These days we can produce faster results.” He had a mouthful of paan, and spoke with difficulty, dark-red trickles escaping the corners of his lips.
“Ishvarbhai, run to the corner!” said Dina. “Fetch the police!”
The bald man blocked the door. Trying to get past him, Ishvar was sent reeling to the other end of the verandah.
“Please, please! No fighting,” said Ibrahim, his white beard trembling with his words.
“If you don’t leave I’m going to start screaming for help,” said Dina.
“If you scream, we’ll make you stop,” said the bald partner in a reassuring tone. He continued to guard the front door while the paanchewing man sauntered into the back room. Ibrahim, Dina, and the tailors followed helplessly. Maneck watched from his room.
The man stood motionless, looking around as though admiring the place. Then he exploded. He picked up one of the stools and began battering the sewing-machines with it. When its wooden legs fell apart, he continued with the second stool till it, too, had shattered.
He tossed it aside, kicked over the Singers, and started to rip the finished frocks stacked on the table, pulling them apart at the seams. He was struggling now — new cloth and fresh stitches did not give easily. “Tear, maaderchod, tear!” he muttered, addressing the dresses.
Ishvar and Om, paralysed up to now, rediscovered movement and rushed to rescue the products of their labour. They were both flung back like bundles of cloth.
“Stop him!” said Dina to Ibrahim, grabbing his arm and pulling, pushing him towards the fray. “You brought these goondas! Do something!”
Ibrahim wrung his hands nervously and decided to gather the wrecked frocks. As fast as the paanchewing man could scatter them, he picked them up, folded the torn pieces, and placed them carefully on the table.
“Need any help?” called the partner from the door.
“No, everything’s fine.” Finished with ripping the dresses, he started on the bolts of cloth, but this time the fabric, in its abundance, refused to tear.
“Set fire to it,” was the bald man’s advice, and he offered his cigarette lighter.
“No!” panicked Ibrahim. “Whole building might burn! Landlord won’t like that!”
The paanchewing man conceded the point. Unfurling the cloth in a heap upon the floor, he sprayed it with the paan juice his mouth had worked up. “There,” he grinned at Ibrahim. “My red nectar is as fiery as flames.”
Pausing to survey the room, he spied the pinking shears that Ashraf Chacha had gifted to the tailors. He examined them. “Nice,” he said appreciatively, and lifted his hand to fling them out the window.
“No!” screamed Om.
The goonda laughed and released the tailors’ dearest possession. The crash of the shears landing on the pavement came through the window as Om rushed at him. The puny attack amused the man before he decided to end it, slapping Om twice, then punching him in the stomach.
“You bastard,” said Maneck. He grabbed the pagoda umbrella hanging from the cupboard and went after Om’s assailant.
“Please! No fighting!” begged Ibrahim. “There is no need for fighting!”
The man took a whack on his shoulder, noticed the steel shaft’s formidable point, and dodged around the fallen sewing-machines. Maneck feinted, relishing his superiority, while the man jerked backwards. He feinted again, and whacked him twice over the head.
The bald man entered the room quietly. Standing behind them, he pulled out a flick-knife and held it open, pointing to the ceiling. Like a film actor, thought Maneck, starting to tremble.
“Okay, batcha,” said the bald man in his soft voice. “Your little fun is over.”
The others turned to look. Dina screamed when she saw the knife, and Ibrahim was furious now. “Put that away! And get out, both of you! Your work is done, I am in charge!”
“Shut up,” said the bald man. “We know our job.” His partner snatched away the umbrella and drove his fist into Maneck’s face. Maneck fell against the wall. Blood trickled from his mouth in a painful reflection of the paan juice oozing from the other’s lips.
“Stop it! I was present when you got your orders! There was nothing about beatings and knives!” The rent- collector stamped his foot and shook his fist.
The impotent rage entertained the bald man. “Are you killing cockroaches with your shoe?” he laughed, feeling the blade with his finger before retracting it. Then he snapped it open again and slashed Dina’s pillows and mattress. He threw them about, watching the stuffing scatter. The sofa cushions in the front room were treated similarly.
“There,” he said. “Now the rest is in your hands, madam. You don’t want us to return with a second notice, do you?”
The other fellow kicked Maneck’s shins in passing. Giving his paan a final workout, he spat on the bed and around it, emptying his mouth over as much of the room as possible. “Are you coming or not?” he asked Ibrahim.
“Later,” he said, frowning angrily at them. “I have not finished.”
The front door closed. Dina regarded the rent-collector with loathing and went to Maneck, where Ishvar was cradling him, holding his head, asking if he was all right. Ibrahim followed close behind, whispering repeatedly, “Forgive me, sister,” like a secret prayer.
Maneck’s nose was bleeding and the upper lip was cut. He checked with his tongue — no teeth were broken. They wiped the blood with scraps lying around the sewing-machines. He tried to mumble something and rose groggily.
“Don’t talk,” said Om, who had got back his wind, “it will bleed more.”
“Thank God the knife wasn’t used,” said Dina.
The sound of shattering glass came from the front room. Ibrahim ran to the verandah. “Stop it, you fools!” he yelled. “What’s the idea? That will only cost the landlord!” A few more stones broke the remaining windowpanes, then there was silence.
They helped Maneck to the basin to wash his face. “I can walk by myself,” he muttered. After cleaning him up a bit, they led him to the sofa with a cloth pressed to his nose.
“What that lip needs is ice,” said Dina.
“I’ll buy some from Vishram,” volunteered Om.
“Not necessary,” said Maneck, but was overruled by the others. A ten-paisa lump would be enough, they decided. Ibrahim quickly fished a coin out of his sherwani and offered it to Om.
“Don’t touch his money!” ordered Dina, fetching her purse. The rent-collector pleaded for its acceptance before dropping the coin back in his pocket.
Waiting for Om to return, they contemplated the damage. Fluff from the shredded cushions floated around, settling slowly to the floor. Dina picked up the slashed casings; she felt dirty, as though the goondas’ hands had molested her own being. The ripped dresses and paan-soiled bolts began bearing down heavily on her. How would she explain to Au Revoir? What could she possibly tell Mrs. Gupta?
“I am finished,” she said, on the verge of tears.
“Maybe the frocks can be repaired, Dinabai,” said Ishvar, making an effort to console her. “And we can wash off the red stuff.”
But his words sounded so hopeless, even to himself, that instead he turned on Ibrahim. “You have no shame? Why are you trying to destroy this poor lady? What kind of monster are you?”
Ibrahim stood contritely, ready to listen. He welcomed the revilement, desired an excess of it, to salve his guilt.
“Your beard is pure white but your heart is rotten,” said Ishvar.
“You wicked, sinful man!” hissed Dina. “A disgrace to old age!”
“Please, sister! I did not know they — ”
“You did this! You brought those goondas!” She shook with fear and rage.
Ibrahim could control himself no longer. Putting his hands over his face, he made a peculiar sound. It was not immediately apparent that he was trying to cry noiselessly. “It’s no use,” his voice broke. “I cannot do this job, I hate it! Oh, what has my life become!” He felt under the sherwani and pulled out his kerchief to blow his nose.
“Forgive me, sister,” he sobbed. “I did not know, when I brought them, that they would do such damage. For
