“You could have let them stay at least tonight. They could have slept in my room.”
“That would be trouble with a capital t. One night is enough for the landlord to bring a case against me.”
“And what about the trunk? Why can’t you keep it for them?”
“What’s this, a police interrogation? You’ve lived such a sheltered life, you’ve no idea what kind of crookedness exists in a city like this. A trunk, a bag, or even a satchel with just two pyjamas and a shirt is the first step into a flat. Personal items stored on the premises — that’s the most common way of staking a claim. And the court system takes years to settle the case, years during which the crooks are allowed to stay in the flat. Now I’m not saying Ishvar and Om came tonight with this plan in their heads. But how can I take the risk? What if they get the idea later from some rascal? Any trouble with the landlord means I have to ask for Nusswan’s help. My brother is absolutely unbearable. He would crow and crow about it.”
Maneck looked out the window, trying to sort out the degree of Dina Aunty’s suspicion. He imagined the invasion of dirty laundry that she feared, the fabricated occupation force.
“Don’t worry so much about the tailors,” she said. “They’ll find somewhere to stay. People like them have relatives all over the place.”
“They don’t. They came just a few months ago from a faraway village.” He was pleased to see a trace of worry in slow migration across her face.
Then she was annoyed. “It’s amazing. Just amazing how much you know about them, isn’t it?”
They ignored each other for most of the evening, but while working on the quilt after dinner, she spread out the squares and tried to get him to talk. “Well, Maneck? How does it look now?”
“Looks terrible.” He was not ready to forgive her while the tailors remained unaccommodated in the night.
The sign read “Sagar Darshan — Ocean View Hotel.” The only sea in sight was the rectangle of blue painted on the weather-beaten board, with a little sailboat perched upon a wave.
Inside, a youth in a frayed white uniform sat on the floor by an umbrella stand, staring at pictures in Filmfare. He did not look up as the tailors came in. A grey-haired man, eating busily behind the counter, broke pieces from a loaf of bread and dipped them in quick succession into a series of four stainless steel saucers. “Thirty rupees per night,” he mumbled through an overloaded mouth, revealing a gold tooth in the process. Masticated fragments of his dinner flew past the moist lips onto the counter. He swept them to the floor, then polished away the smudge with his sleeved elbow.
“See? I told you, we cannot afford a hotel,” said Ishvar as they retreated.
“Let’s try another one.”
They checked place after place: Paradise Lodge, at twenty rupees a night, located over a bakery with a badly insulated ceiling, so that the searing heat of oven flames could be felt upstairs; Ram Nivas, the signboard stating that all castes were welcome, whose rooms reeked with a horrible stench, courtesy of a small chemical factory next door; Aram Hotel, where their luggage was almost stolen while they inquired, the would-be thief bolting as they retraced their steps down the hallway.
“Had enough?” said Ishvar, and Om nodded.
They lifted their loads and started towards the train station, pausing to inspect every doorway, awning, and façade that might offer shelter. But wherever shelter was possible, the place was already taken. To discourage pavement-dwellers, one shop had laid down in its entrance an iron framework covered with spikes, on hinges that could be unlocked and folded away in the morning. This bed of nails was being used by an enterprising individual — first, a rectangle of plywood over the spikes, and then his blanket.
“We will have to learn things like that,” said Ishvar, watching admiringly.
They passed the beggar on his platform, who greeted them with the usual rattle of his tin. Intent in their search, they didn’t acknowledge him. He gazed forlornly after them. There were a few empty places outside a furniture store that was still open. “We could try there,” said Om.
“Are you crazy? You want to get killed for taking someone’s spot? Have you forgotten what happened on the pavement near Nawaz’s shop?”
They passed the store that never closed, the twenty-four-hour chemist’s. The lights were going out in the main section as the sales clerks left. The dispensing side stayed bright, with a compounder on duty.
“Let’s wait here,” said Ishvar. “See what happens.”
Someone put a wooden stool outside, in the entrance way that was shared by the chemist’s and the antique shop next door. Steel shutters descended like eyelids on the two windows. Soaps, talcum powders, cough syrups on one side, and bronze Natarajas, Mughal miniatures, inlaid jewel boxes on the other, all vanished from view. The two managers locked up and handed over the keys to the nightwatchman.
The tailors waited till the nightwatchman loosened his belt, pulled off his shoes, and got comfortable on the wooden stool. Then they approached with their packet of beedis. “Matches?” asked Ishvar, making the striking gesture with his hand.
The nightwatchman stopped rubbing his calves to dig in his pocket. The tailors shared a match. They offered the beedis to the nightwatchman. He shook his head, producing a pack of Panama cigarettes. The three puffed silently for a while.
“So,” said Ishvar. “You sit here all night?”
“That’s my job.” He reached for the night stick that leaned against the door and tapped it twice. The tailors smiled, nodding.
“Anyone sleeps in this entrance?”
“No one.”
“Sometimes you must feel like taking a rest.”
The nightwatchman shook his head. “Not allowed. I have to watch two shops.” He leaned towards them and confided, pointing inside to the night compounder, “But he. He takes a rest. He takes a long sleep, inside, on a mat on the floor, every night. For that, the rascal gets paid, and much more than me.”
“We have no place to sleep,” said Ishvar. “The colony where we lived — it was destroyed by the government yesterday. With their machines.”
“That’s happening often these days,” said the nightwatchman. He continued his complaint about the compounder. “That fellow has very little work at night. Sometimes a customer comes for medicine. Then I unlock the door and wake the rascal to mix the prescription. But if he has been sleeping his mind is cloudy. He has trouble reading the labels.” He leaned closer again. “Once, he put wrong things in the medicine mixture. Customer died, and police came to investigate. Manager and police talked. Manager offered money, police took money, and everybody was happy.”
“Crooks, all of them,” said Ishvar, and they nodded in agreement. “Can you let us sleep here?”
“It’s not allowed.”
“We could pay you.”
“Even if you pay, where’s the space?”
“Space is enough. We can put our bedding near the door if you move your stool just two feet.”
“And what about other things? There is no storage place.”
“What things — just one trunk. We will take it with us in the morning.”
They shifted the stool and unrolled the bedding. It fit exactly. “How much can you pay?” asked the nightwatchman.
“Two rupees each night.”
“Four.”
“We are poor tailors. Take three, and we will do some free tailoring also for you. We can repair your uniform.” He pointed to the worn knees and fraying cuffs.
“Okay. But I’m warning you, sometimes the nights are very noisy here. If a customer comes for medicine you will have to move. Then don’t say I spoiled your sleep. No refund for spoiled sleep.” And if the night compounder should ask, they were to say two rupees, because the rascal would demand a cut from it.