“Okay,” said Beggarmaster, jumping out. “Let’s verify your jobs with your employer.” He asked the driver to wait, and strode rapidly to the door.
“It’s too late to wake Dinabai,” pleaded Ishvar, wincing as he hurried on his bad ankle. “She’s very quick-tempered. We’ll bring you here tomorrow, I promise — I swear upon my dead mother’s name.”
The beggars and injured workers in the truck shivered, yearning for the comforting arms of motion that had cradled them through the journey. The idling engine’s rumbles endowed the night with a menacing maw. They began to cry.
Beggarmaster paused at the front door to study the nameplate, and made a note in his diary. Then he shot out his index finger and rang the doorbell.
“Hai Ram!” Ishvar clutched his head in despair. “How angry she will be, pulled out of bed this late!”
“It’s late for me also,” said Beggarmaster. “I missed my temple puja, but I’m not complaining, am I?” He pressed the bell again and again when there was no answer. The truck driver sounded his horn to hurry him up.
“Stop, please!” begged Om. “At this rate we’ll surely lose our jobs!” Beggarmaster smiled patiently and continued his jottings. Writing in the dark posed no difficulty for him.
Inside, the doorbell agitated Dina as much as it did the tailors. She rushed to Maneck’s room. “Wake up, quick!” He needed a few good shakes before he stirred. “Looks like an angel but snores like a buffalo! Wake up, come on! Are you listening? Someone’s at the door!”
“Who?”
“I glanced through the peephole, but you know my eyes. All I can tell is, there are three fellows. I want you to look.”
She had not yet switched on the light, hoping the uninvited visitors would go away. Cautioning him to walk softly, she led the way to the door and held the latch. He took a peek and turned excitedly.
“Open it, Aunty! It’s Ishvar and Om, with someone!”
Outside they heard his voice and called, “Hahnji, it is us, Dinabai, very sorry to disturb you. Please forgive us, it won’t take long…” Their voices trailed off in a timorous question mark.
She clicked the switch for the verandah light, still cautious, and opened the door a bit — and then wide. “It is you! Where have you been? What happened?”
She made no attempt to disguise her relief. It surprised her: she relished the wholeness of it, her feelings rising straight to her tongue, without twisting in deception.
“Come inside, come!” she said. “My goodness, we worried about you all these weeks!”
Beggarmaster stood back as Ishvar limped over the threshold and forced a smile. From his ankle trailed Doctor sahab’s filthy strips of cloth. Om followed close behind him, stepping on the bandage in his haste. Through the darkened doorway they crept shamefacedly into the verandah’s revealing light.
“My goodness! Look at your condition!” said Dina, overcome by the haggard faces, dirty clothes, matted hair. Neither she nor Maneck spoke for a few moments. They stared. Then the questions rushed out, tripping one over the other, and the fragmented answers were equally frantic.
Still waiting at the door, Beggarmaster interrupted Ishvar and Om’s confused explanations. “I just want to check — these two tailors work for you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“That’s fine. It’s so nice to see everybody happy and reunited.” The truck honked again, and he turned to leave.
“Wait,” said Ishvar. “Where to make the weekly payment?”
“I’ll come to collect it.” He added that if they wanted to get in touch with him at any time, they should tell Worm, whose new beat would be outside the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel.
“What payment, what worm?” asked Dina when the door had shut. “And who is that man?”
The tailors digressed from the main story to explain, starting with Beggarmaster’s arrival at the work camp, then backing up to Shankar’s account, racing forward again, getting confused, confusing their listeners. The harrowing stretch of time in hell was over; exhaustion was flooding the place vacated by fear. Ishvar fumbled with the bandage to wrap it properly round his ankle. His hands shook, and Om tucked in the loose end for him.
“It was the foreman’s fault, he…”
“But that was before the Facilitator came…”
“Anyway, after my ankle was hurt, it was impossible…”
The thread of events eluded their grasp, Ishvar picking up a piece of it here, Om grabbing something there. Then they lost track of the narrative altogether. Ishvar’s voice faded. He pressed his head with both hands, trying to squeeze out the words. Om stammered and started to cry.
“It was terrible, the way they treated us,” he sobbed, clawing at his hair. “I thought my uncle and I were going to die there …”
Maneck patted his back, saying they were safe now, and Dina insisted the best thing to do was to have a good rest, then talk in the morning. “You still have your bedding. Just spread it here on the verandah and go to sleep.”
Now it was Ishvar’s turn to break. He fell on his knees before her and touched her feet. “O Dinabai, how to thank you! Such kindness! We are very afraid of the outside… this Emergency, the police…”
His display embarrassed her. She pulled her toes out of his reach. So urgent was his grasp, her left slipper stayed behind between his clutching fingers. He reached forward and gently restored it to her foot.
“Please get up — at once,” she said with a confused sternness. “Listen to me, I will say this one time only. Fall on your knees before no human being.”
“Okayji,” he rose obediently. “Forgive me, I should have known better. But what to do, Dinabai, I just can’t think of how to thank you.”
Still embarrassed, she said there had been enough thanks for one night. Om unrolled the bedding after wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He asked if they could wash the dust from their hands and faces before sleeping.
“There’s not much water, just what’s in the bucket, so be frugal. If you are thirsty, take from the drinking pot in the kitchen.” She locked the verandah door and went inside with Maneck.
“I’m so proud of you, Aunty,” he whispered.
“Are you, now? Thank you, Grandpa.”
Morning light did not bring answers to the questions Dina had wrestled with all night. She could not risk losing the tailors again. But how firm to stand, how much to bend? Where was the line between compassion and foolishness, kindness and weakness? And that was from her position. From theirs, it might be a line between mercy and cruelty, consideration and callousness. She could draw it on this side, but they might see it on that side.
The tailors awoke at seven, and packed up their bedding. “We slept so well,” said Ishvar. “It was peaceful as paradise on your verandah.”
They took a change of clothes from the trunk and prepared to leave for the railway bathroom. “We’ll have tea at Vishram, then come back straight — if it’s all right.”
“You mean, to start sewing?”
“Yes, for sure,” said Om with a weak smile.
She turned to Ishvar. “What about your ankle?”
“Still hurts, but I can push the treadle with one foot. No need to delay.”
She noticed their cracked and bruised feet. “Where are your chappals?”
“Stolen.”
“Sometimes there is broken glass on the street. Drunks smashing their bottles. You cannot gamble with your three remaining feet.” She found an old pair of slippers which fit Om; Maneck gave Ishvar his tennis shoes.
“So comfortable,” said Ishvar. “Thank you.” Then he inquired timidly if they could borrow five rupees for tea and food.