store for those willing to be sterilized, the generous bonuses for vasectomies and tubectomies.
“Where will they perform the operations?” wondered Om. “Right here?”
“Why? You want to watch or what?” said Ishvar.
Ashraf said the Centre usually erected tents outside town. “They set it up like a factory. Cut here, snip there, a few stitches — and the goods are ready to be shipped.”
“Sounds just like the tailoring business, yaar.”
“Actually, we tailors take more pride in our work. We show more consideration for fabric than these monsters show for humans. It is our nation’s shame.”
Not far from the birth-control booth was a man selling potions for the treatment of impotency and infertility. “The quack is getting a bigger crowd than the government people,” said Ishvar.
The man, his hair combed out in a black shiny halo, wore an animal pelt over his shoulders. His chest was bare, and a tight thong cutting into his upper right arm made his veins stand out in a show of power all the way along his limb. He brandished his muscular forearm, engorged and hard, whenever some reproductive matter needed graphic illustrating.
Spread out on a mat before him were several jars containing herbs and chunks of bark. And lest these be mistaken for the trappings of an insipid apothecary, he had interspersed among them an assortment of dead lizards and snakes, to imbue the display with a feral virility, a reptilian electricity. In one corner sat a human skull. The centre of the mat was occupied by a bear’s head, the eyes large and gleaming, jaws open wide. This trophy had suffered in its travels, losing two teeth; tiny wooden cones painted white had taken their place. The risible dentures undercut the bear’s ferocious glare, and the overall effect was clownish.
The Potency Pedlar pointed with a stick at charts listing symptoms and cures, and at diagrams that might have depicted electrical circuits. Midway through the exegesis, he raised the hem of his dhoti and pulled it up — up until it revealed his calves, his knees, and finally his muscular thighs. His dark-brown skin shone under the sun. For a hairy-chested man, his legs were questionably smooth. Then, to emphasize what he was saying, he slapped the firm flesh of his thighs several times. The report was sharp, like the clapping of perfect hands.
His sales pitch followed a question-and-answer routine. “Are you having difficulty in producing children? Is your hathiyar reluctant to rise up? Or does it sleep and forget to wake?” His pointer drooped disconsolately. “Fear not, there is a cure! Like a soldier at attention it will stand! One, two, three — bhoom!” He whipped up his pointer.
Some in the audience sniggered, others were bold in their loud laughter, while a few produced dark, censorious frowns.
“Does it stand, but not straight enough? Is there a bend in the tool? Leaning left like the Marxist-Leninist Party? To the right, like the Jan Sangh fascists? Or wobbling mindlessly in the middle, like the Congress Party? Fear not, for it can be straightened! Does it refuse to harden even with rubbing and massage? Then try my ointment, and it will become hard as the government’s heart! All your troubles will vanish with this amazing ointment made from the organs of these wild animals! Capable of turning all men into engine-drivers! Punctual as the trains in the Emergency! Back and forth you will shunt with piston power every night! The railways will want to harness your energy! Apply this ointment once a day, and your wife will be proud of you! Apply it twice a day, and she will have to share you with the whole block!”
The last bit provoked a great quantity of laughter from some young men. Women hid their smiles behind their hands; a few giggles escaped before they could be strangled. The frowning censors walked away in disgust.
The Potency Pedlar picked up the grinning human skull and held it aloft. “If I were to rub my ointment on this fellow’s head, even he would start jumping! But I dare not, I have to think of the ladies present, and the safety of their virtue!” The audience applauded heartily.
He continued in this vein for a bit longer before addressing women’s problems. Now he spoke in his alternate role — the fakir of fertility. “Is there sadness in your life because your neighbour has more children than you? Do you need more hands to help you with the endless work in the fields, to carry water, to search for firewood? Are you worried about who will look after you in your helpless old age, because you have no sons? Fear not! This tonic will make strong children flow forth from your belly! One spoon a day, and you will give your husband six sons! Two spoons, and your womb will produce an army!”
Despite the large crowd around the vendor, actual customers were few. Mainly, they were there for the entertainment. Besides, to purchase the products in broad daylight meant a public admission of inadequate loins. The sales would take place later, after the performance wound down and the fun-seekers drifted away.
“Are you planning to buy?” Ishvar tickled Om in the ribs, who was listening with grave intent.
“I don’t need all this rubbish.”
“Of course not,” said Ashraf, putting his arm over Om’s shoulder. “Inshallah, sons and daughters will appear at the proper time.”
They resumed their stroll through the bazaar till they came to the Chamaar stalls. “Don’t say anything, just stand quietly,” said Om. “Let’s see how long before they spot us.”
They pretended to inspect the sandals, waterskins, purses, belts, barber’s strops, harnesses. The rich smell of fresh leather travelled deep, waking forgotten memories. Then someone from their village recognized them.
A shout of delight went up, echoed by others. The welcome was euphoric. People gathered around, and the conversation began to overflow. Everyone was eager to fill the void the tailors’ lengthy absence had created.
Ishvar and Om learned from the villagers that Dukhi’s lifelong friend, Gambhir, who had had molten lead poured in his ears many years ago, had died recently. Though the burn injury had always festered, it was blood poisoning from cutting his leg on a rusty scythe that had finally taken him. The old women, Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri, were well. They were the ones who most remembered the tailors’ family; their favourite story was still the one about going by bus with Roopa and Dukhi and several dozen others to inspect Narayan’s wife-to-be.
After homage was paid to the dead and the elderly, they turned to the present. News of the impending bride-viewing had spread in the Chamaar community. Two men lifted Om to their shoulders and paraded him like a conquering hero, as though the wedding were already accomplished. Felicitations poured from every mouth, embarrassing Om. For once, he was left incapable of making a smart retort, while his uncle beamed and nodded.
For those who had known his father, the occasion had a special significance. They were happy that the line of one as remarkable as Narayan, the Chamaar-turned-tailor who had defied the upper castes, was not going to die out. “We prayed that the son will return one day,” they said, “and our prayers are answered. Om must carry on the work of his father. And the grandsons will do likewise.”
To Ishvar’s ears the yearnings of his community were ill-considered, and recklessly tempted fate. The fear born out of Om’s foolhardiness with Thakur Dharamsi yesterday was still trembling in his veins. He cut short the well-wishers. “There is no chance of coming back. We have very good jobs in the city. The future there is bright for Omprakash.”
The Chamaars talked about the years when Ishvar and his brother had first left the village as apprentices to Muzaffar Tailoring. They told Om what a brilliant tailor his father had been, while Ashraf, the proud teacher, smiled, nodding to indicate that yes, it was all true. “It was like magic,” they said. “Narayan could take the discards of a fat landlord and alter them with his machine to fit us like brand-new. He could take our rags and turn them into clothes suitable for a king. We will never again see the like of him. So generous, so brave.”
Ishvar changed the subject once more, worried about the effect their reminiscing would have on his nephew. “Ashraf Chacha has been talking to us of the old days ever since we arrived,” he said. “Tell us what is happening in these new days.”
So Ishvar and Om learned that recently a stream had run dry, and in its bed was discovered a perfectly spherical rock with sickness-curing properties. In another village, a sadhu had meditated under a tree, and when he departed, furrows developed on the trunk in the image of Lord Ganesh. Elsewhere, during the religious procession of Mata Ki Sawari, someone had entered a trance and identified a Bhil woman as the witch causing the community’s woes. She was beaten to death, and the village was expecting better times; unfortunately, a year later they were still waiting.
Before the conversation could stray again into the past, Ishvar said, “We’ll see you at the wedding, if everything goes well,” and they took their leave to cheers and laughter.
They wandered into the vegetable section of the market where he selected peas, coriander, spinach, and onions. “Tonight I’ll cook my specialty for us.”
