,” said Shankar slyly. “It’s been only three days, and the things I’ve seen. Especially when the skirts go floating over my head.”
“Really?” Om was envious. “What do you see?”
“Words are too weak to describe the ripeness, the juiciness, of what my eyes have feasted on.”
“Maybe my nephew would like to take your place on the gaadi for a day or two,” said Ishvar drily.
“First he would have to do something about his legs,” said Shankar, relishing his touch of black humour. “I know — just stop paying Beggarmaster. That will automatically produce broken limbs.”
The gift was ready the next day, and when the tailors went out in the evening to continue their search for accommodation, they stopped by Shankar’s pavement. They wanted to take him to the alley and help him into the vest to check the fit, but he was a little doubtful. “Beggarmaster would not like that,” he said.
“Why?”
“The new cloth looks too good.” He preferred not to wear it till it had been approved.
They went away disappointed, taking with them the parcel of hair from under Shankar’s platform. For quite some time there had been nothing from the hair-collector, but in the last few days his deliveries had become regular. Their trunk was filling up.
“If long hair is very rare, how is Rajaram suddenly collecting so much of it?” wondered Om.
“I’m not going to bother my head with that fellow’s hair.”
The following week, the tailors finally saw the beggar dressed in their gift. It was hard to recognize at first, for Beggarmaster had modified the brown poplin. Soiled all over, with a hole torn into the front, the garment was now suitable for Shankar.
“That bastard Beggarmaster,” said Om. “Wrecking our creation.”
“Don’t judge him by your clothes,” said Ishvar. “You wouldn’t go to work for Dinabai wearing a tie-collar or a big wedding turban, would you?”
