The next time the Facilitator arrived with a fresh load of pavement-dwellers, the foreman complained that his free labour was a bad investment. He pretended the injuries had been sustained prior to their arrival. “You have stuck me with feeding and housing too many unproductive cripples.”
The Facilitator opened his register to the delivery date in question, and showed him details pertaining to the detainees’ physical condition. “I admit there were a few bad ones. But that’s not my fault. The police shoves everybody, living and half-dead, into my truck.”
“In that case, I don’t want any more.”
The Facilitator tried to pacify the foreman and rescue the deal. “Give me a few days, no, I’ll sort something out. I’ll make sure you won’t suffer a total loss.”
In the meantime, the latest consignment waiting to be unloaded from the truck included various types of street performers. There were jugglers, musicians, acrobats, and magicians. The foreman decided to give them a choice — join the labour force like the other pavement-dwellers, or entertain the camp in return for boarding and lodging.
The entertainers chose the latter option, as the foreman had expected. They were housed separately from the rest, and told to prepare for a performance that night. The project manager agreed with the foreman’s proposal. The diversion would be good for the morale of the labourers, and would help relieve the tension and bad blood threatening the work camp.
The show was held after dinner, under the lights of the eating area. The security captain agreed to be master of ceremonies. Tumbling tricks, a man juggling wooden clubs, and a tightrope walker started the proceedings. Then there was a musical interlude with patriotic songs, which elicited a standing ovation from the project manager. Next, a husband-and-wife contortionist team proved very popular, followed by card tricks and more jugglers.
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.