“It’s a strange thing. When my Mumtaz was alive, I would sit alone all day, sewing or reading. And she would be by herself in the back, busy cooking and cleaning and praying. But there was no loneliness, the days passed easily. Just knowing she was there was enough. And now I miss her so much. What an unreliable thing is time — when I want it to fly, the hours stick to me like glue. And what a changeable thing, too. Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl’s hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.” He sighed and smiled sadly. “But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.”
A clutter of troublesome feelings filled Ishvar — guilt, sorrow, the foreboding of old age waiting to waylay his own future. He wished he could assure Ashraf Chacha that they would not leave him alone again. Instead he said, “We would like to visit Mumtaz Chachi’s grave.”
The request pleased Ashraf greatly. “Her anniversary date is next week. We can go together. But you have come a long way for a joyous occasion. Let us talk about that now.”
He was determined not to let the sad news dampen their spirits. He explained that preliminary meetings with each of the four families were three days away. “Some of them were worried at first. I, a Muslim, making arrangements for you, nah.”
“How dare they,” said Ishvar indignantly. “Didn’t they know we are one family?”
“Not at first,” said Ashraf. But others who were aware of the longstanding ties between them had explained there was no cause for concern. “So it’s fixed now. The bridegroom must be anxious,” he prodded Om’s stomach playfully. “You will have to be patient a little longer. Inshallah, everything will go well.”
“I’m not worried,” said Om. “So tell me what’s new. Anything in town?”
“Not much. A Family Planning Centre has opened. I don’t think you would be interested in that,” he chuckled. “And everything else, good or bad, has remained the same.”
A surge of excitement quickened Om’s steps as their street came into view, and then the signboard of Muzaffar Tailoring. He walked ahead, greeting the hardware-store owner, the banya, the miller, the coal-merchant, who leaned out from their doorways and bubbled good wishes and blessings for the auspicious event.
“Let me know when you are hungry,” said Ashraf. “I have cooked some dal and rice. I also have your favourite mango achaar.”
Om licked his lips. “It’s such fun to be back.”
“It’s good to have you back.”
“Yes,” said Ishvar. “You know, Chachaji, Dinabai is very nice, and we get along very well now, but here it’s different. This is home. Here I can relax more. In the city, every time I go out anywhere, I feel a little scared.”
“What, yaar, you’re simply letting all those troubles haunt you. Forget them now, it was a long time ago.”
“Troubles?”
“Nothing much,” said Ishvar. “We’ll tell you later. Come, let’s eat before the rice and dal becomes dry.”
They sat in the shop, talking till late in the night, Ishvar and Om taking care to soften the details of their trials. They did this instinctively, wishing to spare Ashraf Chacha the pain, seeing how he winced in empathy with everything they described.
Around midnight Om began nodding off, and Ashraf suggested they go to bed. “My old head could stay up listening all night, it has not much need of sleep. But you two must rest.”
Ishvar moved aside the chairs to make space for bedding on the floor. Ashraf stopped him. “Why here? There is just me upstairs. Come on.” They climbed the steps from the shop to the room above. “What life there was in this place once. Mumtaz, my four daughters, my two apprentices. What fun we had together, nah?”
He got extra sheets and blankets from a trunk smelling of naphthalene. “My Mumtaz packed it all away after our daughters married and left. She was so careful — every year she would air it out, and put in new mothballs.”
Om was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. “Reminds me of you and Narayan,” whispered Ashraf. “When you first came here as little boys, remember? You would go down to the shop after dinner and spread your mats. You would fall asleep so peacefully, as though it was your own house. You could have paid me no greater compliment.”
“The way you and Mumtaz Chachi looked after us, it felt like our own house.” They reminisced a few minutes longer before switching off the light.
Ashraf wanted to present new shirts to Ishvar and Om. “We’ll go for them this afternoon,” he said.
“Hoi-hoi, Chachaji. That’s too much to take from you.”
“You want to cause me unhappiness, refusing my gift?” he protested. “For me, too, Om’s marriage is very important. Let me do what I want to do.” The shirts were to wear at the four bride-viewing visits. The wedding garments would be negotiated later, with the family of the girl they selected.
Ishvar relented, but on one condition — that he and Om would help him make the shirts. Chachaji toiling alone at the sewing-machine was out of the question.
“But nobody needs to sew,” said Ashraf. “There is the new ready-made shop in the bazaar. The one that stole our customers. How can you forget? That shop was the reason you had to leave.”
He told them about the faithful clients who, one by one, had abandoned Muzaffar Tailoring, including those whose families had been customers since his father’s time. “The loyalty of two generations has vanished like smoke on a windy day, by the promise of cheaper prices. Such a powerful devil is money. Good thing you left when you did, there is no future here.”
It was not long before Om brought up the other, always unspoken, reason for their flight to the city. “What about Thakur Dharamsi? You haven’t mentioned him. Is that daakoo still alive?”
“The district has put him in charge of Family Planning.”
“So what is his method? Does he murder babies, to control the population?”
His uncle and Ashraf Chacha exchanged uneasy glances.
“I think our people should get together and kill that dog.”
“Don’t start talking nonsense, Omprakash,” warned Ishvar. His nephew’s old unhappy rage seemed to be on the verge of returning, and it worried him.
Ashraf took Om’s hand. “My child, that demon is too powerful. Since the Emergency began, his reach has extended from his own village to all the way here. He is a big man now in the Congress Party, they say he will become a minister in the next elections — if the government ever decides to have elections. Nowadays, he wants to look respectable, avoids any goonda-giri. When he wants to threaten someone, he doesn’t send his own men, he just tells the police. They pick up the poor fellow, give him a beating, then release him.”
“Why are we wasting our time talking about that man?” said Ishvar angrily. “We are here for a joyous occasion, we have nothing to do with him, God will deal with Thakur Dharamsi.”
“Exactly,” said Ashraf. “Come on, let’s go buy the shirts.” He hung out a sign that the shop would reopen at six. “Not that it matters. Nobody comes.” He struggled with the steel collapsibles, and Om went to help. The grating stuck in its track, demanding to be reversed, shaken loose, coaxed forward.
“Needs oiling,” he panted. “Like my old bones.”
They took the dirt road to the bazaar, treading the hard, dry earth past grain sheds and labourers’ hovels. Their sandals crunched lightly and kicked up tiny tongues of dust.
“How was the rain in the city?”
“Too much,” said Ishvar. “Streets were flooded many times. And here?”
“Too little. The devil held his umbrella over us. Let’s hope he shuts it this year.”
The way to the clothes shop led past the new Family Planning Centre, and Om slowed down, peering inside. “You said Thakur Dharamsi is in charge here?”
“Yes, and he makes a lot of money out of it.”
“How? I thought government pays the patients to have the operation.”
“The rogue puts all that cash in his own pocket. The villagers are helpless. Complaining only brings more suffering upon their heads. When the Thakur’s gang goes looking for volunteers, the poor fellows quietly send their wives, or offer themselves for the operation.”
“Hai Ram. When a demon like this is allowed to prosper, the world must really be passing through the
