"But it's not fair to us!"

"That's why I am here, no. Just pick the names you want on the ration card, up to a maximum of six, and whatever address you like. Cost is only two hundred rupees. Hundred now, and hundred when you get the card."

"But we don't have so much money."

The Facilitator said they could come back when they did, he would still be here. "While there is government, there will be work for me." He blew his nose and returned to his spot on the pavement.

Taking Rajaram's shortcut, the tailors trotted down the platform towards the wasteland of track and cinder, watching the train slide out of the station to disappear into the evening. "The closer he gets to the stable, the faster the tired horse gallops," said Ishvar, and Om nodded.

Their first day with Dina Dalai was over. Borne along by the homeward-bound flock, exhausted from ten hours of sewing, they shared the sanct.i.ty of the hour with the crowd, this time of transition from weariness to hope. Soon it would be night; they would borrow Rajaram's stove, cook something, eat. They would weave their plans and dream the future into favourable patterns, till it was time to take the train tomorrow morning.

The end of the platform sloped downwards to become one with the gravel hugging the rails. Here was the crucial opening in the endless cast-iron fence, where one of its spear-pointed bars had corroded at the hands of the elements, and broken away with a little help from human hands.

The swelling knot of men and women trickled through the gap, far from the exit where the ticket-collector stood. Others, with an agility prompted by their ticketless state, ran farther down the tracks, over cinders and gravel sharp against bare soles and ill-shod feet. They ran between the rails, stretching their strides from worn wooden sleeper to sleeper, vaulting over the fence at a safe distance from the station.

Though he had a ticket, Om yearned to follow them in the heroic dash for freedom. He felt he too could soar if he was alone. Then he glanced sideways at his uncle who was more-than-uncle, whom he could never abandon. The spears of the fence stood in the dusk like the rusting weapons of a phantom army. The ticketless men seemed ancient, breaching the enemy's ranks, soaring over the barbs as if they would never come down to earth.

Suddenly, a posse of tired policemen materialized out of the twilight and surrounded the gap-seeking crowd. A few constables gave halfhearted chase to the railing jumpers in the distance. The only energetic one among them was an inspector brandishing a swagger-stick and shouting orders and encouragement.

"Catch them all! Move, move, move! No one gets away! Back to the platform, all you crooks! You there!" he pointed with the swagger-stick. "Stop lagging! We'll teach you to travel without tickets!"

The tailors' attempt to inform someone, anyone, that they actually had tickets was drowned in the noise and confusion. "Please, havaldar, we were only taking a shortcut," they implored the nearest uniform, but were herded along with the rest. The ticket-collector wagged a reproving finger as the captive column shuffled past him.

Outside, the prisoners were loaded onto a police truck. The last few were levered in with the help of the tailgate. "We're finished," said someone. "I heard that under Emergency law, no ticket means one week in the lockup."

For an hour they were kept sweating in the truck while the inspector attended to some business in the ticket office. Then the truck started down the station road, followed by the inspector's jeep. They journeyed for ten minutes and turned into a vacant lot, where the tailgate was thrown open.

"Out! Everybody out! Out, out, out!" shouted the inspector with a penchant for triplets, slapping the swagger-stick against the truck tyre. "Men on this side, women on that side!" He organized the two groups into a formation of rows six deep.

"Attention everyone! Grab hold of your ears! Come on, catch them! Catch, catch, catch! What are you waiting for? Now you will do fifty baithuks! Ready, begin! One! Two! Three!" He prowled among the rows, supervising the knee-bends and counting, performing sudden about-turns to catch them off guard. If he found someone cheating, not doing a full squat or releasing their ears, he let them have it with his stick.

"...forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty! That's it! And if you are found again without a ticket, I will make you remember your grandmothers! Now you can go home! Go! What are you waiting for? Go, go, go!"

The crowd dispersed rapidly, making jokes about the punishment and the inspector. "Stupid Rajaram," said Om. "From now on I'm not going to believe anything from his mouth. Get a ration card, he told us, it's very easy. Take the shortcut, you'll save time."

"Ah, no harm done," said Ishvar genially. Back at the railway station he had been quite frightened. "Look, the police spared us some walking, we are almost at the colony."

They crossed the road and continued towards the hutments. The familiar h.o.a.rding loomed into view, but the ill.u.s.tration was different. "What happened?" said Om. "Where did Modern Bread and Amul b.u.t.ter go?"

The advertis.e.m.e.nts had been replaced by the Prime Minister's picture, proclaiming: "Iron Will! Hard Work! These will sustain us!" It was a quintessential specimen of the face that was proliferating on posters throughout the city. Her cheeks were executed in the lurid pink of cinema billboards. Other aspects of the portrait had suffered greater infelicities. Her eyes evoked the discomfort of a violent itch somewhere upon the ministerial corpus, begging to be scratched. The artist's ambition of a benignant smile had also gone awry a cross between a sneer and the vinegary sternness of a drillmistress had crept across the mouth. And that familiar swatch of white hair over her forehead, imposing amid the black, had plopped across the scalp like the strategic droppings of a very large bird.

"Look at it, Om. She is making the sour-lime face, just like yours when you are upset."

Om obliged by duplicating the expression, then laughed. The towering visage continued to deliver its frozen monition to trains rumbling by on one side, and buses and motorcars scrambling in clouds of exhaust on the other, while the tailors trudged to the hutment colony.

The hair-collector emerged as they were unlocking their shack. "You naughty children, you are so late," he complained.

"But-"

"Never mind, it's only a small obstacle. The food will soon get warm again. I put off the stove because vegetables were drying up." He disappeared inside to return with the frying pan and three plates. "Bhaji and chapati. And my special masala wada with mango chutney, to celebrate your first day at work."

"How much trouble you're taking for us," said Ishvar.

"Oh, it's nothing."

Rajaram let the food heat for a minute, then handed out the plates with the four items neatly arranged around the circ.u.mference. A substantial amount still remained in the pan. "You cooked too much," said Ishvar.

"I had a little extra money today, so I bought more vegetables. For them," he pointed with his elbow at the other shack. "That drunken fellow's little ones are always hungry."

While they ate, the tailors described the police action against ticketless travel. The gift of dinner softened the accusing tone Om had planned to use; he told it like a traveller's adventure instead.

Rajaram clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. "What foolishness on my part - I completely forgot to warn you. You see, it's been months and months since a raid." He slapped his forehead again. "Some people travel all their lives without buying a single ticket. And you two get caught on the first day. Even with tickets," he chuckled.

Ishvar and Om, appreciating the irony, started laughing too. "Just bad luck. Must be a new policy because of Emergency."

"But it was all a big show. Why did the inspector let everyone go, if they are really getting strict?"

Rajaram thought about it while chewing, and fetched gla.s.ses of water for everyone. "Maybe they had no choice. From what I hear, the jails are full with the Prime Minister's enemies union workers, newspaper people, teachers, students. So maybe there is no more room in the prisons."

While they were mulling over the incident, cries of joy went up near the water tap. It had started gurgling! And so late in the night! People watched the spout, holding their breath. A few drops dribbled out. Then a little stream. They cheered it like a winning racehorse as it gathered strength, gushing full and strong. A miracle! The hutment dwellers clapped and shouted with excitement.

"It has happened once before," said Rajaram. "I think someone made a mistake at the waterworks, opening the wrong valve."

"They should make such mistakes more often," said Ishvar.

Women ran to the tap to make the most of the fortuitous flow. Babies in their arms squealed with delight as cool water glided over their sticky skin. Older children skipped about gleefully, bursting into little involuntary dances, looking forward to the generous drenching instead of the meagre mugfuls at dawn.

"Maybe we should also fill up now," said Om. "Save time in the morning."

"No," said Rajaram. "Let the little ones enjoy. Who knows when they'll get a chance like this again."

The festivities lasted less than an hour; the tap went dry as suddenly as it had started. Children soaped in antic.i.p.ation had to be wiped off and sent to bed disappointed.

Over the next fortnight, the slumlord erected another fifty ramshackle huts in the field, which Navalkar rented out in a day, doubling the population. Now the fetid smell from the ditch hung permanently over the shacks, thicker than smoke. There was nothing to distinguish the small hutment colony from the huge slum across the road; it had been incorporated into the inferno. The rush at the water tap a.s.sumed riotous proportions. Accusations of queue-jumping were exchanged every morning, there was pushing and shoving, scuffles broke out, pots were overturned, mothers screamed, children wailed.

The monsoon season started, and on the first night of rain, the tailors were awakened by the roof leaking on their bedding. They sat huddled in the only dry corner. The rain poured down beside them in a steady stream and gradually lulled them into slumber. Then the rain slowed. The leak became an aggravating drip. Om began counting the splashes in his head. He reached a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, counting, adding, tallying, as though hoping to dry them out by attaining a high enough number.

They ended up sleeping very little. In the morning, Rajaram climbed onto the roof to examine the corrugated iron. He helped them spread a piece of plastic, not quite wide enough, over the leaking area.

Later that week, heartened by the remuneration from Dina Dalai, Ishvar was able to plan a little shopping excursion to buy a large plastic sheet and a few other items. "What do you say, Om? Now we can make our house more comfortable, hahn?"

His suggestion was greeted with a mournful silence. They stopped at a pavement stall selling polythene bowls, boxes, and a.s.sorted tableware. "So, what colour plates and gla.s.ses shall we get?"

"Doesn't matter."

"A towel? That yellow one with flowers, maybe?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Would you like new sandals?"

"Doesn't matter" came yet again, and Ishvar finally lost his patience. "What's wrong with you these days? All the time with Dinabai you make mistakes and argue. You take no interest in tailoring. Anything I ask, you say doesn't matter. Make an effort, Om, make an effort." He cut the shopping expedition short, and they started back with two red plastic buckets, a Primus stove, five litres of kerosene, and a package of jasmine agarbatti.

Ahead they heard the familiar dhuk-dhuka dhuk-dhuka dhuk-dhuka dhuk-dhuka of Monkey-man's little handheld drum. The string-tied rattle bounced upon the skin as he spun his wrist. He was not looking to collect a crowd, merely accompanying his charges home. One of his little brown monkeys had hitched a ride on his shoulder, the other ambled along listlessly. The emaciated dog followed at a distance, sniffing, chewing newspaper in which food had once been wrapped. Monkey-man whistled, and called "Tikka!" and the mongrel trotted up. of Monkey-man's little handheld drum. The string-tied rattle bounced upon the skin as he spun his wrist. He was not looking to collect a crowd, merely accompanying his charges home. One of his little brown monkeys had hitched a ride on his shoulder, the other ambled along listlessly. The emaciated dog followed at a distance, sniffing, chewing newspaper in which food had once been wrapped. Monkey-man whistled, and called "Tikka!" and the mongrel trotted up.

The monkeys started teasing Tikka, tweaking his ears, twisting his tail, pinching his p.e.n.i.s. He bore his tormentors with a dignified calm. His reprieve came when the red plastic buckets swinging from Om's hands attracted the monkeys' attention. They decided to investigate, and hopped in.

"Laila! Majnoo! Stop it!" scolded their master, tugging the leashes. They bobbed their heads out over the bucket rims.

"It's okay," said Om, enjoying their pranks. "Let them have some fun. They must have worked hard all day."

They walked together to the hutment colony, the tailors, Monkey-man, and his animals, moving to the drum's hypnotic dhuk-dhuka dhuk-dhuka. Laila and Majnoo soon tired of the buckets and began clambering over Om, sitting on his shoulders or his head, hanging from his arms, clinging to his legs. He laughed all the way home, and Ishvar smiled with pleasure.

Om's playfulness vanished when he and the monkeys parted company. Once again he sank into his gloom, casting a nauseated look in Rajaram's direction, who was sorting his bags of hair outside the shack. The little black mounds looked like a collection of s.h.a.ggy human heads.

Seeing the two laden with purchases, Rajaram complimented them. "Makes me happy to see you started on the road to prosperity."

"You need spectacles if you think this is the road to prosperity," snapped Om. He went inside and unrolled the bedding.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Rajaram, hurt.

"I think he's just tired. But listen, today you must eat with us. To celebrate our new stove."

"How can I refuse such good friends?"

They prepared the food together, and called Om when it was ready. Halfway through the meal, Rajaram asked if he could borrow ten rupees. The request took Ishvar by surprise. He had a.s.sumed the hair-collector was doing well in his line of work, judging by his enthusiastic talk during the past fortnight.

The hesitation showed on his face, for Rajaram added, "I'll return it in a week, don't worry. Business is little slow right now. But a new style is coming into fashion for women. Everyone will start chopping off their plaits. Those long chotelas will fall straight into my lap."

"Stop talking about hair," said Om. "It makes my stomach sick." After dinner, instead of sitting outside to chat and smoke with them, he said he had a headache and went to bed.

His uncle came in an hour later and stood watching the back of Om's head for a minute. Poor child, what a burden of terrible memories he had to carry. He leaned across and saw his eyes were open. "Om? Headache gone?"

He groaned and answered no.

"Patience, Om, it will go." To cheer him up, he added, "Our stars must be in the proper position at last. Everything is going well, hahn?"

"How can you keep repeating such rubbish? A lousy, stinking house we live in. Our jobs are terrible, that Dinabai watching us like a vulture, hara.s.sing us, telling us when to eat and when to belch."

Ishvar sighed; his nephew was in one of his implacable black moods. He lit two sticks from the jasmine agarbatti package. "This will make our house smell nice. Sleep well, your headache will be gone in the morning."

Late at night, after the harmonium player's song was silent and Tikka stopped barking, it was the noises from the hair-collector's shack that continued to keep Om awake. There was a visitor. A woman giggled, then Rajaram laughed. Soon he was panting, and the sounds through the plywood walls tormented Om. He thought of them naked amid those eerie bags of hair, contorting in the erotic poses of cinema posters. He thought of Shanti by the water tap, her lovely shining hair, the tightness of her blouse when she lifted the big bra.s.s pot to her head, the things he could do with her in the bushes by the railroad. He looked at his uncle, sound asleep. He got out of bed, went to the side of the shack, and m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed. The woman next door was just departing. He hid in the shadows till she was gone.

He fell asleep after midnight only to be awakened by piercing screams. This time Ishvar was roused as well. "Hai Ram! What can that be?"

Outside, they ran into Rajaram, smiling contentedly. Om scowled at him with equal parts of envy and disgust. People were emerging from shacks all down the row. Then word spread that it was a woman in labour, and everyone went back to sleep. The screams ceased after a while.

In the morning, they heard that a girl had been born during the early hours. "Let's go and give them good wishes," said Ishvar.

"You go if you like," said Om gloomily.

"Ah, don't be so unhappy," he ruffled his hair. "We will find a wife for you, I promise."

"Find her for yourself, I don't need one." He moved out of reach and s.n.a.t.c.hed the comb on the packing case to restore his hair.

"Back in two minutes," said Ishvar. "Then off to work."

Om sat in the doorway, fingering a piece of chiffon he had slipped in his pocket yesterday from the sc.r.a.ps littering Dina Dalai's floor. How comforting it felt, liquid between his fingers why couldn't life be like that, soft and smooth. He caressed his cheek with it, observing the drunkard's children running about, sprawling in the dust, pa.s.sing the time till their mother took them out to beg. One of them found a curiously shaped stone, which he showed off to his siblings. Then they chased a crow probing a lump of something rotten. The mettlesome bird refused to fly away, hopping, circling, returning to the putrefying tidbit to provide more fun for the children. How could they be so happy? wondered Om dirty and naked, ill-fed, sores on their faces, rashes on their skin. What was there for anyone to laugh about in this wretched place?

He slipped the chiffon back into his pocket and wandered to Monkey-man's shack. Laila was grooming Majnoo, and he settled down to watch. A minute later, they had jumped onto his shoulders, combing their delicate infant-sized fingers through his hair.

Seeing that Om did not mind, Monkey-man smiled and let them be. "They do it to me also," he said. "Means they like you. Best way of keeping a clean head."

Laila found something in Om's hair and held it up to examine. Majnoo grabbed it from her paw and put it in his mouth.

Om chose a black Hercules at the rental shop on the road to Dina Dalai's flat. It had an impressive spring-loaded carrier over the rear wheel and a large shiny bell on the handlebars.

"But why do you need a cycle?" persisted Ishvar. His nephew smiled cunningly while the man used a spanner to adjust the seat height.

"One month has pa.s.sed since we started working for her," said Om. "That's long enough, I've made my plan." The freshly pumped-up tyres withstood the inspecting squeeze of his fingers. He wheeled it out into the main street. "Today is her day to go to the export company, right? And I'm going to follow her taxi on my cycle." Swinging one leg lightly over the saddle, he rolled off.

"Careful," said Ishvar. "Traffic is heavy, it's not our village road." On the kerb he quickened his pace to keep up. "The plan is good, Om, but you forgot one thing her padlocked door. How will you get out?"

"Wait and see."

Freewheeling alongside his uncle, Om was in high spirits. The mudguards rattled and the brakes were spongy, though the bell worked perfectly. Tring-tring tring-tring Tring-tring tring-tring, his thumb urged it on, tring-tring tring-tring. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with confidence, he plunged into the traffic on his carilloning cycle, on the wheels that would help put the future right.

He returned to the safety of the kerb, and Ishvar breathed easier. The scheme was absurd, but he was happy that his nephew was enjoying himself. He watched him swing the handlebars from side to side and backpedal, to keep from racing ahead. Om on the saddle performed an intricate dance, the dance of balancing-at-slow-speed. Soon, hoped Ishvar, he would forsake his crazy ideas and perform with equal facility the arduous dance of sewing-for-the-employer.

At Om's prompting, Ishvar got on the carrier behind the saddle. He sat sideways, legs straight out. With his feet inches off the ground, sandals grazing the road now and then, they sailed away. Om's optimism pealed in the tring-tring tring-tring showers spouting from the bell. For a while the world was perfect. showers spouting from the bell. For a while the world was perfect.

Soon, the tailors neared the corner where the beggar was wheeling his platform around. They stopped to toss him a coin. It landed with a clink in the empty can.

They hid the bicycle at a safe distance from Dina Dalai's door, in a cobwebby stairwell that smelled of urine and country liquor. Chaining it to a disused gas pipe, they emerged brushing off the invisible threads clinging to their hands and faces. Ghosts of the webs continued to bother them for some time. Their fingers kept returning to their foreheads and necks to remove strands that were not there.

Dina's fingers flitted like skittish b.u.t.terflies, folding the dresses for delivery to Au Revoir Exports. She checked the paper patterns to make sure everything was accounted for. The manager had been repeatedly dire about them. "Guard the patterns with your life," Mrs. Gupta always said. "If they fall in the wrong hands my entire company will be ruined."

Dina thought this was somewhat exaggerated. Nonetheless, she could not help feeling, while sorting through the brown-paper sections of bodice and sleeve and collar, that her own torso and arms and neck were at stake. Of late, she sensed a haughtiness in Mrs. Gupta, as though the manager had discovered they were not social equals. She no longer left her desk to greet her and see her off, nor did she offer tea or a Fanta.

Her fingers returned nervously to the folded garments, picking one up at random, examining its seams and hems. Would this lot pa.s.s Mrs. Gupta's inspection? How many rejections? The angelic tailors had fallen from grace; carelessness was rife now in their handiwork.

From his corner, Om watched as Dina completed her weekly performance of fretfulness. His thoughts were bent on bracing himself; the moment was approaching.

It was now.

She snapped shut her handbag.