listening?”
He gave a slight nod. Her eyes missed the small movement, and she asked again, irritated, “Are you listening or am I wasting my breath?”
This time he used words for his answer. “Yes, Aunty. I am listening.” His voice was lifeless.
Empty as his face, she thought. “You wouldn’t recognize them if you saw them. Ishvar has shrunk, not just because his legs are gone — all of him. And Om has become very chubby. One of the effects of castration.”
“Yes, Aunty.”
“You remember how we used to cook together?”
He nodded.
“You remember the kittens?”
He nodded again.
She tried once more to breathe life into him. “What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“If you are not in a rush, you could meet Ishvar and Om. They will come here at one o’clock.”
Emotion re-entered his voice, but not the sort she was hoping for. “I’m sorry — I cannot stay.” The refusal was tinged with terror, his words spilling out in a rush. “I have so many things to do … before my plane leaves tomorrow. My mother’s relatives, and some shopping, and then to the airport. Maybe when I come next time.”
“Next time. Yes, okay. We’ll all be waiting for you next time.”
They rose and walked down the hallway. “Wait,” she said when they reached the door. “I have something for you.”
She returned with her small, careful steps. “You left this behind in my flat.”
It was Avinash’s chess set.
“Thank you.” He swayed, but his voice remained calm. He put out a hand to accept the board and the maroon plywood box. Then he said, “I don’t really need it, Aunty. You keep it.”
“And what would I do with it?”
“Give it to someone… to your nephews?”
“Xerxes and Zarir don’t play. They are very busy men.”
Maneck nodded. “Thank you,” he said again.
“You’re welcome.”
He hesitated, turning the box around and around in his hands, gently running his fingers along the edge. “Bye-bye, Aunty.”
She nodded silently. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek lightly, quickly. She raised her hand as though to wave, stepped back, and began to close the door. He turned and hurried down the cobbled walkway.
He stopped when he heard the door shut. He was under a tree at the end of the path. A bird sang in the branches. He listened, staring at the board and box in his hands. Something fell on his head, and he jumped aside to avoid a second dropping. His fingers felt the sticky splotch. Using leaves from the tree, he wiped his hair and looked up. There was only a crow, the singing bird had flown. He wondered which one was in his hair. Daddy used to say a common crow’s droppings brought uncommon good luck.
He glanced at his watch: twenty to one. Ishvar and Om would be arriving soon. If he spent a few minutes here, he could see them. And they would see him. But — what would he say?
In the quiet street outside the house, he began strolling along the footpath. Up, towards the end of the street, then down again, to Dina Aunty’s house. After several turns, he saw two beggars rounding the corner from the main road.
One sat slumped on a low platform that moved on castors. He had no legs. The other pulled the platform with a rope slung over his shoulder. His plumpness sat upon him strangely, like oversized, padded clothes. Under his arm he carried a torn umbrella.
What shall I say? he asked himself desperately.
They drew nearer, and the one on the platform jiggled the coins in his tin can. “O babu, ek paisa?” he pleaded, looking up shyly.
Ishvar, it’s me, Maneck! Don’t you recognize me! The words raced uselessly inside his head, unable to find an exit. Say something, he commanded himself, say anything!
The other beggar demanded, “Babu! Aray, paisa day!” His voice was high-pitched, challenging, his look direct and mocking. They stopped expectantly, hand held out, tin rattling.
Om! Sour-lime face, my friend! Have you forgotten me!
But his words of love and sorrow and hope remained muted like stones.
The legless beggar coughed and spat. Maneck glanced at the gob; it was tinged with blood. The platform started to roll past him, and he saw that Ishvar was sitting on a cushion. No, not a cushion. It was dirty and fraying, folded to the size of a cushion. The patchwork quilt.
Wait, he wanted to call out — wait for me. He wanted to hurry after them, go back to Dina Aunty with them, tell her he had changed his mind.
He did nothing. The two turned into the cobbled walkway and disappeared from sight. He could hear the castors clattering briefly over the uneven stones. The sound died; he continued on his way.
Past the cricket maidaan, past Bal Baba’s marquee, past the injured carpenter by the kerb, Maneck hurried till he was in familiar surroundings again. He saw the new neon sign of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The place seemed like a prosperous restaurant now, enlarged by having swallowed the shops on either side, its lights humming and flickering fatuously in the afternoon sun. EAT DRINK, ENJOY IN OUR AIR-CONDITIONED COMFORT, said the smaller board under the neon.
He entered, and was shown to a shiny glass-topped table. A neat, uniformed waiter appeared, bearing a large, glossy menu. Maneck placed the chess set on an empty chair beside him and ordered a coffee.
The eating house was busy; it was lunchtime. The waiter hurried back with a glass of water. “Making fresh coffee, sahab. Two more minutes.”
Maneck nodded. On a high shelf behind the cash desk, a loudspeaker emitted vapid instrumental music, purposeless above the restaurant bustle. He gazed at the tables around him, at office workers in bush shirts, ties, jackets, eating energetically, their animated conversations supplementing the clatter of cutlery — office talk, about management treachery and dearness allowances, budgets and promotions. This was a new class of clientele, far removed from the peons and sweaty labourers who used to eat here in the old days.
The coffee arrived. Maneck added sugar, stirred at length, sipped a little. Immediately the waiter, lingering nearby, stepped forward. “Is it good, sahab?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The man adjusted the salt and pepper containers and wiped the ashtray with vigour. “So, sahab, the Prime Minister’s son has taken over. You think he will be a good ruler?”
“Who knows. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“That’s true. They all say one thing, do something else.” He left to attend another table, where the customers had finished eating. Maneck watched him stack the plates, then add to this stack at the next table, and the next, before staggering off to the kitchen with the lot.
He soon returned and inspected Maneck’s half-empty cup. “Anything to eat, sahab?”
Maneck shook his head.
“We have nice tasty ice cream also.”
“No, thank you.” The over-attentiveness was getting on his nerves — the polite smile like part of the new decor, he felt, in the new Vishram. Where he was alone. In the old Vishram, he had always come with Om and Ishvar. Afternoons, at that single, smelly table. And Shankar rolling outside, waving his incomplete hands, wiggling his truncated legs, smiling, rattling his tin. And then his funeral pyre. The priest’s chanting, the burning sandalwood, the fragrant smoke. Completeness. In the crematorium with Daddy this was missing, an open pyre was definitely better. Better for the living…
A group of customers noisily pushed back their chairs to leave; a new batch took their place. They greeted the staff by name. Regulars, apparently. Maneck picked up the maroon plywood box and pushed open the sliding lid, fishing out a piece at random. A pawn. He rolled it between his thumb and fingers, observed that the green felt on its base was peeling.
