roughness relieved the itch. Then he began retying the bandages, the arduous process of neck and jaw in reverse. Om moved his own head in sympathy — up, and down, around, carefully, yes, around again — stopping when, feeling a little foolish, he realized what he was doing.
“The bandage protects my skin. I push with my hands to roll the gaadi. Without bandages they would start bleeding against the ground.”
The casually offered fact made Om uncomfortable. But the beggar kept talking, easing his own fear and anxiety. “I did not always have a gaadi. When I was little, too little to beg on my own, they carried me around. Beggarmaster used to rent me out each day. He was the father of the one who looks after me now. I was in great demand. Beggarmaster would say I earned him the highest profits.”
The panic in his voice had been routed by the memory of happier days. He recalled how well the renters would care for him and feed him, because if they were neglectful, Beggarmaster would thrash them and never do business with them again. Luckily, due to his reduced size, he resembled a baby till he was twelve. “A child, a suckling cripple, earns a lot of money from the public. There were so many different breasts I drank milk from during those years.”
He smiled mischievously. “Wish I could still be carried around in women’s arms, their sweet nipples in my mouth. More fun than bumping along all day on this platform, banging my balls and wearing out my buttocks.”
Ishvar and Om were surprised, then laughed with relief. Passing him by on the pavement with a wave or a coin was one thing; sitting beside him, dwelling on his mutilations was another — and quite distressing. They were happy that he was capable of laughter too.
“At last my baby face and baby size left me. I became too heavy to carry. That’s when Beggarmaster sent me out on my own. I had to drag my self around. On my back.”
He wanted to demonstrate, but there was no room in the crammed truck. He described how Beggarmaster had trained him in the technique, as he trained all his beggars, with a personal touch, teaching them different styles — whatever would work best in each case. “Beggarmaster likes to joke that he would issue diplomas if we had walls to hang them on.”
The tailors laughed again, and the beggar glowed with pleasure. He was discovering a new talent in himself. “So I learned to crawl on my back, using my head and elbows. It was slow going. First I would push my begging tin forward, then wriggle after it. It was very effective. People watched with pity and curiosity. Sometimes little children thought it was a game and tried to imitate me. Two gamblers placed bets every day on how long I would take to reach the end of the pavement. I pretended not to know what they were doing. The winner always dropped money in my can.
“But it took me very long to get to the different spots which Beggarmaster reserved for me. Morning, noon, and night — office crowd, lunch crowd, shopping crowd. So then he decided to get me the platform. Such a nice man, I cannot praise him enough. On my birthday he brings sweetmeats for me. Sometimes he takes me to a prostitute. He has many, many beggars in his team, but I’m his favourite. His work is not easy, there is so much to do. He pays the police, finds the best place to beg, makes sure no one takes away that place. And when there is a good Beggarmaster looking after you, no one dare steal your money. That’s the biggest problem, stealing.”
A man in the truck grumbled and gave the beggar a shove. “Simply screeching like a cat on fire. No one’s interested in listening to your lies.”
The beggar was silent for a few minutes, adjusting his bandages and toying with the castors. The tailors’ drowsy heads started to loll, alarming him. If his friends fell asleep he would be left alone in the dark rush of this terrifying night. He resumed his story to drive away their sleep.
“Also, Beggarmaster has to be very imaginative. If all beggars have the same injury, public gets used to it and feels no pity. Public likes to see variety. Some wounds are so common, they don’t work anymore. For example, putting out a baby’s eyes will not automatically earn money. Blind beggars are everywhere. But blind, with eyeballs missing, face showing empty sockets, plus nose chopped off — now anyone will give money for that. Diseases are also useful. A big growth on the neck or face, oozing yellow pus. That works well.
“Sometimes, normal people become beggars if they cannot find work, or if they fall sick. But they are hopeless, they stand no chance against professionals. Just think — if you have one coin to give, and you have to choose between me and another beggar with a complete body.”
The man who had shoved him earlier spoke again. “Shut up, you monkey, I’m warning you! Or I’ll throw you over the side! At a time like this we don’t want to listen to your nonsense! Why don’t you do an honest job like us?”
“What work do you do?” inquired Ishvar politely, to calm him down.
“Scrap metal. Collecting and selling by weight. And even my poor sick wife has her own work. Rags.”
“That’s very good,” said Ishvar. “And we have a friend who is a hair-collector, although he recently changed to Family Planning Motivator.”
“Yes babu, all very good,” said the beggar. “But tell me, metal-collector, without legs or fingers, what could I do?”
“Don’t make excuses. In a huge city like this there is work even for a corpse. But you have to want it, and look for it seriously. You beggars create nuisance on the streets, then police make trouble for everyone. Even for us hardworking people.”
“O babu, without beggars how will people wash away their sins?”
“Who cares? We worry about finding water to wash our skins!”
The discussion got louder, the beggar yelling shrilly, the metal-collector bellowing back at him. The other passengers began taking sides. The drunks awoke and shouted abuse at everyone. “Goat-fucking idiots! Offspring of lunatic donkeys! Shameless eunuchs from somewhere!”
Eventually, the commotion made the truck driver pull over to the edge of the road. “I cannot drive with so much disturbance,” he complained. “There will be an accident or something.”
His headlights revealed a stony verge and tussocks of grass. A hush descended over the truck. The darkness was deep on both sides, betraying nothing — beyond the road’s narrow shoulders, the night could be hiding hills, empty fields, a thick forest, or demon-monsters.
A policeman came through the beam of light to warn them. “If there is any more noise, you will be thrashed and thrown out right here, in the jungle, instead of being taken to your nice new homes.”
The silenced truckload started moving. The beggar began to weep. “O babu, I’m feeling so frightened again.” He fell into a stupor of exhausted sleep after a while.
The tailors were wide awake now. Ishvar wondered what would happen when they didn’t turn up for work in the morning. “Dresses will be late again. Second time in two months. What will Dinabai do?”
“Find new tailors, and forget about us,” said Om. “What else?”
Dawn turned the night to grey, and then pink, as the truck and jeep left the highway for a dirt road to stop outside a small village. The tailboard swung open. The passengers were told to attend to calls of nature. For some, the halt had come too late.
The beggar tilted on one buttock while Om slid the platform under him. He paddled himself to the edge of the truck and waved a bandaged palm at two policemen. They turned their backs, lighting cigarettes. The tailors jumped off and lowered him to the ground, surprised at how little he weighed.
The men used one side of the road, the women squatted on the other; children were everywhere. The babies were hungry and crying. Parents fed them from packages of half-rotten bananas and oranges and scraps scavenged the night before.
The Facilitator went on ahead to arrange for tea. The village chaiwalla set up a temporary kitchen near the truck, building a fire to heat a cauldron of water, milk, sugar, and tea leaves. Everyone watched him thirstily. The early sun dabbled through the trees, catching the liquid. Boiling and ready in a few minutes, it was served in little earthen bowls.
Meanwhile, word of the visitors percolated swiftly through the little village, and its population gathered round to watch. They took pride in the pleasure the travellers obtained from sipping the tea. The headman greeted the Facilitator and asked the usual friendly, villager questions about who, where, why, ready to offer help and advice.
The Facilitator told him to mind his business, take his people back to their huts, or the police would disperse them. Hurt by the rude behaviour, the crowd left.
