“Me? Argue? Never.”
“I recognize these blue and white flowers,” said Maneck. “From the skirts you were making on the day I moved in.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it was the day Ishvar and Om did not come to work — they had been kidnapped for the Prime Minister’s compulsory meeting.”
“Oh, that’s right. And do you recall this lovely voile, Om?”
He coloured and pretended he didn’t. “Come on, think,” she encouraged. “How can you forget? It’s the one on which you spilled your blood, when you cut your thumb with the scissors.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Maneck.
“It was in the month before you came. And the chiffon was fun, it made Om lose his temper. The pattern was difficult to match, so slippery.”
Ishvar leaned over to indicate a cambric square. “See this? Our house was destroyed by the government, the day we started on this cloth. Makes me feel sad whenever I look at it.”
“Get me the scissors,” she joked. “I’ll cut it out and throw it away.”
“No no, Dinabai, let it be, it looks very nice in there.” His fingers stroked the cambric texture, recapturing the time. “Calling one piece sad is meaningless. See, it is connected to a happy piece — sleeping on the verandah. And the next square — chapatis. Then that violet tusser, when we made masala wada and started cooking together. And don’t forget this georgette patch, where Beggarmaster saved us from the landlord’s goondas.”
He stepped back, pleased with himself, as though he had elucidated an intricate theorem. “So that’s the rule to remember, the whole quilt is much more important than any single square.”
“Vah, vah!” exclaimed the boys with a round of applause.
“That sounds very wise,” said Dina.
“But is it philosophy or fakeology?”
Ishvar rumpled his nephew’s hair in retaliation.
“Stop it, yaar, I’ve got to look good for my wedding.” Om pulled out his comb and restored the parting and puff.
“My mother collects string in a ball,” said Maneck. “We used to play a game when I was little, unravelling it and trying to remember where each piece of string came from.”
“Let’s try that game with the quilt,” said Om. He and Maneck located the oldest piece of fabric and moved chronologically, patch by patch, reconstructing the chain of their mishaps and triumphs, till they reached the uncompleted corner.
“We’re stuck in this gap,” said Om. “End of the road.”
“You’ll just have to wait,” said Dina. “It depends on what material we get with the next order.”
“Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past.”
Ishvar’s lighthearted words washed over Maneck like cold rain; his joy went out like a lamp. The future was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching — what? A bit of string, scraps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present…
“Are you listening?” asked Dina. “How strong is your memory? Can you remember everything about this one year without looking at my quilt?”
“Seems much longer than one year to me,” said Om.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Maneck. “It’s just the opposite.”
“Hoi-hoi,” said Ishvar. “How can time be long or short? Time is without length or breadth. The question is, what happened during its passing. And what happened is, our lives have been joined together.”
“Like these patches,” said Om.
Maneck said the quilt did not have to end when the corner was filled in. “You could keep adding, Aunty, let it grow bigger.”
“Here you go again, talking foolishly,” said Dina. “What would I do with a monster quilt like that? Don’t confuse me with your quiltmaker God.”
In the midst of the morning Dina was becalmed. The water chores were done, last night’s dishes were scrubbed, clothes were washed. Without the chatter and hammer of the Singers, the rest of the day stretched emptily. She sat and watched Maneck eat a late breakfast.
“You should have gone with Ishvar and Om,” he tried to cheer her up. “You could have helped to choose the wife.”
“Are you being smart again?”
“No, I’m sure they’d have been happy to take you. You could have joined the Bride Selection Committee.” He choked on his toast, retaining the morsel with difficulty.
She patted his back till the fit passed. “Weren’t you taught not to speak with your mouth full?”
“It’s Ishvar in my throat,” he grinned. “Taking revenge because I am making fun of his auspicious event.”
“Poor man. I just hope he knows what he is doing. And I hope that whoever they pick, she tries to fit in, get along with all of us.”
“I’m sure she will, Aunty. Om is not going to get a bad-tempered or unfriendly wife.”
“Oh, I know. But he may not have a choice. In these arranged marriages, astrologers and families decide everything. Then the woman becomes the property of the husband’s family, to be abused and bullied. It’s a terrible system, turns the nicest girls into witches. But one thing she will have to understand it’s my house, and follow my ways, like you and Ishvar and Om. Or it will be impossible to get along.”
She stopped, realizing she was sounding like a mother-in-law. “Come on, finish that egg,” she changed the subject. “Your final exams begin tomorrow?”
He nodded, chewing. She began to clear the breakfast things. “And five days later you leave. Have you made your reservation?”
“Yes, it’s all done,” he said, gathering his books for the library. “And I’ll be back soon, don’t give away my room to anyone, Aunty.”
The mail arrived, with an envelope from Maneck’s parents. He opened it, handed the rent cheque to Dina, then read the letter.
“Mummy-Daddy are all right, I hope?” she said, watching his face start to cloud.
“Oh yes, everything is normal. Same as always. Now their complaints are starting again. They say: ‘Why are you going to college for three more years? Your fees are not the problem, but we will miss you. And there is so much work in the shop, we cannot manage alone, you should take over.’“ He put the letter down. “If I do decide to go back, it will be fighting and shouting with Daddy every day.”
She saw his fist clench, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Parents are as confused by life as anyone else. But they try very hard.”
He gave her the letter, and she read the rest of it. “Maneck, I really think you should do what your mummy is requesting — visit the Sodawalla family. You haven’t seen them even once in this whole year.”
Shrugging, he made a face and went to his room. When he emerged, she noticed the box under his arm. “Are you taking your chess set to college?”
“It’s not mine. Belongs to a friend. I’m going to return it today.”
On the way to the bus stop he deliberated about the letter — Daddy’s turmoil, Mummy’s anguish, their doubts and fears writhing through the words. What if they really meant it? Maybe it would work out fine this time, maybe the year’s absence really had helped Daddy come to terms with the changes in his life.
He made a little detour past the Vishram in order to wave to Shankar. The beggar did not notice him, distracted, craning and staring down the pavement towards the corner. Maneck bent over, waving again, and Shankar acknowledged him by tapping his tin against the platform. “O babu, are you fine? My friends departed safely?”
“Yesterday,” said Maneck.
“How exciting for them. And today is an exciting day for me also. Beggarmaster’s barber is coming to shave me. But I wish Ishvar and Om were here. How they would enjoy seeing my face afterwards.”