That evening Roopa told Dukhi about their son’s outrageous ideas, and he turned to Narayan. “I think your mother is right.”
Narayan dropped his hand from the crank and braked the fly wheel. “Why did you send me to learn tailoring?”
“That’s a stupid question. To improve your life — why else?”
“Yes. Because the uppers treat us so badly. And now you are behaving just like them. If that’s what you want, then I am going back to town. I cannot live like this anymore.”
Roopa was stunned by the ultimatum, and horrified when Dukhi turned to her and said, “I think he is right.”
“Father-of-Ishvar, make up your mind! First you say I am right, then you say he is right! From side to side you sway, like a pot without an arse! And this is what comes from sending him to town! Forgetting our village ways! It will only lead to trouble!” Boiling and bubbling, she left the hut, calling Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri to come and hear what-all crazy things were happening in her unfortunate household.
“Toba, toba!” said Savitri. “Poor Roopa, so upset she is shaking.”
“Children — Hai Ram,” said Pyari, throwing up her hands. “How easily they forget about a mother’s feelings.”
“What to do,” said Amba. “We feed them milk from our breast when they are babies, but we cannot feed them good sense.”
“Be patient,” said Padma. “Everything will be all right.”
After bathing in their sympathy, Roopa was calmer. The thought of losing her son a second time made her think carefully. She forgave him his lunatic proposals and agreed to turn a blind eye to them on the basis of a compromise: she would reserve the right to control entry into her hut; some customers would have to conduct their transactions outside.
Two years later Narayan could afford to build his own hut, next to his parents’. Roopa wept that he was abandoning them. “Again and again he breaks his mother’s heart,” she complained. “How will I look after him and his business? Why must he separate?”
“But Ma, it’s only thirty feet away,” said Narayan. “You are welcome there any time to sharpen my pencils.”
“Sharpen pencils, he says! As if that’s all I do for him!”
Eventually, though, she got accustomed to the idea and made it a point of pride, speaking of the other hut to her friends as her son’s factory. He bought a large worktable, a clothes stand, and a new foot-operated sewing-machine which could do straight and zigzag stitches.
For this last purchase he went to take Ashraf Chacha’s advice. The little town had grown since his departure, and Muzaffar Tailoring Company was doing well. Ishvar had rented a room near the shop. From assistant, Ashraf had elevated him to partner. The brothers agreed that their father need not work anymore, between them they would provide for their parents.
“You are such good boys,” said Dukhi, when Narayan told him of the decision. “We are truly blessed by God.”
Roopa fetched the vest and choli made long ago by their children, and faded by now. “Remember these?”
“I didn’t know you still had them.”
“The day you and Ishvar brought these for us, you were so young, both of you,” she said, starting to cry. “But even then I knew, in my heart, that everything would be all right in the end.” She went to announce the good tidings to her friends, who hugged her and teased her that she would soon become rich and not have anything to do with them.
“But one thing is certain,” said Padma. “Time for marriage has come close.”
“You must start looking for two suitable daughters-in-law,” said Savitri.
“Don’t delay any longer,” said Pyari.
“We will help you with everything, don’t worry,” said Amba.
The happy news spread within their community, and outside it. Among the upper castes, there was still anger and resentment because of what a Chamaar had accomplished. One man in particular, Thakur Dharamsi — who always took charge of the district polls at election time, delivering votes to the political party of his choice — taunted the tailor periodically.
“There is a dead cow waiting for you,” he notified Narayan through a servant. Narayan merely passed on the message to other Chamaars, who were happy to have the carcass. Another time, when a goat perished in one of the drains on Thakur Dharamsi’s property, he sent for Narayan to unclog it. Narayan politely sent his reply that he was grateful for the offer but was no longer in this line of work.
Among the Chamaars in the village, he was now looked upon as the spokesman for their caste, their unelected leader. Dukhi wore his son’s success modestly, out of sight, indulging himself only sometimes, when he sat smoking with his friends under the tree by the river. Slowly, his son was becoming more prosperous than many upper-caste villagers. Narayan paid to have a new well dug in the untouchable section of the village. He leased the land on which the two huts stood, and replaced them with a pukka house, one of only seven in the village. It was large enough to accommodate his parents and his business. And, thought Roopa fondly, a wife and children before long.
Dukhi and she would have preferred the older son’s marrying first. But when they offered to find him a wife, Ishvar made it clear he was not interested. By now, Roopa had learned that trying to make her sons do what they did not want to do was a futile endeavour. “Learning big-town ways,” she grumbled, “forgetting our old ways,” and left it at that, turning her attention to Narayan.
They made inquiries, and a suitable girl was recommended in another village. A showing-day was fixed, when the boy’s family would call on the girl’s family. Roopa made certain that Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri were included in plans for the visit — they were like family, she said. Ishvar chose not to go, but arranged a twenty-seven-seater Leyland to transport the bride-viewing party.
The battered little bus arrived in the village at nine in the morning, and stopped in a cloud of dust. The opportunity for a bus ride attracted volunteers for the auspicious event, many more than could be accommodated in that modest conveyance.
“Narayan is like a son to me,” said one. “It’s my duty to come. How can I let him down at this most important time?”
“I will not be able to hold my head up if you don’t take me,” pleaded another, refusing to take no for an answer. “Please don’t leave me behind.”
“I have attended every single bride-showing in our community,” bragged a third. “You need my expertise.”
Many took their going for granted, and climbed aboard without bothering to check with Dukhi or Roopa. When the excursion was ready to commence an hour later, there were thirty-eight people crammed inside, and a dozen sitting cross-legged on the roof. The driver, who had witnessed nasty accidents with low branches along rural roads, refused to proceed. “Get down from the top! Down, everybody, down!” he yelled at the ones settled serenely in lotus positions. So the dozen from the roof had to be left behind, and the bus set off at a sensible crawl.
They reached their destination two and a half hours later. The girl’s parents were impressed by the bus and the size of the visiting delegation, as was the entire village. The thirty-eight visitors stood around uncertainly. There was not room for everyone inside the dwelling. After much agonizing, Dukhi selected a group of seven, including his best friends, Chhotu and Dayaram. Padma and Savitri also made it in, but Amba and Pyari had to wait outside with the unlucky thirty-one, watching the proceedings through the doorway.
Inside, the inner circle had tea with the parents and described the journey. “Such fine scenery we saw along the way,” said Dukhi to the girl’s father.
“Once, all of a sudden, the bus made a big noise and stopped,” said Chhotu. “It took a while to start again. We were worried about being late.”