A shout of delight went up, echoed by others. The welcome was euphoric. People gathered around, and the conversation began to overflow. Everyone was eager to fill the void the tailors’ lengthy absence had created.
Ishvar and Om learned from the villagers that Dukhi’s lifelong friend, Gambhir, who had had molten lead poured in his ears many years ago, had died recently. Though the burn injury had always festered, it was blood poisoning from cutting his leg on a rusty scythe that had finally taken him. The old women, Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri, were well. They were the ones who most remembered the tailors’ family; their favourite story was still the one about going by bus with Roopa and Dukhi and several dozen others to inspect Narayan’s wife-to-be.
After homage was paid to the dead and the elderly, they turned to the present. News of the impending bride-viewing had spread in the Chamaar community. Two men lifted Om to their shoulders and paraded him like a conquering hero, as though the wedding were already accomplished. Felicitations poured from every mouth, embarrassing Om. For once, he was left incapable of making a smart retort, while his uncle beamed and nodded.
For those who had known his father, the occasion had a special significance. They were happy that the line of one as remarkable as Narayan, the Chamaar-turned-tailor who had defied the upper castes, was not going to die out. “We prayed that the son will return one day,” they said, “and our prayers are answered. Om must carry on the work of his father. And the grandsons will do likewise.”
To Ishvar’s ears the yearnings of his community were ill-considered, and recklessly tempted fate. The fear born out of Om’s foolhardiness with Thakur Dharamsi yesterday was still trembling in his veins. He cut short the well-wishers. “There is no chance of coming back. We have very good jobs in the city. The future there is bright for Omprakash.”
The Chamaars talked about the years when Ishvar and his brother had first left the village as apprentices to Muzaffar Tailoring. They told Om what a brilliant tailor his father had been, while Ashraf, the proud teacher, smiled, nodding to indicate that yes, it was all true. “It was like magic,” they said. “Narayan could take the discards of a fat landlord and alter them with his machine to fit us like brand-new. He could take our rags and turn them into clothes suitable for a king. We will never again see the like of him. So generous, so brave.”
Ishvar changed the subject once more, worried about the effect their reminiscing would have on his nephew. “Ashraf Chacha has been talking to us of the old days ever since we arrived,” he said. “Tell us what is happening in these new days.”
So Ishvar and Om learned that recently a stream had run dry, and in its bed was discovered a perfectly spherical rock with sickness-curing properties. In another village, a sadhu had meditated under a tree, and when he departed, furrows developed on the trunk in the image of Lord Ganesh. Elsewhere, during the religious procession of Mata Ki Sawari, someone had entered a trance and identified a Bhil woman as the witch causing the community’s woes. She was beaten to death, and the village was expecting better times; unfortunately, a year later they were still waiting.
Before the conversation could stray again into the past, Ishvar said, “We’ll see you at the wedding, if everything goes well,” and they took their leave to cheers and laughter.
They wandered into the vegetable section of the market where he selected peas, coriander, spinach, and onions. “Tonight I’ll cook my specialty for us.”
“And the chapati expert will favour us with his skills,” said Ashraf, putting his arm around Om again. It was hard for him to restrain himself from constantly touching and embracing the two who were like son and grandson to him. Besides, he was trying to ward off the dreaded day of departure that would dawn when the celebrations were over.
“One more stop before we go home,” said Ishvar. He led them towards the religious merchandise, and purchased an expensive string of prayer beads. “A small gift from us,” he said to Ashraf. “We hope you will use it for many years to come.”
“Inshallah,” he said, and kissed the beads of amber. “You have chosen the right item for me.”
“My idea,” claimed Om. “We noticed you are spending more time in prayer.”
“Yes, awareness of death and old age tend to have that effect on us mortals.” He stopped the vendor, who was making a newspaper pouch to package the beads. “No need for that,” he said, and wound the precious string round his fingers.
Nearby, the candy-floss man issued his inviting calclass="underline" “Aga-ni-dadhi! Aga-ni-dadhi!”
“I want one,” said Om.
“Aray eat more, have two!” He tinkled his little brass bell.
Ishvar held up one finger, and the candy-floss man switched on the machine.
They watched the whirring, humming centre spin out wisps of pink. The man whisked a stick around inside the tub, stroking the air to harvest the sweet strands. When the ball reached the size of a human head, he switched off the machine.
“You know how that works, nah?” said Ashraf. “There is a large spider sitting inside the machine, feeding on sugar and pink dye. At the man’s command, it starts spinning its web.”
“For sure,” said Om and chucked him under the chin, fingering his fine white beard. “Is that how your dadhi was also made?”
It was a little before noon. Empty trucks rumbled up the main road and parked outside the market square. No one paid attention. Traffic was always heavy on this day of the week.
“Want to taste?” Om held out the stick.
Ishvar declined. Ashraf decided to try some, gamely negotiating the fluff through his whiskers. Bits of it stuck, pink on white, and Om roared. He led him to the window of a sari shop and showed him his candy-floss beard. “Looks very handsome, Chachaji. You could start a new style.”
“Now you know why it’s called aga-ni-dadhi,” said Ashraf, plucking the wisps out of his hair.
Ishvar watched contentedly, smiling with happiness. In spite of everything, life was good, he thought. How could he complain when Om and he were blessed with the friendship of people like Ashraf Chacha, and Dinabai, and Maneck.
More trucks appeared around the square, occupying the lanes leading into the bazaar. These were garbage trucks, round-roofed with openings at the rear.
“Why so early?” wondered Ashraf. “Market still has many hours to go, cleanup does not begin till evening.”
“Maybe the drivers also want to do some shopping.”
Suddenly, horns blaring, police vans swept into the marketplace. The sea of humans parted. The vehicles stopped in the centre and disgorged a battalion of constables who took up positions inside the square.
“A police guard for the bazaar?” said Ishvar.
“Something is wrong,” said Ashraf.
The shoppers watched, perplexed. Then the police began to advance and grab people. The bewildered captives resisted, shouting and questioning, “First tell us! Tell us what we’ve done! How can you catch people just like that? We have a right to be here, it’s market day!”
The constables answered by moving relentlessly through the crowd. Resistance was met with swinging lathis. Panic filled the marketplace as people pushed, pleaded, struggled with the police, tried to break through the cordon. But the square had been efficiently surrounded. Those who made it to the periphery were beaten back into the waiting hands of more police.
Stalls and stands came crashing down, baskets were overturned, boxes smashed. In seconds the square was littered with tomatoes, onions, earthen pots, flour, spinach, coriander, chillies — patches of orange and white and green, dissolving in chaos out of their neat rows. The Potency Pedlar’s bear was trampled underfoot, losing more of its teeth, while his dead lizards and snakes died a second death. The music from the Family Planning booth continued to blare over the screams of people.