A Fine Balance Part 36

The truck, recently used for construction work, had clods of clay stuck to its insides. Underfoot, stray gravel stabbed the human cargo. Some who were standing tumbled in a heap as the driver threw the gears into reverse to turn around and return the way he had come. The police jeep followed closely behind.

They travelled through what remained of the night, the b.u.mps and potholes making their bodies collide ceaselessly. The beggar on castors had the worst of it, shoved back each time he skidded into someone. He smiled nervously at the tailors. "I see you often on my pavement. You've given me many coins."

Ishvar moved his hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture. "Why don't you get off your gaadi?" he suggested, and with Om's help the beggar removed the platform from under him. His neighbours were relieved. Inert as a sack of cement, he clutched the board to his chest with his fingerless hands, then cradled it in his abbreviated lap, s.h.i.+vering in the warm night.

"Where are they taking us?" he yelled above the engine's roar. "I'm so scared! What's going to happen?"

"Don't worry, we'll soon find out," said Ishvar. "Where did you get this nice gaadi of yours?"

"My Beggarmaster gave it to me. Gift. He is such a kind man." Fear made his shrill voice sharper. "How will I find Beggarmaster again? He will think I have run away when he comes tomorrow for the money!"

"If he asks around, someone will tell him about the police,"

"That's what I cannot understand. Why did police take me? Beggarmaster pays them every week all his beggars are allowed to work without hara.s.sment."

"These are different police," said Ishvar. "The beautification police there's a new law to make the city beautiful. Maybe they don't know your Beggarmaster."

He shook his head at the absurdity of the suggestion. "Aray babu, everybody knows Beggarmaster." He began fidgeting with the castors, finding comfort in spinning the wheels. "This gaadi here, it's a new one he gave me recently. The old one broke."

"How?" asked Om.

"Accident. There was a slope, I crashed off the pavement. Almost damaged somebody's motorcar." He giggled, remembering the event. "This new one is much better." He invited Om to inspect the castors.

"Very smooth," said Om, trying one with his thumb. "What happened to your legs and hands?"

"Don't know exactly. Always been like this. But I'm not complaining, I get enough to eat, plus a reserved place on the pavement. Beggarmaster looks after everything." He examined the bandages on his hands and unravelled them using his mouth, which silenced him for a few minutes. It was a slow, laborious procedure, involving a lot of neck and jaw movement.

The palms revealed, he scratched them by rubbing against the tailors' bedding. The sackcloth's delicious roughness relieved the itch. Then he began retying the bandages, the arduous process of neck and jaw in reverse. Om moved his own head in sympathy up, and down, around, carefully, yes, around again stopping when, feeling a little foolish, he realized what he was doing.

"The bandage protects my skin. I push with my hands to roll the gaadi. Without bandages they would start bleeding against the ground."

The casually offered fact made Om uncomfortable. But the beggar kept talking, easing his own fear and anxiety. "I did not always have a gaadi. When I was little, too little to beg on my own, they carried me around. Beggarmaster used to rent me out each day. He was the father of the one who looks after me now. I was in great demand. Beggar-master would say I earned him the highest profits."

The panic in his voice had been routed by the memory of happier days. He recalled how well the renters would care for him and feed him, because if they were neglectful, Beggarmaster would thrash them and never do business with them again. Luckily, due to his reduced size, he resembled a baby till he was twelve. "A child, a suckling cripple, earns a lot of money from the public. There were so many different b.r.e.a.s.t.s I drank milk from during those years."

He smiled mischievously. "Wish I could still be carried around in women's arms, their sweet nipples in my mouth. More fun than b.u.mping along all day on this platform, banging my b.a.l.l.s and wearing out my b.u.t.tocks."

Ishvar and Om were surprised, then laughed with relief. Pa.s.sing him by on the pavement with a wave or a coin was one thing; sitting beside him, dwelling on his mutilations was another and quite distressing. They were happy that he was capable of laughter too.

"At last my baby face and baby size left me. I became too heavy to carry. That's when Beggarmaster sent me out on my own. I had to drag my self around. On my back."

He wanted to demonstrate, but there was no room in the crammed truck. He described how Beggarmaster had trained him in the technique, as he trained all his beggars, with a personal touch, teaching them different styles whatever would work best in each case. "Beggarmaster likes to joke that he would issue diplomas if we had walls to hang them on."

The tailors laughed again, and the beggar glowed with pleasure. He was discovering a new talent in himself. "So I learned to crawl on my back, using my head and elbows. It was slow going. First I would push my begging tin forward, then wriggle after it. It was very effective. People watched with pity and curiosity. Sometimes little children thought it was a game and tried to imitate me. Two gamblers placed bets every day on how long I would take to reach the end of the pavement. I pretended not to know what they were doing. The winner always dropped money in my can.

"But it took me very long to get to the different spots which Beggarmaster reserved for me. Morning, noon, and night office crowd, lunch crowd, shopping crowd. So then he decided to get me the platform. Such a nice man, I cannot praise him enough. On my birthday he brings sweetmeats for me. Sometimes he takes me to a prost.i.tute. He has many, many beggars in his team, but I'm his favourite. His work is not easy, there is so much to do. He pays the police, finds the best place to beg, makes sure no one takes away that place. And when there is a good Beggarmaster looking after you, no one dare steal your money. That's the biggest problem, stealing."

A man in the truck grumbled and gave the beggar a shove. "Simply screeching like a cat on fire. No one's interested in listening to your lies."

The beggar was silent for a few minutes, adjusting his bandages and toying with the castors. The tailors' drowsy heads started to loll, alarming him. If his friends fell asleep he would be left alone in the dark rush of this terrifying night. He resumed his story to drive away their sleep.

"Also, Beggarmaster has to be very imaginative. If all beggars have the same injury, public gets used to it and feels no pity. Public likes to see variety. Some wounds are so common, they don't work anymore. For example, putting out a baby's eyes will not automatically earn money. Blind beggars are everywhere. But blind, with eyeb.a.l.l.s missing, face showing empty sockets, plus nose chopped off now anyone will give money for that. Diseases are also useful. A big growth on the neck or face, oozing yellow pus. That works well.

"Sometimes, normal people become beggars if they cannot find work, or if they fall sick. But they are hopeless, they stand no chance against professionals. Just think if you have one coin to give, and you have to choose between me and another beggar with a complete body."

The man who had shoved him earlier spoke again. "Shut up, you monkey, I'm warning you! Or I'll throw you over the side! At a time like this we don't want to listen to your nonsense! Why don't you do an honest job like us?"

"What work do you do?" inquired Ishvar politely, to calm him down.

"Sc.r.a.p metal. Collecting and selling by weight. And even my poor sick wife has her own work. Rags."

"That's very good," said Ishvar. "And we have a friend who is a hair-collector, although he recently changed to Family Planning Motivator."

"Yes babu, all very good," said the beggar. "But tell me, metal-collector, without legs or fingers, what could I do?"

"Don't make excuses. In a huge city like this there is work even for a corpse. But you have to want it, and look for it seriously. You beggars create nuisance on the streets, then police make trouble for everyone. Even for us hardworking people."

"O babu, without beggars how will people wash away their sins?"

"Who cares? We worry about finding water to wash our skins!"

The discussion got louder, the beggar yelling shrilly, the metal-collector bellowing back at him. The other pa.s.sengers began taking sides. The drunks awoke and shouted abuse at everyone. "Goat-f.u.c.king idiots! Offspring of lunatic donkeys! Shameless eunuchs from somewhere!"

Eventually, the commotion made the truck driver pull over to the edge of the road. "I cannot drive with so much disturbance," he complained. "There will be an accident or something."

His headlights revealed a stony verge and tussocks of gra.s.s. A hush descended over the truck. The darkness was deep on both sides, betraying nothing beyond the road's narrow shoulders, the night could be hiding hills, empty fields, a thick forest, or demon-monsters.

A policeman came through the beam of light to warn them. "If there is any more noise, you will be thrashed and thrown out right here, in the jungle, instead of being taken to your nice new homes."

The silenced truckload started moving. The beggar began to weep. "O babu, I'm feeling so frightened again." He fell into a stupor of exhausted sleep after a while.

The tailors were wide awake now. Ishvar wondered what would happen when they didn't turn up for work in the morning. "Dresses will be late again. Second time in two months. What will Dinabai do?"

"Find new tailors, and forget about us," said Om. "What else?"

Dawn turned the night to grey, and then pink, as the truck and jeep left the highway for a dirt road to stop outside a small village. The tailboard swung open. The pa.s.sengers were told to attend to calls of nature. For some, the halt had come too late.

The beggar tilted on one b.u.t.tock while Om slid the platform under him. He paddled himself to the edge of the truck and waved a bandaged palm at two policemen. They turned their backs, lighting cigarettes. The tailors jumped off and lowered him to the ground, surprised at how little he weighed.

The men used one side of the road, the women squatted on the other; children were everywhere. The babies were hungry and crying. Parents fed them from packages of half-rotten bananas and oranges and sc.r.a.ps scavenged the night before.

The Facilitator went on ahead to arrange for tea. The village chai-walla set up a temporary kitchen near the truck, building a fire to heat a cauldron of water, milk, sugar, and tea leaves. Everyone watched him thirstily. The early sun dabbled through the trees, catching the liquid. Boiling and ready in a few minutes, it was served in little earthen bowls.

Meanwhile, word of the visitors percolated swiftly through the little village, and its population gathered round to watch. They took pride in the pleasure the travellers obtained from sipping the tea. The headman greeted the Facilitator and asked the usual friendly, villager questions about who, where, why, ready to offer help and advice.

The Facilitator told him to mind his business, take his people back to their huts, or the police would disperse them. Hurt by the rude behaviour, the crowd left.

The tea was consumed and the little earthen bowls were returned to the chaiwalla. He proceeded to shatter them in the customary way, whereupon some pavement-dwellers instinctively rushed to save them. "Wait, wait! We'll keep them if you don't want them!"

But the Facilitator forbade it. "Where you are going, you will be given everything that you need." They were ordered back into the truck. During the halt, the sun had cleared the tree tops. Morning heat was rapidly gaining the upper hand. The engine's starting roar frightened the birds, lifting them from the trees in a fluttering cloud.

Late in the day the truck arrived at an irrigation project where the Facilitator unloaded the ninety-six individuals. The project manager counted them before signing the delivery receipt. The worksite had its own security men, and the police jeep departed.

The security captain ordered the ninety-six to empty their pockets, open up their parcels, place everything on the ground. Two of his men moved down the line, pa.s.sing hands over their clothes in a body search and examining the pile of objects. This need not have taken long, since half of them were near-naked beggars and the possessions were meagre. But there were women too, so it was a while before the guards finished the frisking.

They seized screwdrivers, cooking spoons, a twelve-inch steel rod, knives, a roll of copper wire, tongs, and a comb of bone with teeth deemed too large and sharp. A guard gave Om's plastic comb the bending test. It broke in two. He was allowed to keep the pieces. "We're not supposed to be here, my uncle and I," he said.

The guard pushed him back in line. "Talk to the foreman if you have a complaint."

The extremely ragged were issued half-pants and vests, or petticoats and blouses. The beggar on castors got only a vest, there being nothing suitable to fit his cloth-swaddled amputated lower half. Ishvar and Om did not get new clothes, nor did the ragpicker and the metal-collector. The latter, whose many sharp-edged items had been confiscated, was chagrined, considering it most unfair. But the tailors felt the new clothes were poorly st.i.tched, and preferred what they were wearing.

The group was shown to a row of tin huts, to be occupied twelve to a hut. Everyone rushed in a frenzy to the nearest of the identical shelters and fought to get inside. The guard drove them back, allocating places at random. A stack of rolled-up straw mats stood within each hut. Some people spread them out and lay down, but had to get up again. They were told to store their belongings and rea.s.semble for the foreman.

The foreman was a harried-looking individual, sweating profusely, who welcomed them to their new houses. He took a few minutes to describe the generous scheme the government had introduced for the uplift of the poor and homeless. "So we hope you will take advantage of this plan. Now there are still two hours of working-time left, but you can rest today. Tomorrow morning you will start your new jobs."

Someone asked how much the salary was, and if it would be paid daily or weekly.

The foreman wiped the sweat from his face, sighed, and tried again. "You didn't understand what I said? You will get food, shelter, and clothing. That is your salary."

The tailors edged forward, anxious to explain their accidental presence in the irrigation project. But two officials got to the foreman first and led him away for a meeting. Ishvar decided against running after him. "Better to wait till morning," he whispered to Om. "He's very busy now, it might make him angry. But it's clear that the police made a mistake with us. This place is for unemployed people. They will let us go once they know we have tailoring jobs."

Some people ventured to lie down inside the huts. Others chose to spread their mats outside. Blazing under the daylong sun, the tin walls enclosed a savage heat. The shade cast by the corrugated metal was cooler.

A whistle blew at dusk and workers returned from their tasks. After thirty minutes it blew again, and they made their way to the camp's eating area. The newcomers were told to go with them. They lined up outside the kitchen to receive their dinner: dal and chapati, with a green chilli on the side.

"The dal is almost water," said Om.

The server overheard him and took it personally. "What do you think this is, your father's palace?"

"Don't take my father's name," said Om.

"Come on, let's go," said Ishvar, pulling him away. "Tomorrow we'll tell the top man about the policeman's mistake."

They finished eating in silence, concentrating like everyone else on the food's hidden perils. The chapatis were made from gritty flour. The meal was punctuated by the diners spitting out small pebbles and other foreign bodies. Tinier fragments which could not be caught in time were triturated with the food.

"They should have been here more than an hour ago," Dina said to Maneck when breakfast was done.

She's after the poor chaps again, he thought, gathering the books he needed for the day's cla.s.ses. "Does it matter that much, if it's piecework?"

"What do you know about running a business? Your mummy and daddy pay your fees and send you pocket money. Wait till you start earning your living."

When he returned in the afternoon, she was pacing by the door. The instant his slightly bent key rattled in the keyhole, she turned the k.n.o.b. "No sign of them all day," she complained to him. "I wonder what excuse they'll have this time. Another meeting with the Prime Minister?"

As the afternoon meandered towards evening, her sarcastic tone was elbowed aside by anxiety. "The electricity bill is due, and the water bill. Rations to be bought. And Ibrahim will arrive next week to collect the rent. You've no idea how hara.s.sing he can be."

Her worries continued to bubble like indigestion after dinner. What would happen if the tailors did not come tomorrow even? How could she get two new ones quickly enough? And it wasn't just a question of these dresses being late a second delay would seriously displease the high and mighty empress of Au Revoir Exports. This time the manager would place the black mark of "unreliable" next to her name. Dina felt that perhaps she should go to the Venus Beauty Salon, talk to Zen.o.bia, request her to again use her influence with Mrs. Gupta.

"Ishvar and Om wouldn't stay absent just like that," said Maneck. "Something urgent must have come up."

"Rubbish. What could be so urgent that they cannot take a few minutes to stop by?"

"Maybe they went to see a room for rent or something. Don't worry, Aunty, they'll probably be here tomorrow."

"Probably? Probably is not good enough. I cannot probably probably deliver the dresses and deliver the dresses and probably probably pay the rent. You, without any responsibilities, probably don't understand that." pay the rent. You, without any responsibilities, probably don't understand that."

He thought the outburst was unfair. "If they don't come tomorrow, I'll go and ask what's wrong."

"Yes," she brightened. "It's a good thing you know where they live." Her anxiety seemed to diminish. Then she said, "Let's visit them right now. Why spend the whole night worrying?"

"But you always say you don't want them thinking you are desperate. If you run there at night, they'll see you are helpless without them."

"I am not helpless," she said emphatically. "Just one more difficulty in life, that's all it is." But she decided to wait till morning, agreeing that he should check on them before going to college. She was too distracted to continue working on the quilt; the squares and sc.r.a.ps sat in a pile on the sofa, hiding their designs.

Maneck ran back from the chemist's shop, frantic. Near the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel he slowed down for a quick look inside, hoping that Ishvar and Om might be sipping their morning tea. Empty. He reached the flat, panting, and repeated the night.w.a.tchman's account for Dina.

"It's terrible! He thinks they were mistaken for beggars dragged into the police truck and G.o.d knows where they are now!"

"Hmm, I see," she said, weighing the story for truth and substance. "And how long is their jail sentence? One week, two weeks?" If those rascals were trying a new job somewhere, playing for time, this would be the way to do it.

"I don't know." Distraught, he did not detect her question's cynicism. "It's not just them everyone from the street, all the beggars and pavement-dwellers were taken away by the police."

"Don't make me laugh, there's no law for doing that."

"It's a new policy city beautification plan or something, under the Emergency."

"What Emergency? I am sick and tired of that stupid word." Still sceptical, she took a deep breath and decided to be direct. "Maneck, look at me. Straight in my eyes." She brought her face closer to his. "Maneck, you would not be lying to me, would you? Because Ishvar and Om are your friends, and they asked you to?"

"I swear on my parents' name, Aunty!" He drew away from her, shocked. Then the accusation made him angry. "You don't have to believe me, think what you like. Next time don't ask me to do your work." He left the room.

She followed him. "Maneck." He ignored her. "Maneck, I'm sorry. You know how worried I am about the sewing I said it without thinking."

A moment's silence was all he could maintain before forgiving her. "It's all right."

Such a sweet boy, she thought, he just cannot stay upset. "How long have they been sleeping outside the what is it, chemist's shop?"

"Since the day their home was destroyed. Don't you remember, Aunty? When you wouldn't let them sleep on your verandah?"

She bristled at the tone. "You know very well why I had to refuse. But if you were aware of it, why didn't you tell me? Before something like this happened?"

"Suppose I had. What difference? Would you have let them stay here?"

She avoided the question. "I still find it hard to believe this story. Maybe that watchman is lying covering up for them. And in the meantime I will have to go begging to my brother for the rent."

Maneck could sense the things she was trying to juggle, conceal, keep in proportion: concern, guilt, fear. "We could check with the police," he suggested.

"And what good will that do? Even if they have the tailors, you think they will unlock the jail on my say-so?"

"At least we'd know where they are."