“There is much more than five rupees coming to you from the last order,” she said.
“Hahnji? Really?” They were overjoyed, having presumed that leaving the work incomplete meant forfeiting the right to any payment, and said as much.
“It may be the practice with some employers. I believe in honest pay for honest work.” She added jokingly, “Maybe you can share it with Maneck, he deserves something.”
“No, I only helped with a few buttons. Dina Aunty did it all.”
“Forget your college, yaar,” said Om. “Become a partner with us.”
“Right. And we’ll open our own shop,” said Maneck.
“Don’t give bad advice,” she scolded Om. “Everyone should be educated. I hope when you have children you will send them to school.”
“Oh yes, he will,” said Ishvar. “But first we must find him a wife.”
After Maneck left reluctantly for college and Dina went to Au Revoir Exports for new cloth, the tailors idled away the time at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The cashier-cum-waiter welcomed back his regulars with delight. He finished attending to the customers at the front counter — a tumbler of milk, six pakoras, a scoop of curds — and soon joined them at the solitary table.
“You two have lost weight,” he observed. “Where have you been so long?”
“Special government diet,” said Ishvar, and told him about their misfortune.
“You fellows are amazing,” the sweaty cook roared over the stoves. “Everything happens to you only. Each time you come here, you have a new adventure story to entertain us.”
“It’s not us, it’s this city,” said Om. “A story factory, that’s what it is, a spinning mill.”
“Call it what you will, if all our customers were like you, we would be able to produce a modern Mahabharat — the Vishram edition.”
“Please, bhai, no more adventures for us,” said Ishvar. “Stories of suffering are no fun when we are the main characters.”
The cashier-waiter brought them their tea and bun-muska, then went to serve more customers at the counter. The milk in the tea had formed a creamy skin. Om spooned it into his mouth, licking his lips. Ishvar offered him his own cup, and he skimmed that off too. They separated the halves of the bun-muska to check if both sides were buttered. They were, lavishly.
During a pedestrian lull on the pavement, Shankar, who was already begging outside when they had arrived, rolled up by the door to greet them. Ishvar waved. “So, Shankar. Happy to be back and working hard, hahn?”
“Aray babu, what to do, Beggarmaster said it’s the first day, relax, sleep. So I fell asleep here. Then coins began falling into my can. A terrible clanging sound — right beside my head. Every time I close my eyes, they fly open in fright. The public just won’t let me rest.”
His routine this morning was simple. He rattled the coins and made a whining noise, or coughed hoarsely at intervals till tears ran down his cheeks. For visual interest, sometimes he paddled the platform a few feet to the left, then back to the right. “You know, I specially asked Beggarmaster to move me here from the railway station,” he confided. “Now we can meet more often.”
“That’s good,” said Om, waving goodbye. “We’ll see you again soon.”
The flat was padlocked, and they waited by the door. “Hope that crazy rent-collector is not prowling around the building,” said Om. It was an anxious ten minutes before the taxi drove up. They helped Dina unload the bolts of cloth and carry them to the back room.
“Not too much weight, careful with your ankle,” she cautioned Ishvar. “By the way, there’s going to be a strike in the mill. No more cloth till it’s over.”
“Hai Ram, trouble never ends.” Suddenly, Ishvar’s mind returned to what he had done the night before, and he apologized again for having fallen at her feet. “I should have known better.”
“That’s what you said last night. But why?” asked Dina.
“Because someone did it to me once. And it made me feel very bad.”
“Who was it?”
“It’s a very long story,” said Ishvar, unwilling to tell her everything about their lives, but eager to share a little. “When my brother — Om’s father — and I were apprenticed to a tailor, we gave him some help.”
“What did you do?”
“Well,” he hesitated. “Ashraf Chacha is Muslim, and it was the time of Hindu-Muslim riots. At independence, you know. There was trouble in the town, and — we were able to help him.”
“So he touched your feet, this Ashraf?”
“No.” The memory embarrassed Ishvar, even after twenty-eight years. “No, his wife did, Mumtaz Chachi did. And it made me feel very bad. As though I was taking advantage in some way of her misfortune.”
“That’s exactly how I felt last night. Let’s forget about it now.” She had a dozen more questions to ask, but respected his reluctance. If they wanted to, they would tell her more some day when they were ready.
For now, she added the pieces to what Maneck had already revealed about their life in the village. Like her quilt, the tailors’ chronicle was gradually gathering shape.
Throughout that first day, Dina continued to struggle with words to construct the crucial question. How would she phrase it when the time came? What about: Sleep on the verandah till you find a place. No, it seemed like she was anxious to have them there. Start with a question: Do you have a place for tonight? But that sounded hypocritical, it was plain they didn’t. A different question: Where will you sleep tonight? Yes, not bad. She tried it again. No, it expressed too much concern — much too open. Last night had been so easy, the words had sprung of their own accord, simple and true.
She watched the tailors work all afternoon, their feet welded to the treadles, till Maneck came home and reminded them of the tea break. No, they said, not today, and she approved. “Don’t make them waste money. They have lost enough in these last few weeks.”
“But I was going to pay.”
“Yours is not to waste either. What’s wrong with my tea?” She put the water on for everyone and set out the cups, keeping the pink rose borders separate. Waiting for the kettle to start chattering, she mulled her word-puzzle. What if she started with: Was the verandah comfortable? No, it sounded hopelessly false.
At quitting time the tailors placed the covers mournfully over the sewing-machines. They rose heavily, sighed, and walked towards the door.
For a moment Dina felt like a magician. She could make everything become shining and golden, depending on her words — the utterance was all.
“What time will you return?”
“Whenever you wish,” said Om. “As early as you like.” Ishvar nodded in silence.
She took the opening; the pieces fell into place. “Well, no need to rush. Have your dinner, then come back. Maneck and I will also finish eating by then.”
“You mean we can…?”
“On the verandah?”
“Only till you find yourselves a place,” she said, pleased at how neutral her statements were — the line drawn precisely.
Their gratitude warmed her, but she cut short the offer of payment. “No. Absolutely no rent. I am not renting anything, just keeping you out of those crooked police hands.”
And she made it clear that their comings and goings had to be reduced, the risk with the landlord was too great. The washing trip to the railway station every morning, for one, could be eliminated. “You can bathe and have tea here. As long as you wake up early, before the water goes. Keep in mind, I have only one bathroom.” Which made Om wonder why anybody would be silly enough to have more than one, but he didn’t ask.
“And remember, I don’t want a mess in there.”
They agreed to all her conditions and swore they would be no bother. “But we really feel bad staying for free,” said Ishvar.