“Whose funeral is it?”
“A beggar’s.”
He began to laugh, then stopped and came out of the car. “Don’t make jokes about serious matters.” Must be a fairly important person, he imagined, to have a police escort. Some high-up from the Au Revoir corporation, maybe — chairman or managing director. “Come on, stop teasing, who is it?”
“I told you. It’s a beggar.”
Nusswan opened and shut his mouth: opened, in exasperation, then shut, in horror, becoming aware of the procession’s character. He realized she was not joking.
Now the mouth was open again, in speechlessness, and Dina said, “Shut it, Nusswan, or a fly will get in.”
He shut it. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. “I see,” he said slowly. “And all these beggars are — friends of the deceased?”
She nodded.
A dozen questions crossed his mind: Why a funeral for a beggar? With a police escort? And why was she attending, and Maneck? Who was paying for it? But the answers could wait till later. “Get in,” he ordered, opening the car door.
“What do you mean, get in?”
“Come on, don’t argue. Get in, both of you. I’m taking you back to your flat.” His list of grievances, compiled over thirty years, flashed through his mind. And now this. “You’re not walking another step in the procession! Of all things — going to a beggar’s funeral! How low can you sink? What will people say if they see my sister — ”
Beggarmaster and the commanding officer approached them. “Is this man bothering you?”
“Not at all,” said Dina. “He’s my brother. He is just offering condolences for Shankar’s death.”
“Thank you,” said Beggarmaster. “May I invite you to join us?”
Nusswan faltered. “Uh … I’m very busy. Sorry, another time.” He slipped inside the car, hurriedly pulling the door shut.
They waved and went to regain their places, not that there was much catching up to do; the column had barely moved another dozen metres. Beggarmaster went to the front and reshouldered the bier from one of the railway porters.
“That was fun,” said Dina to Maneck. “He’ll be having bad dreams tonight, I think. Nightmares of funeral pyres — his reputation going up in smoke.”
Maneck smiled, but his thoughts were of the other cremation, three days ago. Where he should have been. Where the generational order of dying was out of joint. Avinash’s hollow-cheeked father would have lit the pyre. Crackle of kindling. Smoke smarting the eyes. And fingers of fire teasing, playing, tickling the corpse. Causing it to arch, as though trying to sit up … a sign, they said, the spirit protesting. Avinash used to often arch like that when playing chess, lying back, almost flat on the bed, turning his head sideways, contemplating the board. Rising on his elbow to reach the piece, to make his move.
Checkmate. And then the flames.
Time passed slowly, as though it had lost interest in the world. Dina dusted the furniture and the Singers in the corner of the room. Nothing so lifeless as silent sewing-machines, she thought.
She busied herself with the quilt again. Straightening a seam, trimming a patch, adjusting what did not look right to her eye. The afternoon sun through the ventilator glass dappled the squares in her lap.
“Move it a little to your left, Aunty,” said Maneck.
“Why?”
“I want to see how the yellow bit looks with circles of sunlight.”
Clicking her tongue, she obliged.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“Remember how doubtful you were the first time you saw it?”
He laughed self-deprecatingly. “I had no experience with colours and designs in those days.”
“And now you are a big expert, right?” She hauled the opposite corner into her lap.
“Will you spread it on your bed when it’s done?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to sell it then, Aunty?”
She shook her head. “Can you keep a secret? It’s going to be Om’s wedding gift.”
He couldn’t have been more pleased if he had thought of it himself. His face went soft, touched by her intention.
“Don’t look so hurt,” she said. “I’ll make one for your wedding as well.”
“I’m not hurt, I think it’s a superb idea.”
“But don’t go blabbing to Ishvar and Om the minute you see them again. I’ll finish it when tailoring resumes, after we get new cloth from Au Revoir. Not a word till then.”
Maneck’s exams concluded; he felt he had done quite badly on most of them. He prayed that the marks would at least be good enough to get him into the three-year degree programme.
Dina asked how he had fared, and he answered “Fine.”
She heard the lack of conviction in his voice. “We’ll have to wait for the results, to see how fine.”
On the last evening, goaded by Dina, he surrendered to the pleas in his mother’s letter and finally went to visit his relatives. He spent two hours enduring the gushing Sodawalla family and fending off a dozen different types of snacks and cold drinks. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”
“Next time, you must come with an empty stomach,” they said. “We want the pleasure of feeding you.” They put away the snacks and tried to make him join them for a cinema show and late dinner, inviting him to stay the night.
“Please excuse me, I should leave now,” said Maneck when he felt he had done his time. “I have to start early tomorrow.”
Back in Dina’s flat, he accused her of ruining his evening. “I’m never going again, Aunty. They talk nonstop, and behave like silly children.”
“Don’t be mean, they are your mother’s family.”
She helped to take down his empty suitcase from the top of the cupboard, then dusted it for him. Watching him pack, she interrupted often with advice, reminders, instructions: don’t forget, take this, do that. “And most of all, be nice to your parents, don’t get into any arguments with them. They have missed you so much this year. Enjoy your vacation.”
“Thank you, Aunty. And please don’t forget to feed the cats.”
“Oh yes, I’ll feed them. I’ll even cook their favourite dishes. Shall I serve with cutlery, or do they eat with fingers?”
“No, Aunty, save the cutlery for your daughter-in-law. She’ll be here in three weeks.”
She threatened to spank him. “Trouble is, your mother didn’t do it often enough when you were small.”
Early next morning he hugged her and was gone.
The return of solitude was not quite as Dina expected it to be. These many years I made a virtue of inescapable reality, she thought, calling it peace and quiet. Still, how was it possible to feel lonely again after living alone most of her life? Didn’t the heart and mind learn anything? Could one year do so much damage to her resilience?
For the umpteenth time she consulted the dates on the calendar: three weeks before Ishvar and Om returned; and then three more, for Maneck.
The days shuffled along unhurriedly. She decided this was a good opportunity to give the flat a thorough going-over. In every room she heard the echoes of the tailors’ tireless banter, haunting her while she scoured the kitchen, swept the ceilings with the long-handled broom, cleaned the windows and ventilators, washed all the floors.
In Maneck’s room she found his friend’s chess set in the cupboard. To be returned when college reopens, she assumed.
