Maneck emptied out the cupboard and folded his clothes into the suitcase. Dina looked in with a word of praise for his quickness. “Can you do me a favour, Maneck?”
He nodded.
“You know the nameplate on the door? Can you get the screwdriver from the kitchen shelf and remove it? I want to take it with me.”
He nodded again.
Ishvar and Om returned with bad news. The nightwatchman had been replaced, and the new man wanted to have nothing to do with the tailors’ old arrangement. In fact, he thought they were trying to take advantage of his inexperience.
“Now I don’t know what to do,” said Ishvar wearily. “We’ll have to go searching street by street.”
“And I’ll have to carry the trunk,” said Om.
“No, you mustn’t,” said Dina. “You’ll hurt your arm again.” She offered to take the trunk with her to Nusswan’s house, pretend it was part of her belongings. The tailors could come to the back door whenever they needed clothes. It was a big house, she said, Nusswan would see nothing, he never went to the kitchen unless he was on one of his inspection and economy rampages.
“Listen, I know where you two can sleep,” said Maneck.
“Where?”
“In my hostel room. You can sneak in at night, and sneak out early every morning. Your trunk can also stay there.”
While they were considering the feasibility of his idea, the doorbell rang. It was Beggarmaster.
“Thank God you’ve come!” Ishvar and Dina rushed to welcome him like a saviour.
It reminded Om of the way Shankar, whimpering on his rolling platform, had fawned over the man when he had appeared at the irrigation project. He squirmed at the memory. How proudly Ishvar and he had proclaimed then to Beggarmaster: We are tailors, not beggars.
“What happened?” asked Dina. “You said you would return yesterday evening.”
“Sorry, I was delayed by an emergency,” he replied, enjoying the attention. He was accustomed to being apotheosized by beggars, but the veneration of normal people was far sweeter.
“This wretched Emergency — creating trouble for everyone.”
“No, not that Emergency,” said Beggarmaster. “I mean a business problem. You see, after I left you yesterday morning, I got a message that two of my beggars, a husband-and-wife team, were found murdered. So I had to rush there.”
“Murdered!” said Dina. “What evil person would kill poor beggars?”
“Oh, it happens. They are killed for their beggings. But this case is very peculiar — money was not touched. Must be some kind of maniac. Only their hair was taken.”
Ishvar and Om started visibly, gulping.
“Hair?” said Dina. “You mean from their heads?”
“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “Cropped right off. Husband and wife both had lovely long hair. Which was very unusual. The lovely part, I mean — most beggars do have long hair, they cannot afford haircuts, but it’s always dirty. These two were different. They used to spend hours cleaning it for each other, picking out the nits, combing it, washing it every time it rained or a water pipe burst on their pavement.”
“How sweet,” said Dina, nodding in empathy with Beggarmaster’s tender description of the loving couple.
“You’d be surprised how much beggars are like ordinary human beings. The result of all their grooming was, of course, this beautiful hair. And it was not good for business. I often told them to mess it up, make it look pathetic. But they would say they had nothing in the world to be proud of except their hair, and was I going to deny them even that?”
He paused, considering the question afresh. “What could I do? I’m softhearted, I gave in. Now those beautiful tresses have cost them their lives. And deprived me of two good beggars.”
He turned to the tailors. “What’s the matter? You both look very upset.”
“No — not upset,” stammered Ishvar. “Just very surprised.”
“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “That’s what the police were as well — surprised. They had been receiving a few complaints, that long plaits and ponytails were disappearing mysteriously. Women would go to the bazaar, do their shopping, go home, look in the mirror and find their hair missing. But never anything like this, no one was ever killed or injured. So the detectives are very interested in my beggars’ case. They love variety. They are calling it the Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide.”
He opened the briefcase secured to his wrist and took out a thick wad of rupees. The chain jangled as he counted the notes. “Getting back to business — here’s the money to cover your damage. You can start working again.”
Ishvar deferred the responsibility of accepting the cash to Dina; his hands were shaking violently.
Clasping two thousand rupees, she still found it hard to believe Beggarmaster had defeated the landlord. “You mean we can stay? It’s really safe?”
“Of course you can stay. I told you there would be no trouble. Those men made a mistake.”
The tailors nodded rapidly to transfer their conviction to Dina. “Only one problem,” said Ishvar. “What if the landlord sends new goondas?”
“While you pay me, the landlord won’t find a single man to come here. I have seen to that.”
“And when the instalments are paid up?”
“That’s up to you. Our contract can always be renewed. I’ll give you good rates, you’re Shankar’s friends. And — oh yes, Shankar sends you his greetings. Says he hasn’t seen you recently.”
“With all this landlord trouble, we haven’t gone to Vishram for a few days,” said Ishvar. “We’ll meet him tomorrow. And, I was wondering, how are Monkey-man and his two children?”
“Good, good — the children I mean. They’re learning fast. Monkey-man I haven’t seen again. I haven’t been back to the work camp. But he was beaten up too badly, probably dead by now.”
“The old woman’s prophecy has almost come true, then,” said Om.
“What prophecy?” asked Beggarmaster.
The tailors described the night in the hutment colony, when Monkey-man had discovered his little monkeys slain by his dog, when the old woman uttered her cryptic words. “I remember exactly what she told us,” said Om. “ ‘The loss of two monkeys is not the worst loss he will suffer; the murder of the dog is not the worst murder he will commit.’ And later, he did kill Tikka to avenge Laila and Majnoo.”
“What a horrible story,” said Dina.
“Pure coincidence,” said Beggarmaster, “I don’t believe in prophecies or superstitions.”
Ishvar nodded. “And are the two children happy without Monkey-man?”
Beggarmaster flipped his unchained hand in a who-knows gesture. “They will have to get used to it. Life does not guarantee happiness.” He raised the same hand in farewell and began walking out the door, then stopped.
“There is something you can do for me. I need two new beggars. If you see someone who qualifies, will you let me know?”
“Sure,” said Ishvar. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”
“But there has to be a unique feature about the candidates. Let me show you.” From the briefcase, he removed a large sketchbook containing his notes and diagrams relating to the dramaturgy of begging. The binding was well-worn, the corners of the pages curling.
He opened the book to an old pencil drawing titled Spirit of Collaboration. “Here’s what I have been trying to create for a long time.”
They crowded around to look at the sketch: two figures, one sitting aloft on the shoulders of the other. “For this, I need a lame beggar and a blind beggar. The blind man will carry the cripple on his shoulders. A living, breathing image of the ancient story about friendship and cooperation. And it will produce a fortune in coins, I am absolutely certain, because people will give not only from pity or piety but also from admiration.” The hitch was in finding a blind beggar who was strong enough or a lame beggar who was light enough.
“Wouldn’t Shankar be suitable?” asked Maneck.
“Without legs, and only quarter thighs, he could never balance upon someone’s shoulders — he would slide
