“Why not?” said Om, on an impulse. “Here, keep this packet — our friend doesn’t need it.”
Ishvar was about to protest, then let it go. Om was right, what did it matter now?
With Shankar’s gratitude thawing the chill of Rajaram’s deed, they walked back to the flat. “I want to throw away all his rubbish from our trunk,” said Ishvar. “God knows where it’s from, how many others he killed.”
That night, when Dina and Maneck were asleep, Ishvar removed the plaits from the trunk and placed them in a small cardboard carton for ultimate disposal. He felt better afterwards, for their clothes were no longer polluted by the madman’s collection.
Noises from the kitchen woke Dina early, well before water time, when the sky was still dark as night. Two months had passed in peace since Beggarmaster had proven his worth, and the flat was back to normal. But drifting half-awake, she was convinced the rattle of pots and pans meant only one thing: the landlord’s goondas were back. Heart pounding, hands heavy with sleep, her fingers pecked at the sheet in a bid to uncover herself.
Then again, maybe it was just a nightmare that would play itself out — if she lay still… kept her eyes closed…
The noises subsided. Good, the strategy was working, no goondas, only a dream, yes, and Beggarmaster was protecting the flat. Nothing to worry about, she felt, floating back and forth over the threshold of slumber.
Eventually, a persistent miaowing pushed her into full wakefulness, and she sat up with a start. Nuisance of a cat! Disentangling herself from the sheet, she got out of bed and blundered into the wooden stools. One fell over with a thud, waking Maneck in the next room, succeeding where the pots and pans had failed.
“Are you all right, Aunty?”
“Yes, it’s a rascal cat in the kitchen. I’m going to break its head. You go back to sleep.”
He found his slippers and followed Dina, as much to make sure she would not really hurt the cat as out of curiosity. She switched on the light, and they saw it dart out the window: his favourite, Vijayanthimala, the brown and white tabby.
“The wicked animal,” she fumed. “God knows what it has been licking with its filthy mouth.”
Maneck examined the chicken wire ripped off the broken windowpane. “It must have been really desperate to do this. Hope it didn’t injure itself.”
“You’re more worried about the dirty beast than the trouble it creates for me.” She began picking up the utensils that had been tumbled from their place and would have to be thoroughly scrubbed.
“Wait,” she stopped. “What’s that sound?”
Hearing nothing, they continued to tidy the kitchen. Moments later she froze again, and this time a feeble whimper threaded its way through the silence. There was no mistaking it, it was in the kitchen.
In the corner, in the hollow where coal fires used to burn for cooking in the old days, lay three brown and white kittens. A chorus of tiny miaows greeted Dina and Maneck as they bent over to look.
“Oh my!” she gasped. “How sweet!”
“No wonder Vijayanthimala was looking fat lately,” he grinned.
The kittens struggled to get to their feet, and she felt she had never seen anything so helpless. “I wonder if she gave birth to them right here.”
He shook his head. “They seem a few days old to me. She must have brought them in during the night.”
“I wonder why. Oh, they are so sweet.”
“Would you still like to make violin strings out of them, Aunty?”
She gave him a reproachful look. But when he stroked them gently she pulled him back. “Don’t touch. How do you know what germs they have?”
“They are only babies.”
“So? They can still carry disease.” She spread open a page from an old newspaper and grasped it in the middle.
“What are you doing?” he asked in alarm.
“Protecting my hands. I’ll place all three right outside the window, where the cat can see them.”
“You can’t do that!” He argued that if the mother had abandoned the kittens they would starve to death. That is, if crows and rats didn’t attack them first, peck out their tiny eyes, tear open the little bodies, rip out their entrails, and gnaw at the delicate bones.
“There’s no need for so many details,” she said. The kittens kept up a pitiful wailing in concurrence with his gruesome scenario. “What do you want to do?”
“Feed them.”
“Out of the question,” she declared — once they were fed, they would never leave. And the mother, even if she were contemplating a return, would shirk her duties. “I cannot be responsible for all the homeless creatures in the world.”
He finally managed to win a reprieve for the kittens. She agreed not to move them for the time being, to give Vijayanthimala a chance to hear her litter calling. Perhaps their cries would persuade her to come back.
“Look,” he pointed outside. “It’s dawn.”
“What a beautiful sky,” she paused, staring dreamily through the window.
The taps began to flow, interrupting her reverie. She hurried to the bathroom while he examined the yard for sleeping cats. He gazed beyond, where the warren of alleys began. In that optimistic first light, the promise of transformation shone down upon the sleeping city. He knew the feeling wouldn’t stay more than a few minutes — he had experienced it before, it always faded under stronger light.
Still, he was grateful while it lasted. When the tailors awoke he told them the news and took them to the kitchen. Their approach caused the steady whimpers to increase in volume.
Dina hustled them out. “With such a big crowd watching, that cat will never return.” Then she went in herself, ostensibly to make tea, and stood in the corner smiling, sighing, watching the kittens wobbling around inside the coal fireplace, clambering over one another, collapsing in a heap. Their mother had chosen the spot well, she thought, the hollow deep enough to keep them from climbing out and wandering.
Not much work was done that morning. Maneck claimed he had no classes till noon. “How convenient,” said Dina, as he kept up his vigil at the kitchen door and reported back with fresh bulletins. The tailors silenced their machines frequently to listen for the kittens.
Time passed, and their wails grew loud enough to be heard over the Singers. “How much they are crying,” said Om. “Must be hungry.”
“Just like human babies,” said Maneck. “They need to be fed regularly.” He watched Dina from the corner of his eye. He knew the whimpering was starting to bother her. She inquired casually if such tiny creatures could tolerate cow’s milk.
“Yes,” he answered promptly. “But diluted with water, or it’s too heavy for them. After a few days they can also eat pieces of bread soaked in it. That’s what my father feeds the puppies and kittens at home.”
For another hour she refused to give in, fending off the pleas from the kitchen. Then, “Oh, it’s hopeless,” she said. “Come on, Mr. Mac, you’re the expert.”
They warmed the mixture of milk and water before pouring it in an aluminium saucer. The squirming kittens were lifted out of the coal fireplace onto newspaper spread upon the floor. “Let me also carry them,” demanded Om, and Maneck let him take the last one.
The three cowered on the paper, unable to stop shivering. Gradually, the smell of milk drew them closer, and they gave a few tentative licks along the rim. Soon they crowded the saucer, lapping furiously. When it was empty they stood with their paws in it and looked up. Maneck refilled it, let them drink again, then removed it.
“Why so stingy?” said Dina. “Give them more.”
“After two hours. They’ll be sick if they overeat.” From his room he fetched an empty cardboard box and lined the bottom with fresh newspaper.
“I won’t have them in the kitchen,” she objected. “It’s unhygienic.”
Om volunteered to keep the box on the verandah.
“Fine,” she said. At night, though, she wanted the kittens returned to the hollow of the fireplace. She was still hoping the mother would retrieve her offspring. The broken windowpane was left unrepaired to welcome back the cat.
For seven nights Dina cleared the kitchen of pots and pans, secured the cabinet, and shut the kitchen door.
