with the weight of their grief. All he could think of was that first day, when Avinash had appeared at the door with the Flit pump. They had killed cockroaches. They had played draughts. They had told each other their life stories. And now he was dead.
He said goodbye, and proceeded to the technical building. Then he remembered that he still had the chessmen and board. He hurried to the gate. There was no sign of the parents. How stupid of me, he thought, it would have meant so much to them, the remembrance, Avinash’s high-school prize for winning the tournament.
He started walking back aimlessly, and found himself in the hostel lobby again. Then he stopped, and decided: the chess set — somehow he had to give it back to the parents. He felt like a thief, robbing them of a source of comfort. He was adding to their grief, the longer he kept it.
The task of returning the set assumed an overriding urgency, a matter of life and death. He was weeping silently now as he climbed the stairs, watched by a handful of curious students. Someone hooted and shouted something he couldn’t catch. They began chanting: “Baby, baby, don’t cry, Mummy making chilli-fry, Daddy catching butterfly…”
He slipped into his old room and sat down on the musty bed. Maybe there was something in Avinash’s room, in the wastepaper basket, an old envelope or letter with the address. He went to look. Nothing. Not a scrap of paper. The address, he had to find the parents’ address, to send them the set. He could ask around on this floor. But those bastards in the corridor would start their juvenile teasing again, watching him stumbling in and out of rooms, making a fool of himself.
Clutching the box against his chest, he closed his eyes, trying to think calmly. The address. The answer was simple — the warden’s office. Yes, they would have the address. He could mail it to Avinash’s parents.
He opened his eyes and gazed at the maroon plywood box as it swam through his tears. He remembered that day in the canteen: white to play and mate in three — and then the vegetarians vomited. The memory made him smile. Revolution through regurgitation, Avinash had said. And he had asked him to look after the chess set.
And he never asked for it back. His gift. The game of life. To send it back would be wrong. He would keep it. He would keep it now forever.
Dina urged Maneck to stay calm, to mentally recite one Ashem Vahu before reading the exam paper and one more before beginning to write the answers. “I am not a very religious person myself,” she said. “But think of it as insurance. I find it helps. And good luck.”
“Thanks, Aunty.” He opened the door to leave and almost stumbled into Beggarmaster on the other side, his index finger poised to ring the bell.
“Excuse me,” said Beggarmaster. “I have come with very bad news.” He was utterly exhausted, his eyes strained from weeping. “May I please see the tailors?”
“But they left two days ago”
“Oh, of course. I forgot — the wedding.” He looked as though he would collapse.
“Come in,” said Dina.
He stepped onto the verandah and, choking back a sob, revealed that Shankar was dead.
Disbelief, the sort that allowed time to deal with shock, was what Maneck reached for. “But we talked to him three days ago — Ishvar and Om and I, when we went for tea. And yesterday morning he spoke to me about the barber coming. He was hale and hearty, rolling as usual.”
“Yes, till yesterday morning.”
“What happened then?”
“Terrible accident. He lost control of his gaadi. Flew off the pavement … straight into a double-decker bus.” He swallowed and said he hadn’t witnessed it himself but had identified the remains. “With all my years in this profession, my eyes have seen much that is gruesome. But never anything this horrible. Both Shankar and the gaadi were crushed completely — not possible to separate the two. Removing the wood and castors embedded in his flesh would have meant mutilating his poor body still more. It will have to be cremated with him.”
They coped in silence with the grisly picture. Beggarmaster broke down and wept uncontrollably. Attempts to muffle the sobs made him tremble. “I should have told him we were brothers. I waited too long. And now it’s too late. If only he had brakes for his platform … I thought about it once, but the idea seemed silly. He could barely drag it around … not a fast car or something. Maybe I should have taken him off the street.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Dina. “You were trying to do the best for him, as you said.”
“Was I? Did I? How can I be sure?”
“He was such a nice person,” said Maneck. “Ishvar and Om told us how he nursed them when they were sick in that work camp. You never met him, Aunty, but in most ways he was like everyone else. He even made funny jokes sometimes.”
“I feel like I knew him. Ishvar and Om brought his measurements and described him for me, remember? And the special vest I designed for him?”
“That was very kind of you,” said Beggarmaster, in tears again at the thought of how he had lovingly ripped and soiled the garment, customizing it for Shankar’s requirements.
“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked. He nodded, and Maneck fetched it.
Beggarmaster regained his composure after the drink. “I wanted to invite the tailors to Shankar’s cremation. Tomorrow at four o’clock. They were his only friends. There will be plenty of beggars there, but Ishvar and Om would have been special.” He returned the empty glass.
“I’ll go,” said Maneck.
Beggarmaster’s surprise shone through his sorrow. “Will you really? I will be so grateful.” He took Maneck’s hand and shook it. “The funeral procession begins outside Vishram. I thought it a suitable place for everyone to gather — out of respect for Shankar. Don’t you think? His last location?”
“Yes, I’ll meet you there.”
“What about your exam?” asked Dina.
“It finishes at three.”
“Yes, but what about the exam the day after?” She tried to discourage him. The idea of his attending a beggar’s funeral made her uneasy. “Shouldn’t you come straight home and study for it?”
“I will, after going to the cremation.”
“Excuse me for a minute,” she said to Beggarmaster, and retreated inside. “Maneck!” she called from the back room. He shrugged and followed.
“What is this nonsense? Why do you have to go?”
“Because I want to.”
“Don’t give smart answers! You know how that man scares me. The only reason I put up with him is because he protects the flat. No need to get more familiar.”
“I don’t want to argue, Aunty. I am going to the cremation.” His voice was soft, emphasizing each word.
It puzzled Dina that he should feel so intensely about the beggar’s funeral. She attributed his behaviour to the pressure of his final exams. “Fine. I cannot stop you. But if you go, I go with you.” To keep an eye on him if nothing else, she decided.
They returned to the verandah. “We were discussing about tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Both of us will come.”
“Oh, that is wonderful,” said Beggarmaster. “How shall I ever thank you? You know, I was just thinking, in a way it’s good that Ishvar and Om left two days ago. The grief would have ruined the wedding. And marriage is like death, only happens once.”
“How true,” she said. “I wish more people would understand this.” She was surprised that his words so perfectly fitted her feelings on the matter.
Beggarmaster gave everyone the afternoon off to attend the cremation ceremony. The assembly of crippled, blinded, armless, legless, diseased, and faceless individuals on the pavement soon attracted an audience. Onlookers inquired whether some hospital, for lack of space, was conducting an outdoor clinic.
Dina and Maneck joined Beggarmaster having tea inside the Vishram. “Look at that crowd,” he said disgustedly. “They think it’s a circus.”
“And not a single coin are they donating,” said Dina.
