Om wheeled the bicycle to the kerb. The handlebars were askew and the mudguards rattled more resolutely than before. He dusted off his pants, examining the black smears of grease on the cuffs.
“How much did he give you?” asked someone on the pavement.
“Fifty rupees.”
“You got up too fast,” said the man, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Never get up so fast. Always stay down and make some moaning-groaning noise. Cry for doctor, cry for ambulance, scream, shout, anything. In this type of case, you can pull at least two hundred rupees.” He spoke like a professional; his twisted elbow hung at his side like a qualification.
Om put the money in his pocket. He braced the front wheel between his knees and tugged at the handlebars till they were straight. He walked the bicycle down a side street, leaving the crowd to continue analysing his accident.
Returning to the flat was useless, the padlock would be on the door, hanging dark and heavy, like a bullock’s lost scrotum. He was also reluctant to turn in the bicycle early — a day’s rent had been paid in advance. He wished he had listened to his uncle in the morning. But the plan seemed so perfect when he had imagined the sequence of events, shining with success, like the sunlight gilding the handlebars. Imagination was a dangerous thing.
He mounted the bicycle where the traffic was less threatening, and took the seaward road. No longer quarry or pursuer, he could enjoy the ride now. The tinkling bell of the candy-floss man outside a school caught his ear. He stopped and squinted into the man’s neck-slung glass container, getting a hazy look at the pink, yellow, and blue cottony balls through the side that was cleanest.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five paise for one. Or try a lottery for fifty paise — win from one to ten balls.”
Om paid and dipped a hand into the brown-paper lottery bag. The chit he pulled out had a 2 scrawled on it.
“What colours?”
“One pink, one yellow.”
The man plopped off the round lid and reached inside. “Not that one, the one next to it,” directed Om.
The sweet fluff melted quickly in his mouth. Got the bigger pink ball for sure, he thought, pleased with himself as he separated a ten-rupee note from the crackling group of five. The man wiped his fingers on the neck-sling before taking it. Om pocketed the change and continued towards the sea.
At the beach he paused to read the chiselled name under a tall black stone statue. The plaque said he was a Guardian of Democracy. Om had studied about the man in his history class, in the story of the Freedom Struggle. The photo in the history book was nicer than the statue, he decided. Letting the bicycle lean against the pedestal, he rested in the statue’s shade. The sides of the pedestal were plastered with posters extolling the virtues of the Emergency. The obligatory Prime Ministerial visage was prominent. Small print explained why fundamental rights had been temporarily suspended.
He watched two men making juice at a sugar-cane stall in the sand. One fed the sticks to the crushing wheels while the other swung the handle. The latter was shirtless, his muscles rippling, skin shining with sweat as he heaved mightily at the machine. His job was harder, thought Om, and he hoped they took turns, or it would not be a fair partnership.
The frothing golden juice made Om’s mouth water. Despite the money in his pocket, he hesitated. Recently, he had heard stories in the bazaar about a cane stall that had pulped a gecko along with cane. An accident, they said — the thing was probably lurking about the innards of the machine, licking the sugary rods and gears, but many customers had been poisoned.
Liquid lizards kept swimming into Om’s thoughts, alternating with glassfuls of golden juice. Eventually the lizards won, squelching all desire for the drink. Instead, he bought a length of sugar cane, peeled and chopped into a dozen pieces. These he munched happily, chewing the juice out of them, one by one. He spat each husky mouthful in a tidy pile at the statue’s feet. His jaws tired quickly, but the ache was as satisfying as the sweetness.
The desiccated shreds attracted a curious gull. Next time he spat, he aimed for the bird. It dodged the missile and poked around in the macerated remnants, scattering the neat little hill before turning away disdainfully.
Om tossed it his last piece, unchewed. The gull’s interest was renewed. It investigated thoroughly, refusing to believe its beak was not up to tackling sugar cane.
A street urchin shooed away the gull and snatched the prize. She took it to the juice stall and washed off the sand in the bucket where the men were rinsing dirty glasses. Om felt drowsy watching her gnaw the chunk. He wished he could come here with the lovely shiny-haired girl. Shanti. He would buy bhel-puri and sugar cane for both of them. They would sit in the sand and watch the waves. Then the sun would set, the breeze would come up, they would snuggle together. They would sit with their arms around each other, and then, for sure…
Dreaming, he fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was still harsh, and shining in his eyes. An hour and a half of rental time remained on the bicycle, but he decided to turn it in anyway.
Ishvar was certain that his nephew had reached his goal, if the grinning insouciance with which he took his place at the Singer was any indication.
Dina, having returned hours ago, began scolding him. “Wasting time, that’s all it is. Were you taking a tour of the whole city? How far away is your doctor — at the southernmost tip of Lanka?”
“Yes, I was carried through the sky by Lord Hanuman,” he replied, wondering if she could have spied him on the bicycle.
“This fellow is getting very sharp.”
“Too sharp,” said Ishvar. “If he isn’t careful, he will cut himself again.”
“And how is the finger that was going to rot?” she inquired. “Has it fallen off yet?”
“It’s better. Doctor checked it.”
“Good. Do some work, then. Start pushing your feet, there are lots of new dresses.”
“Hahnji, right away.”
“My goodness. No more grumbling? Whatever medicine your doctor prescribed, it’s working. You should take a dose every morning.”
Unexpectedly, the last hour of the day, usually the most difficult, passed with banter and laughing. Why couldn’t it be like this every day, wished Dina. Before they left, she took advantage of their good mood to move part of the furniture from her bedroom into the sewing room.
“Are you rearranging the whole flat?” asked Ishvar.
“Just this room. I have to prepare for my guest.”
“Yes, the college boy,” said Om, remembering. They rolled up the mattress from the bed, carried in the frame and slats, then replaced the mattress. The Singers, stools, worktable were crammed closer together to make space. “When does he arrive?”
“Tomorrow night.”
She sat alone in the sewing room after they were gone, watching the floc and fibres float in the electric light. The heavily starched cloth from the Au Revoir mills mingled its cloying textile sweetness with the tailors’ scent of sweat and tobacco. She liked it while their bustle filled the room. But the smell was depressing during the empty evenings, when something acrid suspired from the bolts, stiffening the air, clouding it with thoughts of dingy factories, tubercular labourers, bleak lives. The emptiness of her own life appeared starkest at this hour.
“So. What’s the name of the company?” asked Ishvar.
“I don’t know.”
“The address?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why so pleased? Your cunning plan got you nothing.”
“Patience, patience,” he mimicked his uncle. “It got me something.” He flashed the money and narrated his afternoon’s adventures.