The tea was consumed and the little earthen bowls were returned to the chaiwalla. He proceeded to shatter them in the customary way, whereupon some pavement-dwellers instinctively rushed to save them. “Wait, wait! We’ll keep them if you don’t want them!”
But the Facilitator forbade it. “Where you are going, you will be given everything that you need.” They were ordered back into the truck. During the halt, the sun had cleared the tree tops. Morning heat was rapidly gaining the upper hand. The engine’s starting roar frightened the birds, lifting them from the trees in a fluttering cloud.
Late in the day the truck arrived at an irrigation project where the Facilitator unloaded the ninety-six individuals. The project manager counted them before signing the delivery receipt. The worksite had its own security men, and the police jeep departed.
The security captain ordered the ninety-six to empty their pockets, open up their parcels, place everything on the ground. Two of his men moved down the line, passing hands over their clothes in a body search and examining the pile of objects. This need not have taken long, since half of them were near-naked beggars and the possessions were meagre. But there were women too, so it was a while before the guards finished the frisking.
They seized screwdrivers, cooking spoons, a twelve-inch steel rod, knives, a roll of copper wire, tongs, and a comb of bone with teeth deemed too large and sharp. A guard gave Om’s plastic comb the bending test. It broke in two. He was allowed to keep the pieces. “We’re not supposed to be here, my uncle and I,” he said.
The guard pushed him back in line. “Talk to the foreman if you have a complaint.”
The extremely ragged were issued half-pants and vests, or petticoats and blouses. The beggar on castors got only a vest, there being nothing suitable to fit his cloth-swaddled amputated lower half. Ishvar and Om did not get new clothes, nor did the ragpicker and the metal-collector. The latter, whose many sharp-edged items had been confiscated, was chagrined, considering it most unfair. But the tailors felt the new clothes were poorly stitched, and preferred what they were wearing.
The group was shown to a row of tin huts, to be occupied twelve to a hut. Everyone rushed in a frenzy to the nearest of the identical shelters and fought to get inside. The guard drove them back, allocating places at random. A stack of rolled-up straw mats stood within each hut. Some people spread them out and lay down, but had to get up again. They were told to store their belongings and reassemble for the foreman.
The foreman was a harried-looking individual, sweating profusely, who welcomed them to their new houses. He took a few minutes to describe the generous scheme the government had introduced for the uplift of the poor and homeless. “So we hope you will take advantage of this plan. Now there are still two hours of working-time left, but you can rest today. Tomorrow morning you will start your new jobs.”
Someone asked how much the salary was, and if it would be paid daily or weekly.
The foreman wiped the sweat from his face, sighed, and tried again. “You didn’t understand what I said? You will get food, shelter, and clothing. That is your salary.”
The tailors edged forward, anxious to explain their accidental presence in the irrigation project. But two officials got to the foreman first and led him away for a meeting. Ishvar decided against running after him. “Better to wait till morning,” he whispered to Om. “He’s very busy now, it might make him angry. But it’s clear that the police made a mistake with us. This place is for unemployed people. They will let us go once they know we have tailoring jobs.”
Some people ventured to lie down inside the huts. Others chose to spread their mats outside. Blazing under the daylong sun, the tin walls enclosed a savage heat. The shade cast by the corrugated metal was cooler.
A whistle blew at dusk and workers returned from their tasks. After thirty minutes it blew again, and they made their way to the camp’s eating area. The newcomers were told to go with them. They lined up outside the kitchen to receive their dinner: dal and chapati, with a green chilli on the side.
“The dal is almost water,” said Om.
The server overheard him and took it personally. “What do you think this is, your father’s palace?”
“Don’t take my father’s name,” said Om.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Ishvar, pulling him away. “Tomorrow we’ll tell the top man about the policeman’s mistake.”
They finished eating in silence, concentrating like everyone else on the food’s hidden perils. The chapatis were made from gritty flour. The meal was punctuated by the diners spitting out small pebbles and other foreign bodies. Tinier fragments which could not be caught in time were triturated with the food.
“They should have been here more than an hour ago,” Dina said to Maneck when breakfast was done.
She’s after the poor chaps again, he thought, gathering the books he needed for the day’s classes. “Does it matter that much, if it’s piecework?”
“What do you know about running a business? Your mummy and daddy pay your fees and send you pocket money. Wait till you start earning your living.”
When he returned in the afternoon, she was pacing by the door. The instant his slightly bent key rattled in the keyhole, she turned the knob. “No sign of them all day,” she complained to him. “I wonder what excuse they’ll have this time. Another meeting with the Prime Minister?”
As the afternoon meandered towards evening, her sarcastic tone was elbowed aside by anxiety. “The electricity bill is due, and the water bill. Rations to be bought. And Ibrahim will arrive next week to collect the rent. You’ve no idea how harassing he can be.”
Her worries continued to bubble like indigestion after dinner. What would happen if the tailors did not come tomorrow even? How could she get two new ones quickly enough? And it wasn’t just a question of these dresses being late — a second delay would seriously displease the high and mighty empress of Au Revoir Exports. This time the manager would place the black mark of “unreliable” next to her name. Dina felt that perhaps she should go to the Venus Beauty Salon, talk to Zenobia, request her to again use her influence with Mrs. Gupta.
“Ishvar and Om wouldn’t stay absent just like that,” said Maneck. “Something urgent must have come up.”
“Rubbish. What could be so urgent that they cannot take a few minutes to stop by?”
“Maybe they went to see a room for rent or something. Don’t worry, Aunty, they’ll probably be here tomorrow.”
“Probably? Probably is not good enough. I cannot
He thought the outburst was unfair. “If they don’t come tomorrow, I’ll go and ask what’s wrong.”
“Yes,” she brightened. “It’s a good thing you know where they live.” Her anxiety seemed to diminish. Then she said, “Let’s visit them right now. Why spend the whole night worrying?”
“But you always say you don’t want them thinking you are desperate. If you run there at night, they’ll see you are helpless without them.”
“I am not helpless,” she said emphatically. “Just one more difficulty in life, that’s all it is.” But she decided to wait till morning, agreeing that he should check on them before going to college. She was too distracted to continue working on the quilt; the squares and scraps sat in a pile on the sofa, hiding their designs.
Maneck ran back from the chemist’s shop, frantic. Near the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel he slowed down for a quick look inside, hoping that Ishvar and Om might be sipping their morning tea. Empty. He reached the flat, panting, and repeated the nightwatchman’s account for Dina.
“It’s terrible! He thinks they were mistaken for beggars — dragged into the police truck — and God knows where they are now!”
“Hmm, I see,” she said, weighing the story for truth and substance. “And how long is their jail sentence? One week, two weeks?” If those rascals were trying a new job somewhere, playing for time, this would be the way to do it.
“I don’t know.” Distraught, he did not detect her question’s cynicism. “It’s not just them — everyone from the street, all the beggars and pavement-dwellers were taken away by the police.”
“Don’t make me laugh, there’s no law for doing that.”
“It’s a new policy — city beautification plan or something, under the Emergency.”
“What Emergency? I am sick and tired of that stupid word.” Still sceptical, she took a deep breath and
