XI. The Bright Future Clouded
AFTER THE VERANDAH’S SECURITY and comfort had blunted the urgency for new accommodation, the tailors’ evening excursions in search of a room to rent became a halfhearted exercise. Ishvar felt a little guilty about this, felt they were taking advantage of Dina’s hospitality, now entering its third month. To assuage his conscience, he got into the habit of describing the failures for her in minute detail: the places they visited, the chawls and kholis and sheds they inspected, and how narrowly they missed out.
“So disappointing,” he said, on more evenings than one. “Just ten minutes before we got there, someone took the room. And such a nice room too.”
But time had tranquillized Dina’s worries about the landlord. She was quite content to let the tailors continue sleeping on the verandah. No one could have told her otherwise, not even Zenobia, who was horrified to discover their trunk and bedding there when she dropped in one evening.
“This is dangerous,” she warned. “You are playing with fire.”
“Oh, nothing will happen,” said Dina confidently. She had repaid Nusswan’s loan, there had been no more bother from the rent-collector, and the sewing was proceeding faster than ever.
The fearfully anticipated strike at Au Revoir Exports was also averted, which Mrs. Gupta celebrated as a triumph of good over evil. “The corporation has its own musclemen now,” she explained to Dina. “It’s a case of our goondas versus their goondas. They deal with the union crooks before they can start trouble or lead the poor workers astray. Mind you, even the police support us. Everybody is fed up with the nuisance of unions.”
The tailors rejoiced when Dina brought home the good news. “Our stars are in the proper position,” said Ishvar.
“Yes,” she said. “But it’s more important that your stitches be in the proper position.”
Ishvar and Om usually set off on their housing hunt after dinner, and sometimes before, if they were not cooking that day. She wished them good luck, but always added “See you back soon,” and meant it. Maneck frequently went along. Left alone, her eyes kept turning to the clock as she awaited their return.
And when the evening’s wanderings were later reported to her, her advice was: “Don’t rush into anything.” It would be foolish, she said, to pay a premium for a place which might be demolished again because it was illegally constructed. “Better to save your money and get a proper room that no one can throw you out of. Take your time.”
“But you don’t accept rent from us. How long can we burden you like this?”
“I don’t feel any burden. And neither does Maneck. Do you, Maneck?”
“Oh yes, I have a big burden. My exams are coming.”
“The other problem is,” continued Ishvar, “my dear nephew cannot get married until we have our own place.”
“Now that’s something I can’t help you with,” said Dina.
“Who said I wanted to marry?” scowled Om, while she and Ishvar exchanged parental smiles.
A tip about a possible half-room in the northern suburbs led them to the neighbourhood where they had searched for work on first arriving in the city. By the time they reached the location, the place had already been rented. They happened to be passing Advanced Tailoring Company, and decided to say hello to Jeevan.
“Ah, my old friends are back,” Jeevan greeted them. “With a new friend. Is he also a tailor?”
Maneck smiled and shook his head.
“Ah, never mind, we’ll soon turn you into one.” Then Jeevan waxed nostalgic about the time the three tailors had worked round the clock to meet the by-election deadline. “Remember, we made a hundred shirts and hundred dhotis, for that fellow’s bribes?”
“Felt like a thousand,” said Om.
“I found later that he had parcelled out work to more than two dozen tailors. He gave away five thousand shirts and dhotis.”
“Where do these rascal politicians get the money?”
“Black money, what else — from businessmen needing favours. That’s how the whole licence-permit-quota raj works.”
It turned out, however, that the candidate was defeated, despite distributing the garments among his most important constituents, because the opposition kept making clever speeches: that there was no crime in using empty hands to accept fine gifts, as long as wise heads prevailed at voting time.
“He tried to blame me for losing. That the voters rejected him because the clothes were badly stitched. I said, bring it and show me. I never saw him again.” Jeevan cleared his work from the counter and brushed fluff off his shirt front. “Come, sit, drink a little tea with me.”
The invitation to sit was only a figure of speech. The clutter in the tiny shop made it difficult to take literally. Renovations had been performed since the tailors were last here, and the rear had been partitioned to include a curtained booth for trial fittings. Ishvar accepted a saucer of tea at the counter; Jeevan sipped from the cup. The boys took theirs to the outside steps, to share.
It turned out to be a busy evening for Advanced Tailoring. “You have brought me good luck,” said Jeevan. A family came to order outfits for their three little daughters, the mother proudly carrying the bundle of fabric under her arm, the father frowning fiercely. They wanted a blouse and long skirt for each child, in time for Divali.
Strumming his lips with one finger, Jeevan pretended to study his order book. “That’s only a month away,” he complained. “Everybody is in a hurry.” He hummed and hawed, produced dentilingual clicks, then said it was possible, but only just.
The little girls hopped on their toes with relief and excitement. The fierce father snapped at them to stand still or he would break their heads. His family paid no attention to the excessive threat. They were used to this paternal aberration of speech.
Jeevan measured the cloth, a polyester design of peacocks. He frowned grimly, measured again, and pronounced, strumming his lips, that it was insufficient for three blouses and three long skirts. The children were ready to cry.
“The bowlegged bastard is lying,” whispered Om to Maneck. “Watch now.”
He measured a third time and said, with the air of a philanthropist, that there was another option. “It will be very difficult, but I can make knee-length frocks.”
The parents desperately seized the alternative, requesting Jeevan to go ahead. He flapped his tape in the air and invited the children forward for measurements. They stood stiffly, like a puppeteer’s dolls, turning, raising their heads, lifting their arms with frozen joints.
“The crook will swipe at least three yards from it, maybe four,” murmured Om, vacating the steps to let the family depart. The three little girls complained softly that they wanted long skirts so, so much. Their father hugged them affectionately, threatening to knock their teeth out if they didn’t behave themselves, and the happy family disappeared down the footpath.
Jeevan folded the cloth and tucked the page with the children’s measurements inside it. “We tailors have to make a living, no?” He sought approval for his performance.
Ishvar nodded in a non-committal manner.
“These customers — always expecting too much from us,” Jeevan tried again, hiding poorly behind banalities.
He was plucked out of his awkward moment by the appearance of another client. The woman, scheduled for a trial fitting, was handed the preliminary framework of her silk choli. She disappeared into the booth, drawing the curtain shut.
Maneck nudged Om, and they turned to watch. The swaying curtain settled a few inches from the floor, where the woman’s sari could be seen caressing her sandalled feet. Jeevan wagged a finger at them, then leered at the booth himself.
