much blood. But always there is so much anger, so much haste in whatever you do.”
Still stunned by what his scissors had accomplished, a lukewarm scowl was the best Om could reply with. He liked the pungent fragrance of the golden-brown liquid coating his finger. She taped a cotton wad tightly over the cut as the bleeding slowed to a trickle.
“Your finger has made me late. Now the manager will be upset.” She did not mention the cost of the bloodstained garment. Better to see if the voile was salvageable before discussing restitution. She took the bundle of dresses to the door and picked up the padlock.
“It’s paining too much,” said Om. “I want to go to doctor.”
And now Ishvar understood: the encounter of scissors and finger was part of his nephew’s foolish plan.
“Doctor for this? Don’t be a baby,” she said. “Rest with your hand up for a while, you will be all right.”
Om screwed his face into caricatures of agony. “What if my finger rots and falls off because of your advice? It will be on your head, for sure.”
She suspected the act was put on to shirk the afternoon’s work, but it planted the seed of unease in her mind. “What do I care — go if you want,” she said brusquely.
The stress of dealing with these two fellows, their sloppy work, their tardiness, was wearing her out, she felt. Mrs. Gupta was bound to cancel the arrangement sooner or later. The only question was, which would disappear first, the tailors or her health. She envisioned two leaky faucets: one said Money, the other, Sanity. And both were dripping away simultaneously.
Thank goodness that Maneck Kohlah was arriving tomorrow. At least his room and board was one hundred per cent guaranteed income.
Om watched from a distance, holding aloft his punctured finger until Dina was inside the taxi. Then, spurred by the smell of success, he rushed to his hiding place.
By the time he unlocked the bicycle and wheeled it out from under the stairs, the taxi had disappeared. He raced to the side street and — there it was, waiting at the red traffic light.
He caught up, staying two cars away. Keeping her in sight was as important as keeping himself out of sight. He sped up, slowed down, ducked behind buses, changed lanes like a demon. Cars honked in protest. People shouted at him and made nasty gestures. He was forced to ignore them, the taxi and bicycle requiring all his concentration.
So confident was he now of tracking the destination, he was trembling. It was a curious palpitation, the excitement of the hunter mingling with the trepidation of the hunted.
The street merged into the main road, and the traffic was thicker now, deranged and bad-tempered, worse than anything he had encountered so far. Within minutes he was panting with frustration. The taxi was lost and found half a dozen times, slipping farther away. Scores of identical yellow and black Fiats swarming the street, their bulky meters sticking out on the left side, did not make his task easier.
Confused, Om began to lose his nerve. The brief early-morning ride from the train station was no preparation for the hysteria of midday traffic. It was like seeing wild animals lethargic in zoo cages, then coming upon them in the jungle. Making a final desperate bid, he squeezed between two cars and was knocked off his bicycle. People screamed from the pavement.
“Hai bhagwan! Poor boy is finished!”
“Crushed to death!”
“Careful, his bones might be broken!”
“Catch the chauffeur! Don’t let him run! Bash the rascal!”
Feeling bad about generating so much needless concern, Om stood up, dragging the bicycle after him. He had scraped his elbow and bruised one knee, but was otherwise unhurt.
Now it was the chauffeur’s turn. He emerged boldly from the car where he had been cowering. “You have eyes or marbles?” he screamed. “Can’t see where you’re going? Causing damage to people’s property!”
A policeman arrived and checked most solicitously on the passengers in the car. “Everybody all right, sahab?” Om looked on, a little dazed, and also frightened. Were people who caused accidents sent to jail? His finger was bleeding again, throbbing madly.
A man in an ochre-coloured safari suit, snuggled in the back of the car, fished out his wallet. He passed the policeman some money, then beckoned his chauffeur to the window. The chauffeur put something in Om’s hands. “Now go! And be more careful or you’ll kill somebody! Use your God-given eyes!”
Om looked down at what lay in his shaking hands: fifty rupees.
“Come on, you paagal-ka-batcha!” shouted the policeman. “Take your cycle and clear the road!” He waved the car through with his smartest VIP salute.
Om wheeled the bicycle to the kerb. The handlebars were askew and the mudguards rattled more resolutely than before. He dusted off his pants, examining the black smears of grease on the cuffs.
“How much did he give you?” asked someone on the pavement.
“Fifty rupees.”
“You got up too fast,” said the man, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Never get up so fast. Always stay down and make some moaning-groaning noise. Cry for doctor, cry for ambulance, scream, shout, anything. In this type of case, you can pull at least two hundred rupees.” He spoke like a professional; his twisted elbow hung at his side like a qualification.
Om put the money in his pocket. He braced the front wheel between his knees and tugged at the handlebars till they were straight. He walked the bicycle down a side street, leaving the crowd to continue analysing his accident.
Returning to the flat was useless, the padlock would be on the door, hanging dark and heavy, like a bullock’s lost scrotum. He was also reluctant to turn in the bicycle early — a day’s rent had been paid in advance. He wished he had listened to his uncle in the morning. But the plan seemed so perfect when he had imagined the sequence of events, shining with success, like the sunlight gilding the handlebars. Imagination was a dangerous thing.
He mounted the bicycle where the traffic was less threatening, and took the seaward road. No longer quarry or pursuer, he could enjoy the ride now. The tinkling bell of the candy-floss man outside a school caught his ear. He stopped and squinted into the man’s neck-slung glass container, getting a hazy look at the pink, yellow, and blue cottony balls through the side that was cleanest.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five paise for one. Or try a lottery for fifty paise — win from one to ten balls.”
Om paid and dipped a hand into the brown-paper lottery bag. The chit he pulled out had a 2 scrawled on it.
“What colours?”
“One pink, one yellow.”
The man plopped off the round lid and reached inside. “Not that one, the one next to it,” directed Om.
The sweet fluff melted quickly in his mouth. Got the bigger pink ball for sure, he thought, pleased with himself as he separated a ten-rupee note from the crackling group of five. The man wiped his fingers on the neck-sling before taking it. Om pocketed the change and continued towards the sea.
At the beach he paused to read the chiselled name under a tall black stone statue. The plaque said he was a Guardian of Democracy. Om had studied about the man in his history class, in the story of the Freedom Struggle. The photo in the history book was nicer than the statue, he decided. Letting the bicycle lean against the pedestal, he rested in the statue’s shade. The sides of the pedestal were plastered with posters extolling the virtues of the Emergency. The obligatory Prime Ministerial visage was prominent. Small print explained why fundamental rights had been temporarily suspended.
He watched two men making juice at a sugar-cane stall in the sand. One fed the sticks to the crushing wheels while the other swung the handle. The latter was shirtless, his muscles rippling, skin shining with sweat as he heaved mightily at the machine. His job was harder, thought Om, and he hoped they took turns, or it would not be a fair partnership.
The frothing golden juice made Om’s mouth water. Despite the money in his pocket, he hesitated. Recently, he had heard stories in the bazaar about a cane stall that had pulped a gecko along with cane. An accident, they said — the thing was probably lurking about the innards of the machine, licking the sugary rods and gears, but many customers had been poisoned.
