a notch or two, make him look back at his yesterdays.
The way out was through the rear of the marquee, past a man writing at a wobbly table stacked with letters and envelopes. Maneck stared, trying to remember where they had met. Then he spotted the plastic case in the maris shirt pocket, with its battery of pens and ballpoints. It came back to him — the train, the passenger with the hoarse voice.
“Excuse me, you’re the proofreader, aren’t you?”
“Erstwhile,” he said. “Vasantrao Valmik, at your service.”
“You don’t recognize me because I’ve grown a beard, but I was the student on the train with you, many years ago, when you were travelling for specialist treatment for your throat problem.”
“Say no more,” said Mr. Valmik, smiling with delight. “I remember perfectly, I’ve never forgotten you. We talked a lot on that journey, didn’t we.” He chuckled, and screwed the cap on his pen. “You know, it’s so very rare to find a good audience for one’s story. Most people get restless when a stranger tells them about his life. But you were a perfect listener.”
“Oh, I enjoyed listening. It shortened the journey. Besides, your life is so interesting.”
“You are very kind. Let me tell you a secret: there is no such thing as an uninteresting life.”
“Try mine.”
“I would love to. One day you must tell me your full and complete story, unabridged and unexpurgated. You must. We will set aside some time for it, and meet. It’s very important.”
Maneck smiled. “Why is it important?”
Mr. Valmik’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t know? It’s extremely important because it helps to remind yourself of who you are. Then you can go forward, without fear of losing yourself in this ever-changing world.”
He paused, touching his pen pocket. “I must be truly blessed, for I have been able to tell my whole story twice. First to you on the train, then to a nice lady in the courthouse compound. But that was also many years ago. I’m thirsting to find a new audience. Ah, yes, to share the story redeems everything.”
“How?”
“How, I don’t know exactly. But I feel it here.” He put his hand over his shirt pocket again.
He felt it in his pens? Then Maneck realized that the proofreader meant his heart. “And what are you doing nowadays, Mr. Valmik?”
“I am in charge of Bal Baba’s mail-order business. He does prophecies by correspondence too. People send in clippings of hair. I open the envelopes, throw away the hair, cash the cheques, and write answers to their questions.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Very much indeed. The scope is unlimited. I can use all kinds of devices in my replies — essay form, prose poem, poetic prose, aphorism.” He patted the pen pocket and added, “My little darlings are at full flow, creating fiction after fiction, which will become more real in the recipients’ lives than all their sad realities.”
“It’s been good to see you,” said Maneck.
“And when shall we meet again? You really must tell me all about yourself.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I’m planning to bring two friends of Bal Baba.”
“Good, good. See you soon.”
At the exit, the attendant held out a brass bowl containing a little loose change. “Anymuch donation is welcome.”
Maneck threw in some coins, feeling he had certainly got his money’s worth.
The door took a while to open in answer to Maneck’s ring. The stick-wristed figure looked nothing like the Dina Aunty he had left eight years ago. Eight years in passing were entitled to take their toll; but this — this was more than a toll, it was outright banditry.
“Yes?” she asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were pinpoints through lenses twice as thick as he remembered them. The grey in her hair had thoroughly subjugated the black.
“Aunty,” his voice snagged on the obstacle course his throat had become. “It’s Maneck.”
“What?”
“Maneck Kohlah — your paying guest.”
“Maneck?”
“I’ve grown a beard. That’s why you don’t recognize me.”
She came closer. “Yes. You’ve grown a beard.”
He felt the coldness in her voice. Stupid of me to expect anything else, he thought. “I went to your flat… and… you were not there.”
“How could I? It’s not my flat.”
“I wanted to see you again, and the tailors, and — ”
“There are no more tailors. Come inside.” She shut the door, leading the way with small, careful steps, using the walls and furniture to guide herself in the dark hallway.
“Sit,” she said, when they reached the drawing room. “You have appeared suddenly. Out of nowhere.”
He heard the accusation, and nodded. He had no defence.
“That beard. You should shave it off. Makes you look like a toilet brush.”
He laughed, and so did she, a little. He was relieved to hear the silver flash in hers, but it was not entirely enough to cancel the chill. The room they sat in was opulent. Rich old furniture, antique porcelain in showcases, an exquisite silk Persian carpet on one wall.
“Next time you see me, the beard will be gone for sure, Aunty, I promise.”
“Maybe then I will recognize you sooner.” She struggled with a hairpin and patted it down. “My eyes are terrible now. Those carrots you forced me to eat were wasted. Nothing can save these eyes.”
He laughed tentatively, but this time she did not join in.
“You came after very long. A few more years, and I won’t see you at all. Even now, you’re a shadow in this room.”
“I was away, working in the Gulf.”
“And what was it like?”
“It was… it was — empty.”
“Empty?”
“Empty… like a desert.”
“But it is a desert country.” She paused. “You didn’t write to me from there.”
“I’m sorry. But I didn’t write to anyone. It seemed so … so pointless.”
“Yes,” she said. “Pointless. And my address changed, in any case.”
“But what happened to the flat, Aunty?”
She told him.
He leaned forward to whisper, “And you are okay here? Nusswan treats you all right?” He lowered his voice still further. “Does he give you enough to eat?”
“You don’t have to whisper, no one is home to hear you.” She removed her spectacles, wiped them with the hem of her skirt, and put them on again. “There is more food than I have an appetite for.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “And what about Ishvar and Om? Where are they working now?”
“They are not working.”
“Then how are they managing? Especially with Om’s wife, and children?”
“There is no wife, no children. They have become beggars.”
“Sorry — what, Aunty?”
“They are both beggars now.”
“That’s impossible! Sounds crazy! I mean — aren’t they ashamed to beg? Couldn’t they do some other work, if there’s no tailoring? I mean — ”
“Without knowing everything you want to judge them?” she cut him off.
Her scathing tone made him curb his outburst. “Please tell me what happened.”
While she spoke, cold like a knife sliced through his insides. He sat frozen, like one of the figurines in the glass-fronted cabinets around him.
When she reached the end, he had still not stirred. She leaned forward to shake his knee. “Are you
