“Here it is, our new sleeping place,” said Om, and introduced the nightwatchman: “Our new landlord.”
The latter laughed, beckoning them into the entrance. They huddled together on the steps to smoke and watch the road. “Ah, what kind of landlord am I? I cannot even guarantee a good night’s sleep.”
“Not your fault,” said Om. “It’s all this sickness. And on top of that, I keep having bad dreams.”
“So do I,” said Ishvar. “The nights are full of noises and shapes and shadows. Too scary.”
“I am sitting here with my stick,” said the nightwatchman. “What’s there to be scared of?”
“It’s hard to give it a name,” said Ishvar, coughing and extinguishing his beedi.
“We should just go back to our village,” said Om. “I’m fed up of living like this, crawling from one trouble to another.”
“You prefer to run towards it?” Ishvar squeezed the tip of the beedi to make sure it was out, then reinserted it in the packet. “Patience, my nephew. When the time comes, we will go back.”
“If time were a bolt of cloth,” said Om, “I would cut out all the bad parts. Snip out the scary nights and stitch together the good parts, to make time bearable. Then I could wear it like a coat, always live happily.”
“I’d also like a coat like that,” said Maneck. “But which parts would you cut out?”
“The government destroying our house, for sure,” said Om. “And working for Dinabai.”
“Hoi-hoi,” cautioned Ishvar. “Without her, where would the money come from?”
“Okay, let’s keep the paydays and throw out the rest.”
“What else?” asked Maneck.
“Depends how far back you want to go.”
“All the way. Back to when you were born.”
“That’s too much, yaar. So many things to cut, the scissors would go blunt. And there would be very little cloth left.”
“How much nonsense you boys are talking,” said Ishvar. “Been smoking ganja or what?”
The evening sky darkened, summoning the streetlights. A torn black kite swooped down from the roof like an aggressive crow, startling them. Om grabbed it, saw that it was badly damaged, and let it go.
“Some things are very complicated to separate with scissors,” said Maneck. “Good and bad are joined like that.” He laced his fingers tight together.
“Such as?”
“My mountains. They are beautiful but they also produce avalanches.”
“That’s true. Like our teatime at Vishram, which is good. But the Prime Minister sitting in the window gives me a stomach-ache.”
“Living in the colony was also good,” suggested Ishvar. “Rajaram next door was fun.”
“Yes,” said Om. “But jumping up in the middle of a shit because of a fast train — that was horrible.”
They laughed, Ishvar too, though he insisted that that had happened just once. “It was a new train, even Rajaram didn’t know about it.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Wonder what happened to Rajaram?”
Pavement-dwellers began emerging through the gathering dusk. Cardboard, plastic, newspaper, blankets materialized across the footpaths. Within minutes, huddled bodies had laid claim to all the concrete. Pedestrians now adapted to the new topography, picking their way carefully through the field of arms and legs and faces.
“My father complains at home that it’s become very crowded and dirty,” said Maneck. “He should come and see this.”
“He would get used to it,” said the nightwatchman. “Just like I did. You watch it day after day, then you stop noticing. Especially if you have no choice.”
“Not my father, he would keep grumbling.”
Ishvar’s cough came back, and the nightwatchman suggested asking the compounder for medicine.
“Can’t afford it.”
“Just go and ask. He has a special system for poor people.” He unlocked the door to let him in.
For those who could not pay the price of a full bottle, the compounder sold medicine by the spoonful or by the tablet. The poor were grateful for this special dispensation, and the compounder made up to six times the original price, pocketing the difference. “Open your mouth,” he instructed Ishvar, and deftly poured in a spoonful of Glycodin Terp Vasaka.
“Tastes nice,” said Ishvar, licking his lips.
“Come tomorrow night for another spoonful.”
The nightwatchman inquired how much he had been charged for the dose. “Fifty paise,” said Ishvar, and the nightwatchman made a mental note to demand his cut.
For three more days the trunk hung from Om’s arm during the march between the nightwatchman and Dina Dalai. The distance was short but the weight made it long. He was sore from shoulder to wrist, the hand useless for guiding the fabric through the machine. To feed the cloth accurately to the voracious needle took two hands: the right in front of the presser foot, and the left behind.
“The trunk has paralysed me,” he said, giving up.
Dina watched him, her compassion muted but not dead. My spirited little sparrow is really not well today, dragging his injured wing, she thought. No more hopping and chirping, no more arrogance and argument.
In the midst of a morning filled with tangled threads and twisted seams, the doorbell rang. She went to the verandah to look, and returned very annoyed. “It’s someone asking for you. Disturbing our work in the middle of the day.”
Surprised and apologetic, Ishvar hurried to the front door. “You!” he said. “What happened? We went to the colony that evening. Where were you?”
“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram, joining his hands. “I feel very bad about it, what to do. I got a new job, they needed me right away, I had to go. But look, my employer has more jobs to fill, you should apply.”
Ishvar could sense Dina trying to listen in the background. “We’ll have to meet later,” he said, and gave him the address of the chemist’s.
“Okay, I’ll come there tonight. And look, can you lend me ten rupees? Just till I get paid?”
“Only have five.” Ishvar handed it over, wondering if Rajaram’s habit of borrowing money was going to become a nuisance. The earlier loan was still unpaid. Should never have let him know where we. work, he thought. He returned to his Singer and told Om about their visitor.
“Who cares about Rajaram, I’m dying here.” He extended his sore left arm, the limb delicate as porcelain.
The gesture finally melted Dina. She brought out her bottle of Amrutanjan Balm. “Come, this will make it better,” she said.
He shook his head.
“Dinabai is right,” said Ishvar. “I’ll rub it for you.”
“You keep sewing, I’ll do it,” said Dina. “Or the balm smell from your fingers will fill the dress.” Besides, she thought, if
“I’ll apply it myself,” said Om.
She uncapped the bottle. “Come on, take off your shirt. What are you shy about? I’m old enough to be your mother.”
He unbuttoned reluctantly, revealing a vest with many holes. Like Swiss cheese, she thought. A salty-sour odour tarried about him. She dug a dark-green blob out of the bottle and started at the shoulder, spreading the cold unguent down towards the elbow in frigid one-finger lines. He shuddered. The chill of it made his skin horripilate. Then she began to massage, and the salve released its heat, causing his arm, her hand, to tingle. The goose flesh dwindled and vanished.
“How is it?” she asked, kneading the muscles.
“Cold one minute, hot the next.”
“That’s the beauty of balm. Nice zhumzhum feeling. Just wait, the pain will soon be gone.”
The odour from his flesh had disappeared, drowned in the balm’s pungency. How smooth the skin, she thought. Like a child’s. And almost no hair, even on his shoulder.
“How does it feel now?”
“Good.” He had enjoyed the rub.
“Anything else hurting?”
