“If you mention money once more, you’ll have to find somewhere else.”
They thanked her again and left for dinner, promising to be back by eight and sew for an hour before bedtime.
“But Aunty, why refuse their offer of rent? They’ll feel good if you take a little money. And it will also help you with the expenses.”
“Don’t you understand anything? If I accept money, it means a tenancy on my verandah.”
Stooped over the basin, Dina brushed her teeth with Kolynos. Ishvar watched the foam drip from her mouth. “I’ve always wondered if that’s good for the teeth,” he said.
She spat and gargled before answering, “As good as any other toothpaste, I think. Which one do you use?”
“We use charcoal powder. And sometimes neem sticks.”
Maneck said that Ishvar and Om’s teeth were better than his. “Show me,” she said, and he bared them. “And yours?” she asked the tailors.
The three lined up before the mirror and curled their lips, exposing their incisors. She compared her own. “Maneck is right, yours are whiter.”
Ishvar offered her a bit of charcoal powder to try, and she squeezed half an inch of Kolynos on his finger. He shared it with Om. “Taste is delicious,” they concurred.
“That’s all very well,” she said. “But paying for taste is a waste, unless you are talking about food. I think I will switch to charcoal and save money.” Maneck decided to follow suit.
The enlarged household turned the wheel of morning with minimal friction. Dina was the first to rise, Maneck the last. When she had finished in the bathroom the tailors took their turns. They were in and out so fast, she suspected a deficiency in matters of personal hygiene, till she saw their well-scrubbed faces and wet hair. A deep breath in their proximity confirmed the clean odour of freshly bathed skin.
Though the bathroom was unimaginable luxury, the tailors did not linger. High-speed washing came naturally to them. Over the last several months they had honed their skills in public places, where time was critical. The faucet in the alley near Nawaz’s awning; the single tap at the centre of the hutment colony; the crumbling toilets in the overcrowded railway bathroom; the trickling spout at the irrigation project: all these had helped to perfect their technique to the point where each could finish within three minutes. They never operated Dina’s immersion heater, preferring cold water, and their tidy habits left everything neat.
But the thought of their bodies in her bathroom still made Dina uncomfortable. She was watchful, waiting to pounce if she found evidence that her soap or towel had been used. If they were to live here for a few days, it would be on her terms, there would be no slackening of the reins.
What she disliked most was Ishvar’s morning ritual of plunging his fingers down his throat to retch. The procedure was accompanied by a primal yowling, something she had often heard emanating from other flats, but never at such close quarters. It made her skin crawl.
“Goodness, you frightened me,” she said when the series of yips and yelps rang out.
He smiled. “Very good for the stomach. Gets rid of stale, excess bile.”
“Careful, yaar,” said Om, siding with Dina. “Sounds like your liver is coming out with the bile.” He had never approved of his uncle’s practice; Ishvar had tried to teach him its therapeutic effects and had given up, faced with a lack of cooperation.
“What you need is a plumber,” said Maneck. “To install a little tap in your side. Then all you do is turn it on and release the excess bile.” He and Om began baying an accompanying chorus when Ishvar started howling again.
After a few days of their combined teasing, Ishvar moderated his habit. The yowls were more restrained, and his fingers no longer explored his gullet to quite the same daredevil depths.
Om sniffed Maneck’s skin. “Your smell is better than mine. Must be your soap.”
“I use powder as well.”
“Show me.”
Maneck got the can from his room.
“And where do you put it? All over?”
“I just take a little in my palm and spread it in the armpits and chest.”
On the next payment day, Om purchased a cake of Cinthol Soap and a can of Lakmé Talcum Powder.
The pattern of each day, thought Dina at the end of the first week, was like the pattern of a well-cut dress, the four of them fitting together without having to tug or pull to make the edges meet. The seams were straight and neat.
Ishvar, however, was still troubled that he and his nephew were taking advantage of Dina’s goodness. “You won’t accept any rent from us,” he said. “You let us use your verandah and bathroom. You give us tea. This is too much, it makes us feel bad.”
His declaration reminded her of her own guilt. She knew that everything she did was done from self-preservation — to keep the tailors from being picked up again by the police, and to have them out of sight of nosey neighbours and the rent-collector. Now Ishvar and Om were wrapping her in the mantle of kindness and generosity. Deceit, hypocrisy, manipulation were more the fabrics of her garment, she thought.
“So what is your plan?” she said brusquely. “To insult me with fifty paise for tea? You want to treat me like a roadside chaiwalla?”
“No no, never. But is there not something we can do for you in return?”
She said she would let them know.
At the end of the second week, Ishvar was still waiting to hear. Then he took matters into his own hand. While she was bathing, he fetched the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and swept the verandah, the front room, Maneck’s room, and the sewing room. As he finished in each, Om got busy with the bucket and cloth, mopping the floors.
They were still at it when Dina emerged from the bathroom. “What’s going on here?”
“Forgive me, but I have decided,” said Ishvar firmly. “We are going to share the daily cleaning from now on.”
“That does not seem right,” she said.
“Seems just fine,” said Om, briskly squeezing out the mop.
Deeply moved, she poured the tea while they were finishing up. They came into the kitchen to replace the cleaning things, and she handed two cups to Om.
Noticing the red rose borders, he started to point out her error, “The pink ones for us,” then stopped. Her face told him she was aware of it.
“What?” she asked, taking the pink cup for herself. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” his voice caught. He turned away, hoping she did not see the film of water glaze his eyes.
“Someone at the door for you,” said Dina. “The same longhaired fellow who came once before.”
Ishvar and Om exchanged glances — what did he want now? Apologizing for the interruption, they went to the verandah.
“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram, putting his hands together. “Sorry to bother you at work, but the nightwatchman said you didn’t sleep there anymore.”
“Yes, we have another place.”
“Where?”
“Nearby.”
“Hope it’s nice. Listen, can I meet you later to talk? Any time today, anywhere, your convenience.” He sounded desperate.
“Okay,” said Ishvar. “Come to Vishram at one o’clock. You know where it is?”
“Yes, I’ll be there. And listen, can you please bring my hair from your trunk?”
After Rajaram had left, Dina asked the tailors if something was wrong. “He’s not connected with that other man, I hope — the one who’s squeezing you for money every week.”
“No no, he does not work for Beggarmaster,” said Ishvar. “He’s a friend, probably just wants a loan.”
“Well, you be careful,” said Dina. “These days, friends and foes look alike.”