No one came to investigate. The streets were accustomed to the caterwauling of lonely lunatics and the howling of disillusioned dipsomaniacs. Across the road someone laughed hysterically; dogs barked; a temple bell clanged. Rajaram fled the place, walking as fast as he dared without attracting attention.

Later he threw away his scissors, his bloodstained clothes, and the hair. The first chance he got, he shaved his head and moustache, for when the police questioned the people in the area, the beggars would be sure to describe the fellow who used to come around regularly, cutting and collecting hair.

"But I am not safe," said Rajaram. "Though it has been months, the CID CID is still looking for me. G.o.d knows why my case fascinates them there are hundreds of other crimes taking place every day." The tea in his cup had gone cold. He made a face as he swallowed it. "So now you know every unfortunate thing that has happened. Will you help me?" is still looking for me. G.o.d knows why my case fascinates them there are hundreds of other crimes taking place every day." The tea in his cup had gone cold. He made a face as he swallowed it. "So now you know every unfortunate thing that has happened. Will you help me?"

"But how?" said Ishvar. "Maybe it is best to give yourself up. It seems hopeless for you."

"There is hope." Rajaram paused and leaned closer, fixing his eyes on them. They were shining a little now. "As I first told you, I want to renounce this world of trouble and sorrow. I want the simple existence of a sanyasi. I want to meditate for long hours in a cold, dark Himalayan cave. I will sleep on hard surfaces. Rise with the sun and retire with the stars. Rain and wind, no matter how strong, will be of little consequence to my mortified flesh. I will throw away my comb, and my hair and beard will grow long and knotted. Tiny creatures will find peaceful refuge in them, digging and burrowing as they choose, for I will not disturb them."

Ishvar raised his eyebrows and Om rolled his eyes, but Rajaram did not notice either of them. He pushed aside his teacup slowly, deliberately, as though performing his first act of abnegation. The wild, romantic vision of an ascetic was a stimulant to his imagination, giving it a graphic turn.

"I will go with bare feet, my soles and heels cracked, torn, bleeding from a dozen lesions and lacerations to which shall be applied no salve or ointment. Snakes wandering across my path in dark jungles will not frighten me. Stray dogs will nip at my ankles as I roam through strange towns and remote villages. I will beg for my food. Children, and sometimes even adults, will mock me and throw stones at me, scared of my strange countenance and my frenzied inward-gazing eyes. I will go hungry and naked when necessary. I will stumble across rocky plains and down steep hills. I will never complain."

His eyes had drifted from his audience, focusing wistfully in the distance, having already started their travels across the subcontinent. He seemed to be rather enjoying himself, as though it were a holiday itinerary he was planning. In the cook's corner, the stove ran out of fuel. Without its roar the place was hushed.

The silence dragged Rajaram away from his daydream, back to the Vishram's solitary and smelly table. The cook went to the rear to fetch the kerosene can. They watched him insert the funnel and fill the stove.

"Worldly life has led me to disaster," said Rajaram. "It always does, for all of us. Only, it's not always obvious, as was in my case. And now I am at your mercy."

"But we don't know anything about becoming a sanyasi," said Ishvar. "What do you want from us?"

"Money. I need train fare to reach the Himalayas. There is hope of redeeming myself if I can get away from the police and CID." CID."

They returned to the flat. Rajaram waited at the door while Ishvar went inside and asked Dina to let him have, out of their savings, the price of a third-cla.s.s Frontier Mail Frontier Mail ticket. ticket.

"It's your money, and it's not for me to say how you spend it," she said. "But if he is renouncing the world, why does he need train fare? He can get there on foot, begging his way like other sadhus."

"That's true," said Ishvar. "But that would take a lot of time. He is in a hurry for salvation."

He took the money out to Rajaram on the verandah, who counted it, then hesitated. "Could I possibly have another ten rupees?"

"For what?"

"Sleeping berth surcharge. It's very uncomfortable to sit all night through such a long train journey."

"Sorry," said Ishvar, almost ready to s.n.a.t.c.h back the notes. "We can't spare any more than this. But please visit us if you are in the city sometime, we can have tea together."

"I doubt it," said Rajaram. "Sanyasis don't take vacations." Then he laughed mirthlessly and was gone.

Om wondered if they would ever see him again. "His habit of borrowing money was a nuisance, but he was an interesting fellow. He brought us news of the world."

"Don't worry," said Ishvar. "With Rajaram's luck, all the caves will be occupied when he gets there. He'll come back with a story about how there was a No Vacancy sign in the Himalayas."

XIV.

Return of Solitude

DUST AND FLECKS OF FIBRE made Dina sneeze as she cleaned out the sewing room and sorted the leftovers. The rush of breath lifted bits of fabric. The last dresses had been delivered to Au Revoir, and Mrs. Gupta was informed about the six-week break. made Dina sneeze as she cleaned out the sewing room and sorted the leftovers. The rush of breath lifted bits of fabric. The last dresses had been delivered to Au Revoir, and Mrs. Gupta was informed about the six-week break.

Now Dina regarded the approaching emptiness of time with curiosity. Like a refresher course in solitude, she thought. It would be good practice. Without tailors, without a paying guest, alone with her memories, to go through them one by one, examine like a coin collection, their shines and tarnishes and embossments. If she forgot how to live with loneliness, one day it would be hard for her.

She set aside the best swatches for the quilt, stuffing the remainder in the bottom shelf. The Singers were pushed into a corner and the stools stacked on top, which provided more room around the bed. The tailors' trunk, packed and ready, stood on the verandah. The things they were not taking were stored in cardboard boxes.

With two days to departure and nothing to do, the pa.s.sing hours had a strangeness to them, loose and unstructured, as though the st.i.tches were broken, the tent of time sagging one moment, billowing the next.

After dinner Dina resumed work on the quilt. Except for a two-square-foot gap at one end, it had grown to the size she wanted, seven by six. Om sat on the floor, ma.s.saging his uncle's feet. Watching them, Maneck wondered what it might be like to ma.s.sage Daddy's feet.

"That counterpane looks good, for sure," said Om. "Should be complete by the time we return."

"Could be, if I add more pieces from old jobs," she said. "But repet.i.tion is tedious. I'll wait till there is new material." They took opposite ends of the quilt and spread it out. The neat st.i.tches crisscrossed like symmetrical columns of ants.

"How beautiful," said Ishvar.

"Oh, anyone can make a quilt," she said modestly. "It's just sc.r.a.ps, from the clothes you've sewn."

"Yes, but the talent is in joining the pieces, the way you have."

"Look," Om pointed, "look at that the poplin from our first job."

"You remember," said Dina, pleased. "And how fast you finished those first dresses. I thought I had found two geniuses."

"Hungry stomachs were driving our fingers," chuckled Ishvar.

"Then came that yellow calico with orange stripes. And what a hard time this young fellow gave me. Fighting and arguing about everything."

"Me? Argue? Never."

"I recognize these blue and white flowers," said Maneck. "From the skirts you were making on the day I moved in."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it was the day Ishvar and Om did not come to work they had been kidnapped for the Prime Minister's compulsory meeting."

"Oh, that's right. And do you recall this lovely voile, Om?"

He coloured and pretended he didn't. "Come on, think," she encouraged. "How can you forget? It's the one on which you spilled your blood, when you cut your thumb with the scissors."

"I don't remember that," said Maneck.

"It was in the month before you came. And the chiffon was fun, it made Om lose his temper. The pattern was difficult to match, so slippery."

Ishvar leaned over to indicate a cambric square. "See this? Our house was destroyed by the government, the day we started on this cloth. Makes me feel sad whenever I look at it."

"Get me the scissors," she joked. "I'll cut it out and throw it away."

"No no, Dinabai, let it be, it looks very nice in there." His fingers stroked the cambric texture, recapturing the time. "Calling one piece sad is meaningless. See, it is connected to a happy piece sleeping on the verandah. And the next square chapatis. Then that violet tusser, when we made masala wada and started cooking together. And don't forget this georgette patch, where Beggarmaster saved us from the landlord's goondas."

He stepped back, pleased with himself, as though he had elucidated an intricate theorem. "So that's the rule to remember, the whole quilt is much more important than any single square."

"Vah, vah!" exclaimed the boys with a round of applause.

"That sounds very wise," said Dina.

"But is it philosophy or fakeology?"

Ishvar rumpled his nephew's hair in retaliation.

"Stop it, yaar, I've got to look good for my wedding." Om pulled out his comb and restored the parting and puff.

"My mother collects string in a ball," said Maneck. "We used to play a game when I was little, unravelling it and trying to remember where each piece of string came from."

"Let's try that game with the quilt," said Om. He and Maneck located the oldest piece of fabric and moved chronologically, patch by patch, reconstructing the chain of their mishaps and triumphs, till they reached the uncompleted corner.

"We're stuck in this gap," said Om. "End of the road."

"You'll just have to wait," said Dina. "It depends on what material we get with the next order."

"Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past."

Ishvar's lighthearted words washed over Maneck like cold rain; his joy went out like a lamp. The future was was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching what? A bit of string, sc.r.a.ps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present... becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching what? A bit of string, sc.r.a.ps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present...

"Are you listening?" asked Dina. "How strong is your memory? Can you remember everything about this one year without looking at my quilt?"

"Seems much longer than one year to me," said Om.

"Don't be stupid," said Maneck. "It's just the opposite."

"Hoi-hoi," said Ishvar. "How can time be long or short? Time is without length or breadth. The question is, what happened during its pa.s.sing. And what happened is, our lives have been joined together."

"Like these patches," said Om.

Maneck said the quilt did not have to end when the corner was filled in. "You could keep adding, Aunty, let it grow bigger."

"Here you go again, talking foolishly," said Dina. "What would I do with a monster quilt like that? Don't confuse me with your quiltmaker G.o.d."

In the midst of the morning Dina was becalmed. The water ch.o.r.es were done, last night's dishes were scrubbed, clothes were washed. Without the chatter and hammer of the Singers, the rest of the day stretched emptily. She sat and watched Maneck eat a late breakfast.

"You should have gone with Ishvar and Om," he tried to cheer her up. "You could have helped to choose the wife."

"Are you being smart again?"

"No, I'm sure they'd have been happy to take you. You could have joined the Bride Selection Committee." He choked on his toast, retaining the morsel with difficulty.

She patted his back till the fit pa.s.sed. "Weren't you taught not to speak with your mouth full?"

"It's Ishvar in my throat," he grinned. "Taking revenge because I am making fun of his auspicious event."

"Poor man. I just hope he knows what he is doing. And I hope that whoever they pick, she tries to fit in, get along with all of us."

"I'm sure she will, Aunty. Om is not going to get a bad-tempered or unfriendly wife."

"Oh, I know. But he may not have a choice. In these arranged marriages, astrologers and families decide everything. Then the woman becomes the property of the husband's family, to be abused and bullied. It's a terrible system, turns the nicest girls into witches. But one thing she will have to understand it's my house, and follow my ways, like you and Ishvar and Om. Or it will be impossible to get along."

She stopped, realizing she was sounding like a mother-in-law. "Come on, finish that egg," she changed the subject. "Your final exams begin tomorrow?"

He nodded, chewing. She began to clear the breakfast things. "And five days later you leave. Have you made your reservation?"

"Yes, it's all done," he said, gathering his books for the library. "And I'll be back soon, don't give away my room to anyone, Aunty."

The mail arrived, with an envelope from Maneck's parents. He opened it, handed the rent cheque to Dina, then read the letter.

"Mummy-Daddy are all right, I hope?" she said, watching his face start to cloud.

"Oh yes, everything is normal. Same as always. Now their complaints are starting again. They say: 'Why are you going to college for three more years? Your fees are not the problem, but we will miss you. And there is so much work in the shop, we cannot manage alone, you should take over.'" He put the letter down. "If I do decide to go back, it will be fighting and shouting with Daddy every day."

She saw his fist clench, and she squeezed his shoulder. "Parents are as confused by life as anyone else. But they try very hard."

He gave her the letter, and she read the rest of it. "Maneck, I really think you should do what your mummy is requesting visit the Sodawalla family. You haven't seen them even once in this whole year."

Shrugging, he made a face and went to his room. When he emerged, she noticed the box under his arm. "Are you taking your chess set to college?"

"It's not mine. Belongs to a friend. I'm going to return it today."

On the way to the bus stop he deliberated about the letter Daddy's turmoil, Mummy's anguish, their doubts and fears writhing through the words. What if they really meant it? Maybe it would work out fine this time, maybe the year's absence really had helped Daddy come to terms with the changes in his life.

He made a little detour past the Vishram in order to wave to Shankar. The beggar did not notice him, distracted, craning and staring down the pavement towards the corner. Maneck bent over, waving again, and Shankar acknowledged him by tapping his tin against the platform. "O babu, are you fine? My friends departed safely?"

"Yesterday," said Maneck.

"How exciting for them. And today is an exciting day for me also. Beggarmaster's barber is coming to shave me. But I wish Ishvar and Om were here. How they would enjoy seeing my face afterwards."

"I'll be here, don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow," said Maneck, and continued to the bus stop.

Shankar's eyes followed Maneck until he disappeared around the corner, then resumed their vigil for the barber. The platform stood motionless by the kerb. The begging tin remained empty, the begging song unheard. Shankar did nothing to attract the attention of alms-givers. All he could think of was the sumptuous grooming, the full luxury treatment that awaited him at the hands of Beggarmaster's personal barber.

Shankar did not know that earlier in the morning the personal barber had declined the commission. Pavement work was something he did not do, he had told Beggarmaster. Instead, he had presented someone else for the job. "This is Rajaram. He is very good and very cheap, and does pavement work."

"Namaskaar," said Rajaram.

"Listen," said Beggarmaster, "Shankar may be just a beggar but I love him dearly I want the very best for him. No offence to you, but I cannot help questioning your skills. How much can a bald man know about hair?"