“We have work, we are tailors, and the policeman said to speak to you -
“My duty is to give you jobs and shelter. You say no, and the security men will take you away.”
“But why are we being punished? What is our crime?”
“You are using the wrong word. It’s not a question of crime and punishment — it’s problem and solution.” He beckoned to two khaki-uniformed men patrolling with sticks. “We have no trouble here, all the people are happy to work. Now you decide.”
“Okay,” said Ishvar. “But we would like to talk to the top man.”
“The project manager will come later. He is busy with his morning prayers.”
The foreman personally escorted the tailors to the worksite. He handed them over to their respective supervisors with instructions to watch them carefully, to make sure they worked without slacking. The beggar rolled alongside them on his platform. Where the path ended, the rough terrain was impossible for his castors. He turned back, waving to the tailors, promising to wait by their hut in the evening.
The hillside was alive with a flock of tiny crouching figures. At first the children seemed frozen by sunlight; then the sound of their hammers revealed the movement of their hands. Pounding rock, making gravel. Clumps of dead grass pocked the sere slope. The greening hand of rain had yet to touch this earth. Occasionally, a boulder got away and crashed somewhere below. In the distance, the rumbling of earth movers, cranes, and cement mixers rose like a wall upon which the steady ring of stone-chipping hammers carved a pattern. From the sky, the sledge of heat pounded relentlessly.
A woman filled Ishvar’s gravel basket and helped him hoist it to his head. The effort made her hands tremble, quivering the wrinkled skin pouches under her arms. He staggered beneath the weight. When she let go, he felt the load start to unbalance. He clawed the sides desperately, tilting his head the other way, but the falling basket fell, jerking his neck sharply.
“I have never done this kind of work,” he said, embarrassed by the heavy shower of gravel that stung their feet.
Wordlessly she slanted the basket against her shins and bent over to fill it again. Her skimpy grey plait slid forward over the shoulder. Wouldn’t be much use to Rajaram the hair-collector, thought Ishvar absently. With each pull of the hoe her plastic bangles made dull clinks. Soft echoes of the stone-hammering children. He watched her forearms glisten with sweat, the powerful back and forth movement. Then he noticed, behind him, others in the backed-up gravel chain. He knelt to assist her, anxious to make up for his clumsiness. He scooped gravel into the basket with his hands.
“Filling is my task, carrying is yours,” she said.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
“You don’t, but the overseer will.”
Ishvar desisted, and asked if she had done this work a long time.
“Since I was a child.”
“Pay is good?”
“Enough to keep from starving.” She showed him how to hold his head and shoulders to carry the weight, and they raised the load. He staggered again but managed to retain the basket.
“See, it’s easy once you learn to balance,” she encouraged, and pointed him on his way towards the men mixing concrete. Tottering, faltering several times, he reached his destination and dumped the gravel. Then it was back with the empty basket to the woman who filled it. Again, and again, and again.
A few trips, and the sweat was streaming down his face; the ground spun; he asked if he could go for a drink of water. The overseer refused. “The bhistee will come when it’s time for water.”
With the man watching, the woman filled the basket as slowly as she dared. Ishvar was grateful for the restful seconds she stole for him. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths.
“Pile it to the brim!” The overseer screamed. “You are not paid for filling half-baskets!” She pulled in four additional hoefuls. While lifting the load she tipped it slightly to get rid of the extra weight.
Ishvar stumbled back and forth, fighting dizziness as the morning ground him down. His mind was emptied of all thought. The blasting at the other end of the site sent dust clouds rolling through the gravel area, and women pulled their saris over their noses. He felt that were it not for the pounding hammers to guide him, he would lose his way in the fog. The feeling of sightlessness persisted even when the air cleared. Clinging to the rope of sound, he hovered between the gravel and the concrete mixers.
It seemed an age before the water-carrier arrived. The stone-breaking hammers fell silent. Ishvar heard the slurp of thirsty tongues before he saw the man. The swollen waterskin hung from the bhistee’s shoulder like a dark-brown animal, its leather strap cutting deep into him. His steps unsteady under the heavy bulge of water, the blind man passed among the labourers. Whoever was thirsty touched his hand to stop him. He sang softly, a song he had made up: O call to me and I
Will quench your thirst for water.
But who, on earth, can grant
My parched eyes’ desire?
Ishvar fell on his knees before the bhistee, positioned his mouth under the leather spout and drank. Then he moved his mouth, and cold water splashed over his grateful face. The overseer shouted, “Careful, don’t waste! That’s for drinking only!” Ishvar rose hurriedly and returned to his gravel basket.
By the time the bhistee reached the place where Om was working, the waterskin had grown lighter. So had the bhistee’s steps. The six ditch-diggers drank first, and then the women who were assigned to carry away the loosened earth. Their babies played near the ditch. The women scooped water in their palms to let the children slurp it.
Om wet his fingers and slicked back his hair. He pulled out his half-comb and whipped it through. “Aray, hero-ka-batcha!” yelled the overseer. “Get back to work!”
Om put away the comb, returning his ragged attention to the digging. He enjoyed the moment when the women bent over to gather up the rubble, their breasts hanging forward in their cholis. With the load on their heads, they repositioned their saris and walked away, tall and stately, their limbs flowing with liquid smoothness. Like Shanti at the tap, he thought, with the brass pot that made her hips sway.
As the hours strained to pass, the women were not enough to distract him from the torment of the work. Bent double at the ditch, the pickaxe unwieldy in hands accustomed to scissors and needle and thread, he struggled with the hard ground. The shame of seeming weak in the women’s eyes kept him going. Blisters which had flared within minutes of commencing the job were now in full eruption. He could barely straighten his back, and his shoulders were on fire.
One of the babies by the ditch started to cry. The mother dropped her basket and went to it. “Saali lazy woman,” said the overseer. “Get back to work.”
“But baby is crying.” She picked up the child. Its tears were tracing glistening paths down the dust-coated cheeks.
“It’s natural for babies to cry. They cry and then they stop. Don’t give me excuses.” He moved towards her as though to take it from her arms. She returned it gently to the rubble, to amuse itself.
When the whistle sounded for lunch, Om, like Ishvar, felt he was too exhausted to eat the watery mix of vegetables. But they knew they must, if they were to survive the rest of the day. They swallowed the food quickly and slipped into the shadow of their tin hut to rest a little.
The whistle ended the lunch break. Within minutes of returning to the site they started retching; a gush of vomit followed. Emptying their bellies took a fraction of the time spent in filling them. Fighting dizziness, they hunkered down, refusing to move. Close to the ground they felt safe.