Shankar, who sat with Ishvar and Om to watch the entertainment, was having a splendid time, bouncing on the platform with excitement, clapping heartily, though his bandaged palms only produced muffled reports. “I wish the others could also enjoy,” he said from time to time, thinking of his patients in the tin huts. He could hear their groans during the moments of quiet when the audience became silent, tense with anxiety, as a performer did something particularly daring with knives and swords or on the tightrope.
The project manager kept nodding approvingly at the foreman; the decision had been a good one. The last entertainer was waiting in the kitchen’s shadow. The props of the previous act were cleared away. The security captain announced that for the finale they would witness an amazing display of balancing. The performer stepped into the light.
“It’s Monkey-man!” said Om.
“And his sister’s two children,” said Ishvar. “Must be the new act he told us he was planning.”
The children were not included in Monkey-man’s opening move, some brief juggling of the sort already seen. It was received poorly. Now he introduced the little girl and boy, lifting them in the air, one in the palm of each hand. Both had colds, and sneezed. He proceeded to tie them to the ends of a fifteen-foot pole. Then he lowered himself to the ground, rolled onto his back, and balanced the pole horizontally on the soles of his bare feet. When it was steady, he began spinning it with his toes. The children revolved on the rudimentary merry-go-round, slowly at first, while he assayed the equilibrium and the rhythm, then faster and faster. They hung limply, making no sound, their bodies a blur.
The cheering was scattered, the audience anxious and uncertain. Then the clapping became urgent, as though they hoped the hazardous feat would end if they gave the man his due, or, at the very least, the applause would somehow sustain the balance, keep the children safe.
The pole began to slow down, and stopped. Monkey-man untied the children and wiped their mouths; centrifugal force had drawn a stream of mucus from their runny noses. Next he laid them face to face on the ground. This time they were both tied to the same end of the pole, their feet resting on a little crossbar. He tested the bindings and erected the pole.
The children were lifted high above the ground. Their faces disappeared into the night, beyond the reach of the kitchen lights. The audience gasped. He raised the pole higher, gave it a little toss, and caught the end upon his palm. His stringy arm muscles quivered. He moved the pole to and fro, making the top end sway like a treetop in a breeze. Then another little toss, and the pole was balanced on his thumb.
A cascade of protest spilled from the spectators. Doubt and reproach swirled in the area of darkness around Monkey-man. In the deafness of his concentration he heard nothing. He started walking back and forth within the circle of light, then running, tossing the pole from thumb to thumb.
“It’s too dangerous,” said Ishvar. “I don’t find it enjoyable.” Shankar shook his head too, mesmerized on his platform, swaying his trunk to the swaying of the pole.
“Would have been better if he stuck to monkeys,” said Om, his eyes fixed on the tiny figures in the sky.
Then Monkey-man threw his head back and balanced the pole on his brow. People rose angrily to their feet. “Stop it!” yelled someone. “Stop it before you kill them!”
Others joined in, “Saala shameless budmaas! Torturing innocent children!”
“Saala gandoo! Save it for the mohallas of the heartless rich! We are not interested in watching!”
The shouting dislocated Monkey-man’s focus. He could hear again. He hurriedly lowered the pole and untied the children. “What’s wrong? I’m not mistreating them. Ask them yourself, they enjoy it. Everybody has to make a living.”
But the uproar did not give him much of a chance to defend himself. Even more than Monkey-man, people were upset with the foreman who had arranged this cruel entertainment, and they screamed at him to let him know. “Monster from somewhere! Worse than Ravan!”
The security guards quickly dispersed the audience to their huts for the night, while the project manager’s former approval turned to censure. He shook his finger in the foreman’s face. “It was an error in judgement on your part. These people neither need nor appreciate kindness. If you are nice to them, they sit on your head. Hard work is the only formula.”
No more performances were scheduled. Next day the street entertainers were apportioned among various work crews. Monkey-man became the most unpopular person in the irrigation project, and before the week was out he joined the casualties with severe head injuries. Ishvar and Om felt sorry for him because they knew he was really so tenderhearted.
“Remember the old woman’s prophecy?” said Om. “The night his monkeys died?”
“Yes,” said Ishvar. “About killing his dog and committing an even worse murder. Right now, the poor fellow looks as though he himself has been murdered.”
The Facilitator returned to the irrigation project a fortnight later with someone he introduced to the foreman as “the man who will solve your crippling labour problems.”
The foreman and the Facilitator laughed at the joke. The new man’s face remained deadly serious, acquiring a hint of displeasure.
They went to the tin huts where the injured were prostrate, forty-two in all. Shankar was trundling back and forth among them, stroking one’s forehead, patting another’s back, whispering, comforting. The smell of festering wounds and unwashed bodies wafted through the doors, nauseating the foreman.
“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he excused himself.
The visitor said he would prefer to take a quick look at the injuries and estimate their potential. “Only then can I make a reasonable offer.”
They stepped inside the first hut, temporarily blinded by the move from harsh sunlight into semidarkness. Shankar wheeled his platform around to see who it was. Craning his neck, he let out a shriek of recognition.
“Who’s that?” said the visitor. “Worm?” His eyes had not adjusted to the interior, but he knew the familiar rumble of rolling castors. “So this is where you are. All these weeks I wondered what happened to you.”
Shankar paddled his platform towards the man’s feet, his palms flailing the ground excitedly. “Beggarmaster! The police took me away! I did not want to go!” Relief and anxiety merged in his sobs as he clutched the maris shins. “Beggarmaster, please help me, I want to go home!”
The distraction in the hut prompted the injured to start moaning and coughing, pleading for attention, hoping that this stranger, whoever he was, had at long last brought them deliverance. The Facilitator moved closer to the door for fresh air.
“Don’t worry, Worm, of course I’ll take you back,” said Beggarmaster. “How can I do without my best beggar?” He completed a quick inspection of the disabled and turned to leave. Shankar wanted to accompany him right then, but was told to wait. “First I have to make some arrangements.”
Outside, Beggarmaster asked the Facilitator, “Is Worm included in the lot?”
“Of course he is.”
“I won’t pay you for what is already mine. I inherited him from my father. And my father had him since he was a child.”
“But see it from my side, no,” bargained the Facilitator. “I had to pay the police for him.”
“Forget all that. I am willing to give two thousand rupees for the lot. Worm included.”
The amount was higher than the Facilitator had expected. Taking into account the rebate promised to the foreman, he would still make a nice profit. “We have much business ahead of us,” he said, concealing his delight. “I don’t want to haggle. Two thousand is okay, you can take your Worm.” He chuckled. “And any bugs or centipedes that you like.”
A look of disapproval darkened Beggarmaster’s face. This time he sharply rebuked the Facilitator. “I don’t like people making fun of my beggars.”
“I meant no harm.”
“One more thing. Your truck must take them back to the city — that’s part of the price.”
The Facilitator agreed. He led Beggarmaster to the kitchen and brought him a glass of tea to make up for offending him. Then he went to find the foreman, whose cut was still to be negotiated.
Rowing full tilt, Shankar sped to tell his two friends the happy news, but was intercepted by the overseer, who refused to let the rhythm of the work be interrupted. He shooed him away, stamping his foot, pretending to
