“It’s too dark to see,” called the leader. “Give me a lantern “The light was handed over from behind the group. He bent low, held it close to their naked crotches, and was satisfied. The others crowded round to look as well. There was general agreement that the foreskins were intact.
Now the hardware-store owner opened his upstairs window and shouted, “What’s going on? Why are you harassing Hindu boys? Have you run out of Muslims?”
“And who are you?” they shouted back.
“Who am I? I am your father and your grandfather! That’s who I am! And also the owner of this hardware store! If I give the word, the whole street will unite as one to make mincemeat of you! Don’t you have somewhere else to go?”
The leader did not think it worthwhile to take up the challenge. His men started to drift away, hurling obscenities to save face. They turned to arguing among themselves about a wasted night and faulty information that had made them look like fools.
“That was beautiful acting,” said the hardware-store owner, patting Ishvar and Narayan heartily on the back. “I was watching the whole thing from upstairs. You know, if there had been any danger of you getting hurt, I would have called everybody to help. But I thought it’s better if there is no confrontation, if you can convince them and they leave quietly.” He looked around to make sure everyone believed him.
Mumtaz fell on her knees before the two apprentices. Her dupatta slid from around her neck and draped their feet. “Please, Chachi, don’t do that,” said Ishvar, shuffling backwards.
“Forever and ever, my life, my children, my husband’s life, my home — everything, I owe to you!” She clung to them, weeping. “There is no repayment possible!”
“Please get up,” begged Ishvar, holding her wrists and trying to make her stand.
“From now on, this home is your home, as long as you will honour us with your presence!”
Ishvar finally succeeded in disentangling his ankles from her hands. “Chachi, you are like our mother, we have shared your food and home for seven years.”
“Inshallah, you will stay and eat with us for seventy more.” Still sobbing, she replaced the dupatta around her neck, lifting a corner to wipe her eyes.
Ishvar and Narayan returned downstairs. After the children were asleep, Ashraf went downstairs too. The boys had not yet rolled out their sleeping mats. The three sat silently for a few minutes. Then Ashraf said, “You know, when the banging started, I thought we were finished.”
“I was also scared,” said Narayan.
Their next silence lasted longer. Ashraf cleared his throat. “I came down to say one thing only.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks; he paused to wipe them. “The day I met your father — the day I told Dukhi to send me his two sons for tailor-training. That day was the luckiest of my life.” He embraced them, kissed their cheeks three times, and went upstairs.
Ashraf would not hear of the brothers returning to the village, and Mumtaz supported him in this. “Stay on as my paid assistants,” he said, though he knew very well he could not afford it.
Roopa protested to Dukhi that it was high time she had her two sons back. “You sent them to apprentice. Now they have learned the trade, so why are they still living with strangers? Are their own mother-father dead or something?”
But no one could predict how two Chamaars-turned-tailors would fare in the village. True, these new times were full of hope, changes were in the air, and the optimism that came with independence was shining bright. Ashraf even felt safe enough to turn over the Krishna Tailors sign and display the Muzaffar Tailoring side again.
Still, it was uncertain if centuries of tradition could be overturned as easily. So they agreed that Ishvar would stay on as Ashraf’s assistant, and Narayan would return to test the waters. This suited all sides: Muzaffar Tailoring Company would just barely support one assistant; Dukhi would have the help of wages sent from town; and Roopa would have her younger son back.
She took down the parcel that had hung from the ceiling for seven years. The string knots had shrunk and could not be untied. She cut the string, unwrapped the protective sackcloth, then washed the vest and choli. It was time to wear them again, she told Dukhi, to celebrate the homecoming.
“It hangs a little loose,” he said.
“Mine, too,” said Roopa. “The fabric must have stretched.”
He liked her explanation. It was easier than contemplating the lean years that had shrunk them both.
In the village, the Chamaar community was quietly proud of Narayan. Gradually, they found the courage to become his customers, though there was not much money in it for Narayan because they could rarely afford to have something new tailored. Garments thrown away by the upper castes clothed their bodies. Mostly, he altered or mended. He used an old hand-cranked sewing-machine that Ashraf had procured for him. It was restricted to a straight lock stitch, but sufficed for the work he did.
Business improved when word spread to neighbouring villages of the one who had done the unthinkable: abandoned leather for cloth. They came as much to see this courageous Chamaar-tailor, this contradiction in terms, as to get their clothes looked after. Many were a little disappointed with their visit. Inside the hut was nothing extraordinary, just a young man with a tape measure around his neck and a pencil behind one ear.
Narayan maintained a record of jobs and transactions as Ashraf had taught him, noting names, dates, and amounts owing. Roopa appointed herself to manage the business, standing around importantly while he measured the client and entered the figures in his book. She kept his pencils sharp with her paring knife. She could not read his register but retained an accurate account in her head. When someone who had yet to settle the balance from a previous job came with more work, she stood behind the client and rubbed her thumb and finger together to remind her son.
One morning, about six months after Narayan’s return to the village, a Bhunghi ventured towards the hut. Roopa was heating water over a fire outside, happily listening to the muffled clank of the sewing-machine, when she saw the fellow approach cautiously. “And where do you think you’re going?” she yelled, stopping him in his tracks.
“I am looking for Narayan the tailor,” said the man, timidly holding up some rags.
“What?!” His audacity flabbergasted her. “Don’t give me your tailor-failor nonsense! I’ll bathe your filthy skin with this boiling water! My son does not sew for your kind!”
“Ma! What are you doing?” shouted Narayan, emerging from the hut as the man bolted. “Wait, wait!” he yelled after the fellow. Terrified that retribution was in pursuit, the Bhunghi ran faster.
“Come back, bhai, it’s all right!”
“Another time,” called the frightened man. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Okay, I’11 wait for you,” said Narayan. “Please come for sure.” He returned to the hut, shaking his head and ignoring his mother who glared furiously at him.
“Dont you shake your head at me!” she said indignantly. “What-all nonsense is this, calling him back tomorrow? We are not going to deal with such low-caste people! How can you even think of measuring someone who carts the shit from people’s houses?”
Narayan was silent. After working for a few minutes, he went outside to the fire, where she was still stirring her vigorous rage into the pot.
“I think, Ma, that you are wrong,” he said, keeping his voice so soft that it was almost lost in the crackling fire. “I think I should sew for anybody who comes to me, Brahmin or Bhunghi.”
“You do, do you? Wait till your father comes home, see what he says about it! Brahmin yes, Bhunghi no!”