share. “I’ve already eaten.”
Ishvar emptied the water mug, and the beggar started rolling to fetch more. “Wait, I’ll get it,” said Om. “I’m all right now.”
The beggar was having none of that, and soon returned with a full mug. He inquired if they wanted extra chapatis. “I made friends with someone in the kitchen, I can get as many as I like.”
“No no, bas, we are full, thank you,” said Ishvar, then asked him his name.
“Everybody calls me Worm.”
“Why?”
“I told you, babu. Before my Beggarmaster gave me the gaadi, I used to crawl around.”
“But now you have the gaadi. What’s your real name?”
“Shankar.”
He stayed with them for another half-hour, chatting, describing the irrigation project where he had been wandering all day. Then he suggested they try to sleep and wake up strong for tomorrow’s work. In a few minutes, when they were snoring lightly, he rowed away on his platform, smiling happily to himself.
IX. What Law There Is
OUT OF A DOORWAY A WOMAN beckoned to Dina, and furtively displayed a basket. “Tamaater, bai?” the woman whispered. “Big, fresh tamaater?”
Dina shook her head. She, as always, was searching for tailors, not tomatoes. Further ahead, someone stood concealed in an alcove with a box of leather wallets; another half-hidden man balanced a stack of bananas in his arms. Everyone was on the lookout for the police and ready to run. The rubble of broken stalls littered the ground.
She wandered through several bleak streets where pavement life had been sucked away by the Emergency. But perhaps her chances of finding replacements for Ishvar and Om were better now, she comforted herself. Perhaps the tailors who used to ply their trade from roadside stalls would seek alternate work.
Delivering the final dresses to Au Revoir Exports, she had casually advised Mrs. Gupta that her employees were going on a two-week vacation. As the tailorless fortnight drew to a close, however, she realized her optimism was misplaced. The manager had to be informed that resumption of work was being further postponed.
Dina started by praising Mrs. Gupta’s hair. “It looks lovely. Did you just come from Venus Beauty Salon?”
“No,” said Mrs. Gupta grouchily. “I had to go to a strange place. Zenobia has let me down.”
“What happened?”
“I needed an urgent appointment, and she said to me she was all booked up. To me — her most faithful client.”
Oh no, thought Dina, wrong topic. “By the way, my tailors have been delayed.”
“That’s very inconvenient. For how long?”
“I’m not sure, maybe two more weeks. They have fallen sick in their village.”
“That’s what they all say. Too many production days are lost to such excuses. Probably drinking and dancing in their village. We are Third World in development, but first class in absenteeism and strikes.”
Stupid woman, thought Dina. If she only knew how hard poor Ishvar and Om worked, and how much they had suffered.
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Gupta. “The Emergency is good medicine for the nation. It will soon cure everyone of their bad habits.”
Wishing the manager’s head could be cured of its chronic brainlessness, she agreed. “Yes, that would be a great improvement.”
“Two more weeks, then — and no more delays, Mrs. Dalai. Delays are the by-products of disorder. Remember, strict rules and firm supervision lead to success. Indiscipline is the mother of chaos, but the fruits of discipline are sweet.”
Dina listened in disbelief, and said goodbye. She wondered if Mrs. Gupta had taken up writing slogans for the Emergency, as a sideline or hobby. Or perhaps she had suffered an overdose of the government’s banners and posters, and lost the capacity for normal speech.
While the manager’s words hung like an ultimatum over Dina and the second fortnight commenced, the rent-collector arrived on his appointed day. He lifted his right hand towards the maroon fez as if to raise it. Stiffness in his shoulder kept the greeting incomplete. The hand dropped to the collar of his black sherwani, tugging it in a surrogate salutation.
“Oh, rent-collector,” she sniffed. “Wait. I’ll bring the money.”
“Thank you, sister,” smiled Ibrahim winsomely, as the door shut in his face. He relinquished the collar to rub his snuff-streaked nostrils. His fingers missed the light shower of brown dust that had rained on his clean-shaven upper lip, stark amid the full white beard.
He felt under the sherwani, got hold of the tip of his handkerchief, and pulled. He mopped his brow, then thrust it back into the trouser pocket, pushing repeatedly till all but a dangling corner disappeared.
Sighing, he leaned against the wall. Midday, and he was exhausted. Even if he finished his rounds early, there was nowhere to go — from nine a.m. to nine p.m. he had rented his room to a mill-worker on night shift. Doomed to roam the streets, Ibrahim occupied park benches, sat on bus-shelter stiles, sipped a glass of tea at a corner stall till it was time to return home and sleep in the mill-worker’s smell. This was life? Or a cruel joke? He no longer believed that the scales would ever balance fairly. If his pan was not empty, if there was some little sustenance in it for his days and nights, it was enough for him. Now he expected nothing better from the Maker of the Universe.
He decided to find Dina’s receipt while waiting outside her door. Cautiously, the rubber band was pulled upwards. He brought it safely as far as the edge of the folder, then it snapped, stinging his nose and making him drop the folder.
The contents scattered. He went down on his knees to recover the precious pieces of paper. His hands fluttered methodlessly among them. For every two he picked up, one slipped from his fingers. A slight breeze rustled the pages ominously, and he panicked. He swept with his palms to gather them together, not caring that the sheets were being crumpled.
Dina opened the door with the rent money in her hand. For a second she thought the old man had fallen. She bent to help. Then, realizing what had happened, she straightened away from the landlord’s emissary, watching the enemy’s discomfort.
“Sorry,” he smiled upwards. “Old hands are clumsy hands, what to do.” He managed to cram everything back inside the plastic folder. The large rubber band was slipped around a wrist for safekeeping. He rose to his feet, and staggered. Dina’s hand shot out to steady him.
“Heh, heh, don’t worry. Legs are still working, I think.”
“Please count it.” She sternly presented the money.
With both hands clutching the unsecured folder, the money remained unaccepted. He listened intently for the chatter of the sewing-machines. Nothing. “Please, sister, can I sit for a minute to find your receipt? Or everything will fall again to the ground. Hands are shaking too much.”
The need for a chair was real, she knew, and he would exploit it, without question. “Sure, come in,” she opened wide the door. There was nothing to lose today.
Excitement augmented Ibrahim’s tremors of fatigue. At last, after months of trying, he was inside. “All the papers are mixed up,” he said apologetically, “but I’ll find your receipt, don’t worry, sister.” He listened again for sounds from the back room. Ah, but they were quiet as mice, of course.
“Yes, here it is, sister.” The name and address were already entered. He filled in the amount received and
