darkness of Kaliyug.”
“And you tell me I am talking nonsense,” said Om scornfully. “Killing that swine would be the most sensible way to end Kaliyug.”
“Calm down, my child,” said Ashraf. “He who spits paan at the ceiling only blinds himself. For the crimes in this world, the punishment occurs in the Next World.”
Om rolled his eyes. “Yes, definitely. But tell me, how much money can he make from that place? The operation bonus is not very big.”
“Ah, but it’s not his only source. When the patients are brought to the clinic, he auctions them.”
“What does that mean?”
“You see, government employees have to produce two or three cases for sterilization. If they don’t fill their quota, their salary is held back for that month by the government. So the Thakur invites all the schoolteachers, block development officers, tax collectors, food inspectors to the clinic. Anyone who wants to can bid on the villagers. Whoever offers the most gets the cases registered in his quota.”
Ishvar shook his head in despair. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, putting his hands over his ears. “Bas, I don’t want to hear any more of this.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Ashraf. “To listen to the things happening in our lifetime is like drinking venom — it poisons my peace. Every day I pray that this evil cloud over our country will lift, that justice will take care of these misguided people.”
As they were moving away from the building, someone from the Family Planning Centre came to the door. “Please step inside,” he said. “No waiting, doctor is on duty, we can do the operation right away.”
“Keep your hands off my manhood,” said Om.
The fellow started explaining wearily that it was a misconception people had about vasectomy, the manhood was not involved, the doctor did not even touch that part.
“It’s all right,” smiled Ashraf. “We know. The boy is only teasing you.” He waved genially, and they continued on their way.
Outside the ready-made shop, shirt-and-pant combinations flapped on wire hangers, suspended from the awning like headless scarecrows. The main stock was in cardboard boxes on shelves. Having assessed their sizes, the salesman proceeded to display some shirts. Om made a face.
“You don’t like?”
Om shook his head. The man pushed the boxes aside and showed a battery of alternate selections. He watched his customers anxiously.
“That’s a nice one,” said Ishvar, out of consideration for the man. He examined a short-sleeved shirt with checks. “Just like the one Maneck has.”
“Yes, but look how badly the buttons are sewn,” objected Om. “One wash and they will come off.”
“If you like the shirt, take it,” said Ashraf. “I will strengthen the buttons for you.”
“Let me show you more,” said the salesman. “This box has our special patterns, top quality, from Liberty Garment Company.” He fanned out half a dozen specimens along the counter. “Stripes are very popular nowadays.”
Om picked up a light-blue shirt with dark-blue lines and slid off the transparent plastic bag. “Look at that,” he said disgustedly, shaking it open. “The pocket is crooked, the stripes don’t even meet.”
“You are right,” the salesman admitted, uncovering more boxes. “I just sell the clothes, I don’t make them. What to do, no one takes pride in good workmanship anymore.”
“Very true,” said Ishvar. “It’s like that everywhere.”
Lamenting the changing times, it became easier to find acceptable shirts. The man folded their choices along the original creases and slipped them back in the transparent bags. The cellophane crackled opulently. The illusion of value and quality was restored, while string and brown paper secured it in place. He gnawed through the string to sever the required length from the large reel. “Please come back, I will be happy to serve you.”
“Thank you,” said Ashraf.
They stood in the street and debated what to do next. “We could roam in the bazaar,” said Om, “see if there is anyone we know.”
“I have a better plan,” said Ashraf. “Tomorrow is market day. Let’s come in the morning. Everyone from the villages will be here, you will get to meet lots of friends.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Ishvar. “And now let me treat you to paan, before we go home.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve picked up the paan habit,” said Ashraf disapprovingly.
“No no, it’s only because this is a special day, we are seeing you after so long.”
Their mouths bulging with the mixture of betel nut, chunam, and tobacco, they walked back towards Muzaffar Tailoring, passing the Family Planning Centre again, where Ashraf relieved his juice-laden mouth in the ditch and pointed to a parked car. “That’s Thakur Dharamsi’s new motor. He must be inside, counting his victims.”
Ishvar immediately began steering them across the road.
“What are you running for?” said Om. “We don’t have to be scared of that dog.”
“Better to avoid any trouble.”
“I agree,” said Ashraf. “Why see the demon’s face if you can help it?”
Just then, Thakur Dharamsi emerged from the building, and Om strode boldly towards him on a collision course. Ishvar tried to pull him back beside Ashraf Chacha. The smooth leather soles of Om’s sandals slipped on the pavement. He felt foolish. His uncle was winning the tug of war, and his defiance was turning into humiliation before the Thakur.
Om spat.
The arc of red ended several feet short; the sticky juice soaked the earth between them. The Thakur stopped. The two men with him awaited instructions. In their vicinity, people faded like the light, fearful of witnessing what might follow.
The Thakur said very softly, “I know who you are.” He got in the car, slammed the door, and drove off.
The rest of the way home, Ishvar was frantic with rage and anxiety. “You are mad! Bilkool paagal! If you want to die why don’t you swallow rat poison? Have you come for a wedding or a funeral?”
“My wedding, and the Thakur’s funeral.”
“Leave your clever talk! I should give your face one backhand slap!”
“If you hadn’t stopped me, I could have spat over him. Exactly in his face.”
Ishvar raised his hand to strike, but Ashraf made him desist. “What’s happened has happened. We have to stay out of that demon’s way from now on.”
“I’m not scared of him,” said Om.
“Of course you’re not. We just don’t want any trouble to spoil the wedding preparations, that’s all. Our joy doesn’t need to be darkened by that demon’s shadow.”
He had to keep applying his words like balm upon Ishvar’s anguish. But now and again the terror broke through, erupting in a bitter condemnation of his nephew’s stupidity. “Acting like a hero and thinking like a zero. My fault only, for buying paan for you. A bad-tempered owl, as Dinabai used to call you. What has become of your humour and your joking? Without Maneck you have forgotten how to laugh, how to enjoy life.”
“You should have brought him with you, if you think he’s so wonderful. I would have stayed back.”
“You are talking bilkool nonsense. We are here for just a few days. Soon we return to our jobs. You can’t behave sensibly even for this short time?”
“That’s what you said in the city — that we would be there for a short while only, and soon go back to our native place.”
“So? Is it my fault that it’s tougher than we expected, making money in the city?”
Then they abandoned the topic altogether. Quarrelling on would have meant Ashraf Chacha learning about the misery concealed in the details they had spared him.
Market day was noisier than usual because the Family Planning Centre was promoting its sterilization camp from a booth in the square, its loudspeakers at full blast. Banners were strung across the road, exhorting participation in the Nussbandhi Mela. The usual paraphernalia of the fairground — balloons, flowers, soap bubbles, coloured lights, snacks — were employed to lure the townsfolk and visiting villagers. The film songs were interrupted often with announcements about the nation’s need for birth control, the prosperity and happiness in
