Authors: Rohinton Mistry
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 chai-walla 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.
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.
“T
hey 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
probably
deliver the dresses and
probably
pay the rent. You, without any responsibilities, probably don’t understand that.”
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 decided to be direct. “Maneck, look at me. Straight in my eyes.” She brought her face closer to his. “Maneck, you would not be lying to me, would you? Because Ishvar and Om are your friends, and they asked you to?”
“I swear on my parents’ name, Aunty!” He drew away from her, shocked. Then the accusation made him angry. “You don’t have to believe me, think what you like. Next time don’t ask me to do your work.” He left the room.
She followed him. “Maneck.” He ignored her. “Maneck, I’m sorry. You know how worried I am about the sewing – I said it without thinking.”
A moment’s silence was all he could maintain before forgiving her. “It’s all right.”
Such a sweet boy, she thought, he just cannot stay upset. “How long have they been sleeping outside the – what is it, chemist’s shop?”
“Since the day their home was destroyed. Don’t you remember, Aunty? When you wouldn’t let them sleep on your verandah?”
She bristled at the tone. “You know very well why I had to refuse. But if you were aware of it, why didn’t you tell me? Before something like this happened?”
“Suppose I had. What difference? Would you have let them stay here?”
She avoided the question. “I still find it hard to believe this story. Maybe that watchman is lying – covering up for them. And in the meantime I will have to go begging to my brother for the rent.”
Maneck could sense the things she was trying to juggle, conceal, keep in proportion: concern, guilt, fear. “We could check with the police,” he suggested.
“And what good will that do? Even if they have the tailors, you think they will unlock the jail on my say-so?”
“At least we’d know where they are.”
“Right now I’m more worried about these dresses.”
“I knew it! You’re so selfish, you don’t think about anyone but yourself! You just don’t –”
“How dare you! How dare you talk to me like that!”
“They could be dead, for all you care!” He went to his room and slammed the door.
“If you damage my door, I’ll write to your parents! For compensation, remember!”
He kicked off his shoes and fell in bed with a thump. It was half past nine, he was late for college. To hell with it – to hell with her. Enough of trying to be nice. He jumped off the bed and exchanged his shirt for an old wear-at-home one from the cupboard. The door clattered off the lower hinge. He jiggled it into the bracket and banged it shut.
He flopped on the mattress once more, his finger angrily tracing the floral design carved in the teak headboard. The bed was the identical twin of the one in the sewing room. Dina Aunty’s and her husband’s – they must have slept side by side on them. A long time ago. When her life was filled with happiness, and the flat with the sounds of love and laughter. Before it went silent and dingy.
He could hear her pacing in the next room, could sense her distress in the footsteps. And barely a week ago the work had been going so well, after she gave the Amrutanjan Balm to Om. Massaging his arm had put her in a good mood, she had started reminiscing about her husband’s back, about their lives.
All the things she told Maneck came back now to crowd his room: those enchanted evenings of music recitals, and emerging with Rustom from the concert hall into the fragrant night when the streets were quiet – yes, she said, in those days the city was still beautiful, the footpaths were clean, not yet taken over by pavement-dwellers, and yes, the stars were visible in the sky in those days, when Rustom and she walked along the sea, listening to the endless exchange of the waves, or in the Hanging Gardens, among the whispering trees, planning their wedding and their lives, planning and plotting in full ignorance of destiny’s plans for them.
How much Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be recreated – not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.