work delivered to them. But this was Mrs. Gupta’s one strict condition: the sewing had to be done under the supervision of the contractor. No exceptions, not even for Zenobia’s friend, because Au Revoir’s patterns were top secret.
The best Dina could do was to write her address on little squares of paper and leave it at shops where the quality was reasonable. “If you know someone who does good work like you and needs a job, send them to me,” she said. Many of the owners threw away the paper as soon as she left. Some rolled it into a tight cone to scratch inside their ears before discarding it.
Meanwhile, Zenobia had another suggestion for Dina: to take in a boarder. It would involve no more than providing a few basics like bed, cupboard, bath; and for meals, cooking a bit extra of what she ate.
“You mean, like a paying guest?” said Dina. “Never. Paying guests are trouble with a capital t. I remember that case in Firozsha Baag. What a horrible time the poor people had.”
“Don’t be so paranoid. We are not going to allow crooks or crackpots into the flat. Think of the rent every month — guaranteed income.”
“No baba, I don’t want to take the risk. I’ve heard of lots of old people and single women being harassed.”
But as her meagre savings dwindled, she relented. Zenobia assured her they would only accept someone reliable, preferably a temporary visitor to the city, who had a home to return to. “You look for tailors,” she said. “I’ll find the boarder.”
So Dina continued to distribute her name and address at tailors’ shops, going further afield, taking the train to the northern suburbs, to parts of the city she had never seen in all her forty-two years. Her progress was frequently held up when traffic was blocked by processions and demonstrations against the government. Sometimes, from the upper deck of the bus, she had a good view of the tumultuous crowds. The banners and slogans accused the Prime Minister of misrule and corruption, calling on her to resign in keeping with the court judgment finding her guilty of election malpractice.
And even if the Prime Minister stepped down — would it do any good? wondered Dina.
One evening, while the slow local waited for a signal change, she gazed beyond the railway fence where a stream of black sewer sludge spilled from an underground drain. Men were hauling on a rope that disappeared into the ground. Their arms were dark to the elbows, the black slime dripping from hands and rope. In the slum behind them, cooking fires smouldered, with smoke smudging the air. The workers were trying to unblock the overflowing drain.
Then a boy emerged out of the earth, clinging to the end of the rope. He was covered in the slippery sewer sludge, and when he stood up, he shone and shimmered in the sun with a terrible beauty. His hair, stiffened by the muck, flared from his head like a crown of black flames. Behind him, the slum smoke curled towards the sky, and the hellishness of the place was complete.
Dina stared, shuddering, transfixed by his appearance, covering her nose against the stench till the train had cleared the area. But the underworld vision haunted her for the rest of the day, and for days to come.
The long, depressing trips, the squalid sights, wore her down. Her spirits were lower than ever. Zenobia could see it in her eyes. “What’s this gloomy face for,” she said, pinching Dina’s cheek lightly.
“I am fed up with this struggle. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You mustn’t give up now. Look, more people have contacted me for paying guests. And one of them is Maneck Kohlah — Aban’s son. Remember her? She was at school with us. She wrote to me that Maneck hates his college hostel, he is desperate to move. I just want to be sure we pick a good character.”
“All these train fares are a waste of money,” said Dina, not listening. She wanted her friend’s approval to abandon the soul-draining journeys.
“But just think — once you find two tailors, how easy your life will be. You want to give up your independence and live with Nusswan or what?”
“Don’t even joke about it.” The prospect persuaded her to continue to leave her address at more and more shops. She felt like the lost children in that fairy tale whose title had slipped her mind, leaving a trail of bread, hoping to be rescued. But birds had devoured the bread. Would she ever be saved, she wondered, or would her trail of paper be devoured, by the wind, by the black sewer sludge, by the hungry army of paper-collectors roaming the streets with their sacks?
Tired and discouraged, she entered a lane where a rivulet of waste water flowed down the middle. Vegetable peelings, cigarette butts, eggshells bobbed along the surface. A little further, the lane narrowed and turned almost entirely into a gutter. Children were floating paper boats in the effluent, chasing them down the lethargic current. Planks had been thrown across to form walkways into shops and houses. When a boat sailed under a plank, emerging safely on the other side, the children clapped with glee.
Dina heard the familiar rattle and hum of a sewing-machine from someone’s doorway. This would be the last tailor for today, she decided, gingerly crossing the plank, and then she would go straight home.
Halfway across, her foot went through a rotten spot. A brief cry escaped her; she kept her balance but lost a shoe. The children waded in, yelling, groping beneath the dark surface, competing to retrieve it.
She reached the shop entrance and took back her dripping shoe, giving the excited little boy who found it a twenty-five-paisa coin. The sound of the sewing-machine had ceased; its operator stood in the doorway, summoned by the commotion.
“What are you rascals up to again?” he shouted at the children.
“They were helping me,” said Dina. “I was coming to your shop and my shoe fell in.”
“Oh,” he grunted, a little deflated. “The thing is, they are always playing bad mischief.” Recognizing a potential customer, he changed his tone. “Please come in, please.”
Her inquiry about tailors disappointed him. He dismissed it with an indifferent “Okay, I’ll try,” playing with his tape measure while she wrote down her name and address.
Then he brightened suddenly. “The thing is, you have come to the right place. I have two wonderful tailors for you. I will send them tomorrow.”
“Really?” she asked, sceptical about the change of heart.
“Oh yes, two beautiful tailors, or my name is not Nawaz. The thing is, they don’t have their own shop, they go out and work. But they are very skilled. You will be so happy with them.”
“Okay, I’ll see them tomorrow.” She departed, nurturing no expectations. There had been several false promises in the past few weeks.
On reaching home, she washed her feet and cleaned her shoes, sickened again at the thought of that lane where the children played with their paper boats. Her hopes would not be raised — neither by the tailor’s pledge nor by Zenobia’s assurance that a boarder was just round the corner, that their schoolfriend’s son, Maneck Kohlah, would drop in any day now to inspect the room.
And so, next morning, when the doorbell rang, Dina welcomed her change of fortune with open arms. The paying guest stood at her door, along with the fruit of yesterday’s square of paper: two tailors named Ishvar and Omprakash Darji.
As Zenobia would have put it, the whole jing-bang trio arrived at her flat together.
II. For Dreams to Grow
THE OFFICES OF AU REVOIR EXPORTS looked and smelled like a warehouse, the floors stacked high with bales of textiles swaddled in hessian. The chemical odour of new fabric was sharp in the air. Scraps of clear plastic, paper, twine, and packing material littered the dusty floor. Dina located the manager at a desk hidden behind metal shelving.
“Hello! Zenobia’s friend — Mrs. Dalai! How are you?” said Mrs. Gupta.
They shook hands. Dina reported that she had found two skilled tailors and was ready to start.
“Wonderful, absolutely wonderful!” said Mrs. Gupta, but it was evident that her excellent humour did not flow merely from Dina’s announcement. The real reason soon bubbled out: she had another appointment at the Venus
