When the lunch hour ended, the tailors were reluctant to rejoin the gravel gang and ditch-diggers. With the promise of rescue so close, their resignation to the back-breaking labour vaporized; fatigue overwhelmed them.
“Aray babu, just be a little patient,” said Shankar. “It’s only one more day, don’t cause any trouble. You don’t want them to beat you. Stop worrying now, the foreman will agree, my Beggarmaster is very influential.”
Bolstered by Shankar’s encouragement, they found the strength to return to the overseer. In the late afternoon, they listened anxiously for the bhistee’s song. His arrival signalled the last two hours of work. They drank from his waterskin and got through the remainder of the day.
At dusk, when they stumbled back to their hut, Shankar was waiting, squirming excitedly on his platform. “It’s all decided. They are taking us tomorrow morning. Stay ready with your bedding, don’t miss the truck. Now I must make my preparations.”
He went to find the mechanic in charge of heavy machinery, who gave him oil for his castors. The grit and dust of the construction site was beginning to slow them down. Shankar wanted the platform in prime condition for his return to the pavement. He brought back the can cradled against his stomach. Om helped to lubricate the sluggish wheels.
Early next morning, a security guard ordered Shankar, the tailors, and the injured to assemble at the gate with their things. Those unable to walk were carried by men seconded from a work detail. They did it resentfully, grudging the invalids their imminent freedom. It was the tailors, however, who bore the brunt of the embittered glances.
“See how lucky we are, Om,” said Ishvar, gazing upon the damaged bodies accumulating in the truck. “We could be lying here with broken bones if our stars were not in the proper position.”
Monkey-man was still comatose from his head injury, and Beggarmaster refused to take him. But he wanted the children; they had real potential, he said. The little boy and girl resisted removal, weeping and clinging to their motionless uncle. They had to be dragged away when the truck was ready to leave.
The Facilitator and foreman balanced the debits and credits with a rebate towards the next delivery. Then there was a short delay. The foreman insisted that clothing issued on arrival be removed before departure — he had to account for every article to his superiors.
“Take what you want,” said Beggarmaster. “But please hurry, I have to get back in time for a temple ceremony.”
The ones who had been carried to the truck were incapable of undressing themselves. The workers, about to return to their regular tasks, were ordered to assist them. They vented their frustration by tugging the garments roughly off the injured bodies. Beggarmaster did not pay attention to it. When Shankar’s turn came, however, he made sure they were gentle with his vest.
Now the pavement-dwellers were as naked, or half-naked, as the day they had entered the labour camp; the gate opened and the truck was allowed to leave.
Dressing up to visit Nusswan’s office was Maneck’s idea. “We should go there looking tiptop. He’ll give you more respect. Appearances are very important to some people.”
In Dina’s present state, anything that sounded like half-sensible advice was welcome. She touched up his grey gabardine trousers with the iron. For herself, she selected her most effective frock, the blue one from her second wedding anniversary, with the vivacious peplum that came alive with walking. Would it still fit? she wondered. Shutting the adjoining door, she tried it on, pleased to discover that a little squeezing was all it took to fasten the zipper. She went into the front room.
“How about some makeup, Aunty?”
Unused for years, the lipstick poked up its head reluctantly as she rotated the base. She made a false start and smudged the lip line, but the labial acrobatics soon came back to her, the pursing and puckering and tautening, the simian contortions that seemed so absurd in the mirror.
The rouge was caked stiff, but under the discoloured crust there was enough to blush her cheeks. The round velvet pad had desiccated into a leathery scab. Once, Rustom had teased her while she was making up, and she retaliated by rouging his nose with the pad. Soft as a rose petal, he had said.
If Nusswan mentioned marriage today, she didn’t know what she would do — overturn his desk, perhaps. She surveyed herself in the mirror. Her reflection nodded approvingly. She hoped that Maneck’s theory linking appearance and respect was correct.
“Are you ready?” she called into his room.
“Wow! You look absolutely beautiful.”
“That’s enough from you,” she scolded, inspecting him from head to toe. He passed muster except for his shoes. She made him shine them before they left.
The office peon made the two wait in the corridor while he disappeared to check with the boss. “Just watch, Nusswan will be busy,” she predicted.
The man returned to announce in a regretful voice, “Sahab is busy.” The peon had worked here for many years, but it always embarrassed him to have to abet his employer’s charade. “Please sit for a few minutes.” He lowered his head and withdrew.
“Goodness knows why Nusswan still tries to impress me in these silly ways,” said Dina. “His busyness will end in exactly fifteen minutes.”
But in her second prediction she was proved wrong, for the peon had mentioned to Nusswan that his sister was beautifully dressed today and accompanied by someone.
“Who?” said Nusswan. “Have we seen her before?”
“Not her, sahab. Him.”
Very curious, thought Nusswan, feeling his chin where he had nicked it that morning. “Young? Old?”
“Young,” said the peon. “Very young.”
Even more curious, decided Nusswan, his imagination wandering wishfully. Boyfriend, maybe? Dina was very attractive at forty-two. Almost as beautiful as she was twenty years ago, when she married that poor, unfortunate Rustom. Unfortunate from beginning to end. In looks, in money, in his life span…
Nusswan paused in his thoughts, gazed ceilingward, and patted his cheeks alternately, reverently, with his right fingertips, to ensure that his brother-in-law rested in peace. He had no desire to speak ill of the departed. So sad, his death. But also a God-given second chance for Dina to set things right, find a more suitable husband. If only she had grabbed the chance.
Such a terrible thing her pride was, and her strange idea of independence. Working like a slave to earn a pittance, humiliating the whole family. And now this latest fiasco with the export company. Slowly, he had learned to let his skin grow thick. But shaking off embarrassment was easier than discarding his sense of duty. She was still his little sister, he had to do his best for her.
What a waste, he thought, what a waste of a life. Like watching a tragic play. Only, instead of three hours it had lasted almost three decades — a family estranged, Xerxes and Zarir growing up deprived of the love and attention of their Dina Aunty, she hardly knowing her two nephews. So much sadness and misery.
But perhaps there was still a chance of a joyful ending. There could be nothing better than becoming one happy, united family again. Soon it would be time for grandchildren in his own life. If Dina had abdicated as aunty, she could be a grand-aunty.
And this young man with her today, her boyfriend. If they were serious and got married, how wonderful. Even if the chap was only thirty, he should consider himself lucky to have Dina — so attractive that she could put women half her age in the shade.
Yes, that was it — she wanted to introduce the fellow and get her older brother’s approval. Or why bring him along? As to their age difference, there could be no objection, Nusswan decided reluctantly. One had to be broad-minded, in these modern times. Yes, he would give them his blessing, even pay for this second wedding. As long as the expenses were reasonable — one hundred guests, modest flower arrangements, a small band…