“That’s okay, I’ll pay.”
Om searched Maneck’s face while drawing on the beedi, trying to decide if he meant it. “No, I can’t let you do that.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
“I’ll ask my uncle.” His beedi went out and he reached for the matches. “You know, there’s a girl who lives near our house. Her breasts look like that.”
“Impossible.”
The outright dismissal made Om study the poster again. “Maybe you’re right,” he yielded. “Not exactly that big. They always paint them gigantic. But this girl has a solid pair, same beautiful shape as that. Sometimes she lets me touch them.”
“Go, yaar, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I swear she does. Her name is Shanti. She opens her blouse and lets me squeeze them whenever I like,” he said, giving his imagination free rein. Seeing Maneck laugh and slap his knee, he inquired innocently, “You mean you’ve never done that to a girl?”
“Of course I have,” Maneck answered hastily. “But you said you live with your uncle in a small house. How would you get the chance?”
“Easy. There is a ditch at the side of the colony, and lots of bushes behind it. We go there after dark. But for a few minutes only. If she’s away longer, someone would come looking for her.” He puffed airily at the beedi as he fabricated explorations that involved Shanti’s hair and limbs, and complicated excursions into her skirt and blouse.
“Good thing you’re a tailor,” said Maneck. “You know all the ins and outs of clothing.”
But Om continued undiscouraged, stopping short only of the final foray. “Once, I was on top of her, and we almost did it. Then there was a noise in the bushes so she got scared.” He drained his saucer and poured more from the cup. “What about you? Ever done it?”
“Almost. On a railway train.”
It was Om’s turn to laugh. “You’re a champion fakeologist, for sure. On a train!”
“No, really. A few months ago, when I left home to come to college.” Catalysed by Om’s fantasies, Maneck’s inventiveness took the field at a gallop. “There was a woman in the upper berth opposite mine, very beautiful.”
“More beautiful than Dinabai?”
The question made him pause. He had to think for a moment. “No,” he said loyally. “But the minute I got on the train, she kept staring at me, smiling when no one was watching. The problem was, her father was travelling with her. Finally night came, and people began going to sleep. She and I kept awake. When everyone had fallen asleep, including her father, she pushed aside the sheet and pulled one breast out from her choli.”
“Then what?” asked Om, happy to enjoy the imaginary fruits.
“She began massaging her breast, and signalled for me to come over. I was scared to climb down from my berth. Someone could wake up, you know. But then she put her hand between her legs and began rubbing herself. So I decided I had to go to her.”
“Of course. You’d be a fool not to,” Om breathed hard.
“I got down without disturbing anyone, and in a second I was stroking her breast. She grabbed my hand, begging me to climb in with her. I wondered what was the best way to get up there. I didn’t want to jolt her father’s berth underneath. Suddenly there was a movement. He turned over, groaning. She was so frightened that she pushed me away and started snoring loudly. I pretended I was on my way to the bathroom.”
“If only the bastard had kept sleeping.”
“I know. It’s so sad. I’ll never meet that woman again.” Maneck felt suddenly desolate, as though the loss was real. “You’re lucky Shanti lives near you.”
“You can see her one day,” said Om generously. “When you visit me and Ishvar. But you won’t be able to talk to her, just look at her from far. She’s very shy, and meets me secretly, as I said.”
They gulped their tea and ran all the way back, for they had exceeded the time.
Batata wada, bhel puri, pakora, bhajia, sherbet — Maneck paid for all the snacks and drinks at the Vishram because Om got just enough from Ishvar for one cup of tea. The allowance from Maneck’s parents was sufficient for the treats, since he no longer needed to supplement canteen food. The following week he kept his word and took Om to see Revolver Rani after the day’s sewing was done. He offered to pay for Ishvar too, who refused, saying his time would be better spent finishing one more dress.
“How about you, Aunty? Want to come?”
“I wouldn’t see such rubbish if you paid me,” said Dina. “And if your money weighs too much in your pocket, let me know. I can tell your mummy to stop sending it.”
“Bilkool correct,” said Ishvar. “You young people don’t understand the value of money.”
Undeterred by the reproaches, they set off for the cinema. She reminded Maneck to come straight home after the film, his dinner would be waiting. He agreed, grumbling to himself that Dina Aunty was taking her self-appointed role of guardian too seriously.
“The old woman’s prophecy came true,” said Om, as they started towards the train station. “Half of it, anyway — Monkey-man finally took his revenge.”
“What did he do?”
“A terrible thing. It happened last night.” Tikka had been back living with Monkey-man, and his neighbours assumed the two were friends again. But after the hutment dwellers had gone to sleep, Monkey-man put a wooden crate outside his shack and adorned it with flowers and an oil lamp. A photograph of Laila and Majnoo riding on Tikka’s back was propped up in the centre. It was a Polaroid shot taken long ago by an American tourist charmed by the act. The altar was ready. Monkey-man led Tikka before it, made the dog lie down, and slit his throat. Then he went around letting people know he had fulfilled his duty.
“It was horrible,” said Om. “We got there and saw poor Tikka floating in his blood. He was still twitching a little. I almost vomited.”
“If my father was there, he would have killed Monkey-man,” said Maneck.
“Are you boasting or complaining?”
“Both, I guess.” He kicked a stone from the footpath into the road. “My father cares more about stray dogs than his own son.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, yaar.”
“Why rubbish? Look, he feeds the dogs every day on the porch. But me he sent away. All the time I was there, he kept fighting with me, didn’t want me around.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, your father sent you here to study because he cares for your future.”
“You’re an expert on fathers or what?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you?”
“Because my father is dead. That quickly makes you an expert. You better believe me — stop talking rubbish about your father.”
“Okay, my father is a saint. But what happened to Monkey-man?”
“People in the colony were angry, they said we should tell the police, because ever since the monkeys died, Monkey-man has two small children living with him, three-four years old. They are his sister’s son and daughter, training for his new act. And if he went mad, it would be dangerous for the children. But then others in the colony said there was no point putting crooks in charge of the insane. Anyway, Monkey-man loves the children. He has been taking very good care of them.”
They alighted from the train, pushing their way through the crowd waiting to climb on. Outside the platform, a woman sat in the sun with a small basket of vegetables beside her. She was drying her laundered sari, one half at a time. One end was wound wet round her waist and over her shrunken breasts, as far as it would go. The drying half was stretched along the railway fence, flowing from her body like a prayer in the evening sun. She waved to Om as the two passed by.
“She lives in our colony,” he said, weaving through the traffic to cross the lane towards the cinema. “She sells vegetables. She has only one sari.”