Pausing to survey the room, he spied the pinking shears that Ashraf Chacha had gifted to the tailors. He examined them. “Nice,” he said appreciatively, and lifted his hand to fling them out the window.
“No!” screamed Om.
The goonda laughed and released the tailors’ dearest possession. The crash of the shears landing on the pavement came through the window as Om rushed at him. The puny attack amused the man before he decided to end it, slapping Om twice, then punching him in the stomach.
“You bastard,” said Maneck. He grabbed the pagoda umbrella hanging from the cupboard and went after Om’s assailant.
“Please! No fighting!” begged Ibrahim. “There is no need for fighting!”
The man took a whack on his shoulder, noticed the steel shaft’s formidable point, and dodged around the fallen sewing-machines. Maneck feinted, relishing his superiority, while the man jerked backwards. He feinted again, and whacked him twice over the head.
The bald man entered the room quietly. Standing behind them, he pulled out a flick-knife and held it open, pointing to the ceiling. Like a film actor, thought Maneck, starting to tremble.
“Okay, batcha,” said the bald man in his soft voice. “Your little fun is over.”
The others turned to look. Dina screamed when she saw the knife, and Ibrahim was furious now. “Put that away! And get out, both of you! Your work is done, I am in charge!”
“Shut up,” said the bald man. “We know our job.” His partner snatched away the umbrella and drove his fist into Maneck’s face. Maneck fell against the wall. Blood trickled from his mouth in a painful reflection of the paan juice oozing from the other’s lips.
“Stop it! I was present when you got your orders! There was nothing about beatings and knives!” The rent-collector stamped his foot and shook his fist.
The impotent rage entertained the bald man. “Are you killing cockroaches with your shoe?” he laughed, feeling the blade with his finger before retracting it. Then he snapped it open again and slashed Dina’s pillows and mattress. He threw them about, watching the stuffing scatter. The sofa cushions in the front room were treated similarly.
“There,” he said. “Now the rest is in your hands, madam. You don’t want us to return with a second notice, do you?”
The other fellow kicked Maneck’s shins in passing. Giving his paan a final workout, he spat on the bed and around it, emptying his mouth over as much of the room as possible. “Are you coming or not?” he asked Ibrahim.
“Later,” he said, frowning angrily at them. “I have not finished.”
The front door closed. Dina regarded the rent-collector with loathing and went to Maneck, where Ishvar was cradling him, holding his head, asking if he was all right. Ibrahim followed close behind, whispering repeatedly, “Forgive me, sister,” like a secret prayer.
Maneck’s nose was bleeding and the upper lip was cut. He checked with his tongue — no teeth were broken. They wiped the blood with scraps lying around the sewing-machines. He tried to mumble something and rose groggily.
“Don’t talk,” said Om, who had got back his wind, “it will bleed more.”
“Thank God the knife wasn’t used,” said Dina.
The sound of shattering glass came from the front room. Ibrahim ran to the verandah. “Stop it, you fools!” he yelled. “What’s the idea? That will only cost the landlord!” A few more stones broke the remaining windowpanes, then there was silence.
They helped Maneck to the basin to wash his face. “I can walk by myself,” he muttered. After cleaning him up a bit, they led him to the sofa with a cloth pressed to his nose.
“What that lip needs is ice,” said Dina.
“I’ll buy some from Vishram,” volunteered Om.
“Not necessary,” said Maneck, but was overruled by the others. A ten-paisa lump would be enough, they decided. Ibrahim quickly fished a coin out of his sherwani and offered it to Om.
“Don’t touch his money!” ordered Dina, fetching her purse. The rent-collector pleaded for its acceptance before dropping the coin back in his pocket.
Waiting for Om to return, they contemplated the damage. Fluff from the shredded cushions floated around, settling slowly to the floor. Dina picked up the slashed casings; she felt dirty, as though the goondas’ hands had molested her own being. The ripped dresses and paan-soiled bolts began bearing down heavily on her. How would she explain to Au Revoir? What could she possibly tell Mrs. Gupta?
“I am finished,” she said, on the verge of tears.
“Maybe the frocks can be repaired, Dinabai,” said Ishvar, making an effort to console her. “And we can wash off the red stuff.”
But his words sounded so hopeless, even to himself, that instead he turned on Ibrahim. “You have no shame? Why are you trying to destroy this poor lady? What kind of monster are you?”
Ibrahim stood contritely, ready to listen. He welcomed the revilement, desired an excess of it, to salve his guilt.
“Your beard is pure white but your heart is rotten,” said Ishvar.
“You wicked, sinful man!” hissed Dina. “A disgrace to old age!”
“Please, sister! I did not know they — ”
“You did this! You brought those goondas!” She shook with fear and rage.
Ibrahim could control himself no longer. Putting his hands over his face, he made a peculiar sound. It was not immediately apparent that he was trying to cry noiselessly. “It’s no use,” his voice broke. “I cannot do this job, I hate it! Oh, what has my life become!” He felt under the sherwani and pulled out his kerchief to blow his nose.
“Forgive me, sister,” he sobbed. “I did not know, when I brought them, that they would do such damage. For years I have followed the landlord’s orders. Like a helpless child. He tells me to threaten somebody, I threaten. He tells me to plead, I plead. If he raves that a tenant must be evicted, I have to repeat the raving at the tenant’s door. I am his creature. Everybody thinks I am an evil person, but I am not, I want to see justice done, for myself, for yourself, for everyone. But the world is controlled by wicked people, we have no chance, we have nothing but trouble and sorrow…”
He dissolved completely. Ishvar took his arm and led him to a chair, his resentment softening. “Here, sit down and don’t cry. Doesn’t look nice.”
“What else can I do but cry? These tears are all I have to offer. Forgive me, sister. I have harmed you. Now the goondas will return after forty-eight hours. They will throw your furniture and belongings on the pavement. Poor sister, where will you go?”
“I won’t open the door for them, that’s all.”
Her childish assertion touched Ibrahim, and he began weeping again. “It won’t stop them. They will bring policemen to break the lock.”
“As if the police will help them.”
“These Emergency times are terrible, sister. Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.”
“But what is it to the landlord if my tailors and I sew here?” Her voice rose uncontrollably. “Who am I harming with my work?”
“The landlord needs an excuse, sister. These flats are worth a fortune, the Rent Act lets him charge only the old worthless rent, so he — ”
Ibrahim broke off and wiped his eyes. “But you know all that, sister. It’s not you alone, he is doing the same with other tenants, the ones who are weak and without influence.”
Om returned with a lump of ice that was too big to hold comfortably against the lip. He covered it in cloth and struck the floor with it. “You came like a real hero to save me,” he grinned, trying to cheer up Maneck, who looked very pale. “You jumped in just like Amitabh Bachchan.”
He unwrapped the fragments of ice and turned to the others. “Did you see it? For a minute that fucker was really scared by Maneck’s umbrella.”