whose shelter? And which pile of scantlings and metal was theirs to comb through? Others were turning the turmoil to advantage, grabbing what they could, and fights broke out over pieces of splintered plywood, torn rexine sheets, clear plastic. Someone tried to seize the harmonium player’s damaged instrument while he was burrowing for his clothes. He fought off the thief with an iron rod. The tussle inflicted more wounds on the harmonium, ripping its bellows.
“My neighbours have become robbers,” he said tearfully. “Once, I sang for them, and they clapped for me.”
Ishvar offered him perfunctory solace, anxious about his own possessions. “At least our sewing-machines have a safe home with Dinabai,” he said to Om. “That’s our good fortune.”
They dragged aside the corrugated sheet that used to be the roof, and uncovered the trunk. The lid had sustained several deep dents. It swung open with a protesting squeal. Om aimed a kick at the biggest depression and the lid moved less stubbornly. They cleared more debris and came upon the small mirror they used for shaving. It was intact: the aluminium frying pan had fallen over it like a helmet.
“No bad luck for us,” said Om, stuffing both items into the trunk. The Primus stove was crushed beyond repair, and he tossed it back. Ishvar found a pencil, a candle, two enamel plates, and a polythene glass. Om found their razor, but not the packet of blades. By shifting more pieces of plywood they unearthed the copper water pot. Someone else spied it at the same moment, grabbed it, and ran.
“Thief!” shouted Om. Nobody paid attention. His uncle stopped him from chasing the man.
They pulled out their wicker mat, sheets, blankets, and the two towels used for pillows. Shaking out clouds of dust, Ishvar rolled it all into one neat bedding bundle and wrapped it with sackcloth.
Rajaram’s concern was solely for his hoard of hair. The stock was ravaged, the plastic sacks ripped, their contents spilled. “One month’s precious collection,” he grieved. “All scattered in the mud.” The allotted thirty minutes were running out. Ishvar and Om helped him gather what they could, concentrating on retrieving the longest specimens.
“It’s hopeless,” said Rajaram bitterly. “The bastards have ruined me. The locks and plaits have broken up, it’s impossible to join them together. Like trying to recover grains of sugar out of a cup of tea.”
The three made their way through the police barricade, where the Controller of Slums was giving instructions to his workers. “Levelled smooth — that’s how I want this field. Empty and clean, the way it was before all these illegal structures were built.” The debris was to be dumped in the ditch by the railway tracks.
The dispossessed lingered outside, watching numbly. The workers flattened walls and corners that had survived the first assault, then stopped, claiming it was too dark for the equipment to shift the rubble without tumbling into the ditch. The Controller of Slums could not risk that, there was much work ahead for his machines, many unlawful encroachments to be razed. He agreed to postpone the final phase till the morning, and the workers departed.
“I’ll spend the night here,” said Rajaram. “I might find something valuable in the field. What about you?”
“We should go to Nawaz,” said Ishvar. “Maybe he’ll let us sleep under his back awning again.”
“But he was so mean to us.”
“Still — he might help us find a house, like he did last time.”
“Yes, it’s worth trying,” said Rajaram. “And I’ll check what happens here. Who knows, some other gang boss might be planning to build new shacks.”
They agreed to meet next evening and exchange information. “Can you do me a favour in the meantime?” asked Rajaram. “Keep these few plaits for me? They are very light. I have nowhere for them.”
Ishvar agreed, and put them in the trunk.
There were strangers living in Nawaz’s house. The man who answered the door claimed to know nothing about him.
“It’s very urgent for us to find Nawazbhai,” said Ishvar. “Maybe your landlord has some information. Can you give me his name and address?”
“It’s none of your business.” Someone shouted from inside, “Stop pestering us so late at night!”
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Ishvar, rehoisting the bedding bundle and retreating down the steps.
“Now what?” panted Om, his face showing the weight of the trunk.
“Your breath has leaked out already?”
He nodded. “Like a broken balloon.”
“Okay, let’s have tea.” They went to the stall at the corner, the one they had frequented during their months on the back porch. The owner remembered them as friends of Nawaz.
“Haven’t seen you for some time,” he said. “Any news of Nawaz since the police took him?”
“Police? For what?”
“Smuggling gold from the Gulf.”
“Really? Was he?”
“Of course not. He was just a tailor, like you.” But Nawaz had quarrelled with somebody whose daughter was getting married. The man, well-connected, had given him a large assignment — wedding clothes for the entire family. After the wedding he refused to pay, claiming that the clothes fit badly. Nawaz kept asking for his money to no avail, then found out where the man’s office was. He showed up there, to embarrass him among his colleagues. “And that was a big mistake. The bastard took his revenge. That same night the police came for Nawaz.”
“Just like that? How can they put an innocent man in jail? The other fellow is the crook.”
“With the Emergency, everything is upside-down. Black can be made white, day turned into night. With the right influence and a little cash, sending people to jail is very easy. There’s even a new law called MISA to simplify the whole procedure.”
“What’s MISA?”
“Maintenance of… something, and Security… something, I’m not sure.”
The tailors finished the tea and departed with their loads. “Poor Nawaz,” said Ishvar. “Wonder if he was really up to something crooked.”
“Must have,” said Om. “They don’t send people to jail for nothing. I never liked him. But now what?”
“Maybe we can sleep at the railway station.”
The platform was thick with beggars and itinerants bedding down for the night. The tailors picked a corner and cleaned it, whisking away the dust with a newspaper.
“Oiee, careful! It’s coming in my face!” screamed someone.
“Sorry bhai,” said Ishvar, abandoning the sweeping. The urge to talk about tomorrow dawning homeless, about what to do next, was strong, but each wanted the other to broach the subject. “Hungry?” he asked.
“No.”
Ishvar wandered down anyway to the railway snack shop. He bought a spicy mix of fried onions, potatoes, peas, chillies, and coriander, stuffed into two small buns. Carrying it back to Om, a little guilt accompanied his passage through the gauntlet of hungry eyes ranged along the platform. “Pao-bhaji. One for you and one for me.”
The glossy magazine page the bun was served on felt soggy. Little circles of warm grease were starting to appear. Om ate hungrily, finishing first, and Ishvar slowed down to save him a piece of his. “I’m full, you have it.”
They took turns visiting the drinking fountain; the trunk and bedding needed guarding. After this, no further distractions were available. “Maybe Rajaram will have good news tomorrow evening,” Om started tentatively.
“Yes, who knows. We could even build something ourselves, once the tamasha dies down. With plywood and sticks and plastic sheets. Rajaram is a smart fellow, he will know what to do. The three of us could live together in one big hut.”
They visited the wasteland beyond the station to urinate, and had another drink of water before untying the bedding. The frequency of trains diminished as the night deepened. They lay down with their feet resting protectively on the trunk.
After midnight, they were awakened by a railway policeman kicking at the trunk. He said sleeping on the platform was prohibited.
“We are waiting for the train,” said Ishvar.
