and putting both mind and belly at ease.
On the way home, Dukhi came across his friends who were still smoking under the tree by the river. “Oyeh, Dukhi, out so late in that part of the village?”
“Went to see that Chit-Pavan Brahmin,” said Dukhi, and narrated his visit in detail. “Goo-Khavan Brahmin is what he should be called instead.”
They laughed with delight, and Chhotu agreed that Shit-Eating Brahmin was indeed a more suitable name. “But how does he have the appetite, after gobbling a pound of ghee and two pounds of sweets at every meal?”
“He gave me this ointment for the children,” said Dukhi. They passed the tin around, examining, sniffing the contents.
“Looks like boot polish to me,” said Chhotu. “He must apply it to his head every morning. That’s why it shines like the sun.”
“Aray bhaiya, you are confusing his head with his arse-hole. That’s where he applies the polish — that’s where the sun shines from, according to his caste brothers. That’s why the shit-eaters all try to lick their way into it.”
“I have a shlokha of advice for all of them,” said Dayaram, and recited in mock Sanskrit, imitating the exalted cadences of a pujari reading scriptures: “Goluma Ekdama Tajidevum! Chuptum Makkama Jhaptum!”
The men roared at the references to buggery and copulation. Dukhi threw the tin in the river. Leaving his friends to speculate about what exactly, if anything, lay below the rolls of fat that constituted Pandit Lalluram’s belly, he went home.
He told Roopa he would be leaving early next morning for town. “My mind is made up. I am going to talk to Ashraf the tailor.”
She did not ask why. Her mind was busy planning the strategy for another nocturnal assault on someone’s butter-churn, this time for her children’s backsides.
Ashraf wanted no payment to apprentice Dukhi’s sons. “They will be a help to me,” he said. “And how much food can two little boys eat? Whatever we cook, they will share with us. That’s all right, nah? No restrictions?”
“No restrictions,” said Dukhi.
Two weeks later he returned to the tailor’s shop with Ishvar and Narayan. “Ashraf is like my brother,” he explained to the children. “So you must always call him Ashraf Chacha.”
The tailor beamed with pleasure, honoured by the title of uncle, as Dukhi continued, “You will stay with Ashraf Chacha for some time, and learn with him. Listen carefully to everything he says, and treat him with the same respect you have for me.”
The boys had been prepared for the separation in advance by their father. This was only the formal announcement. “Yes, Bapa,” they answered.
“Ashraf Chacha is going to turn you into tailors like himself. From now on, you are not cobblers — if someone asks your name, don’t say Ishvar Mochi or Narayan Mochi. From now on you are Ishvar Darji and Narayan Darji.”
Then Dukhi gave them each a pat on the back, and a slight push, as though to propel them into the other maris keeping. They left their father’s side and stepped towards the tailor, who put out his hands to receive them.
Dukhi watched Ashraf’s fingers, the warmth with which he gripped the children’s shoulders. Ashraf was a good and gentle man, he knew his sons would be well-cared for. All the same, an icy ache was spreading around his heart.
During the journey back to the village, he slumped in the bullock cart, feeling exhausted, barely aware of the wheels jouncing over ruts and bumps, jarring his bones. Simultaneously, he felt crazy surges of energy that made him want to hop out of the cart and run. He knew he had done the best thing possible for his sons, and a weight had lifted. Why, then, did he not feel lighter? What was this other thing pressing down on him?
Late in the afternoon he jumped off the bullock cart by the village road. Roopa was sitting idle in the hut, staring out the entrance, when his shadow appeared in the doorway. He told her everything was settled.
She looked at him accusingly. He had made a hole in her life that nothing could fill. Each time she thought of her two sons — distanced by miles to live with a stranger, and a Muslim at that — then her grief leapt up into her throat, and she felt she would choke, she told her husband. He observed bitterly that at least his Muslim friend treated him better than his Hindu brothers.
Muzaffar Tailoring Company was located on a street of small family businesses. There was a hardware store, coal-merchant, banya, and miller, all in a row, the shops identical in shape and size, distinguished solely by the interior noises and smells. Muzaffar Tailoring Company was the only one that displayed a signboard.
Ashraf’s shop was cramped, as were the living quarters over it: one room and kitchen. He had married last year, and had a month-old daughter. His wife, Mumtaz, was less pleased than he to have two more mouths staying with them. It was decided that the apprentices would sleep in the shop.
Ishvar and Narayan were overwhelmed by the sudden change in their lives. Buildings, electric lights, water that flowed from taps — everything so different from the village, and so amazing. On the first day they sat in awe on the stone steps outside the shop, watching the street and seeing a universe of frightening chaos. Gradually, they perceived the river of traffic in the street and, within it, the currents of handcarts, bicycles, bullock carts, buses, and the occasional lorry. Now they learned the wild river’s character. They were reassured that it was not all madness and noise, there was a pattern in things.
They observed people come to the banya to purchase salt, spices, coconut, pulses, candles, oil. They saw grain being taken to the miller to be made into flour. The miller’s arms slowly became white while he worked; sometimes, his face and eyelashes too. The coal-merchant’s arms and face turned black as the hours progressed; his delivery boys ran back and forth all day with baskets of coal. Ishvar and Narayan loved to watch their neighbours when they washed at night, emerging brown from behind their daytime colours.
Ashraf left them alone for two days, till their curiosity turned of its own accord towards the tailoring shop. The centre of their desire was, of course, the sewing-machine. To satisfy them, he let each take a turn at working the treadle while he guided a scrap under the needle. The brothers were thrilled that they could make the machine perform. It was as inspiring as making their mark with chalk upon slate.
Now they were ready to settle down to less exciting things, like threading a needle and hand-stitching. Eager to learn, they impressed Ashraf with their quickness. The next time a customer came to Muzaffar Tailoring Company, he decided to let Ishvar write down the measurements.
The man carried striped material for a shirt. Ashraf opened the order book to a new page, noted the customer’s name, then unrolled his measuring tape with a flourish, which the boys simply adored. They had already begun to practise it in private, to Ashraf’s amusement.
“Collar, fourteen and half inches,” he dictated. “Chest, thirty-two.” He glanced at Ishvar, who was bent over the book, his tongue sticking out in grave concentration. Turning to the customer, Ashraf continued, “Sleeves. Short or long?”
“Has to be long,” said the man. “I am wearing it to a friend’s wedding.” The formalities completed, the customer left, assured that his shirt would be ready in time for the wedding next week.
“Now let’s see the measurements,” said Ashraf.
Smiling proudly, Ishvar handed him the book. The page was covered with black scratches and squiggles.
“Ah, yes, I see.” Ashraf controlled his dismay, patting the boy’s back. “Yes, very good.” He quickly jotted down what he could remember of the figures.
After dinner, he began teaching them the alphabet and numbers. Mumtaz was not pleased. “Now you are becoming their schoolmaster as well. What next? Will you find wives for them also, when they are old enough?”
Next day he finished the wedding-guest’s shirt. The man came for it at the end of the week and tried it on. Ashraf had got everything right except the length: it hung closer to the knees than was desirable. The man looked in the mirror, dubious, turning left and right.
“Absolutely perfect,” admired Ashraf. “This northern Pathani style has become very fashionable these days.” The man left, still a bit uncertain, and the three burst out laughing.
