“My parents would get very upset if I went out in chappals.” He kneaded the toes and soles, then pulled up his socks and put on the shoes.
“I used to massage my father’s feet,” said Om. “And he would massage my grandfather’s feet.”
“Did you have to do it every day?”
“I didn’t have to, but it was a custom. We sat outside in the evenings, on the charpoy. There would be a cool breeze, and birds singing in the trees. I enjoyed doing it for my father. It pleased him so much.” They swayed slightly in their seats as the train rocked along. “There was a callus under the big toe of his right foot — from treadling his sewing-machine. When I was small, that callus used to make me laugh if he wiggled the toe, it looked like a man’s face.”
Om was silent for the rest of the way, gazing pensively out the window. Maneck tried to distract him by imitating the characters in
“You should have come with us,” said Maneck. “It was fun. What thrilling fights.”
“No, thank you, I’ve seen enough fighting in my life,” said Ishvar. “But when are you visiting our house?” Maneck’s spending regularly on Om was creating too much obligation, he felt, it was time to reciprocate in some small way. “You must have dinner with us soon.”
“Sure, any time,” answered Maneck, reluctant to make a commitment. It would upset Dina Aunty — the cinema trip had been bad enough.
Fortunately, Ishvar did not press for a firm date right then. He put the cover over his Singer and left with Om.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself,” said Dina. “Going against my wishes, mixing more and more with him in spite of what I told you.”
“It was just one filmshow, Aunty. For the first time Om went to a big theatre. He was so thrilled.”
“I hope he is able to sew tomorrow, and you can concentrate on your studies. These films about fighting and killing can only have a bad effect on the brain. In the old days the cinema was so sweet. A little dancing and singing, some comedy, or a romance. Now it’s all just guns and knives.”
Next day, as though to vindicate Dina’s theory, Om joined the bodice of a size-seven dress to the skirt of a size eleven, squeezing the excess into the gather at the waist. The mistakes were repeated in three garments and not discovered till the afternoon.
“Leave everything else, fix this first,” said Dina, but he ignored her.
“It’s all right, Dinabai,” said Ishvar. “I will separate the seams and stitch them again.”
“No, he made the mistakes and he should correct them.”
“You do them,” scowled Om, scratching his scalp. “I have a headache. You gave me the wrong pieces so it’s your mistake.”
“Listen to him! Lying shamelessly! And take your fingers out of your hair before you get oil on the cloth! Scratch-scratch-scratch the whole day!”
The argument was still going when Maneck returned from college. The tailors did not break for tea. He went to his room and shut himself in, wishing they would stop. For the rest of the afternoon the squabble kept dribbling under his door, creating a pool of distress around him.
At six, Dina knocked and asked him to come out. “Those two have left. I need the company of a sane person.”
“Why were you fighting, Aunty?”
“I was fighting? How dare you! Do you know the whole story, to say who was fighting?”
“I’m sorry, Aunty. I meant, what was the fight about?”
“Same reason as always. Mistakes and shoddy work. But thank God for Ishvar. I don’t know what I would do without him. One angel and one devil. Trouble is, when the angel keeps company with the devil, neither can be trusted.”
“Maybe Om behaves this way because something is upsetting him — maybe it’s because you lock them in when you go out.”
“Ah! So he’s told you that, has he? And did he say why I do it?”
“The landlord. But he thinks it’s just an excuse. He says you make them feel like criminals.”
“His guilty conscience makes him feel that way. The landlord’s threat is real, you remember it too. Don’t let the rent-collector’s sweet smile fool you into admitting anything. Always pretend you are my nephew.” She began tidying the room, picking up the scraps, stuffing the fragments in the bottom shelf. “That Ibrahim’s eyeballs can see the whole flat right from the front door, the way they wander, round and round. Faster than Buster Keaton’s. But you are too young to know Buster Keaton.”
“I’ve heard Mummy mention the name. She said he was funnier than Laurel and Hardy.”
“Never mind that — there is also a second reason. The tailors will put me out of business if I don’t lock them in. Do you know Om tried to follow me to the export company? Did he tell you that? No, of course not. My tiny commission sticks in their throats. As it is, I can barely manage.”
“Shall I tell Mummy to send more money? For my rent and food?”
“Absolutely not! I am charging a fair price and she is paying it. You think I am telling you all this because I want charity?”
“No, I just thought — ”
“My problems are not a beggar’s wounds! Only a beggar removes his cloth to shock you with his mutilation. No, Mr. Mac Kohlah, I’m telling you all this so you understand your beloved Omprakash Darji a little better.”
The next time she went to Au Revoir Exports, Dina decided to take Maneck further into her confidence. “Listen, I’m not padlocking the door today. Since you are home, I’ll leave you in charge.” The responsibility would draw him over to her side, she was sure; besides, Om wouldn’t attempt the bicycle caper twice.
After Dina had departed, Ishvar continued sewing, uncomfortable about taking his customary rest on her sofa with Maneck present. But Om stopped immediately, and escaped to the front room. “Two hours of freedom,” he announced, stretching and letting himself drop on the sofa next to Maneck.
While he smoked, they browsed through Dina’s old knitting books. Models wearing various styles of sweaters adorned the inside pages. Luscious red lips, creamy skin, and luxuriant hairdos dazzled them from the dog-eared glossy paper. “Look at those two,” said Om, indicating a blonde and a redhead. “You think the hair between their legs is the same colour?”
“Why don’t you write a letter to the magazine and ask? ‘Dear Sir, We wish to make an inquiry regarding the colour of your models’ choot hair — specifically, if it matches the hair on their heads. The models in question appear on page forty-seven of your issue dated’“ — he flipped to the cover — “ ‘July 1961.’ Forget it, yaar, that’s fourteen years ago. Whatever colour it was then, it must be grey or white by now.”
“I should ask Rajaram the hair-collector,” said Om. “He’s an expert on hair.”
The boys restored the knitting books to their corner and went into Maneck’s room. The pagoda parasol amused them for a while, then they explored the kitchen, calling to the cats, who refused to approach the window since it was not dinnertime. Om wanted to throw water at them, make them yowl, but Maneck wouldn’t let him.
In the back room they examined the collection of cloth pieces, the beginnings of the quilt. “You boys don’t meddle with Dinabai’s things,” warned Ishvar, glancing up from the machine.
“Just look at all this cloth,” said Om. “She steals from us, not paying us properly, and also from the company.”
“You are talking nonsense, Omprakash,” his uncle said. “Those are little garbage pieces that she puts to good use. Come on, get back to your machine, stop wasting time.”
Om replaced the makings of the quilt and pointed to the trunk on the trestle in the corner. Maneck raised his eyebrows at the daring suggestion. They opened it, and discovered her supply of homemade sanitary pads.
“You know what those are for?” whispered Om.
“Little pillows,” said Maneck, grinning, picking up a couple of the lumpy pads. “Little pillows for little people.”
“My little man can rest his head on it.” Om slung one between his legs.
