“A thinner curtain would put spice in my life,” said Om. They could hear the gentle tinkling of her bangles.
“Shoosh!” warned Jeevan, snickering. “You will cost me a regular customer.”
The woman’s reappearance made them stumble into a guilty silence. They examined her surreptitiously, glancing sideways with heads lowered. Her sari had been left off the shoulders to permit Jeevan to review the blouse-in-progress. “Arms raised a little, please,” he said, slipping his tape measure under them. Now his tone was clinical, like a doctor asking to see the patient’s tongue.
Between the choli and the waistline her midriff was bare. She was wearing a hipster sari, in the modern fashion, showing her navel. Maneck and Om stared as Jeevan recommended two tucks at the back and a slightly deeper plunge for the neckline. She returned behind the curtain.
Om whispered to Maneck that this was the part he missed the most in working for Dinabai from paper patterns. “It gives me no chance to measure women.”
“As if you could do anything while measuring.”
“You don’t know how much is possible, yaar.” Doing a blouse, especially a tight choli like this one, he said, was heaven, because the tape went over the cups. Passing it around and reaching with the other hand to bring it to the front, you had to stand very close to her. This alone was exciting. Then your fingers held the tape in the hollow between the two breasts — so you didn’t touch her — but it was always possible to graze a little. You had to be careful, and know when to press on. If she shrank as soon as the tape touched, it was dangerous to try anything. But some of them did not mind, and you could tell from their eyes and their nipples whether it was safe to move your fingers about.
“Have you ever done it?”
“Many times. At Muzaffar Tailoring, with Ashraf Chacha.”
“Maybe I really should give up college and become a tailor.”
“You should. It’s more fun.”
Maneck smiled. “Actually, I’m thinking of continuing college after my year is up.”
“Why? I thought you hated it.”
Maneck was silent for a moment, piano-playing on his knuckles. “I got a letter from my parents. Saying how much they are waiting for this year to finish, how lonely they are without me — same old rubbish. When I was there, they said go, go, go. So I’ve decided to write that I want to stay for three more years, do the degree course instead of the one-year diploma.”
“You’re stupid, yaar. In your place, I would return to my parents as early as possible.”
“What’s the point? To argue and fight again with my father? Besides, I’m having fun here now.”
Om inspected his nails and ran a hand through his puff. “If you’re planning to stay, you should change your subject to tailoring, for sure. Because you cannot measure women for refrigerators.” He chuckled. “What are you going to say? ‘Madam, how deep are your shelves?’“
Maneck laughed. “I could ask ‘Madam, may I examine your compressors?’ Or ‘Madam, you need a new thermostat in your thermostat cavity.’“
“Madam, your temperature control knobs require adjustment.”
“Madam, your meat drawer is not opening properly.”
The customer left as they were getting uproarious, and Ishvar said, “Gome on, you two, time to go. What are you laughing so much about, hahn?”
“As if we don’t know,” grinned Jeevan, bidding them good luck and farewell. “Hope you soon find a room.”
During reading week, prior to Manek’s exams, the rent-collector paid an unscheduled afternoon call. The tailors silenced the sewing-machines at the sound of the doorbell.
“How are you, sister?” said Ibrahim, his hand rising fezwards.
“What is it now?” said Dina, barring his way. “Rent is already paid this month.”
“Rent is not the problem, sister.” Shrinking as he spoke, he blurted in one sentence that the office had sent him to deliver a final notice to vacate in thirty days because they had proof that she was using the flat for commercial purposes despite the warning months ago.
“Nonsense! What proof do they have?”
“Why get upset with me, sister,” he pleaded, tapping the notebook in his pocket. “It’s all here — dates, times, coming-going, taxi, dresses. And more proof is sitting in the back room.”
“Back room? You want to show me?” She stood aside and gestured him in.
The outright challenge startled him. He had no choice but to accept. Entering with his head bowed, he made for the sewing room. The tailors, frozen at the Singers, waited nervously, while Maneck watched from his room.
“This is the problem, sister. You cannot hire tailors and run a business here.” He moved his anguished hands to include the other bedroom. “And a paying guest, on top of that. Such insanity, sister. The office will throw you out for sure.”
“You are talking rubbish!” She started the counterattack. “This man,” she said, pointing to Ishvar, “he is my husband. The two boys are our sons. And the dresses are all mine. Part of my new 1975 wardrobe. Go, tell your landlord he has no case.”
It was difficult to say who she shocked more with the apocryphal revelation: Ishvar, blushing and playing with his scissors, or Ibrahim, wringing his hands and sighing.
Pressing home her advantage, she demanded, “You have anything else to say?”
Ibrahim hunched his shoulders till they looked sufficiently supplicatory. “Marriage licence, please? Birth certificates? Can I see, please?”
“My slipper across your mouth is what you will see! How dare you insult me! Tell your landlord, if he does not stop harassing my family, I’ll take him straight to court!”
He retreated, muttering that he would have to make a full report to the office, why abuse him for doing his job, he did not enjoy it any more than the tenants did.
“If you don’t enjoy it, leave it. At your age you shouldn’t have to work anyway. Your children can look after you.”
“I have to work, I am all alone,” he said as the door shut.
The sweetness of her victory faded. She waited, hearing him panting outside, catching his breath before he could set off. In the moment of his brief words, her own life’s lonely, troubled years came rushing back, reminding her how recent and unreliable was the happiness discovered in these last few months.
In the back room Ishvar had recovered from the matrimonial surprise. The boys were chortling away, teasing him about the look on his face. “You keep talking about a wife for me,” said Om. “Instead you got one for yourself.”
“That was an amazing idea, Aunty. Did you plan it in advance?”
“Never mind that, you better plan for your exams.”
College closed for the three-week Divali vacation, and Dina encouraged Maneck to be a tourist. “All this time it’s been home to class and class to home. But there is so much sightseeing in this city. The museum and aquarium and the sculpted caves will fascinate you. Victoria Garden and the Hanging Gardens are also worth visiting, believe me.”
“But I’ve seen them before.”
“When? Years ago, with your mummy? You were just a little baba then, you cannot remember anything. You must go again. And you must also visit your Sodawalla relatives — they are your mummy’s family.”
“Okay,” he said indifferently, and did not stir from the flat.
That week, the first fireworks of Divali were heard. “Hai Ram,” said Ishvar. “What a bombardment.”
“This is nothing,” said Dina. “Wait till the actual date gets closer.”
The noise delayed bedtime by roughly two hours each night, making Maneck’s empty vacation days longer and emptier. To compensate he tried rising late, but the clamorous dawn, filled with clanging milkmen and argumentative crows, was always victorious.
Dina wrote down bus numbers and directions for him. “It’s very easy to find these tourist attractions, you
