“My wedding, and the Thakur’s funeral.”
“Leave your clever talk! I should give your face one backhand slap!”
“If you hadn’t stopped me, I could have spat over him. Exactly in his face.”
Ishvar raised his hand to strike, but Ashraf made him desist. “What’s happened has happened. We have to stay out of that demon’s way from now on.”
“I’m not scared of him,” said Om.
“Of course you’re not. We just don’t want any trouble to spoil the wedding preparations, that’s all. Our joy doesn’t need to be darkened by that demon’s shadow.”
He had to keep applying his words like balm upon Ishvar’s anguish. But now and again the terror broke through, erupting in a bitter condemnation of his nephew’s stupidity. “Acting like a hero and thinking like a zero. My fault only, for buying paan for you. A bad-tempered owl, as Dinabai used to call you. What has become of your humour and your joking? Without Maneck you have forgotten how to laugh, how to enjoy life.”
“You should have brought him with you, if you think he’s so wonderful. I would have stayed back.”
“You are talking bilkool nonsense. We are here for just a few days. Soon we return to our jobs. You can’t behave sensibly even for this short time?”
“That’s what you said in the city — that we would be there for a short while only, and soon go back to our native place.”
“So? Is it my fault that it’s tougher than we expected, making money in the city?”
Then they abandoned the topic altogether. Quarrelling on would have meant Ashraf Chacha learning about the misery concealed in the details they had spared him.
Market day was noisier than usual because the Family Planning Centre was promoting its sterilization camp from a booth in the square, its loudspeakers at full blast. Banners were strung across the road, exhorting participation in the Nussbandhi Mela. The usual paraphernalia of the fairground — balloons, flowers, soap bubbles, coloured lights, snacks — were employed to lure the townsfolk and visiting villagers. The film songs were interrupted often with announcements about the nation’s need for birth control, the prosperity and happiness in store for those willing to be sterilized, the generous bonuses for vasectomies and tubectomies.
“Where will they perform the operations?” wondered Om. “Right here?”
“Why? You want to watch or what?” said Ishvar.
Ashraf said the Centre usually erected tents outside town. “They set it up like a factory. Cut here, snip there, a few stitches — and the goods are ready to be shipped.”
“Sounds just like the tailoring business, yaar.”
“Actually, we tailors take more pride in our work. We show more consideration for fabric than these monsters show for humans. It is our nation’s shame.”
Not far from the birth-control booth was a man selling potions for the treatment of impotency and infertility. “The quack is getting a bigger crowd than the government people,” said Ishvar.
The man, his hair combed out in a black shiny halo, wore an animal pelt over his shoulders. His chest was bare, and a tight thong cutting into his upper right arm made his veins stand out in a show of power all the way along his limb. He brandished his muscular forearm, engorged and hard, whenever some reproductive matter needed graphic illustrating.
Spread out on a mat before him were several jars containing herbs and chunks of bark. And lest these be mistaken for the trappings of an insipid apothecary, he had interspersed among them an assortment of dead lizards and snakes, to imbue the display with a feral virility, a reptilian electricity. In one corner sat a human skull. The centre of the mat was occupied by a bear’s head, the eyes large and gleaming, jaws open wide. This trophy had suffered in its travels, losing two teeth; tiny wooden cones painted white had taken their place. The risible dentures undercut the bear’s ferocious glare, and the overall effect was clownish.
The Potency Pedlar pointed with a stick at charts listing symptoms and cures, and at diagrams that might have depicted electrical circuits. Midway through the exegesis, he raised the hem of his dhoti and pulled it up — up until it revealed his calves, his knees, and finally his muscular thighs. His dark-brown skin shone under the sun. For a hairy-chested man, his legs were questionably smooth. Then, to emphasize what he was saying, he slapped the firm flesh of his thighs several times. The report was sharp, like the clapping of perfect hands.
His sales pitch followed a question-and-answer routine. “Are you having difficulty in producing children? Is your hathiyar reluctant to rise up? Or does it sleep and forget to wake?” His pointer drooped disconsolately. “Fear not, there is a cure! Like a soldier at attention it will stand! One, two, three — bhoom!” He whipped up his pointer.
Some in the audience sniggered, others were bold in their loud laughter, while a few produced dark, censorious frowns.
“Does it stand, but not straight enough? Is there a bend in the tool? Leaning left like the Marxist-Leninist Party? To the right, like the Jan Sangh fascists? Or wobbling mindlessly in the middle, like the Congress Party? Fear not, for it can be straightened! Does it refuse to harden even with rubbing and massage? Then try my ointment, and it will become hard as the government’s heart! All your troubles will vanish with this amazing ointment made from the organs of these wild animals! Capable of turning all men into engine-drivers! Punctual as the trains in the Emergency! Back and forth you will shunt with piston power every night! The railways will want to harness your energy! Apply this ointment once a day, and your wife will be proud of you! Apply it twice a day, and she will have to share you with the whole block!”
The last bit provoked a great quantity of laughter from some young men. Women hid their smiles behind their hands; a few giggles escaped before they could be strangled. The frowning censors walked away in disgust.
The Potency Pedlar picked up the grinning human skull and held it aloft. “If I were to rub my ointment on this fellow’s head, even he would start jumping! But I dare not, I have to think of the ladies present, and the safety of their virtue!” The audience applauded heartily.
He continued in this vein for a bit longer before addressing women’s problems. Now he spoke in his alternate role — the fakir of fertility. “Is there sadness in your life because your neighbour has more children than you? Do you need more hands to help you with the endless work in the fields, to carry water, to search for firewood? Are you worried about who will look after you in your helpless old age, because you have no sons? Fear not! This tonic will make strong children flow forth from your belly! One spoon a day, and you will give your husband six sons! Two spoons, and your womb will produce an army!”
Despite the large crowd around the vendor, actual customers were few. Mainly, they were there for the entertainment. Besides, to purchase the products in broad daylight meant a public admission of inadequate loins. The sales would take place later, after the performance wound down and the fun-seekers drifted away.
“Are you planning to buy?” Ishvar tickled Om in the ribs, who was listening with grave intent.
“I don’t need all this rubbish.”
“Of course not,” said Ashraf, putting his arm over Om’s shoulder. “Inshallah, sons and daughters will appear at the proper time.”
They resumed their stroll through the bazaar till they came to the Chamaar stalls. “Don’t say anything, just stand quietly,” said Om. “Let’s see how long before they spot us.”
They pretended to inspect the sandals, waterskins, purses, belts, barber’s strops, harnesses. The rich smell of fresh leather travelled deep, waking forgotten memories. Then someone from their village recognized them.