“This is not that kind of station. No waiting room. Come back in the morning.”
“But these other people are sleeping.”
“They have special permission.” The policeman jingled the coins in his pocket.
“Okay, we won’t sleep on the platform, we will just sit.”
The policeman left, shrugging. They sat up and rolled away the bedding.
“Ssst,” called a woman lying next to them. “Ssst. You have to pay him.” The plastic sheet she lay upon rustled loudly at her slightest movement. Her feet were wrapped in bandages blotched by a dark-yellow ooze.
“Pay him for what? It’s not his father’s platform.”
She smiled, cracking the grime on her face. “Cinema, cinema!” She pointed excitedly at the film posters lining the platform wall. “One rupee per beggar. Fifty paise for child. Cinema every night.”
Ishvar secretly raised a hand to his forehead and gave the loose-screw sign, but Om insisted on explaining. “We’re not beggars, we’re tailors. And what will he do if we don’t pay? Can’t take us to jail for it.”
The woman turned on her side, observing them closely, silent except for the random giggling. A half-hour passed, and there was no sign of the policeman.
“I think it’s safe now,” said Om. He unrolled the bedding and they lay down again. She was still watching them amusedly. A faint smell of rot came from her bandaged feet.
“Are you going to look at us all night?” said Om. She shook her head but kept staring. Ishvar quietened his nephew, and they closed their eyes.
Within minutes of their dozing off, the policeman returned with a bucket of cold water and emptied it over the sleeping tailors. They howled and jumped off their bedding. The policeman walked away wordlessly, giving his empty bucket a jaunty swing. The woman on the plastic sheet was shaking with laughter.
“Animal from somewhere!” hissed Om, and Ishvar shushed him. He need not have bothered; the woman’s hysterical laughter drowned the words. She slapped her hands with delight on the plastic sheet, making it flap.
“Cinema! Cinema! Johnnie Walker comedy!” she managed to get out between laughs.
“She knew! The crazy witch knew and didn’t tell us, yaar!”
Thoroughly soaked, they picked up everything and moved to the only remaining spot, at the end of the platform, where the urine smell was strong. The dry clothes in the trunk were a precious treasure. They took turns changing. Their wet things were spread out on the trunk’s open lid. The sheets and blanket were hung on a broken sign fixture protruding from the platform wall.
The wicker mat dried quickly but they were afraid to lie down. Shivering, they sat guarding their belongings, swaying with sleep, nodding off occasionally. Due to the drenching, they needed to visit the wasteland several times. After the station was asleep, walking down to the tracks was not necessary. They emptied their bladders off the edge of the platform.
The railway snack shop crashed open its steel shutters at four a.m. Cups and saucers started clinking, pots and pans banged. Ishvar and Om gargled at the drinking fountain, then bought two teas and a loaf of crusty bread. The hot liquid cleared their sleep-logged heads. The plan for the day began falling into place: at a suitable hour they would take the train to work, sew till six as usual, then return to meet Rajaram.
“We’ll leave the trunk with Dinabai, just for tonight,” said Ishvar. “But we won’t say our house is destroyed. People are scared of the homeless.”
“I’ll give you anything if she lets us leave it there.”
They spent two more hours on the platform, smoking, watching the early-morning commuters who were mainly vendors waiting with baskets of pumpkin, onions, pomfret, salt, eggs, flowers balanced on their heads. An umbrella repairer was preparing for work, anatomizing broken umbrellas, salvaging the good ribs and handles. A contractor with his band of painters and masons, armed with ladders, pails, brushes, trowels, and hods, went by smelling like a freshly painted house.
The tailors got on a train at six-thirty. They were at Dina’s flat by seven. She flung a dustercoat over her nightgown and opened the door.
“So early?” Trust them to be inconsiderate, she thought — the sun barely up, the washing to do, Maneck’s breakfast still to make, and here they were, expecting attention.
“The trains are at last running on time. Because of the Emergency,” said Om, feeling rather clever.
She concluded that the brazen excuse was designed to infuriate her. Then Ishvar added placatingly, “Longer day means more dresses, hahn, Dinabai?”
True enough. “But what’s all this big fat luggage?”
“We have to take it to a friend in the evening. Oh, Maneck. Before I forget. You must forgive us, dinner is not possible today. Something very urgent has come up.”
“That’s okay,” said Maneck. “Another time.”
She made them leave the trunk and bedding by the door. It could be crawling with bugs, for all she knew. And their behaviour was very suspicious. If it was urgent, they could have gone to their friend now. Especially since they were so early. But at least Maneck’s dinner invitation was cancelled, which was a relief.
All that day, Ishvar was not his usual steady self, and once, he almost joined a skirt and bodice back to front. “Stop!” she cried as the needle drove in the first line of stitches. “You, Ishvar? If Omprakash did this it would be no surprise. But you?” Smiling sheepishly, he severed the delinquent stitches with a safety razor blade.
At four o’clock they wanted to leave, two hours earlier than usual. So much for the extra dresses they were going to sew, she thought, but was glad to see them go, taking with them the weight that hung in the air.
Before she realized the trunk was left behind, they had shut the door and hurried away to the station.
Heavy rain had fallen during the day, submerging much of last night’s debris in muddy little ponds. Pieces of plywood or metal rose through the water like sails and shipwrecks. Seagulls screeched over the transfigured slum. Some former residents were wandering outside, gazing at the land, but Rajaram was nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe he found out there is no chance of building here again,” said Ishvar.
The portly Sergeant Kesar was not in evidence at the moment. Six constables from his new enforcement squad were guarding the field. They approached the tailors and the others hanging around, and warned them, “If you try to put up any new jhopdis, we’ll have to take you straight to jail.”
“Why?”
“It’s our assignment — slum prevention and city beautification.” The constables returned to their post at the corner.
“I think we should go back and tell Dinabai the truth,” said Ishvar.
“Why?”
“She might help us.”
“In your dreams,” said Om.
A work crew was erecting two new hoardings, one on each side of the road. They pasted the Prime Minister’s face over the boards, then debated about the accompanying message. There was a variety to choose from. They unrolled the banners and spread them out over the pavement for consideration, using stones to hold down the corners.
The workers were unanimous concerning the first slogan: THE CITY BELONGS TO YOU! KEEP IT BEAUTIFUL! The second was posing some difficulty. The supervisor wanted to use FOOD FOR THE HUNGRY! HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS! His subordinates advised him that something else would be more appropriate; they recommended THE NATION IS ON THE MOVE!
The tailors waited around till the displays were completed. The crowd clapped as the huge frames were raised. The posts were embedded in holes, buttressed with diagonal braces, and the earth tamped down. Someone asked Om if he could please read what the two boards were saying. Om translated for him. The man contemplated the meaning for a moment, then went away shaking his head, muttering that this time the government had gone completely mad.
“I knew you would come back,” said Dina. “You forgot your trunk.” They shook their heads, and she saw how scared and exhausted they were. “What’s wrong?”
“A terrible misfortune has fallen on our heads,” said Ishvar.
“Come inside. Would you like some water?”
