Revolver Rani ended later than they had expected. While the credits rolled, they began inching down the aisles, lingering, not wanting to miss the reprise of the soundtrack. Then the fluttering national flag appeared on the screen, “Jana Gana Mana” started to play, and there was a rush for the exits.
But the outward-bound audience ran into an obstacle. A squad of Shiv Sena volunteers guarding the doors blocked their way. People at the back, unaware of the reason for the bottleneck, began shouting. “Side please! Aray bhai, side please! Move on, mister! Filmshow finished!”
The crowd in the front couldn’t go forward, however, threatened by the Shiv Sena’s waving sticks and an assortment of signs: RESPECT THE NATIONAL ANTHEM! YOUR MOTHERLAND NEEDS YOU DURING THE EMERGENCY! PATRIOTISM is A SCARED DUTY! No one was allowed to leave till the flag faded on the screen and the lights came on.
“Why is patriotism a scared duty?” laughed Om. “They need to frighten people to be patriotic?”
“These idiots can’t even spell sacred, and they are telling us what to do,” said Maneck.
Om observed that the protesters were about fifty in all, whereas the audience was over eight hundred strong. “We could have easily overpowered them. Dhishoom! Dhishoom! Like that fellow in the film,” he said, clenching his fists before his chest.
In high spirits, they began repeating some of the more dramatic lines they remembered from Revolver Rani. “Blood can only be avenged by blood!” growled Maneck, with a swordfighting flourish.
“Standing on this consecrated earth, I swear with the sky as my witness that you will not see another dawn!” proclaimed Om.
“That’s because I wake up late every day, yaar,” said Maneck. The sudden departure from the script made Om lose his pose with laughing.
Outside the railway station, the woman was still sitting with her vegetable basket. The dry half of the sari was now wrapped around her, with the wet stretch taking its turn along the fence. The basket was almost empty. “Amma, time to go home,” said Om, and she smiled.
On the station platform, they decided to try the machine that said Weight amp; Fortune 25p. Maneck went first. The red and white wheel spun, lightbulbs flashed, there was a chime, and a little cardboard rectangle slid out into the curved receptacle.
“Sixty-one kilos,” said Maneck, and read the fortune on the reverse. “ ‘A happy reunion awaits you in the near future.’ That sounds right — I’ll be going home when this college year is finished.”
“Or it means you will meet that woman on the train again. You can finish her breast massage. Come on, my turn.” He climbed on, and Maneck fished in his pocket for another twenty-five-paise coin.
“Forty-six kilos,” said Om, and turned it over. “ ‘You will soon be visiting many new and exciting places.’ That doesn’t make sense. Going back to our village — that’s not a new place.”
“I think it means the places in Shanti’s blouse and skirt.”
Om struck a stance and raised his hand, reverting to the film dialogue. “Until these fingers are wrapped around your neck, squeezing out your wretched life, there shall be no rest for me!”
“Not when you weigh only forty-six kilos,” said Maneck. “You will have to first practise on a chicken’s neck.”
The train arrived, and they ran from the ticket window to get on. “These train tickets look exactly like the weight cards,” said Om.
“I could have saved the fare,” said Maneck.
“No, it’s too risky. They’ve become very strict because of Emergency.” He described the time when Ishvar and he had been trapped in a raid on ticketless travellers.
The rush hour was over, and the compartment was sparsely occupied. They put up their feet on the empty seat. Maneck unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, flexing his toes. “We walked a lot today.”
“You shouldn’t wear those tight shoes, yaar. My chappals are much more comfortable.”
“My parents would get very upset if I went out in chappals.” He kneaded the toes and soles, then pulled up his socks and put on the shoes.
“I used to massage my father’s feet,” said Om. “And he would massage my grandfather’s feet.”
“Did you have to do it every day?”
“I didn’t have to, but it was a custom. We sat outside in the evenings, on the charpoy. There would be a cool breeze, and birds singing in the trees. I enjoyed doing it for my father. It pleased him so much.” They swayed slightly in their seats as the train rocked along. “There was a callus under the big toe of his right foot — from treadling his sewing-machine. When I was small, that callus used to make me laugh if he wiggled the toe, it looked like a man’s face.”
Om was silent for the rest of the way, gazing pensively out the window. Maneck tried to distract him by imitating the characters in Revolver Rani, but a weak smile was all he could get out of him, so he lapsed into silence as well.
“You should have come with us,” said Maneck. “It was fun. What thrilling fights.”
“No, thank you, I’ve seen enough fighting in my life,” said Ishvar. “But when are you visiting our house?” Maneck’s spending regularly on Om was creating too much obligation, he felt, it was time to reciprocate in some small way. “You must have dinner with us soon.”
“Sure, any time,” answered Maneck, reluctant to make a commitment. It would upset Dina Aunty — the cinema trip had been bad enough.
Fortunately, Ishvar did not press for a firm date right then. He put the cover over his Singer and left with Om.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself,” said Dina. “Going against my wishes, mixing more and more with him in spite of what I told you.”
“It was just one filmshow, Aunty. For the first time Om went to a big theatre. He was so thrilled.”
“I hope he is able to sew tomorrow, and you can concentrate on your studies. These films about fighting and killing can only have a bad effect on the brain. In the old days the cinema was so sweet. A little dancing and singing, some comedy, or a romance. Now it’s all just guns and knives.”
Next day, as though to vindicate Dina’s theory, Om joined the bodice of a size-seven dress to the skirt of a size eleven, squeezing the excess into the gather at the waist. The mistakes were repeated in three garments and not discovered till the afternoon.
“Leave everything else, fix this first,” said Dina, but he ignored her.
“It’s all right, Dinabai,” said Ishvar. “I will separate the seams and stitch them again.”
“No, he made the mistakes and he should correct them.”
“You do them,” scowled Om, scratching his scalp. “I have a headache. You gave me the wrong pieces so it’s your mistake.”
“Listen to him! Lying shamelessly! And take your fingers out of your hair before you get oil on the cloth! Scratch-scratch-scratch the whole day!”
The argument was still going when Maneck returned from college. The tailors did not break for tea. He went to his room and shut himself in, wishing they would stop. For the rest of the afternoon the squabble kept dribbling under his door, creating a pool of distress around him.
At six, Dina knocked and asked him to come out. “Those two have left. I need the company of a sane person.”
“Why were you fighting, Aunty?”
“I was fighting? How dare you! Do you know the whole story, to say who was fighting?”
“I’m sorry, Aunty. I meant, what was the fight about?”
“Same reason as always. Mistakes and shoddy work. But thank God for Ishvar. I don’t know what I would do without him. One angel and one devil. Trouble is, when the angel keeps company with the devil, neither can be trusted.”