While they were considering the feasibility of his idea, the doorbell rang. It was Beggarmaster.
“Thank God you’ve come!” Ishvar and Dina rushed to welcome him like a saviour.
It reminded Om of the way Shankar, whimpering on his rolling platform, had fawned over the man when he had appeared at the irrigation project. He squirmed at the memory. How proudly Ishvar and he had proclaimed then to Beggarmaster: We are tailors, not beggars.
“What happened?” asked Dina. “You said you would return yesterday evening.”
“Sorry, I was delayed by an emergency,” he replied, enjoying the attention. He was accustomed to being apotheosized by beggars, but the veneration of normal people was far sweeter.
“This wretched Emergency — creating trouble for everyone.”
“No, not that Emergency,” said Beggarmaster. “I mean a business problem. You see, after I left you yesterday morning, I got a message that two of my beggars, a husband-and-wife team, were found murdered. So I had to rush there.”
“Murdered!” said Dina. “What evil person would kill poor beggars?”
“Oh, it happens. They are killed for their beggings. But this case is very peculiar — money was not touched. Must be some kind of maniac. Only their hair was taken.”
Ishvar and Om started visibly, gulping.
“Hair?” said Dina. “You mean from their heads?”
“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “Cropped right off. Husband and wife both had lovely long hair. Which was very unusual. The lovely part, I mean — most beggars do have long hair, they cannot afford haircuts, but it’s always dirty. These two were different. They used to spend hours cleaning it for each other, picking out the nits, combing it, washing it every time it rained or a water pipe burst on their pavement.”
“How sweet,” said Dina, nodding in empathy with Beggarmaster’s tender description of the loving couple.
“You’d be surprised how much beggars are like ordinary human beings. The result of all their grooming was, of course, this beautiful hair. And it was not good for business. I often told them to mess it up, make it look pathetic. But they would say they had nothing in the world to be proud of except their hair, and was I going to deny them even that?”
He paused, considering the question afresh. “What could I do? I’m softhearted, I gave in. Now those beautiful tresses have cost them their lives. And deprived me of two good beggars.”
He turned to the tailors. “What’s the matter? You both look very upset.”
“No — not upset,” stammered Ishvar. “Just very surprised.”
“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “That’s what the police were as well — surprised. They had been receiving a few complaints, that long plaits and ponytails were disappearing mysteriously. Women would go to the bazaar, do their shopping, go home, look in the mirror and find their hair missing. But never anything like this, no one was ever killed or injured. So the detectives are very interested in my beggars’ case. They love variety. They are calling it the Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide.”
He opened the briefcase secured to his wrist and took out a thick wad of rupees. The chain jangled as he counted the notes. “Getting back to business — here’s the money to cover your damage. You can start working again.”
Ishvar deferred the responsibility of accepting the cash to Dina; his hands were shaking violently.
Clasping two thousand rupees, she still found it hard to believe Beggarmaster had defeated the landlord. “You mean we can stay? It’s really safe?”
“Of course you can stay. I told you there would be no trouble. Those men made a mistake.”
The tailors nodded rapidly to transfer their conviction to Dina. “Only one problem,” said Ishvar. “What if the landlord sends new goondas?”
“While you pay me, the landlord won’t find a single man to come here. I have seen to that.”
“And when the instalments are paid up?”
“That’s up to you. Our contract can always be renewed. I’ll give you good rates, you’re Shankar’s friends. And — oh yes, Shankar sends you his greetings. Says he hasn’t seen you recently.”
“With all this landlord trouble, we haven’t gone to Vishram for a few days,” said Ishvar. “We’ll meet him tomorrow. And, I was wondering, how are Monkey-man and his two children?”
“Good, good — the children I mean. They’re learning fast. Monkey-man I haven’t seen again. I haven’t been back to the work camp. But he was beaten up too badly, probably dead by now.”
“The old woman’s prophecy has almost come true, then,” said Om.
“What prophecy?” asked Beggarmaster.
The tailors described the night in the hutment colony, when Monkey-man had discovered his little monkeys slain by his dog, when the old woman uttered her cryptic words. “I remember exactly what she told us,” said Om. “ ‘The loss of two monkeys is not the worst loss he will suffer; the murder of the dog is not the worst murder he will commit.’ And later, he did kill Tikka to avenge Laila and Majnoo.”
“What a horrible story,” said Dina.
“Pure coincidence,” said Beggarmaster, “I don’t believe in prophecies or superstitions.”
Ishvar nodded. “And are the two children happy without Monkey-man?”
Beggarmaster flipped his unchained hand in a who-knows gesture. “They will have to get used to it. Life does not guarantee happiness.” He raised the same hand in farewell and began walking out the door, then stopped.
“There is something you can do for me. I need two new beggars. If you see someone who qualifies, will you let me know?”
“Sure,” said Ishvar. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”
“But there has to be a unique feature about the candidates. Let me show you.” From the briefcase, he removed a large sketchbook containing his notes and diagrams relating to the dramaturgy of begging. The binding was well-worn, the corners of the pages curling.
He opened the book to an old pencil drawing titled Spirit of Collaboration. “Here’s what I have been trying to create for a long time.”
They crowded around to look at the sketch: two figures, one sitting aloft on the shoulders of the other. “For this, I need a lame beggar and a blind beggar. The blind man will carry the cripple on his shoulders. A living, breathing image of the ancient story about friendship and cooperation. And it will produce a fortune in coins, I am absolutely certain, because people will give not only from pity or piety but also from admiration.” The hitch was in finding a blind beggar who was strong enough or a lame beggar who was light enough.
“Wouldn’t Shankar be suitable?” asked Maneck.
“Without legs, and only quarter thighs, he could never balance upon someone’s shoulders — he would slide right down the back. I need a cripple whose legs are not amputated, but lifeless and mutilated, so they can dangle nicely over the carrier’s chest. In any case, Shankar is very successful with his rolling platform. We don’t want to spoil that.”
They promised to watch out for Beggarmaster’s requirements. He said he would appreciate any suggestions. “By the way, you know the two goondas who came with your rent-collector?”
“Yes?”
“They have sent their apologies for not being here to clean up the mess they made.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They had an unfortunate accident — broke all their fingers. Who knows, if they have a few more accidents they may even qualify to join my team of beggars.” He was pleased at his own wit, and they returned weak smiles.
“Now you really must excuse me,” he said. “I have to go and look after my two murdered beggars.”
“Will you cremate them today?”
“No, that’s too expensive. When the morgue releases the corpses, I’ll sell them to my agent.” Seeing their shocked expressions, Beggarmaster felt obliged to justify his action. “With rising prices and inflation, I have no choice. Besides, it’s much better than leaving the bodies in the street for the municipal workers, like in the old days.”