“And the chapati expert will favour us with his skills,” said Ashraf, putting his arm around Om again. It was hard for him to restrain himself from constantly touching and embracing the two who were like son and grandson to him. Besides, he was trying to ward off the dreaded day of departure that would dawn when the celebrations were over.
“One more stop before we go home,” said Ishvar. He led them towards the religious merchandise, and purchased an expensive string of prayer beads. “A small gift from us,” he said to Ashraf. “We hope you will use it for many years to come.”
“Inshallah,” he said, and kissed the beads of amber. “You have chosen the right item for me.”
“My idea,” claimed Om. “We noticed you are spending more time in prayer.”
“Yes, awareness of death and old age tend to have that effect on us mortals.” He stopped the vendor, who was making a newspaper pouch to package the beads. “No need for that,” he said, and wound the precious string round his fingers.
Nearby, the candy-floss man issued his inviting call: “Aga-ni-dadhi! Aga-ni-dadhi!”
“I want one,” said Om.
“Aray eat more, have two!” He tinkled his little brass bell.
Ishvar held up one finger, and the candy-floss man switched on the machine.
They watched the whirring, humming centre spin out wisps of pink. The man whisked a stick around inside the tub, stroking the air to harvest the sweet strands. When the ball reached the size of a human head, he switched off the machine.
“You know how that works, nah?” said Ashraf. “There is a large spider sitting inside the machine, feeding on sugar and pink dye. At the man’s command, it starts spinning its web.”
“For sure,” said Om and chucked him under the chin, fingering his fine white beard. “Is that how your dadhi was also made?”
It was a little before noon. Empty trucks rumbled up the main road and parked outside the market square. No one paid attention. Traffic was always heavy on this day of the week.
“Want to taste?” Om held out the stick.
Ishvar declined. Ashraf decided to try some, gamely negotiating the fluff through his whiskers. Bits of it stuck, pink on white, and Om roared. He led him to the window of a sari shop and showed him his candy-floss beard. “Looks very handsome, Chachaji. You could start a new style.”
“Now you know why it’s called aga-ni-dadhi,” said Ashraf, plucking the wisps out of his hair.
Ishvar watched contentedly, smiling with happiness. In spite of everything, life was good, he thought. How could he complain when Om and he were blessed with the friendship of people like Ashraf Chacha, and Dinabai, and Maneck.
More trucks appeared around the square, occupying the lanes leading into the bazaar. These were garbage trucks, round-roofed with openings at the rear.
“Why so early?” wondered Ashraf. “Market still has many hours to go, cleanup does not begin till evening.”
“Maybe the drivers also want to do some shopping.”
Suddenly, horns blaring, police vans swept into the marketplace. The sea of humans parted. The vehicles stopped in the centre and disgorged a battalion of constables who took up positions inside the square.
“A police guard for the bazaar?” said Ishvar.
“Something is wrong,” said Ashraf.
The shoppers watched, perplexed. Then the police began to advance and grab people. The bewildered captives resisted, shouting and questioning, “First tell us! Tell us what we’ve done! How can you catch people just like that? We have a right to be here, it’s market day!”
The constables answered by moving relentlessly through the crowd. Resistance was met with swinging lathis. Panic filled the marketplace as people pushed, pleaded, struggled with the police, tried to break through the cordon. But the square had been efficiently surrounded. Those who made it to the periphery were beaten back into the waiting hands of more police.
Stalls and stands came crashing down, baskets were overturned, boxes smashed. In seconds the square was littered with tomatoes, onions, earthen pots, flour, spinach, coriander, chillies — patches of orange and white and green, dissolving in chaos out of their neat rows. The Potency Pedlar’s bear was trampled underfoot, losing more of its teeth, while his dead lizards and snakes died a second death. The music from the Family Planning booth continued to blare over the screams of people.
“Come to this side, quick,” said Ashraf. “We will get shelter here.” He led them into the doorway of a textile-merchant who used to refer customers to Muzaffar Tailoring. The shop was closed, and he rang the bell. There was no answer. “Never mind, we’ll just stay here till things are quiet. Police must be looking for criminals in the crowd.”
But the police were snatching people at random. Old men, young boys, housewives with children were being dragged into the trucks. A few managed to escape; most were trapped like chickens in a coop, unable to do anything except wait to be collected by the law enforcers.
“Look,” urged Ashraf, “that corner has only one havaldar. If you run fast you will get through.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be safe here, I’ll meet you later at the shop.”
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, refusing to leave him. “We don’t need to run like thieves.”
They watched from the doorway while the police continued to chase the ones tearing frenziedly amid the spilled fruit and grain and broken glassware. Someone tripped, fell upon the shards and cut his face. His pursuer lost interest, picking a new quarry.
“Hai Ram!” said Ishvar. “Look at that blood! And now they are ignoring him! What is going on?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that demon Dharamsi is behind it,” said Ashraf. “He owns those garbage trucks.”
As the vehicles filled up, the numbers in the square began to dwindle. The police had to work harder to catch the remainder. Before long, six constables targeted the tailors. “You three! Into the truck!”
“But why, police-sahab?”
“Just come on, don’t argue,” said one, raising his lathi.
Ashraf flung up his hands before his face. The constable grabbed the prayer beads round his fingers and pulled, breaking the string. The beads rolled lazily about the pavement.
“Oiee!” yelled two others as they slipped on the tiny amber spheres. Seeing his comrades fall, the first one reacted by lashing out angrily with his lathi.
Ashraf groaned and crumpled slowly to the ground.
“Don’t hurt him, please, it was a mistake!” pleaded Ishvar. He and Om knelt to cradle his head.
“Stand up,” said the constable. “He’s okay, just pretending. I gave him just a light blow.”
“But his head is bleeding.”
“Just a little. Come on, get in the truck.”
The tailors ignored the command in favour of Ashraf Chacha. The constable kicked them, once each. They yelped and clutched their ribs. As he drew his foot back to kick again, they stood up. He shoved them towards the trucks.
“What about Ashraf Chacha?” screamed Ishvar. “You’re going to leave him on the pavement?”
“Don’t yell at me, I’m not your servant or something! Saala, one tight shot on your face I’ll give!”
“Sorry, police-sahab, please forgive! But Chachaji is hurt, I want to help him!”
The constable turned to look again at the injured old man. Blood was oozing through the skimpy white hair, dripping in a slow trickle onto the kerb. But the police had been instructed not to load anyone unconscious onto the vehicles. “Others will take care of him, it’s not your worry,” he said, pushing the two aboard a truck.
On the pavement a dog sniffed at the candy-floss Om had dropped. The fluff stuck to its muzzle. The animal worried the pink beard with a paw, and a child in the truck, sitting on its mother’s lap, laughed at the creature’s antics. The police discontinued the roundup when the garbage trucks were full. The people remaining in the square suddenly found themselves at liberty to leave.
The sterilization camp was a short ride from town. A dozen tents had been pitched in a field on the outskirts,
