“But the newspapers are censored,” said Maneck.
“Ah yes, yes,” said Nusswan, at last betraying impatience. “And what’s so terrible about that? It’s only because the government does not want anything published which will alarm the public. It’s temporary — so lies can be suppressed and people can regain confidence. Such steps are necessary to preserve the democratic structure. You cannot sweep clean without making the new broom dirty.”
“I see,” said Maneck. The bizarre aphorisms were starting to grate on him, but he did not possess the ammunition to launch even a modest counterattack. If only Avinash were here. He would straighten out this idiot. He wished he had paid more attention when Avinash talked politics.
Still struggling with the earlier maxim, about breaking democratic eggs to make a democratic omelette, Maneck tried to formulate a variation by juggling democracy, tyranny, frying pan, fire, hen, hard-boiled eggs, cooking oil. He thought he had one: A democratic omelette is not possible from eggs bearing democratic labels but laid by the tyrannical hen. No, too cumbersome. And anyway, the moment was past.
“The important thing,” said Nusswan, “is to consider the concrete achievements of the Emergency. Punctuality has been restored to the railway system. And as my director friend was saying, there’s also a great improvement in industrial relations. Nowadays, he can call the police in just one second, to take away the union troublemakers. A few good saltings at the police station, and they are soft as butter. My friend says production has improved tremendously. And who benefits from all this? The workers. The common people. Even the World Bank and the IMF approve of the changes. Now they are offering more loans.”
Keeping her expression as grave as she could, Dina said, “Nusswan, can I make a request please?”
“Yes, of course.” He wondered how much it would be this time — two hundred rupees or three?
“About the plan to eliminate two hundred million. Can you please tell your business friends and directors not to poison any tailors? Because tailors are already hard to find.”
Maneck smothered a laugh before it broke. Nusswan spied the facial effort as he said to her disgustedly, “It’s useless talking to you about serious things. I don’t know why I even bother.”
“I enjoyed listening,” said Maneck gravely.
Nusswan felt betrayed — first her, now him. He wondered what sort of mockery and ridicule took place at his expense when the two were alone.
“I had fim too,” said Dina. “Coming to your office is the only entertainment I can afford, you know that.”
Glowering, he began moving papers on his desk. “Tell me what you need and leave me alone. There’s a lot of work to do.”
“Be careful, Nusswan, your eyebrows are doing funny exercises.” She decided not to press her luck further, and got down to business. “I haven’t given up the export work. It’s just a matter of time before I find new tailors. But till then I cannot accept more orders.”
The moment of asking, the moment she hated, did not become less unpalatable with the brisk matter-of-fact explanation or the levity leading up to it. “Two hundred and fifty will be enough to get me through this month.”
Nusswan rang for the peon, and filled out a cash voucher. Dina and Maneck were treated to a vehement display of penmanship, the ballpoint scratching savagely across the form. He crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s with heavy blows, as though competing with the typewriter being battered in the next room.
The peon carried the voucher to the cashier across the corridor. The run-down ceiling fan laboured like a noisy little factory. So much money, thought Dina, and he still hadn’t air-conditioned the office. She lowered her eyes, fixing them on a sandalwood paper-knife stuck strategically inside a half-opened envelope. The peon delivered the money and retreated.
Nusswan began, “None of this would be necessary if only — ” He glanced at Dina, unable to reach her downcast eyes, then at Maneck, and abandoned the thought. “Here,” he held out the notes.
“Thank you,” she accepted, eyes still averted.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’ll return it as soon as possible.”
He nodded, picking up the paper-knife, and opened the rest of the envelope.
“At least he spared me his favourite speech today, thanks to the Emergency,” said Dina when they got off the bus. “That’s something to be grateful for. And what is so terrible about marrying again?’“ she imitated in a sanctimonious voice. “ ‘You are still good-looking, I guarantee I can find you a good husband.’ You won’t believe the number of times he has said this to me.”
“But I do, Aunty,” said Maneck. “It’s the one thing on which I agree with your brother. You are good-looking.”
She smacked his shoulder. “Whose side are you on?”
“On the side of truth and beauty,” he pronounced grandly. “But it must be quite funny when Nusswan and his business friends get together and talk their nonsense.”
“You know what I was remembering, in his office? When he was a young boy. He would talk about becoming a big-game hunter, about killing leopards and lions. And wrestling crocodiles, like Tarzan. One day, a little mouse came into our room, and our ayah said to him, Baba look, there is a fierce tiger, you can be the hunter. And Nusswan ran away screaming for Mummy.”
She turned the key in the lock. “Now he wants to eliminate two hundred million. His big talk never stops.”
They entered the flat and were confronted by the silent sewing-machines. Their laughter now seemed out of place; it dwindled rapidly and died.
X. Sailing Under One Flag
THE TRUCK GROWLED INTO THE CITY after midnight along the airport road. Sleeping shanty towns pullulated on both sides of the highway, ready to spread onto the asphalt artery. Only the threat of the many-wheeled juggernauts thundering up and down restrained the tattered lives behind the verges. Headlights picked out late-shift workers, tired ghosts tracing a careful path between the traffic and the open sewer.
“Police had orders to remove all jhopadpattis,” said Ishvar. “Why are these still standing?”
Beggarmaster explained it was not so simple; everything depended on the long-term arrangements each slumlord had made with the police.
“That’s not fair,” said Om, his eyes trying to penetrate the rancid night. Splotches of pale moonlight revealed an endless stretch of patchwork shacks, the sordid quiltings of plastic and cardboard and paper and sackcloth, like scabs and blisters creeping in a dermatological nightmare across the rotting body of the metropolis. When the moon was blotted by clouds, the slum disappeared from sight. The stench continued to vouch for its presence.
After a few kilometres the truck entered the city’s innards. Lampposts and neon fixtures washed the pavements in a sea of yellow watery light, where slumbered the shrunken, hollow-eyed statuary of the night, the Galateas and Gangabehns and Gokhales and Gopals, soon to be stirred to life by dawn’s chaos, to haul and carry and lift and build, to strain their sinew for the city that was desperately seeking beautification.
“Look,” said Om. “People are sleeping peacefully — no police to bother them. Maybe the Emergency law has been cancelled.”
“No, it hasn’t,” said Beggarmaster. “But it’s become a game, like all other laws. Easy to play, once you know the rules.”
The tailors asked to be let off near the chemist’s. “Maybe the nightwatchman will let us live in the entrance again.”
Beggarmaster insisted, however, on first seeing their place of work. The truck travelled for a few more minutes and stopped outside Dina’s building, where they indicated her flat.