“There. But remember, phenol is very expensive, I cannot waste it every day. You will have to learn to bathe with them.”
He shut the door and undressed again. The picture of her beside him, bending, reaching, pulsated through his limbs. But the antiseptic odour of phenol hanging in the air tugged in the opposite direction.
VI. Day at the Circus, Night in the Slum
THE EARLY-MORNING GATHERING of red double-deckers outside the slum was noticed first by a child from the drunk’s family. The little girl came running in to tell her mother. She saw Ishvar and Om awake outside their shack, and told them too. Her father was adrift in his alcoholic slumber.
The drivers honked flurries of greetings to one another as they parked; twenty-two buses lined up in two perfect rows. The tailors collected their water and proceeded towards the train tracks. Rain had fallen during the night. The ground was soft, the mud sucking at their feet like a many-mouthed creature.
“Let’s go early to Dinabai today,” said Om.
“Why?”
“Maneck will have arrived.”
They found a spot that was to Ishvar’s liking, and squatted. He was glad that the hair-collector with his pointless chatter was not in sight. He hated conversations at toilet, even sensible ones.
His luck did not last; Rajaram materialized along the curve in the tracks, spotting them at the far end of the ditch. He squatted beside them and began speculating about the buses.
“Maybe they are starting a new terminal,” said Om.
“Would be convenient for us.”
“But wouldn’t they first build a station office or something?”
They washed up and went to the mud-spattered vehicles to investigate. Khaki-uniformed drivers leaned in the doorways or rested on their haunches along the kerb, reading newspapers, smoking, or chewing paan.
“Namaskaar,” called out Rajaram to no one in particular. “Where are you taking your red chariots today?”
One of them shrugged. “Who knows. Supervisor said to bring the buses, wait for special assignment.”
The rain started again. Drops rang out on the roofs of the empty buses. The drivers withdrew inside their vehicles and shut the grimy windows.
Soon, the twenty-third bus arrived, its windshield wiper swinging ineffectively, loose and slow, like a wet pendulum. This one was packed full, the upper deck devoted to uniformed policemen who stayed on board while the lower deck spewed out men with briefcases and pamphlets.
They stretched, eased their pants riding high at the crotch, and entered the slum. To save their leather sandals in the rain-muddied field, some walked tiptoe with heels aloft, balancing under open umbrellas. Others squelched along on their heels to favour the soles, scrutinizing the ground for grass tufts, stones, broken bricks — anything that might provide a less mucky step.
Their performance on the tightrope of mud soon collected a crowd. A puff of wind caught the umbrellas; the men wobbled. A stronger gust pulled them off balance. The audience began to laugh. Some children imitated the funny walk. The visitors abandoned their sandals to the mud and, mustering dignity, walked towards the water-tap queue.
The one with the finest footwear said they were party-workers with a message from the Prime Minister. “She sends her greetings and wants you all to know that she is holding a big meeting today. Everyone is invited to attend.”
A woman placed her empty bucket under the tap. The drumroll of water blurred the man’s words, and he modified his pitch. “The Prime Minister especially wants to talk to honest, hardworking people like you. These buses will take you to the meeting, free of charge.”
The water queue moved forward disinterestedly. A few whispered among themselves, and there was laughter. The party-worker tried again. “The Prime Minister’s message is that she is your servant, and wants to help you. She wants to hear about things from your own lips.”
“Tell her yourself!” someone shouted. “You can see in what prosperity we live!”
“Yes! Tell her how happy we are! Why do we need to come?”
“If she is our servant, tell her to come here!”
“Ask your men with the cameras to pull some photos of our lovely houses, our healthy children! Show that to the Prime Minister!”
There was more scornful laughing, and murmurings about unpleasant things that could be done to party- workers who bothered poor people at watertime. The visitors retreated for a brief consultation.
Then the leader spoke again. “There will be a payment of five rupees for each person. Also, free tea and snack. Please line up outside at seven-thirty. Buses will leave at eight.”
“Go push the five rupees up your arse!”
“And set fire to the money!”
But the insults tapered off quickly, for the new offer was creating interest. The party-workers fanned out through the slum to spread the message.
A ragpicker asked if his wife and six children could come too. “Yes,” said the organizer, “but they won’t get five rupees each. Only you.” The hopeful father turned away, crestfallen, and was tempted again when the offer of free tea and snack was extended to the whole family.
“It sounds like fun for sure,” said Om. “Let’s go.”
“Are you crazy? Waste a day of sewing?”
“Not worth it,” Rajaram agreed with Ishvar. “These people are giving us bogus talk.”
“How do you know? Have you been to such a meeting?”
“Yes, they are always the same. If you were jobless, I would say go, take their five rupees. It’s fun the first time to see the government’s tamasha. But to give up a day of tailoring or hair-collecting? No.”
At seven-thirty the queue by the buses was barely long enough to fill one double-decker. There were unemployed day-labourers, some women and children, and a handful of injured dockyard mathadis. The party- workers discussed the situation and agreed to put into motion their alternate plan.
Shortly, Sergeant Kesar, who was in charge of the constables, gave his men the order to alight. A dozen were instructed to block the slum exits, the rest followed him inside. He tried to move with a slow swaggering walk, but his flat feet in the mud made it more of a slippery waddle. He had a megaphone, which he raised to his mouth with both hands, holding it like a trumpet.
“Attention, attention! Two people from each jhopdi must get on the bus! In five minutes — no delay. Otherwise, you will be arrested for trespassing on municipal property!”
People protested: how could they be trespassing when rent had been paid in full? The hutment dwellers went in search of Navalkar, the one who collected the rent, but his shack was empty.
“I wonder if the Prime Minister knows they are forcing us,” said Ishvar.
“She only knows important things,” said Rajaram. “Things her friends want her to know.”
The policemen began rounding up the busloads. The double-deckers filled slowly, looking redder now with the dust and mud washed off by rain. Arguments in some shacks were easily settled when the policemen raised their lathis to emphasize the importance of complying.
Monkey-man was willing to go, but wanted to take his monkeys too. “They will enjoy the ride, they have such a good time on the train when we go to work,” he explained to a party-worker. “And I won’t ask for extra tea or snack, I’ll share mine with them.”
“Don’t you understand plain language? No monkeys. It’s not a circus or something.”
Behind him, Rajaram whispered to his friends, “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Please, sahab,” implored Monkey-man. “The dog can stay alone. But not Laila and Majnoo, they will cry all
