"Yes, these last two days have been miserable for all of us," she agreed, then requested the boys to screw back the nameplate on the front door.

"We will never see Rajaram again, for sure," said Om that night while spreading out the bedding. "If he's the killer."

"Of course he is," said his uncle. He gazed at the streetlamp from the verandah window, thinking of their erstwhile friend. "It's unbelievable. Someone who seemed such a nice person, murdering two beggars. We should have been more careful, that very first morning in the hutment colony with all his dirty toilet talk on the train tracks. And what sane person makes a living by collecting hair?"

"That's not the point, yaar. People collect and sell all kinds of things. Rags, paper, plastic, gla.s.s. Even bones."

"But aren't you glad now that I wouldn't let you grow your hair long? That murderer would have slaughtered you for it while you slept next door to him."

Om shrugged. "I am worried about Dinabai. Suppose the police find the haircutting kit that she gave Rajaram? Her fingerprints and ours will be on it. We will all be arrested and hanged."

"You've been seeing too many crazy films with Maneck. That sort of thing only happens in the cinema. What worries me is him coming to us again for help. Then what to do? Call the police?"

Ishvar lay awake for a long time, unable to get Rajaram out of his mind. They had lived beside this murderer in the hutment colony, eaten his food and shared theirs with him. The thought made him shudder.

Om knew that his uncle was having trouble sleeping. He raised himself on one elbow and chuckled in the dark: "You know the cook and waiter at Vishram who enjoy our stories? Wouldn't they just love to hear this one."

"Don't even joke about it," warned Ishvar, "or we'll be trapped in unending police problems."

The pavement was crowded with the morning rush of domestics, schoolchildren, officegoers, hawkers. The tailors waited for a lull when Shankar could paddle over to the Vishram's back alley. He kept waving to them, which made Ishvar jittery the less attention drawn the better, considering the gruesome cargo on his platform.

After a few minutes, Shankar grew impatient and ventured across the pavement, steering his transport through the thick of the pedestrian throng. "O babu! Careful!" he called, dodging and being dodged by an endless flurry of legs and feet.

The platform collided with someone's shin. Curses rained down on Shankar, and he looked up timidly. The man threatened to kick his head off. "Saala bhikhari thinks he owns the pavement! Stay in one place!"

Shankar begged forgiveness and sped away. In his haste the package fell from the platform. The tailors watched worriedly, not daring to go to his help. Shankar grappled and wheeled and spun, somehow managing to rescue the package and bring it over.

"Well done," said Ishvar. He imagined the traffic policeman regarding them with suspicion from the busy intersection what if he came over and demanded to open the bag? "So," he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. "When did our long-haired friend deliver this?"

"Two days ago," he answered, and Ishvar almost flung the parcel away. "No, I am wrong," Shankar changed his mind, rubbing his forehead with a bandaged palm. "Not two days. It was the day after I last saw you four days ago."

Ishvar nodded with relief at Om. The parcel did not contain that that hair. "Our friend won't be coming to see you from now on." hair. "Our friend won't be coming to see you from now on."

"No?" Shankar was disappointed. "I used to enjoy playing with his packages. Such lovely hair."

"You mean you looked inside?"

"Did I do wrong?" he asked anxiously. "Aray babu, I didn't damage anything, I just touched it to my cheek because it made me feel good. It was so soft and nice."

"That it was, for sure," said Om. "Our friend only collects the best quality hair."

The gibe was lost on Shankar. "I wish I had one bunch for myself," he sighed. "I could put it on my platform at night and sleep with my face resting against it. How it would soothe me, after the meanness of people all day. Even the ones who throw coins, they look at me as though I was robbing them. What a comfort the hair would be."

"Why not?" said Om, on an impulse. "Here, keep this packet our friend doesn't need it."

Ishvar was about to protest, then let it go. Om was right, what did it matter now?

With Shankar's grat.i.tude thawing the chill of Rajaram's deed, they walked back to the flat. "I want to throw away all his rubbish from our trunk," said Ishvar. "G.o.d knows where it's from, how many others he killed."

That night, when Dina and Maneck were asleep, Ishvar removed the plaits from the trunk and placed them in a small cardboard carton for ultimate disposal. He felt better afterwards, for their clothes were no longer polluted by the madman's collection.

Noises from the kitchen woke Dina early, well before water time, when the sky was still dark as night. Two months had pa.s.sed in peace since Beggarmaster had proven his worth, and the flat was back to normal. But drifting half-awake, she was convinced the rattle of pots and pans meant only one thing: the landlord's goondas were back. Heart pounding, hands heavy with sleep, her fingers pecked at the sheet in a bid to uncover herself.

Then again, maybe it was just a nightmare that would play itself out if she lay still...kept her eyes closed...

The noises subsided. Good, the strategy was working, no goondas, only a dream, yes, and Beggarmaster was protecting the flat. Nothing to worry about, she felt, floating back and forth over the threshold of slumber.

Eventually, a persistent miaowing pushed her into full wakefulness, and she sat up with a start. Nuisance of a cat! Disentangling herself from the sheet, she got out of bed and blundered into the wooden stools. One fell over with a thud, waking Maneck in the next room, succeeding where the pots and pans had failed.

"Are you all right, Aunty?"

"Yes, it's a rascal cat in the kitchen. I'm going to break its head. You go back to sleep."

He found his slippers and followed Dina, as much to make sure she would not really hurt the cat as out of curiosity. She switched on the light, and they saw it dart out the window: his favourite, Vijayanthimala, the brown and white tabby.

"The wicked animal," she fumed. "G.o.d knows what it has been licking with its filthy mouth."

Maneck examined the chicken wire ripped off the broken windowpane. "It must have been really desperate to do this. Hope it didn't injure itself."

"You're more worried about the dirty beast than the trouble it creates for me." She began picking up the utensils that had been tumbled from their place and would have to be thoroughly scrubbed.

"Wait," she stopped. "What's that sound?"

Hearing nothing, they continued to tidy the kitchen. Moments later she froze again, and this time a feeble whimper threaded its way through the silence. There was no mistaking it, it was in the kitchen.

In the corner, in the hollow where coal fires used to burn for cooking in the old days, lay three brown and white kittens. A chorus of tiny miaows greeted Dina and Maneck as they bent over to look.

"Oh my!" she gasped. "How sweet!"

"No wonder Vijayanthimala was looking fat lately," he grinned.

The kittens struggled to get to their feet, and she felt she had never seen anything so helpless. "I wonder if she gave birth to them right here."

He shook his head. "They seem a few days old to me. She must have brought them in during the night."

"I wonder why. Oh, they are so sweet."

"Would you still like to make violin strings out of them, Aunty?"

She gave him a reproachful look. But when he stroked them gently she pulled him back. "Don't touch. How do you know what germs they have?"

"They are only babies."

"So? They can still carry disease." She spread open a page from an old newspaper and grasped it in the middle.

"What are you doing?" he asked in alarm.

"Protecting my hands. I'll place all three right outside the window, where the cat can see them."

"You can't do that!" He argued that if the mother had abandoned the kittens they would starve to death. That is, if crows and rats didn't attack them first, peck out their tiny eyes, tear open the little bodies, rip out their entrails, and gnaw at the delicate bones.

"There's no need for so many details," she said. The kittens kept up a pitiful wailing in concurrence with his gruesome scenario. "What do you want to do?"

"Feed them."

"Out of the question," she declared once they were fed, they would never leave. And the mother, even if she were contemplating a return, would shirk her duties. "I cannot be responsible for all the homeless creatures in the world."

He finally managed to win a reprieve for the kittens. She agreed not to move them for the time being, to give Vijayanthimala a chance to hear her litter calling. Perhaps their cries would persuade her to come back.

"Look," he pointed outside. "It's dawn."

"What a beautiful sky," she paused, staring dreamily through the window.

The taps began to flow, interrupting her reverie. She hurried to the bathroom while he examined the yard for sleeping cats. He gazed beyond, where the warren of alleys began. In that optimistic first light, the promise of transformation shone down upon the sleeping city. He knew the feeling wouldn't stay more than a few minutes he had experienced it before, it always faded under stronger light.

Still, he was grateful while it lasted. When the tailors awoke he told them the news and took them to the kitchen. Their approach caused the steady whimpers to increase in volume.

Dina hustled them out. "With such a big crowd watching, that cat will never return." Then she went in herself, ostensibly to make tea, and stood in the corner smiling, sighing, watching the kittens wobbling around inside the coal fireplace, clambering over one another, collapsing in a heap. Their mother had chosen the spot well, she thought, the hollow deep enough to keep them from climbing out and wandering.

Not much work was done that morning. Maneck claimed he had no cla.s.ses till noon. "How convenient," said Dina, as he kept up his vigil at the kitchen door and reported back with fresh bulletins. The tailors silenced their machines frequently to listen for the kittens.

Time pa.s.sed, and their wails grew loud enough to be heard over the Singers. "How much they are crying," said Om. "Must be hungry."

"Just like human babies," said Maneck. "They need to be fed regularly." He watched Dina from the corner of his eye. He knew the whimpering was starting to bother her. She inquired casually if such tiny creatures could tolerate cow's milk.

"Yes," he answered promptly. "But diluted with water, or it's too heavy for them. After a few days they can also eat pieces of bread soaked in it. That's what my father feeds the puppies and kittens at home."

For another hour she refused to give in, fending off the pleas from the kitchen. Then, "Oh, it's hopeless," she said. "Come on, Mr. Mac, you're the expert."

They warmed the mixture of milk and water before pouring it in an aluminium saucer. The squirming kittens were lifted out of the coal fireplace onto newspaper spread upon the floor. "Let me also carry them," demanded Om, and Maneck let him take the last one.

The three cowered on the paper, unable to stop shivering. Gradually, the smell of milk drew them closer, and they gave a few tentative licks along the rim. Soon they crowded the saucer, lapping furiously. When it was empty they stood with their paws in it and looked up. Maneck refilled it, let them drink again, then removed it.

"Why so stingy?" said Dina. "Give them more."

"After two hours. They'll be sick if they overeat." From his room he fetched an empty cardboard box and lined the bottom with fresh newspaper.

"I won't have them in the kitchen," she objected. "It's unhygienic."

Om volunteered to keep the box on the verandah.

"Fine," she said. At night, though, she wanted the kittens returned to the hollow of the fireplace. She was still hoping the mother would retrieve her offspring. The broken windowpane was left unrepaired to welcome back the cat.

For seven nights Dina cleared the kitchen of pots and pans, secured the cabinet, and shut the kitchen door. Seven dawns she went to the coal fireplace as soon as she rose, wishing it to be empty, and the kittens greeted her happily, eager for their breakfast.

She began to look forward to the morning reunion. By the end of the week she found herself worrying when she went to bed what if it was tonight, what if the cat took them away? She ran to the kitchen on waking and ah, relief! They had not disappeared!

The nightly ritual of transfer from box to fireplace was discontinued. The tailors were happy to share their quarters with the kittens. Growing fast, the three took to exploring the verandah, and the adjoining doors had to be kept shut to stop them wandering into the sewing room and messing up the fabric. Soon they were making brief outdoor forays through the bars on the verandah window.

"You know, Dinabai," said Ishvar one night after dinner. "The cat paid you a great tribute. By leaving her babies here she was saying she trusted this house which is an honour to you."

"What complete nonsense." She was having none of this sentimental rubbish. "Naturally the cat came here with her kittens. This was the window from which three softhearted fools regularly tossed food for her."

But Ishvar was determined to wring some moral, some kind of higher truth out of the situation. "No matter what you say, this house is blessed. It brings good fortune. Even the wicked landlord couldn't hurt us in here. And the kittens are a good omen. It means Om will also have lots of healthy children."

"First he must have a wife," she said drily.

"Bilkool correct," he said earnestly. "I have been thinking hard about it, and we mustn't wait much longer."

"How can you talk so foolishly?" she said, a little annoyed. "Om is just starting in life, money is short, you don't have a place for yourselves. And you think about a wife for him?"

"Everything will come in time. We must have faith. The important point is, he must marry soon and start a family."

"You hear that, Om?" she called to the verandah. "Your uncle wants you to marry soon and start a family. Just make sure it's not in my kitchen again."

"You must forgive him," said Om, putting on a paternalistic tone. "Sometimes, my poor uncle's screw comes a little loose, and he says crazy things."

"Whatever you do, don't rely on me for accommodation," said Maneck. "I have no more cardboard boxes to spare."

"What, yaar," complained Om. "I was hoping you would stack two boxes for me, make me a two-storey bungalow."

"It's not nice to make fun of auspicious events," said Ishvar, a little offended. He didn't think his proposal warranted ridicule.

The kittens returned from their wanderings punctually at mealtimes, through the bars on the verandah window. "Look at them," said Dina fondly. "Coming and going like this was a hotel."

Then the absences grew longer as they learned to forage for food, haunting the alleys with their kin. The gutters and garbage heaps beckoned with irresistible smells, and the kittens answered the call.

Their random disappearances saddened everyone. Maneck and Om kept saving tidbits carefully piled high in one plate. Each day they hoped that the kittens would deign to put in an appearance. After waiting till late at night they got rid of the sc.r.a.ps, before it attracted vermin; they fed whatever was prowling outside the kitchen window, eyes gleaming anonymously in the dark.

When the kittens did show up, it became an occasion for rejoicing. If there were no suitable leftovers, Maneck or Om would dash out to buy bread and milk from the Vishram. Sometimes the kittens lingered after the snack, ready to play a little, worrying the snippets of cloth near the sewing-machines. More often, they departed immediately.

"Eating and running," said Dina, "as though they owned the place."

By and by, the visits grew less frequent and briefer in duration. The kittenish curiosity displayed at every little thing was outgrown; the milk and bread was completely ignored. Outdoor scrounging had evidently endowed them with a more adventurous palate.

To draw their attention, Om and Maneck got down on all fours beside the bowl. "Miaow!" they chorused. "Mii-aooow!" Om sniffed loudly along the rim, and Maneck let his tongue flap in and out in a manic display of lapping. The kittens were not impressed. They watched the performance detachedly, yawned, and began cleaning themselves.

Three months after they were discovered in the coal fireplace, the kittens disappeared altogether. When a fortnight pa.s.sed without a sign of them, Dina was convinced they had been run over. Maneck said they could equally well have been attacked by a crazy pariah dog.

"Or those big rats," said Om. "Even full-grown cats are scared of them."

Considering these gloomy possibilities, they grew morose, though Ishvar continued to believe the kittens were all right. They were smart, tough little creatures, he reminded the others, and used to life on the streets. No one shared his optimism. They became annoyed with him, as though he had suggested something morbid.

Into their grief and dejection arrived Beggarmaster to collect his instalment. The dusk seemed darker than usual because the streetlights had not come on. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Is the landlord bothering you again?"

"No," said Dina. "But our sweet little kittens have disappeared."