Facilitator selected Burfi, and entered it on the roster. For the age column he used a rough estimate by appearance.
The drunks and the mentally disturbed were a little more difficult to deal with, refusing to move, screaming abuse, most of it incoherent, and making the police laugh. Then one drunk began swinging his fists wildly. “Rabid dogs!” he shouted. “Born of diseased whores!” The constables stopped laughing and set on him with their sticks; when he fell, they used their feet.
“Stop, please stop!” beseeched the Facilitator. “How will he work if you break his bones?”
“Don’t worry, these fellows are tough. Our sticks will break, they won’t.” The unconscious drunk was thrown into the truck. On the pavement, discussion was adjourned with truncheons in the kidneys and, in extremely voluble cases, a crack on the skull.
“These are not hidden injuries!” the Facilitator protested to Sergeant Kesar. “Look at all that blood!”
“Sometimes it’s necessary,” said Sergeant Kesar, but he did remind his men to curb their zeal or it would stretch out the night’s work by involving doctors and bandages and medical reports.
Still concealed within the chemist’s entrance, the tailors wondered what was happening now. “Are they leaving? They finished?”
“Looks like it,” said the nightwatchman, and the sound of engines starting confirmed it. “Good, you can go to sleep again.”
Sergeant Kesar and the Facilitator checked the roster. “Ninety-four,” said the latter. “Need two more to complete the quota.”
“Actually speaking, when I said eight dozen I was giving an approximate number. One truckload. Don’t you understand? How can I predict in advance exactly how many we are going to catch?”
“But I told my contractor eight dozen. He will think I am cheating him, no. Can’t you look for two more?”
“Okay,” said Sergeant Kesar wearily, “let’s find two more.” Never again would he deal with this fellow. Whining and whimpering nonstop, like a whipped dog. If it weren’t a question of paying for his daughter’s sitar lessons, he would chuck these overtime assignments without a second thought. Not only did he have to deal with scum like the Facilitator; the late nights also kept him from rising before dawn and putting in an hour of yoga as he used to. No wonder he was so short-tempered these days, he reflected. And suffering all this stomach acidity. But what choice? It was his duty to improve his child’s marriage prospects.
The tailors and the nightwatchman heard the approach of thumping feet and sticks. Two silhouettes, faceless as their shadows, looked inside the entrance. “Who’s there?”
“It’s all right, don’t worry, I am the nightwatchman and — ”
“Shut up and come out! All of you!” Sergeant Kesar’s patience had been devoured by the Facilitator.
The nightwatchman rose from his stool, decided it would be prudent to leave his night-stick behind, and stepped onto the pavement. “Don’t worry,” he beckoned the tailors forward. “I will explain to them.”
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, buttoning his shirt.
“Actually speaking, sleeping on the street is breaking the law. Get your things and into the truck.”
“But police-sahab, we are sleeping here only because your men came with machines and destroyed our jhopadpatti.”
“What? You lived in a jhopadpatti? Two wrongs don’t make a right. You could get double punishment.”
“But police-sahab,” interrupted the nightwatchman, “you cannot arrest them, they were not sleeping on the street, they were inside this-”
“You understand what shut up means?” warned Sergeant Kesar. “Or you want to find out what lockup means? Sleeping in any non-sleeping place is illegal. This is an entranceway, not a sleeping place. And who said they are being arrested? The government is not crazy that it would go around jailing beggars.” He stopped abruptly, wondering why he was making a speech when his men’s lathis would get quicker results.
“But we are not beggars!” said Om. “We are tailors, look, these long fingernails to fold straight seams, and we work at — ”
“If you are tailors then sew up your mouths! Enough, into the truck!”
“He knows us,” Ishvar pointed at the Facilitator. “He said he could sell us a ration card for two hundred rupees, payable in instalments and-”
“What’s this about ration cards?” demanded Sergeant Kesar, turning.
The Facilitator shook his head. “They’re confusing me with some crooked tout, it looks like.”
“It
Sergeant Kesar motioned to a constable. The stick came down across Om’s calves. He yelped.
“No, please, no beating,” pleaded the nightwatchman. “It’s all right, they will listen to you.” He patted the tailors’ shoulders. “Don’t worry, this is definitely a mistake, just explain to the people in charge and they will let you go.”
The constable lifted his stick again, but Ishvar and Om began rolling up the bedding. The nightwatchman embraced them before they were led off. “Come back soon, I’ll keep this place for you.”
Ishvar tried one last time. “We really have jobs, we don’t beg — ”
“Shut up.” Sergeant Kesar was in the midst of calculating his proceeds for the night’s haul, and arithmetic was not his strong point. The interruption forced him to start the sum over again.
The tailors climbed onto the truckbed, then the tailboard was slammed shut and the bolt shot into place. The men assigned to escort the transport took their seats in the police jeep. The Facilitator settled the final amount with Sergeant Kesar and got in beside the truck driver.
The truck, recently used for construction work, had clods of clay stuck to its insides. Underfoot, stray gravel stabbed the human cargo. Some who were standing tumbled in a heap as the driver threw the gears into reverse to turn around and return the way he had come. The police jeep followed closely behind.
They travelled through what remained of the night, the bumps and potholes making their bodies collide ceaselessly. The beggar on castors had the worst of it, shoved back each time he skidded into someone. He smiled nervously at the tailors. “I see you often on my pavement. You’ve given me many coins.”
Ishvar moved his hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture. “Why don’t you get off your gaadi?” he suggested, and with Om’s help the beggar removed the platform from under him. His neighbours were relieved. Inert as a sack of cement, he clutched the board to his chest with his fingerless hands, then cradled it in his abbreviated lap, shivering in the warm night.
“Where are they taking us?” he yelled above the engine’s roar. “I’m so scared! What’s going to happen?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out,” said Ishvar. “Where did you get this nice gaadi of yours?”
“My Beggarmaster gave it to me. Gift. He is such a kind man.” Fear made his shrill voice sharper. “How will I find Beggarmaster again? He will think I have run away when he comes tomorrow for the money!”
“If he asks around, someone will tell him about the police,”
“That’s what I cannot understand. Why did police take me? Beggarmaster pays them every week — all his beggars are allowed to work without harassment.”
“These are different police,” said Ishvar. “The beautification police — there’s a new law to make the city beautiful. Maybe they don’t know your Beggarmaster.”
He shook his head at the absurdity of the suggestion. “Aray babu, everybody knows Beggarmaster.” He began fidgeting with the castors, finding comfort in spinning the wheels. “This gaadi here, it’s a new one he gave me recently. The old one broke.”
“How?” asked Om.
“Accident. There was a slope, I crashed off the pavement. Almost damaged somebody’s motorcar.” He giggled, remembering the event. “This new one is much better.” He invited Om to inspect the castors.
“Very smooth,” said Om, trying one with his thumb. “What happened to your legs and hands?”
“Don’t know exactly. Always been like this. But I’m not complaining, I get enough to eat, plus a reserved place on the pavement. Beggarmaster looks after everything.” He examined the bandages on his hands and unravelled them using his mouth, which silenced him for a few minutes. It was a slow, laborious procedure, involving a lot of neck and jaw movement.
The palms revealed, he scratched them by rubbing against the tailors’ bedding. The sackcloth’s delicious
