Then came the night of noises that were strangers on the street. Police jeeps and a truck roared down the road and parked across from the chemist’s. Sergeant Kesar barked short, sharp instructions to his men; the constables’ sticks thudded hollowly on cardboard boxes sheltering sleepers along the pavement; heavy steps in regulation footwear pounded the footpath.
The noises, like menacing interlopers, barged their way into the tailors’ slumber. Ishvar and Om awoke trembling as though from a bad dream, and crouched fearfully behind the nightwatchman. “What’s happening? What do you see?” they asked him.
He peered around the entrance. “Looks like they are waking all the beggars. They are beating them, pushing them into a truck.”
The tailors shook off their sleep and saw for themselves. “That really is Sergeant Kesar,” said Om, rubbing his eyes. “I thought I was dreaming about our jhopadpatti again.”
“And that other chap, the one next to Sergeant Kesar — he also seems familiar,” said Ishvar.
The small, clerkish-looking man was hopping along like a rabbit, sniffling with a heavy cold. He periodically snorted back the mucus and gulped it. Om edged forward. “It’s that fellow who wanted to sell us a ration card for two hundred rupees — the Facilitator.”
“You’re right. And he is still coughing and sneezing. Come on back, better stay hidden, it’s safer.”
The Facilitator was making notes on a clipboard, keeping count as the truck was loaded. “Wait a second, Sergeant,” he protested. “Look at that one — completely crippled. Leave her out, no.”
“You do your work,” said Sergeant Kesar, “I’ll do mine. And if you have extra time, look after your spectacles.”
“Thank you,” said the Facilitator, his hand shooting up to halt the slide of his glasses. On the way down, the fingers collected the pearl dangling at his nose. It was a smooth combination of gestures. “But please listen to me, no,” he sniffed. “This beggar is useless in her condition.”
“Actually speaking, that’s not my concern. I have to follow orders.” Tonight, Sergeant Kesar had decided he was going to tolerate no nonsense, his job was getting harder by the day. Gathering crowds for political rallies wasn’t bad. Rounding up MISA suspects was also okay. But demolishing hutment colonies, vendors’ stalls, jhopadpattis was playing havoc with his peace of mind. And prior to his superiors formulating this progressive new strategy for the beggary problem, he had had to dump pavement-dwellers in waste land outside the city. He used to return miserable from those assignments, get drunk, abuse his wife, beat his children. Now that his conscience was recuperating, he was not about to let this nose-dripping idiot complicate matters.
“But what good is she to me?” objected the Facilitator. “What kind of labourer will such a cripple be?”
“With you it’s always the same complaint,” said Sergeant Kesar, sticking his thumbs in the black leather belt that followed the generous curve below his belly. He was a fan of cowboy films and Clint Eastwood. “Don’t forget, they will all work for free.”
“Hardly free, Sergeant. You’re charging enough per head.”
“If you don’t want them, others will. Actually speaking, I am sick and tired of listening to your moaning every night. I cannot pick and choose healthy specimens for you — this isn’t a cattle market. My orders are to clear the streets. So you want them or not?”
“Yes, okay. But at least tell your men to hit carefully, not to make them bleed. Or it becomes very difficult for me to find places for them.”
“Now there I agree with you,” said Sergeant Kesar. “But you don’t need to worry, my constables are well trained. They know the importance of inflicting hidden injuries only.”
The sweep continued, the policemen performing their task efficiently, prodding, poking, kicking. No obstacle slowed them down, not shrieks nor wails nor the comical threats of drunks and lunatics.
The policemen’s detached manner reminded Ishvar of the streetsweeper who came for the garbage at five a.m. “Oh no,” he shuddered, as the team reached the street corner. “They’re after the poor little fellow on wheels.”
The legless beggar made a break for it. Pushing the ground with his palms, he propelled the platform forward. The policemen were amused and cheered him on, wanting to see how fast his castors could go. The escape attempt ran out of energy outside the chemist’s. Two constables carried him to the truck, platform and all.
“Just look at this one!” cried the agitated Facilitator. “No fingers, no feet, no legs — a great worker he will be!”
“You can do what you like with him,” said one constable.
“Let him out beyond the city limits if you don’t need him,” said the other. A slight push, and the platform rolled till it came to rest at the front end of the truck bed.
“What are you saying, how can I do that? I have to account for all of them,” said the Facilitator. Remembering Sergeant Kesar’s ultimatum, he looked over his shoulder cautiously, biting the cap of his ballpoint — had he heard? To make up, he voiced agreement for a change. “Those blind ones are fine. Blindness is no problem, they can do things with their hands. Children also, many little jobs for them.”
The constables ignored him as they pursued their quarry. Once the initial panic had subsided, the beggars went meekly. Most of them had endured such roundups outside businesses or residences that persuaded the police, with a little baksheesh, to remove the eyesores. Sometimes the policemen themselves stationed the beggars there, then eagerly awaited the lucrative removal request.
Lined up by the truck, the pavement-dwellers were counted off and asked to give their names, which the Facilitator noted on his clipboard along with sex, age, and physical condition. One old man remained silent, his name locked away in his head, the key misplaced. A policeman slapped him and asked again. The grizzled head rolled from side to side with each blow.
His friends tried to help, calling out the various names they used for him. “Burfi! Bevda! Four-Twenty!” The Facilitator selected Burfi, and entered it on the roster. For the age column he used a rough estimate by appearance.
The drunks and the mentally disturbed were a little more difficult to deal with, refusing to move, screaming abuse, most of it incoherent, and making the police laugh. Then one drunk began swinging his fists wildly. “Rabid dogs!” he shouted. “Born of diseased whores!” The constables stopped laughing and set on him with their sticks; when he fell, they used their feet.
“Stop, please stop!” beseeched the Facilitator. “How will he work if you break his bones?”
“Don’t worry, these fellows are tough. Our sticks will break, they won’t.” The unconscious drunk was thrown into the truck. On the pavement, discussion was adjourned with truncheons in the kidneys and, in extremely voluble cases, a crack on the skull.
“These are not hidden injuries!” the Facilitator protested to Sergeant Kesar. “Look at all that blood!”
“Sometimes it’s necessary,” said Sergeant Kesar, but he did remind his men to curb their zeal or it would stretch out the night’s work by involving doctors and bandages and medical reports.
Still concealed within the chemist’s entrance, the tailors wondered what was happening now. “Are they leaving? They finished?”
“Looks like it,” said the nightwatchman, and the sound of engines starting confirmed it. “Good, you can go to sleep again.”
Sergeant Kesar and the Facilitator checked the roster. “Ninety-four,” said the latter. “Need two more to complete the quota.”