“Bilkool,” agreed the tailors to all his conditions. After another beedi, they took needles and thread out of the trunk and got to work. The nightwatchman sat in his underwear while they fixed his uniform.
“First class,” he said, slipping on his trousers.
The compliment gratified Ishvar, and he said they would be pleased to mend other things for him and his family. “We can do everything. Salwar-kameez, ghaghra-choli, baby-baba clothes.”
The nightwatchman shook his head sadly. “You are kind. But wife and children are living in my native place. I came here alone, looking for work.”
Later, as the tailors slept, he watched them from his wooden stool. When Omprakash twitched in his sleep, it reminded him of his children: those special nights with the family still together, and he present at his babies’ dreamings.
The street awoke early to rouse the tailors before dawn. In fact, the street never slumbered, explained the nightwatchman, only drowsed lightly between two a.m. and five a.m. — after the insomniac gambling and drinking ended, and before the newspapers, bread, and milk arrived. “But your sleep was beautiful,” he smiled proprietorially.
“It was two nights’ sleep poured into one,” said Ishvar.
“Look, the rascal is still snoring inside.” As they peered through the window, the compounder’s eyes opened suddenly. He scowled at the three faces flattened against the glass, turned over, and went back to sleep.
They smoked in the entranceway, observing the streetsweeper at work, collecting the previous night’s cigarette and beedi stubs. His broom made neat designs in the dust. Later, they rolled up the bedding, paid three rupees and departed with their loads, promising to be back in the evening.
Om’s left shoulder and arm were aching from the trunk, but he refused to let his uncle take it. “Use your right hand,” said Ishvar. “Give them both equal exercise, they will grow strong.”
“Then both will be useless. How will I sew?”
They stopped at the railway station and washed before proceeding to the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel for tea and a bun. “You didn’t come yesterday,” said the cashier-cum-waiter.
“We were busy — looking for a place to rent.”
“Now that is something you could spend your whole life searching for,” put in the cook from his corner, shouting over the roaring, blue-flamed stoves.
In the window Om noticed a large picture of the Prime Minister that hadn’t been there before, along with a poster of the Twenty-Point Programme. “You have a new customer or what?”
“That’s no customer,” said the cashier. “That’s the goddess of protection. Her blessing is a business necessity. Compulsory puja.”
“How do you mean?”
“Her presence keeps my windows from being smashed and my shop from being burned. You follow?”
The tailors nodded. They told the cashier and the cook about the Prime Minister’s meeting into which they had been dragooned. Their stories of the helicopter, the rose petals, the hot-air balloon, and the huge cutout had them laughing.
After the first night of sound sleep, the nightwatchman’s forecast about nocturnal disturbances proved accurate. He apologized each time he had to shake the tailors awake. In his system of beliefs, nothing was more despicable than depriving a fellow human being of either food or sleep. He helped move the bedding to unlock the door, comforting them as they stumbled around in the dark, Om’s drowsy head on one shoulder, Ishvar leaning heavily on the other.
They kept muttering while the customers waited for their medicine. “Why do all these people have to fall sick at night only?” grumbled Ishvar. “Why are they harassing us?”
“What a headache I have,” moaned Om.
The nightwatchman gently rubbed his brow. “Not long now. Only two minutes more, okay? Then you can sleep very, very peacefully. I promise, I won’t let any more customers disturb you.” But he had to break his promise over and over.
Later they learned about an outbreak of dysentery — bad milk had been sold in the neighbourhood. If the tailors had stayed around during the day, they would have discovered that illness was an impartial thief who struck in sunshine and darkness. Fifty-five adults and eighty-three children dead, the nightwatchman told them, having heard the official figure from the compounder, who explained that fortunately it was bacillary dysentery, and not the more serious amoebic variety.
Lugging the trunk and bedding, the tailors arrived at work ready to collapse, dark circles around their red-streaked eyes. Work fell further behind. Ishvar’s impeccable seams strayed often. Om with his stiff arm had trouble doing anything right. The Singers’ rhythms turned sour; the stitches were no longer articulated gracefully in long, elegant sentences but spat out fitfully, like phlegm from congested lungs.
Dina read the deterioration in their haggard faces. She feared for their health and the approaching delivery date — the two were joined like Siamese twins. The trunk’s weight hung heavy on her conscience.
That evening, the sight of Om straining to lift his load yanked her to the verge of saying the trunk could stay. Maneck watched her from the doorway, anxious to hear it. But the other fears made her leave the words unspoken.
“Wait, I’ll come with you,” said Maneck, hastening to the verandah. Om protested feebly, then surrendered the trunk to him.
Dina was relieved — and angry and hurt. Nice of him to help, she thought. But the way he did it. Walking out without a word, making her seem like a heartless person.
“Here it is, our new sleeping place,” said Om, and introduced the nightwatchman: “Our new landlord.”
The latter laughed, beckoning them into the entrance. They huddled together on the steps to smoke and watch the road. “Ah, what kind of landlord am I? I cannot even guarantee a good night’s sleep.”
“Not your fault,” said Om. “It’s all this sickness. And on top of that, I keep having bad dreams.”
“So do I,” said Ishvar. “The nights are full of noises and shapes and shadows. Too scary.”
“I am sitting here with my stick,” said the nightwatchman. “What’s there to be scared of?”
“It’s hard to give it a name,” said Ishvar, coughing and extinguishing his beedi.
“We should just go back to our village,” said Om. “I’m fed up of living like this, crawling from one trouble to another.”
“You prefer to run towards it?” Ishvar squeezed the tip of the beedi to make sure it was out, then reinserted it in the packet. “Patience, my nephew. When the time comes, we will go back.”
“If time were a bolt of cloth,” said Om, “I would cut out all the bad parts. Snip out the scary nights and stitch together the good parts, to make time bearable. Then I could wear it like a coat, always live happily.”
“I’d also like a coat like that,” said Maneck. “But which parts would you cut out?”
“The government destroying our house, for sure,” said Om. “And working for Dinabai.”
“Hoi-hoi,” cautioned Ishvar. “Without her, where would the money come from?”
“Okay, let’s keep the paydays and throw out the rest.”
“What else?” asked Maneck.
“Depends how far back you want to go.”
“All the way. Back to when you were born.”
“That’s too much, yaar. So many things to cut, the scissors would go blunt. And there would be very little cloth left.”
“How much nonsense you boys are talking,” said Ishvar. “Been smoking ganja or what?”
The evening sky darkened, summoning the streetlights. A torn black kite swooped down from the roof like an aggressive crow, startling them. Om grabbed it, saw that it was badly damaged, and let it go.