During the lull, Ishvar and Om found Rajaram. "I was there when it all started," he said, panting. "They went in and just destroyed it. And just smashed everything. Such crooks, such liars "

"Who did it?" They tried to make him talk slowly.

"The men, the ones who said they were safety inspectors. They tricked us. Sent by the government, they said, to check the colony. At first the people were pleased, the authorities were taking some interest. Maybe improvements were coming water, latrines, lights, like they kept promising at voting time. So we did as they told us, came out of the shacks. But once the colony was empty, the big machines went in."

Most of the bulldozers were old jeeps and trucks, with steel plates and short wooden beams like battering rams affixed to the front b.u.mpers. They had begun tearing into the structures of plywood, corrugated metal, and plastic. "And when we saw that, we rushed in to stop them. But the drivers kept going. People were crushed. Blood everywhere. And the police are protecting those murderers. Or the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would be dead by now."

"But how can they destroy our homes, just like that?"

"They said it's a new Emergency law. If shacks are illegal, they can remove them. The new law says the city must be made beautiful."

"What about Navalkar? And his boss, Thokray? They collected this month's rent only two days ago."

"They are here."

"And they're not complaining to the police?"

"Complaining? Thokray is the one in charge of this. He is wearing a badge: Controller of Slums. And Navalkar is a.s.sistant Controller. They won't talk to anyone. If we try to go near them, their goondas threaten to beat us."

"And all our property in the shacks?"

"Lost, looks like. We begged them to let us remove it, but they refused."

Ishvar suddenly felt very tired. He moved away from the crowd and crossed the lane, where he sank to his haunches. Rajaram hitched up his pants and sat down beside him. "No sense crying for those rotten jhopdis. We'll find somewhere else, it's only a small obstacle. Right, Om? We'll search together for a new house."

Om nodded. "I'm going to take a closer look inside."

"Don't, it's dangerous," said Ishvar. "Stay here, with me."

"I'm here only, yaar," said Om, and wandered off to examine the demolition.

The evening was on the edge of darkness. A vigorous lathi-charge had finally cleared the area near the front of the colony. Slippers and sandals lost by the fleeing crowd littered the ground, strewn like the flotsam of a limbless human tide. The police cordon, now firmly in place, kept the rage of the residents smouldering at a safe distance.

The bulldozers finished flattening the rows of flimsy shacks and tackled the high-rental ones, reversing and crunching into the brick walls. Om felt nothing the shack had meant nothing to him, he decided. Maybe now his uncle would agree to go back to Ashraf Chacha. He remembered Maneck, coming to visit tomorrow. He laughed mirthlessly about telling him the dinner was off cancelled due to the unexpected disappearance of their house.

Sergeant Kesar's megaphone blared in the dusk: "Work will be stopping for thirty minutes. Actually speaking, this is simply to give you a chance to collect your personal belongings. Then the machines will start again."

In the crowd, the announcement was received with some scorn a goodwill gesture from the police to avoid more trouble. But most were grateful for the opportunity to retrieve their few possessions. A desperate scramble commenced in the wreckage. It reminded Om of children on garbage heaps. He saw them every morning from the train. He rejoined his uncle to become part of the bustle among the ruins.

The machines had transformed the familiar field with its carefully ordered community into an alien place. There was much confusion amid the people rooting for their belongings. Which piece of ground had supported whose shelter? And which pile of scantlings and metal was theirs to comb through? Others were turning the turmoil to advantage, grabbing what they could, and fights broke out over pieces of splintered plywood, torn rexine sheets, clear plastic. Someone tried to seize the harmonium player's damaged instrument while he was burrowing for his clothes. He fought off the thief with an iron rod. The tussle inflicted more wounds on the harmonium, ripping its bellows.

"My neighbours have become robbers," he said tearfully. "Once, I sang for them, and they clapped for me."

Ishvar offered him perfunctory solace, anxious about his own possessions. "At least our sewing-machines have a safe home with Dinabai," he said to Om. "That's our good fortune."

They dragged aside the corrugated sheet that used to be the roof, and uncovered the trunk. The lid had sustained several deep dents. It swung open with a protesting squeal. Om aimed a kick at the biggest depression and the lid moved less stubbornly. They cleared more debris and came upon the small mirror they used for shaving. It was intact: the aluminium frying pan had fallen over it like a helmet.

"No bad luck for us," said Om, stuffing both items into the trunk. The Primus stove was crushed beyond repair, and he tossed it back. Ishvar found a pencil, a candle, two enamel plates, and a polythene gla.s.s. Om found their razor, but not the packet of blades. By shifting more pieces of plywood they unearthed the copper water pot. Someone else spied it at the same moment, grabbed it, and ran.

"Thief!" shouted Om. n.o.body paid attention. His uncle stopped him from chasing the man.

They pulled out their wicker mat, sheets, blankets, and the two towels used for pillows. Shaking out clouds of dust, Ishvar rolled it all into one neat bedding bundle and wrapped it with sackcloth.

Rajaram's concern was solely for his h.o.a.rd of hair. The stock was ravaged, the plastic sacks ripped, their contents spilled. "One month's precious collection," he grieved. "All scattered in the mud." The allotted thirty minutes were running out. Ishvar and Om helped him gather what they could, concentrating on retrieving the longest specimens.

"It's hopeless," said Rajaram bitterly. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have ruined me. The locks and plaits have broken up, it's impossible to join them together. Like trying to recover grains of sugar out of a cup of tea."

The three made their way through the police barricade, where the Controller of Slums was giving instructions to his workers. "Levelled smooth that's how I want this field. Empty and clean, the way it was before all these illegal structures were built." The debris was to be dumped in the ditch by the railway tracks.

The dispossessed lingered outside, watching numbly. The workers flattened walls and corners that had survived the first a.s.sault, then stopped, claiming it was too dark for the equipment to shift the rubble without tumbling into the ditch. The Controller of Slums could not risk that, there was much work ahead for his machines, many unlawful encroachments to be razed. He agreed to postpone the final phase till the morning, and the workers departed.

"I'll spend the night here," said Rajaram. "I might find something valuable in the field. What about you?"

"We should go to Nawaz," said Ishvar. "Maybe he'll let us sleep under his back awning again."

"But he was so mean to us."

"Still he might help us find a house, like he did last time."

"Yes, it's worth trying," said Rajaram. "And I'll check what happens here. Who knows, some other gang boss might be planning to build new shacks."

They agreed to meet next evening and exchange information. "Can you do me a favour in the meantime?" asked Rajaram. "Keep these few plaits for me? They are very light. I have nowhere for them."

Ishvar agreed, and put them in the trunk.

There were strangers living in Nawaz's house. The man who answered the door claimed to know nothing about him.

"It's very urgent for us to find Nawazbhai," said Ishvar. "Maybe your landlord has some information. Can you give me his name and address?"

"It's none of your business." Someone shouted from inside, "Stop pestering us so late at night!"

"Sorry to disturb you," said Ishvar, rehoisting the bedding bundle and retreating down the steps.

"Now what?" panted Om, his face showing the weight of the trunk.

"Your breath has leaked out already?"

He nodded. "Like a broken balloon."

"Okay, let's have tea." They went to the stall at the corner, the one they had frequented during their months on the back porch. The owner remembered them as friends of Nawaz.

"Haven't seen you for some time," he said. "Any news of Nawaz since the police took him?"

"Police? For what?"

"Smuggling gold from the Gulf."

"Really? Was he?"

"Of course not. He was just a tailor, like you." But Nawaz had quarrelled with somebody whose daughter was getting married. The man, well-connected, had given him a large a.s.signment wedding clothes for the entire family. After the wedding he refused to pay, claiming that the clothes fit badly. Nawaz kept asking for his money to no avail, then found out where the man's office was. He showed up there, to embarra.s.s him among his colleagues. "And that was a big mistake. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d took his revenge. That same night the police came for Nawaz."

"Just like that? How can they put an innocent man in jail? The other fellow is the crook."

"With the Emergency, everything is upside-down. Black can be made white, day turned into night. With the right influence and a little cash, sending people to jail is very easy. There's even a new law called MISA MISA to simplify the whole procedure." to simplify the whole procedure."

"What's MISA?" MISA?"

"Maintenance of...something, and Security...something, I'm not sure."

The tailors finished the tea and departed with their loads. "Poor Nawaz," said Ishvar. "Wonder if he was really up to something crooked."

"Must have," said Om. "They don't send people to jail for nothing. I never liked him. But now what?"

"Maybe we can sleep at the railway station."

The platform was thick with beggars and itinerants bedding down for the night. The tailors picked a corner and cleaned it, whisking away the dust with a newspaper.

"Oiee, careful! It's coming in my face!" screamed someone.

"Sorry bhai," said Ishvar, abandoning the sweeping. The urge to talk about tomorrow dawning homeless, about what to do next, was strong, but each wanted the other to broach the subject. "Hungry?" he asked.

"No."

Ishvar wandered down anyway to the railway snack shop. He bought a spicy mix of fried onions, potatoes, peas, chillies, and coriander, stuffed into two small buns. Carrying it back to Om, a little guilt accompanied his pa.s.sage through the gauntlet of hungry eyes ranged along the platform. "Pao-bhaji. One for you and one for me."

The glossy magazine page the bun was served on felt soggy. Little circles of warm grease were starting to appear. Om ate hungrily, finishing first, and Ishvar slowed down to save him a piece of his. "I'm full, you have it."

They took turns visiting the drinking fountain; the trunk and bedding needed guarding. After this, no further distractions were available. "Maybe Rajaram will have good news tomorrow evening," Om started tentatively.

"Yes, who knows. We could even build something ourselves, once the tamasha dies down. With plywood and sticks and plastic sheets. Rajaram is a smart fellow, he will know what to do. The three of us could live together in one big hut."

They visited the wasteland beyond the station to urinate, and had another drink of water before untying the bedding. The frequency of trains diminished as the night deepened. They lay down with their feet resting protectively on the trunk.

After midnight, they were awakened by a railway policeman kicking at the trunk. He said sleeping on the platform was prohibited.

"We are waiting for the train," said Ishvar.

"This is not that kind of station. No waiting room. Come back in the morning."

"But these other people are sleeping."

"They have special permission." The policeman jingled the coins in his pocket.

"Okay, we won't sleep on the platform, we will just sit."

The policeman left, shrugging. They sat up and rolled away the bedding.

"Ssst," called a woman lying next to them. "Ssst. You have to pay him." The plastic sheet she lay upon rustled loudly at her slightest movement. Her feet were wrapped in bandages blotched by a dark-yellow ooze.

"Pay him for what? It's not his father's platform."

She smiled, cracking the grime on her face. "Cinema, cinema!" She pointed excitedly at the film posters lining the platform wall. "One rupee per beggar. Fifty paise for child. Cinema every night."

Ishvar secretly raised a hand to his forehead and gave the loose-screw sign, but Om insisted on explaining. "We're not beggars, we're tailors. And what will he do if we don't pay? Can't take us to jail for it."

The woman turned on her side, observing them closely, silent except for the random giggling. A half-hour pa.s.sed, and there was no sign of the policeman.

"I think it's safe now," said Om. He unrolled the bedding and they lay down again. She was still watching them amusedly. A faint smell of rot came from her bandaged feet.

"Are you going to look at us all night?" said Om. She shook her head but kept staring. Ishvar quietened his nephew, and they closed their eyes.

Within minutes of their dozing off, the policeman returned with a bucket of cold water and emptied it over the sleeping tailors. They howled and jumped off their bedding. The policeman walked away wordlessly, giving his empty bucket a jaunty swing. The woman on the plastic sheet was shaking with laughter.

"Animal from somewhere!" hissed Om, and Ishvar shushed him. He need not have bothered; the woman's hysterical laughter drowned the words. She slapped her hands with delight on the plastic sheet, making it flap.

"Cinema! Cinema! Johnnie Walker comedy!" she managed to get out between laughs.

"She knew! The crazy witch knew and didn't tell us, yaar!"

Thoroughly soaked, they picked up everything and moved to the only remaining spot, at the end of the platform, where the urine smell was strong. The dry clothes in the trunk were a precious treasure. They took turns changing. Their wet things were spread out on the trunk's open lid. The sheets and blanket were hung on a broken sign fixture protruding from the platform wall.

The wicker mat dried quickly but they were afraid to lie down. Shivering, they sat guarding their belongings, swaying with sleep, nodding off occasionally. Due to the drenching, they needed to visit the wasteland several times. After the station was asleep, walking down to the tracks was not necessary. They emptied their bladders off the edge of the platform.

The railway snack shop crashed open its steel shutters at four a.m. Cups and saucers started clinking, pots and pans banged. Ishvar and Om gargled at the drinking fountain, then bought two teas and a loaf of crusty bread. The hot liquid cleared their sleep-logged heads. The plan for the day began falling into place: at a suitable hour they would take the train to work, sew till six as usual, then return to meet Rajaram.

"We'll leave the trunk with Dinabai, just for tonight," said Ishvar. "But we won't say our house is destroyed. People are scared of the homeless."

"I'll give you anything if she lets us leave it there."

They spent two more hours on the platform, smoking, watching the early-morning commuters who were mainly vendors waiting with baskets of pumpkin, onions, pomfret, salt, eggs, flowers balanced on their heads. An umbrella repairer was preparing for work, anatomizing broken umbrellas, salvaging the good ribs and handles. A contractor with his band of painters and masons, armed with ladders, pails, brushes, trowels, and hods, went by smelling like a freshly painted house.

The tailors got on a train at six-thirty. They were at Dina's flat by seven. She flung a dustercoat over her nightgown and opened the door.

"So early?" Trust them to be inconsiderate, she thought the sun barely up, the washing to do, Maneck's breakfast still to make, and here they were, expecting attention.

"The trains are at last running on time. Because of the Emergency," said Om, feeling rather clever.

She concluded that the brazen excuse was designed to infuriate her. Then Ishvar added placatingly, "Longer day means more dresses, hahn, Dinabai?"

True enough. "But what's all this big fat luggage?"

"We have to take it to a friend in the evening. Oh, Maneck. Before I forget. You must forgive us, dinner is not possible today. Something very urgent has come up."

"That's okay," said Maneck. "Another time."

She made them leave the trunk and bedding by the door. It could be crawling with bugs, for all she knew. And their behaviour was very suspicious. If it was urgent, they could have gone to their friend now. Especially since they were so early. But at least Maneck's dinner invitation was cancelled, which was a relief.