pills reduced the fever, but there was no improvement in his legs. At the end of the fortnight’s treatment he could not walk at all. The blackness had spread downwards like a stain, towards the toes, reminding him of the leather dye that used to impregnate his skin as a boy, when he worked with his father and the Chamaars.
Om found the handcart-man in the market that afternoon, and requested his help. “It’s my uncle this time. He cannot walk, he has to be taken to hospital.”
The man was unloading a consignment of onions from the cart. A few bulbs had been crushed during transit, and the air was charged with the pungent reek. He wiped his eyes, hoisted a sack over his shoulders, and took it to the godown. The vapours travelled into Om’s eyes too, though he stood at some distance.
“Okay, I’m ready,” said the handcart-man twenty minutes later. He dusted off the cartbed and they went to Muzaffar Tailoring to collect Ishvar. They positioned the cart close to the steps and hoisted him upon it. The neighbours watched, hidden behind curtains, as the rickety wheels trundled off towards the hospital.
The handcart-man waited outside the building while Ishvar huddled in the entrance and Om went in search of the emergency ward. “The pills have not worked,” the doctor on duty announced after the examination. “The poison in the blood is too strong. The legs will have to be removed in order to keep the poison from spreading upwards. It’s the only way to save his life.”
Next morning the blackened legs were amputated. The surgeon said the stumps would be observed for several days, to make sure all the poison had drained out. Ishvar spent two months in hospital. Om went every morning with food, and stayed till night.
“You must send a letter to Dinabai,” Ishavar reminded Om repeatedly. “Tell her what happened, she will be worrying about us.”
“Yes,” said Om, but he did not dare attempt the task. What would he write? How could he even begin to explain on a piece of paper?
At the end of the two months, the handcart-man returned to the hospital and helped to take Ishvar home to Muzaffar Tailoring. “My life is over,” wept Ishvar. “Just throw me in the river that runs by our village. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
“Leave it, yaar,” said Om. “Don’t talk rubbish. What do you mean, life is over? Have you forgotten Shankar? He doesn’t even have fingers or thumbs. You still have both hands, you can sew. Dinabai has an old hand-machine, she will let you use it when we go back.”
“You are a crazy boy. I can’t sit, I can’t move, and you are talking of sewing.”
“Let me know if you need more transport,” said the handcart-man, adding quickly, “I will take you for the price of a bus ticket from now on.”
“Yes, we’ll pay you, don’t worry,” said Om. “My uncle will need to go to the hospital. And maybe in a few weeks, once he feels stronger, you can take us to the train station. We’ll soon be returning to our city.”
The recovery was slow. Their money was running out. Ishvar ate poorly, and his nights continued to pass in the embrace of fever and nightmares. He often woke up crying. Om comforted him, asked him what he would like.
“Massage my feet, they are aching too much,” he always said.
One evening, Ashraf Chachas nephew from the lumberyard came to see them. He had found a buyer for the shop. “Very sorry to make you leave. But who knows when I will get another offer?” He proposed alternate accommodation in a shed or shack, certain that some corner of the lumberyard could be found for them.
“No, it’s okay,” said Om. “We’ll just return to the city and start sewing again.”
This time Ishvar agreed with him. It was better to go, he felt, than to stay in this place that had brought them nothing but misery. Each day now was mortifying, with the people who knew them, especially the neighbours, staring at them on their trips to and from the hospital, whispering among themselves, shying away when they saw the handcart coming.
“Can you do us one last favour?” Om asked Ashraf Chacha’s nephew. “Can you get your carpenter in the lumberyard to make a little trolley with small wheels, for my uncle?”
He said it would be an easy matter. The next day he delivered the rolling platform to the shop. There was a hook at the front end, with a rope for Om to pull the platform.
“This rope is unnecessary,” insisted Ishvar. “I will roll the gaadi with my own hands, like Shankar. I want to be independent.”
“Okay, yaar, we’ll see.”
They removed the rope, and Ishvar began practising indoors. He needed to learn how to slump his body so it would be stable without the counterweight of legs. His frustration mounted. In his weakened state he could not propel the platform. There was no question of venturing into the street.
“Patience,” said Om. “You will be able to do it as you get stronger.”
“What patience,” sobbed Ishvar. “Patience is not going to make my legs grow back.” Hopelessly defeated, he allowed the towing rope to be reconnected.
Almost four months after coming to make wedding arrangements, the tailors set off for the railway station, for the return journey to the city. Along the way they stopped at the graves of Ashraf Chacha and Mumtaz Chachi. “I envy them,” said Ishvar. “Such peace now.”
“Don’t be talking nonsense again,” said Om, shifting the platform around to leave.
“Can’t we stay here a little longer?”
“No, we have to go.” Om tugged at the rope, and the castors jolted over the earth of the graveyard. How light is my uncle, he thought, light as a baby, pulling him is no strain at all.
XVI. The Circle Is Completed
THE FIRST THING ZENOBIA SAW when Dina opened the door was the patchwork curtain rigged down the middle of the verandah. “What’s this, your washing?” she giggled. “Or are you starting a dhobi service?”
“No, that’s the bridal suite,” said Dina, breaking into laughter. She had endured four weeks of enforced solitude with resentment. Her friend dropping in was a great relief.
Zenobia found the joke hilarious without understanding what it meant. They went into the front room. Between renewed bursts of laughter, she learned why the verandah was partitioned.
“They should be back any day now,” said Dina. “The curtain isn’t thick enough to muffle the newlyweds’ noises, but it’s the best I can do.”
Zenobia no longer thought it funny. She stared at Dina as though she had gone mad. “How you’ve changed. Are you listening to what you are saying? Only a year ago you were against keeping a harmless paying guest. It took me days to convince you that Aban Kohlah’s son was no threat, that he was not going to eat up your flat.”
“And you were absolutely right — Maneck is a lovely boy. Two more weeks, and he’ll be back too. Look at this quilt I made. It’s going to be Om’s wedding present.”
Zenobia ignored it and continued. “Suddenly you became very brave, letting the tailors live here. That was bad enough. Now you are allowing them to bring a wife? You’ll regret it, believe me. The whole jing-bang clan will end up on the verandah. Half their village. And you’ll never be able to get rid of them. The place will turn into a pigsty, with all their primitive unhygienic habits.”
The grim prognostication amused Dina, but this time she was laughing alone. To placate her friend she employed a more serious tone. “They would never take advantage of me. Ishvar is a perfect gentleman. And Om is a good, intelligent boy, just like Maneck. Only less fortunate.”
Zenobia stayed for another half-hour, pleading, threatening, cajoling, doing her best to change her friend’s decision. “Don’t be foolish, just let them go. We can always find new tailors for you. Mrs. Gupta will help us, I’m sure.”
“But that’s not the point. I would let them stay even if they weren’t working for me.”
By the time Zenobia realized she was getting nowhere, she had already invested her emotions in the
