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 pick up a stone. Shankar retreated.
He waited till the lunch whistle blew, and caught up with Ishvar and Om near the eating area. “Beggarmaster has found me! I’m going home!”
Om bent to pat his shoulder, and Ishvar comforted him, “Yes, it’s okay, Shankar, don’t worry. One day we’ll all go home, when the work is finished.”
“No, I am going home tomorrow, really! My Beggarmaster is here!” They continued to disbelieve till he explained in more detail.
“But why are you so happy to go?” asked Ishvar. “You are not suffering like us slaves. Free meals, a little fetching and carrying on your gaadi. Don’t you prefer this to begging?”
“I did enjoy it for a while, especially looking after you, and the other sick ones. But now I miss the city.”
“You’re lucky,” said Om. “This work is going to kill us, for sure. Wish we could go back with you.”
“I can ask Beggarmaster to take you. Let’s talk with him.”
“Yes, but we… okay, ask him.”
They found Beggarmaster sipping tea on a bench near the kitchen. Shankar rolled up and tugged at his trouser cuff. “What’s the matter, Worm? I asked you to wait in the hut.” But he left his tea to kneel beside him, listening, nodding, then tousling his hair and laughing. He came over to the tailors.
“Worm says you are his friends. He wants me to help you.”
“Hahnji, please, we will be very grateful.”
He sized them up doubtfully. “Do you have any experience?”
“Oh yes. Many years’ experience,” said Ishvar.
Beggarmaster was sceptical. “It doesn’t look to me like you could be successful.”
Om was indignant. “I can tell you we are very successful.” He held up his two little fingers like votive candles. “Our long nails have broken in all this rough work, but they will grow back. We are fully trained, we can even take measurements straight from the customer’s body.”
Beggarmaster began to laugh. “Measurements from the body?”
“Of course. We are skilled tailors, not hacks who — ”
“Forget it. I thought you wanted to work for me as beggars. I have no need for tailors.”
Their hopes crashed. “We are no good here, we keep falling sick,” they pleaded. “Can you not take us? We can pay you for your trouble.” Shankar added his appeal to theirs, that they had been so kind to him from the moment the police had thrown him in the truck that terrible night, almost two months ago.
Beggarmaster and the Facilitator discussed the deal in low voices. The latter wanted two hundred rupees per tailor, because, he said, he would have to make it attractive for the foreman to release two able-bodied specimens: Ishvar’s sprained ankle did not qualify.
Gripping his tea glass, Beggarmaster returned to the tailors. “You can come if the foreman agrees. But it will cost you.”
“How much?”
“Usually, when I look after a beggar, I charge one hundred rupees per week. That includes begging space, food, clothes, and protection. Also, special things like bandages or crutches.”
“Yes, Shankar — Worm — told us about it. He praised you and said you are a very kind Beggarmaster. What luck for him that you came here.”
Pleased as he was with the compliment, he clarified the matter without undue modesty. “Luck has little to do with it. I am the most famous Beggarmaster in the city. Naturally, the Facilitator contacted me. Anyway, your case is different, you don’t need looking after in the same way. Besides, you’ve been good to Worm. Just pay me fifty a week per person, for one year. That will be enough.”
They were staggered. “That means almost two thousand five hundred each!”
“Yes, it’s minimum for what I am offering.”
The tailors calculated the payments between them. “Three days’ worth of sewing each week will go to him,” whispered Ishvar. “That’s too much, we won’t be able to afford it.”
“What choice?” said Om. “You want to toil to death, in this Narak of heartless devils? Just say yes.”
“Wait, I’ll bring him down a bit.” Ishvar approached the man with a worldly expression on his face. “Listen, fifty is too much — we’ll give you twenty-five a week.”
“Get one thing straight,” said Beggarmaster coldly. “I’m not selling onions and potatoes in the bazaar. My business is looking after human lives. Don’t try to bargain with me.” He turned away disdainfully to go back to the kitchen bench.
“Now look what you’ve done!” said Om, panicking. “Our only chance is finished!”
Ishvar waited a moment and shuffled back to Beggarmaster. “We talked it over. It’s expensive, but we’ll take it.”
“You’re sure you can afford it?”
“Oh yes, we have good jobs, regular work.”
Beggarmaster nibbled his thumbnail and spat. “Sometimes, one of my clients will vanish without paying, after enjoying my hospitality. But I always manage to find him. And then there is big trouble for him. Please remember that.” He finished his tea and accompanied the Facilitator to make a renewed offer to the foreman.