“Come to this side, quick,” said Ashraf. “We will get shelter here.” He led them into the doorway of a textile-merchant who used to refer customers to Muzaffar Tailoring. The shop was closed, and he rang the bell. There was no answer. “Never mind, we’ll just stay here till things are quiet. Police must be looking for criminals in the crowd.”
But the police were snatching people at random. Old men, young boys, housewives with children were being dragged into the trucks. A few managed to escape; most were trapped like chickens in a coop, unable to do anything except wait to be collected by the law enforcers.
“Look,” urged Ashraf, “that corner has only one havaldar. If you run fast you will get through.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be safe here, I’ll meet you later at the shop.”
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, refusing to leave him. “We don’t need to run like thieves.”
They watched from the doorway while the police continued to chase the ones tearing frenziedly amid the spilled fruit and grain and broken glassware. Someone tripped, fell upon the shards and cut his face. His pursuer lost interest, picking a new quarry.
“Hai Ram!” said Ishvar. “Look at that blood! And now they are ignoring him! What is going on?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that demon Dharamsi is behind it,” said Ashraf. “He owns those garbage trucks.”
As the vehicles filled up, the numbers in the square began to dwindle. The police had to work harder to catch the remainder. Before long, six constables targeted the tailors. “You three! Into the truck!”
“But why, police-sahab?”
“Just come on, don’t argue,” said one, raising his lathi.
Ashraf flung up his hands before his face. The constable grabbed the prayer beads round his fingers and pulled, breaking the string. The beads rolled lazily about the pavement.
“Oiee!” yelled two others as they slipped on the tiny amber spheres. Seeing his comrades fall, the first one reacted by lashing out angrily with his lathi.
Ashraf groaned and crumpled slowly to the ground.
“Don’t hurt him, please, it was a mistake!” pleaded Ishvar. He and Om knelt to cradle his head.
“Stand up,” said the constable. “He’s okay, just pretending. I gave him just a light blow.”
“But his head is bleeding.”
“Just a little. Come on, get in the truck.”
The tailors ignored the command in favour of Ashraf Chacha. The constable kicked them, once each. They yelped and clutched their ribs. As he drew his foot back to kick again, they stood up. He shoved them towards the trucks.
“What about Ashraf Chacha?” screamed Ishvar. “You’re going to leave him on the pavement?”
“Don’t yell at me, I’m not your servant or something! Saala, one tight shot on your face I’ll give!”
“Sorry, police-sahab, please forgive! But Chachaji is hurt, I want to help him!”
The constable turned to look again at the injured old man. Blood was oozing through the skimpy white hair, dripping in a slow trickle onto the kerb. But the police had been instructed not to load anyone unconscious onto the vehicles. “Others will take care of him, it’s not your worry,” he said, pushing the two aboard a truck.
On the pavement a dog sniffed at the candy-floss Om had dropped. The fluff stuck to its muzzle. The animal worried the pink beard with a paw, and a child in the truck, sitting on its mother’s lap, laughed at the creature’s antics. The police discontinued the roundup when the garbage trucks were full. The people remaining in the square suddenly found themselves at liberty to leave.
The sterilization camp was a short ride from town. A dozen tents had been pitched in a field on the outskirts, where the stubble of the recent harvest still lingered. Banners, balloons, and songs identical to those at the marketplace booth welcomed the garbage trucks. The passengers’ terrified wailing grew louder as the vehicles were parked in an open area behind the tents, alongside an ambulance and a diesel generator.
Two of the tents were larger and sturdier than the rest, with electric cables running to them from the generator that throbbed powerfully beneath the music. Red cylinders for gas stoves squatted outside the canvas. Inside, office desks covered with plastic sheets had been set up as operating tables.
The medical officer in charge of the camp wrinkled his nose in the vicinity of the garbage trucks. The putrid smell of their usual cargo clung to them. He had a word with the police. “Wait for ten minutes, we’ll finish our tea by then. And bring only four patients at a time — two men and two women.” He didn’t want more in the tents than could be handled by the attending doctors, or it would lead to greater panic.
“No one is offering us any tea,” the constables grumbled among themselves. “And this stupid music. Same songs over and over.”
Half an hour later they got the go-ahead. Four persons were selected from the nearest truck, dragged screaming to the two main tents and forced onto the office desks. “Stop resisting,” said the doctor. “If the knife slips it will harm you only.” The warning frightened them into silent submission.
The constables watched the tents carefully, trying to maintain a steady supply according to instructions. But several who couldn’t read kept getting confused. They escorted women to the vasectomy tent. The mixup was understandable: except for the handwritten signs, both tents were identical, and the medical personnel in white coats all looked alike.
“Men to the left tent, women to the right,” the doctors reminded them repeatedly. Their annoyance grew with the suspicion that it was being done on purpose — perhaps some kind of inane police humour. Finally, a medical assistant improved the signs. With a black marker he drew figures on the signboards, of the sort found on public latrines. The turban on the male, and the sari and long plait on the female were unmistakable, and now the constables were able to work with greater accuracy.
As the sterilizations proceeded, an elderly woman tried to reason with her doctor. “I am old,” she said. “My womb is barren, there are no more eggs in it. Why are you wasting the operation on me?”
The doctor approached the district official keeping a tally of the day’s procedures. “This woman is past child-bearing age,” he said. “You should take her off your list.”
“Is that a medical conclusion?”
“Of course not,” said the doctor. “There is no equipment here for clinical verification.”
“In that case, just go ahead. These people often lie about their age. And appearances are deceptive. With their lifestyle, thirty can look like sixty, all shrivelled by the sun.”
Two hours into the campaign, a nurse hurried to the policemen with new instructions. “Please slow down the supply of lady patients,” she said. “There is a technical problem in the tubectomy tent.”
A middle-aged man took the opportunity to appeal to the nurse. “I beg you,” he wept. “Do it to me, I don’t mind — I have fathered three children. But my son here is only sixteen! Never married! Spare him!”
“I have no authority, you must speak to the doctor,” she answered, and hurried back to attend to the technical problem. The autoclave was not working, she had to boil water to disinfect the instruments.
“See, I was right,” Ishvar whispered to Om, holding him close in his trembling arms. “The doctor will let you go, that’s what the nurse just said. We must talk to the doctor and tell him you don’t have children yet.”
In the truck with the tailors a woman was feeding her baby, unaffected by the anguish around her. She softly hummed a song, swaying her body to help the infant fall asleep. “Will you hold my child for me when my turn comes?” she asked Ishvar.