“I’m not hungry.”
“Not hungry today, no lectures today. Very strange.”
“But it’s true, Aunty. Forget lunch, I’m really not hungry.”
“And what about me? Worrying all yesterday, I didn’t eat a single bite. Today at least may I have the pleasure?”
“Work before pleasure,” he smiled down at the button, looking up from the corner of his eye.
“Planning to be my boss, are you?” she said with mock sternness. “If I don’t eat, there will be no work and no pleasure. Only me fainting over needle and thread.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of lunch. You keep on hemming.”
“Proper housewife you are becoming. What will it be? Bread and butter? Tea and toast?”
“A surprise. I’ll be back soon.”
Before leaving the flat he readied six needles with thread, to spare her pitting her eyes in contest with the little silvery ones.
“Wasting money like that,” scolded Dina. “Your parents already pay me for your food.”
Maneck emptied the alayti-palayti from A-l Restaurant into a bowl and brought it to the table. “It’s out of my pocket money. I can spend it any way I like.”
Chunks of chicken liver and gizzard floated tantalizingly in the thick, spicy sauce. Bending over the bowl, she sniffed. “Mmm, the same wonderful fragrance that made it a favourite of Rustom’s. Only A-1 makes it in rich gravy — other places cook it too dry.” She dipped a spoon, raised it to her lips, and nodded. “Delicious. We could easily add a little water without harming the taste. Then it will be enough for lunch and dinner.”
“Okay. And this is specially for you,” he handed her a bag.
She felt inside and withdrew a bunch of carrots. “You want me to cook these for us?
“Not for us, Aunty — for you, to eat raw. Good for your eyes. Especially since they’ll be very busy now.”
“Thank you, but I prefer not to.”
“No alayti-palayti without carrot. You must have at least one with your lunch.”
“You’re crazy if you think I will eat raw carrots. Even my mother could not make me.” While she got the table ready, he scraped a medium-sized specimen, lopped off the ends, and placed it next to her plate.
“I hope that’s yours,” she said.
“No carrot, no alayti-palayti.” He refused to pass her the bowl. “I make the rules. For your own good.”
She laughed but her mouth started to water while he ate. She picked up the vegetable by the thin end as though to hit him over the head with it, and bit into it with a vengeance. Grinning, he passed her the bowl. “My father says his one eye is equal to most people’s two because he eats carrots regularly. A carrot a day keeps blindness away, he claims.”
Throughout the meal, she grimaced each time she crunched into it. “Thank goodness for the delicious alayti- palayti. Without the gravy this raw roughage would stick in my throat.”
“Now tell me, Aunty,” he said when they finished eating. “Are your eyes any better?”
“Good enough to see you for the devil that you are.”
The sewing picked up speed after lunch, but late in the afternoon Dina’s eyelids grew heavy. “I have to stop now for tea. Okay, boss?”
“Fifteen minutes only, remember. And one cup for me too, please.”
She went to the kitchen, smiling and shaking her head.
Seven o’clock, and her mind turned to dinner duties. “That alayti-palayti sitting in the kitchen is making me hungry earlier than usual. What about you? Now, or wait till eight?”
“Whenever you like,” he mumbled through lips clutching an empty needle. He unrolled a length of thread from the spool.
“Look at that! First time sewing, and already acting like a crazy tailor! Take it out of your mouth! At once! Before you swallow it!”
He removed the needle, a little sheepish. She had hit the mark — he was trying to copy Om’s jaunty way of sticking things between his lips: pins, needles, blades, scissors, the daredevilry of juxtaposing sharp, dangerous objects with soft, defenceless flesh.
“How will I explain to your mother if I return her son with a needle stuck in his craw?”
“You never shouted at Om for doing it.”
“That’s different. He’s trained, he grew up with tailors.”
“No, he didn’t. His family used to be cobblers.”
“Same thing — they know how to use tools, to cut and sew. And besides, I should have stopped him. His mouth can bleed just like yours.” She went to the kitchen, and he kept working till dinner was on the table.
Halfway through the meal, she remembered what he had said about the tailors. “They were cobblers? Why did they change?”
“They requested me not to tell anyone. It’s to do with their caste, they are afraid of being treated badly.”
“You can tell me. I don’t believe in all those stupid customs.”
So he briefly related the story Ishvar and Om had shared with him in bits and pieces, over weeks, over cups of tea in the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel, about their village, about the landlords who had mistreated the Chamaars all their lives, the whippings, the beatings, the rules that the untouchable castes were forced to observe.
She stopped eating, toying with her fork. She rested an elbow on the table and balanced her chin on the fist. As he continued, the fork slipped from her fingers, clattering outside the plate. He concluded quickly when he came to the murders of the parents and children and grandparents.
Dina retrieved her fork. “I never knew … I never thought… all those newspaper stories about upper-and lower-caste madness, suddenly so close to me. In my own flat. It’s the first time I actually know the people. My God — such horrible, horrible suffering.” She shook her head as though in disbelief.
She tried to resume eating, then gave up. “Compared to theirs, my life is nothing but comfort and happiness. And now they are in more trouble. I hope they come back all right. People keep saying God is great, God is just, but I’m not sure.”
“God is dead,” said Maneck. “That’s what a German philosopher wrote.”
She was shocked. “Trust the Germans to say such things,” she frowned. “And do you believe it?”
“I used to. But now I prefer to think that God is a giant quiltmaker. With an infinite variety of designs. And the quilt is grown so big and confusing, the pattern is impossible to see, the squares and diamonds and triangles don’t fit well together anymore, it’s all become meaningless. So He has abandoned it.”
“What nonsense you talk sometimes, Maneck.”
While she cleared the table he opened the kitchen window and miaowed. Out went bits of bread and alayti- palayti. Hoping it was not too pungent for the cats, he returned to the sewing room and picked up another dress, reminding Dina Aunty to hurry.
“This boy is going crazy. Not letting me rest even five minutes after dinner. I’m an old woman, not a young puppy like you.”
“You’re not old at all, Aunty. In fact, you’re quite young. And beautiful,” he added daringly.
“And you, Mr. Mac, are getting too smart,” she said, unable to hide her pleasure.
“There’s only one thing that puzzles me.”
“What?”
“Why someone who looks so young should sound so elderly, grumpy all the time.”
“You rascal. First you flatter me, then you insult me.” She laughed as she folded and pinned the hem, holding up the dress to check if the border was even. Adjusting the edges, she said, “Now I can appreciate the long nails on the tailors’ fingers. You really became friends with them, didn’t you? And them telling you all about their life in the village.”
He looked up briefly, and shrugged.
“Day after day they sat here working, and wouldn’t say anything to me. Why?”
He shrugged again.
“Stop speaking with your shoulders. Your quiltmaking God has sewn a tongue inside your mouth. Why did
