“But he was so mean to us.”
“Still — he might help us find a house, like he did last time.”
“Yes, it’s worth trying,” said Rajaram. “And I’ll check what happens here. Who knows, some other gang boss might be planning to build new shacks.”
They agreed to meet next evening and exchange information. “Can you do me a favour in the meantime?” asked Rajaram. “Keep these few plaits for me? They are very light. I have nowhere for them.”
Ishvar agreed, and put them in the trunk.
There were strangers living in Nawaz’s house. The man who answered the door claimed to know nothing about him.
“It’s very urgent for us to find Nawazbhai,” said Ishvar. “Maybe your landlord has some information. Can you give me his name and address?”
“It’s none of your business.” Someone shouted from inside, “Stop pestering us so late at night!”
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Ishvar, rehoisting the bedding bundle and retreating down the steps.
“Now what?” panted Om, his face showing the weight of the trunk.
“Your breath has leaked out already?”
He nodded. “Like a broken balloon.”
“Okay, let’s have tea.” They went to the stall at the corner, the one they had frequented during their months on the back porch. The owner remembered them as friends of Nawaz.
“Haven’t seen you for some time,” he said. “Any news of Nawaz since the police took him?”
“Police? For what?”
“Smuggling gold from the Gulf.”
“Really? Was he?”
“Of course not. He was just a tailor, like you.” But Nawaz had quarrelled with somebody whose daughter was getting married. The man, well-connected, had given him a large assignment — wedding clothes for the entire family. After the wedding he refused to pay, claiming that the clothes fit badly. Nawaz kept asking for his money to no avail, then found out where the man’s office was. He showed up there, to embarrass him among his colleagues. “And that was a big mistake. The bastard took his revenge. That same night the police came for Nawaz.”
“Just like that? How can they put an innocent man in jail? The other fellow is the crook.”
“With the Emergency, everything is upside-down. Black can be made white, day turned into night. With the right influence and a little cash, sending people to jail is very easy. There’s even a new law called MISA to simplify the whole procedure.”
“What’s MISA?”
“Maintenance of… something, and Security… something, I’m not sure.”
The tailors finished the tea and departed with their loads. “Poor Nawaz,” said Ishvar. “Wonder if he was really up to something crooked.”
“Must have,” said Om. “They don’t send people to jail for nothing. I never liked him. But now what?”
“Maybe we can sleep at the railway station.”
The platform was thick with beggars and itinerants bedding down for the night. The tailors picked a corner and cleaned it, whisking away the dust with a newspaper.
“Oiee, careful! It’s coming in my face!” screamed someone.
“Sorry bhai,” said Ishvar, abandoning the sweeping. The urge to talk about tomorrow dawning homeless, about what to do next, was strong, but each wanted the other to broach the subject. “Hungry?” he asked.
“No.”
Ishvar wandered down anyway to the railway snack shop. He bought a spicy mix of fried onions, potatoes, peas, chillies, and coriander, stuffed into two small buns. Carrying it back to Om, a little guilt accompanied his passage through the gauntlet of hungry eyes ranged along the platform. “Pao-bhaji. One for you and one for me.”
The glossy magazine page the bun was served on felt soggy. Little circles of warm grease were starting to appear. Om ate hungrily, finishing first, and Ishvar slowed down to save him a piece of his. “I’m full, you have it.”
They took turns visiting the drinking fountain; the trunk and bedding needed guarding. After this, no further distractions were available. “Maybe Rajaram will have good news tomorrow evening,” Om started tentatively.
“Yes, who knows. We could even build something ourselves, once the tamasha dies down. With plywood and sticks and plastic sheets. Rajaram is a smart fellow, he will know what to do. The three of us could live together in one big hut.”
They visited the wasteland beyond the station to urinate, and had another drink of water before untying the bedding. The frequency of trains diminished as the night deepened. They lay down with their feet resting protectively on the trunk.
After midnight, they were awakened by a railway policeman kicking at the trunk. He said sleeping on the platform was prohibited.
“We are waiting for the train,” said Ishvar.
“This is not that kind of station. No waiting room. Come back in the morning.”
“But these other people are sleeping.”
“They have special permission.” The policeman jingled the coins in his pocket.
“Okay, we won’t sleep on the platform, we will just sit.”
The policeman left, shrugging. They sat up and rolled away the bedding.
“Ssst,” called a woman lying next to them. “Ssst. You have to pay him.” The plastic sheet she lay upon rustled loudly at her slightest movement. Her feet were wrapped in bandages blotched by a dark-yellow ooze.
“Pay him for what? It’s not his father’s platform.”
She smiled, cracking the grime on her face. “Cinema, cinema!” She pointed excitedly at the film posters lining the platform wall. “One rupee per beggar. Fifty paise for child. Cinema every night.”
Ishvar secretly raised a hand to his forehead and gave the loose-screw sign, but Om insisted on explaining. “We’re not beggars, we’re tailors. And what will he do if we don’t pay? Can’t take us to jail for it.”
The woman turned on her side, observing them closely, silent except for the random giggling. A half-hour passed, and there was no sign of the policeman.
“I think it’s safe now,” said Om. He unrolled the bedding and they lay down again. She was still watching them amusedly. A faint smell of rot came from her bandaged feet.
“Are you going to look at us all night?” said Om. She shook her head but kept staring. Ishvar quietened his nephew, and they closed their eyes.
Within minutes of their dozing off, the policeman returned with a bucket of cold water and emptied it over the sleeping tailors. They howled and jumped off their bedding. The policeman walked away wordlessly, giving his empty bucket a jaunty swing. The woman on the plastic sheet was shaking with laughter.
“Animal from somewhere!” hissed Om, and Ishvar shushed him. He need not have bothered; the woman’s hysterical laughter drowned the words. She slapped her hands with delight on the plastic sheet, making it flap.
“Cinema! Cinema! Johnnie Walker comedy!” she managed to get out between laughs.
“She knew! The crazy witch knew and didn’t tell us, yaar!”
Thoroughly soaked, they picked up everything and moved to the only remaining spot, at the end of the platform, where the urine smell was strong. The dry clothes in the trunk were a precious treasure. They took turns changing. Their wet things were spread out on the trunk’s open lid. The sheets and blanket were hung on a broken sign fixture protruding from the platform wall.
The wicker mat dried quickly but they were afraid to lie down. Shivering, they sat guarding their belongings, swaying with sleep, nodding off occasionally. Due to the drenching, they needed to visit the wasteland several times. After the station was asleep, walking down to the tracks was not necessary. They emptied their bladders off the edge of the platform.
The railway snack shop crashed open its steel shutters at four a.m. Cups and saucers started clinking, pots and pans banged. Ishvar and Om gargled at the drinking fountain, then bought two teas and a loaf of crusty bread. The hot liquid cleared their sleep-logged heads. The plan for the day began falling into place: at a suitable hour they would take the train to work, sew till six as usual, then return to meet Rajaram.