pushed into a corner and the stools stacked on top, which provided more room around the bed. The tailors’ trunk, packed and ready, stood on the verandah. The things they were not taking were stored in cardboard boxes.
With two days to departure and nothing to do, the passing hours had a strangeness to them, loose and unstructured, as though the stitches were broken, the tent of time sagging one moment, billowing the next.
After dinner Dina resumed work on the quilt. Except for a two-square-foot gap at one end, it had grown to the size she wanted, seven by six. Om sat on the floor, massaging his uncle’s feet. Watching them, Maneck wondered what it might be like to massage Daddy’s feet.
“That counterpane looks good, for sure,” said Om. “Should be complete by the time we return.”
“Could be, if I add more pieces from old jobs,” she said. “But repetition is tedious. I’ll wait till there is new material.” They took opposite ends of the quilt and spread it out. The neat stitches crisscrossed like symmetrical columns of ants.
“How beautiful,” said Ishvar.
“Oh, anyone can make a quilt,” she said modestly. “It’s just scraps, from the clothes you’ve sewn.”
“Yes, but the talent is in joining the pieces, the way you have.”
“Look,” Om pointed, “look at that — the poplin from our first job.”
“You remember,” said Dina, pleased. “And how fast you finished those first dresses. I thought I had found two geniuses.”
“Hungry stomachs were driving our fingers,” chuckled Ishvar.
“Then came that yellow calico with orange stripes. And what a hard time this young fellow gave me. Fighting and arguing about everything.”
“Me? Argue? Never.”
“I recognize these blue and white flowers,” said Maneck. “From the skirts you were making on the day I moved in.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it was the day Ishvar and Om did not come to work — they had been kidnapped for the Prime Minister’s compulsory meeting.”
“Oh, that’s right. And do you recall this lovely voile, Om?”
He coloured and pretended he didn’t. “Come on, think,” she encouraged. “How can you forget? It’s the one on which you spilled your blood, when you cut your thumb with the scissors.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Maneck.
“It was in the month before you came. And the chiffon was fun, it made Om lose his temper. The pattern was difficult to match, so slippery.”
Ishvar leaned over to indicate a cambric square. “See this? Our house was destroyed by the government, the day we started on this cloth. Makes me feel sad whenever I look at it.”
“Get me the scissors,” she joked. “I’ll cut it out and throw it away.”
“No no, Dinabai, let it be, it looks very nice in there.” His fingers stroked the cambric texture, recapturing the time. “Calling one piece sad is meaningless. See, it is connected to a happy piece — sleeping on the verandah. And the next square — chapatis. Then that violet tusser, when we made masala wada and started cooking together. And don’t forget this georgette patch, where Beggarmaster saved us from the landlord’s goondas.”
He stepped back, pleased with himself, as though he had elucidated an intricate theorem. “So that’s the rule to remember, the whole quilt is much more important than any single square.”
“Vah, vah!” exclaimed the boys with a round of applause.
“That sounds very wise,” said Dina.
“But is it philosophy or fakeology?”
Ishvar rumpled his nephew’s hair in retaliation.
“Stop it, yaar, I’ve got to look good for my wedding.” Om pulled out his comb and restored the parting and puff.
“My mother collects string in a ball,” said Maneck. “We used to play a game when I was little, unravelling it and trying to remember where each piece of string came from.”
“Let’s try that game with the quilt,” said Om. He and Maneck located the oldest piece of fabric and moved chronologically, patch by patch, reconstructing the chain of their mishaps and triumphs, till they reached the uncompleted corner.
“We’re stuck in this gap,” said Om. “End of the road.”
“You’ll just have to wait,” said Dina. “It depends on what material we get with the next order.”
“Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past.”
Ishvar’s lighthearted words washed over Maneck like cold rain; his joy went out like a lamp. The future
“Are you listening?” asked Dina. “How strong is your memory? Can you remember everything about this one year without looking at my quilt?”
“Seems much longer than one year to me,” said Om.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Maneck. “It’s just the opposite.”
“Hoi-hoi,” said Ishvar. “How can time be long or short? Time is without length or breadth. The question is, what happened during its passing. And what happened is, our lives have been joined together.”
“Like these patches,” said Om.
Maneck said the quilt did not have to end when the corner was filled in. “You could keep adding, Aunty, let it grow bigger.”
“Here you go again, talking foolishly,” said Dina. “What would I do with a monster quilt like that? Don’t confuse me with your quiltmaker God.”
In the midst of the morning Dina was becalmed. The water chores were done, last night’s dishes were scrubbed, clothes were washed. Without the chatter and hammer of the Singers, the rest of the day stretched emptily. She sat and watched Maneck eat a late breakfast.
“You should have gone with Ishvar and Om,” he tried to cheer her up. “You could have helped to choose the wife.”
“Are you being smart again?”
“No, I’m sure they’d have been happy to take you. You could have joined the Bride Selection Committee.” He choked on his toast, retaining the morsel with difficulty.
She patted his back till the fit passed. “Weren’t you taught not to speak with your mouth full?”
“It’s Ishvar in my throat,” he grinned. “Taking revenge because I am making fun of his auspicious event.”
“Poor man. I just hope he knows what he is doing. And I hope that whoever they pick, she tries to fit in, get along with all of us.”
“I’m sure she will, Aunty. Om is not going to get a bad-tempered or unfriendly wife.”
“Oh, I know. But he may not have a choice. In these arranged marriages, astrologers and families decide everything. Then the woman becomes the property of the husband’s family, to be abused and bullied. It’s a terrible system, turns the nicest girls into witches. But one thing she will have to understand it’s my house, and follow my ways, like you and Ishvar and Om. Or it will be impossible to get along.”
She stopped, realizing she was sounding like a mother-in-law. “Come on, finish that egg,” she changed the subject. “Your final exams begin tomorrow?”
He nodded, chewing. She began to clear the breakfast things. “And five days later you leave. Have you made your reservation?”
“Yes, it’s all done,” he said, gathering his books for the library. “And I’ll be back soon, don’t give away my room to anyone, Aunty.”
The mail arrived, with an envelope from Maneck’s parents. He opened it, handed the rent cheque to Dina, then read the letter.
“Mummy-Daddy are all right, I hope?” she said, watching his face start to cloud.
