“Hahnji, please.” Maneck fetched it in their segregated glass. They drank and wiped their lips.
“Dinabai, we’ve had very bad luck. We need your help.”
“Times are such, I don’t know how much help 1 can be to anyone. But tell me anyway.”
“Our home… it’s gone,” said Ishvar timidly.
“You mean your landlord kicked you out?” She sympathized. “Landlords are such rascals.”
He shook his head. “I mean… gone completely,” and he swept his palm through the air. “It has been destroyed by big-big machines. All the houses in the field.”
“They said it was illegal to live there,” added Om.
“Are you serious?” said Maneck. “How can they do that?”
“They are the government,” said Ishvar. “They can do anything they want. Police said it’s a new law.”
Dina nodded, remembering that as recently as last week, there had been ringing praise from Mrs. Gupta for the proposed slum clearance programme. How unfortunate for the tailors, though. Poor people. And she was right about one thing — they did live in an unhygienic place. Thank goodness Maneck was spared from eating with them. “It’s terrible,” she said. “Government makes laws without thinking.”
“Now you know why we had to cancel dinner,” said Om to Maneck. “We felt bad to tell you in the morning.”
“You shouldn’t have,” said Maneck. “It would have given us more time to think of some way to help and — ” He broke off, silenced by Dina knitting her brow fiercely in his direction.
“Rent was already paid for this month,” said Ishvar. “Now we have no house or money. Can we sleep on your verandah … for a few nights?”
Maneck turned, appealing to Dina as she weighed her response. “Myself, I have no objection,” she said. “But if the rent-collector sees, there will be trouble. He will use it as an excuse to say I have made this an illegal guest house. Then you and Maneck and me, and your sewing-machines — everything will land on the street, roofless.”
“I understand,” said Ishvar. His pride would not let him push against the rejection. “We’ll try elsewhere.”
“Don’t forget to take your trunk,” said Dina.
“Can we leave it for tonight?”
“Leave it where? There’s no room to even move in this flat.”
Disgusted by her answer, Om passed the bedding to his uncle and picked up the trunk. They nodded and left.
Dina followed them to the door, locked it, and walked back into the glare of Maneck’s reproach. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I had no choice.”
“You could have let them stay at least tonight. They could have slept in my room.”
“That would be trouble with a capital t. One night is enough for the landlord to bring a case against me.”
“And what about the trunk? Why can’t you keep it for them?”
“What’s this, a police interrogation? You’ve lived such a sheltered life, you’ve no idea what kind of crookedness exists in a city like this. A trunk, a bag, or even a satchel with just two pyjamas and a shirt is the first step into a flat. Personal items stored on the premises — that’s the most common way of staking a claim. And the court system takes years to settle the case, years during which the crooks are allowed to stay in the flat. Now I’m not saying Ishvar and Om came tonight with this plan in their heads. But how can I take the risk? What if they get the idea later from some rascal? Any trouble with the landlord means I have to ask for Nusswan’s help. My brother is absolutely unbearable. He would crow and crow about it.”
Maneck looked out the window, trying to sort out the degree of Dina Aunty’s suspicion. He imagined the invasion of dirty laundry that she feared, the fabricated occupation force.
“Don’t worry so much about the tailors,” she said. “They’ll find somewhere to stay. People like them have relatives all over the place.”
“They don’t. They came just a few months ago from a faraway village.” He was pleased to see a trace of worry in slow migration across her face.
Then she was annoyed. “It’s amazing. Just amazing how much you know about them, isn’t it?”
They ignored each other for most of the evening, but while working on the quilt after dinner, she spread out the squares and tried to get him to talk. “Well, Maneck? How does it look now?”
“Looks terrible.” He was not ready to forgive her while the tailors remained unaccommodated in the night.
The sign read “Sagar Darshan — Ocean View Hotel.” The only sea in sight was the rectangle of blue painted on the weather-beaten board, with a little sailboat perched upon a wave.
Inside, a youth in a frayed white uniform sat on the floor by an umbrella stand, staring at pictures in
“See? I told you, we cannot afford a hotel,” said Ishvar as they retreated.
“Let’s try another one.”
They checked place after place: Paradise Lodge, at twenty rupees a night, located over a bakery with a badly insulated ceiling, so that the searing heat of oven flames could be felt upstairs; Ram Nivas, the signboard stating that all castes were welcome, whose rooms reeked with a horrible stench, courtesy of a small chemical factory next door; Aram Hotel, where their luggage was almost stolen while they inquired, the would-be thief bolting as they retraced their steps down the hallway.
“Had enough?” said Ishvar, and Om nodded.
They lifted their loads and started towards the train station, pausing to inspect every doorway, awning, and facade that might offer shelter. But wherever shelter was possible, the place was already taken. To discourage pavement-dwellers, one shop had laid down in its entrance an iron framework covered with spikes, on hinges that could be unlocked and folded away in the morning. This bed of nails was being used by an enterprising individual — first, a rectangle of plywood over the spikes, and then his blanket.
“We will have to learn things like that,” said Ishvar, watching admiringly.
They passed the beggar on his platform, who greeted them with the usual rattle of his tin. Intent in their search, they didn’t acknowledge him. He gazed forlornly after them. There were a few empty places outside a furniture store that was still open. “We could try there,” said Om.
“Are you crazy? You want to get killed for taking someone’s spot? Have you forgotten what happened on the pavement near Nawaz’s shop?”
They passed the store that never closed, the twenty-four-hour chemist’s. The lights were going out in the main section as the sales clerks left. The dispensing side stayed bright, with a compounder on duty.
“Let’s wait here,” said Ishvar. “See what happens.”
Someone put a wooden stool outside, in the entrance way that was shared by the chemist’s and the antique shop next door. Steel shutters descended like eyelids on the two windows. Soaps, talcum powders, cough syrups on one side, and bronze Natarajas, Mughal miniatures, inlaid jewel boxes on the other, all vanished from view. The two managers locked up and handed over the keys to the nightwatchman.
The tailors waited till the nightwatchman loosened his belt, pulled off his shoes, and got comfortable on the wooden stool. Then they approached with their packet of beedis. “Matches?” asked Ishvar, making the striking gesture with his hand.
The nightwatchman stopped rubbing his calves to dig in his pocket. The tailors shared a match. They offered the beedis to the nightwatchman. He shook his head, producing a pack of Panama cigarettes. The three puffed silently for a while.
“So,” said Ishvar. “You sit here all night?”
“That’s my job.” He reached for the night stick that leaned against the door and tapped it twice. The tailors smiled, nodding.
