A Fine Balance (59 page)

The visitor said he would prefer to take a quick look at the injuries and estimate their potential. “Only then can I make a reasonable offer.”

They stepped inside the first hut, temporarily blinded by the move from harsh sunlight into semidarkness. Shankar wheeled his platform around to see who it was. Craning his neck, he let out a shriek of recognition.

“Who’s that?” said the visitor. “Worm?” His eyes had not adjusted to the interior, but he knew the familiar rumble of rolling castors. “So this is where you are. All these weeks I wondered what happened to you.”

Shankar paddled his platform towards the man’s feet, his palms flailing the ground excitedly. “Beggarmaster! The police took me away! I did not want to go!” Relief and anxiety merged in his sobs as he clutched the maris shins. “Beggarmaster, please help me, I want to go home!”

The distraction in the hut prompted the injured to start moaning and coughing, pleading for attention, hoping that this stranger, whoever he was, had at long last brought them deliverance. The Facilitator moved closer to the door for fresh air.

“Don’t worry, Worm, of course I’ll take you back,” said Beggarmaster. “How can I do without my best beggar?” He completed a quick inspection of the disabled and turned to leave. Shankar wanted to accompany him right then, but was told to wait. “First I have to make some arrangements.”

Outside, Beggarmaster asked the Facilitator, “Is Worm included in the lot?”

“Of course he is.”

“I won’t pay you for what is already mine. I inherited him from my father. And my father had him since he was a child.”

“But see it from my side, no,” bargained the Facilitator. “I had to pay the police for him.”

“Forget all that. I am willing to give two thousand rupees for the lot. Worm included.”

The amount was higher than the Facilitator had expected. Taking into account the rebate promised to the foreman, he would still make a nice profit. “We have much business ahead of us,” he said, concealing his delight. “I don’t want to haggle. Two thousand is okay, you can take your Worm.” He chuckled. “And any bugs or centipedes that you like.”

A look of disapproval darkened Beggarmaster’s face. This time he sharply rebuked the Facilitator. “I don’t like people making fun of my beggars.”

“I meant no harm.”

“One more thing. Your truck must take them back to the city – that’s part of the price.”

The Facilitator agreed. He led Beggarmaster to the kitchen and brought him a glass of tea to make up for offending him. Then he went to find the foreman, whose cut was still to be negotiated.

Rowing full tilt, Shankar sped to tell his two friends the happy news, but was intercepted by the overseer, who refused to let the rhythm of the work be interrupted. He shooed him away, stamping his foot, pretending to pick up a stone. Shankar retreated.

He waited till the lunch whistle blew, and caught up with Ishvar and Om near the eating area. “Beggarmaster has found me! I’m going home!”

Om bent to pat his shoulder, and Ishvar comforted him, “Yes, it’s okay, Shankar, don’t worry. One day we’ll all go home, when the work is finished.”

“No, I am going home tomorrow, really! My Beggarmaster is here!” They continued to disbelieve till he explained in more detail.

“But why are you so happy to go?” asked Ishvar. “You are not suffering like us slaves. Free meals, a little fetching and carrying on your gaadi. Don’t you prefer this to begging?”

“I did enjoy it for a while, especially looking after you, and the other sick ones. But now I miss the city.”

“You’re lucky,” said Om. “This work is going to kill us, for sure. Wish we could go back with you.”

“I can ask Beggarmaster to take you. Let’s talk with him.”

“Yes, but we… okay, ask him.”

They found Beggarmaster sipping tea on a bench near the kitchen. Shankar rolled up and tugged at his trouser cuff. “What’s the matter, Worm? I asked you to wait in the hut.” But he left his tea to kneel beside him, listening, nodding, then tousling his hair and laughing. He came over to the tailors.

“Worm says you are his friends. He wants me to help you.”

“Hahnji, please, we will be very grateful.”

He sized them up doubtfully. “Do you have any experience?”

“Oh yes. Many years’ experience,” said Ishvar.

Beggarmaster was sceptical. “It doesn’t look to me like you could be successful.”

Om was indignant. “I can tell you we are very successful.” He held up his two little fingers like votive candles. “Our long nails have broken in all this rough work, but they will grow back. We are fully trained, we can even take measurements straight from the customer’s body.”

Beggarmaster began to laugh. “Measurements from the body?”

“Of course. We are skilled tailors, not hacks who –”

“Forget it. I thought you wanted to work for me as beggars. I have no need for tailors.”

Their hopes crashed. “We are no good here, we keep falling sick,” they pleaded. “Can you not take us? We can pay you for your trouble.” Shankar added his appeal to theirs, that they had been so kind to him from the moment the police had thrown him in the truck that terrible night, almost two months ago.

Beggarmaster and the Facilitator discussed the deal in low voices. The latter wanted two hundred rupees per tailor, because, he said, he would have to make it attractive for the foreman to release two able-bodied specimens: Ishvar’s sprained ankle did not qualify.

Gripping his tea glass, Beggarmaster returned to the tailors. “You can come if the foreman agrees. But it will cost you.”

“How much?”

“Usually, when I look after a beggar, I charge one hundred rupees per week. That includes begging space, food, clothes, and protection. Also, special things like bandages or crutches.”

“Yes, Shankar – Worm – told us about it. He praised you and said you are a very kind Beggarmaster. What luck for him that you came here.”

Pleased as he was with the compliment, he clarified the matter without undue modesty. “Luck has little to do with it. I am the most famous Beggarmaster in the city. Naturally, the Facilitator contacted me. Anyway, your case is different, you don’t need looking after in the same way. Besides, you’ve been good to Worm. Just pay me fifty a week per person, for one year. That will be enough.”

They were staggered. “That means almost two thousand five hundred each!”

“Yes, it’s minimum for what I am offering.”

The tailors calculated the payments between them. “Three days’ worth of sewing each week will go to him,” whispered Ishvar. “That’s too much, we won’t be able to afford it.”

“What choice?” said Om. “You want to toil to death, in this Narak of heartless devils? Just say yes.”

“Wait, I’ll bring him down a bit.” Ishvar approached the man with a worldly expression on his face. “Listen, fifty is too much – we’ll give you twenty-five a week.”

“Get one thing straight,” said Beggarmaster coldly. “I’m not selling onions and potatoes in the bazaar. My business is looking after human lives. Don’t try to bargain with me.” He turned away disdainfully to go back to the kitchen bench.

“Now look what you’ve done!” said Om, panicking. “Our only chance is finished!”

Ishvar waited a moment and shuffled back to Beggarmaster. “We talked it over. It’s expensive, but we’ll take it.”

“You’re sure you can afford it?”

“Oh yes, we have good jobs, regular work.”

Beggarmaster nibbled his thumbnail and spat. “Sometimes, one of my clients will vanish without paying, after enjoying my hospitality. But I always manage to find him. And then there is big trouble for him. Please remember that.” He finished his tea and accompanied the Facilitator to make a renewed offer to the foreman.

When the lunch hour ended, the tailors were reluctant to rejoin the gravel gang and ditch-diggers. With the promise of rescue so close, their resignation to the back-breaking labour vaporized; fatigue overwhelmed them.

“Aray babu, just be a little patient,” said Shankar. “It’s only one more day, don’t cause any trouble. You don’t want them to beat you. Stop worrying now, the foreman will agree, my Beggarmaster is very influential.”

Bolstered by Shankar’s encouragement, they found the strength to return to the overseer. In the late afternoon, they listened anxiously for the bhistee’s song. His arrival signalled the last two hours of work. They drank from his waterskin and got through the remainder of the day.

At dusk, when they stumbled back to their hut, Shankar was waiting, squirming excitedly on his platform. “It’s all decided. They are taking us tomorrow morning. Stay ready with your bedding, don’t miss the truck. Now I must make my preparations.”

He went to find the mechanic in charge of heavy machinery, who gave him oil for his castors. The grit and dust of the construction site was beginning to slow them down. Shankar wanted the platform in prime condition for his return to the pavement. He brought back the can cradled against his stomach. Om helped to lubricate the sluggish wheels.

Early next morning, a security guard ordered Shankar, the tailors, and the injured to assemble at the gate with their things. Those unable to walk were carried by men seconded from a work detail. They did it resentfully, grudging the invalids their imminent freedom. It was the tailors, however, who bore the brunt of the embittered glances.

“See how lucky we are, Om,” said Ishvar, gazing upon the damaged bodies accumulating in the truck. “We could be lying here with broken bones if our stars were not in the proper position.”

Monkey-man was still comatose from his head injury, and Beggarmaster refused to take him. But he wanted the children; they had real potential, he said. The little boy and girl resisted removal, weeping and clinging to their motionless uncle. They had to be dragged away when the truck was ready to leave.

The Facilitator and foreman balanced the debits and credits with a rebate towards the next delivery. Then there was a short delay. The foreman insisted that clothing issued on arrival be removed before departure – he had to account for every article to his superiors.

“Take what you want,” said Beggarmaster. “But please hurry, I have to get back in time for a temple ceremony.”

The ones who had been carried to the truck were incapable of undressing themselves. The workers, about to return to their regular tasks, were ordered to assist them. They vented their frustration by tugging the garments roughly off the injured bodies. Beggarmaster did not pay attention to it. When Shankar’s turn came, however, he made sure they were gentle with his vest.

Now the pavement-dwellers were as naked, or half-naked, as the day they had entered the labour camp; the gate opened and the truck was allowed to leave.

D
ressing up to visit Nusswan’s office was Maneck’s idea. “We should go there looking tiptop. He’ll give you more respect. Appearances are very important to some people.”

In Dina’s present state, anything that sounded like half-sensible advice was welcome. She touched up his grey gabardine trousers with the iron. For herself, she selected her most effective frock, the blue one from her second wedding anniversary, with the vivacious peplum that came alive with walking. Would it still fit? she wondered. Shutting the adjoining door, she tried it on, pleased to discover that a little squeezing was all it took to fasten the zipper. She went into the front room.

“How about some makeup, Aunty?”

Unused for years, the lipstick poked up its head reluctantly as she rotated the base. She made a false start and smudged the lip line, but the labial acrobatics soon came back to her, the pursing and puckering and tautening, the simian contortions that seemed so absurd in the mirror.

The rouge was caked stiff, but under the discoloured crust there was enough to blush her cheeks. The round velvet pad had desiccated into a leathery scab. Once, Rustom had teased her while she was making up, and she retaliated by rouging his nose with the pad. Soft as a rose petal, he had said.

If Nusswan mentioned marriage today, she didn’t know what she would do – overturn his desk, perhaps. She surveyed herself in the mirror. Her reflection nodded approvingly. She hoped that Maneck’s theory linking appearance and respect was correct.

“Are you ready?” she called into his room.

“Wow! You look absolutely beautiful.”

“That’s enough from you,” she scolded, inspecting him from head to toe. He passed muster except for his shoes. She made him shine them before they left.

The office peon made the two wait in the corridor while he disappeared to check with the boss. “Just watch, Nusswan will be busy,” she predicted.

The man returned to announce in a regretful voice, “Sahab is busy.” The peon had worked here for many years, but it always embarrassed him to have to abet his employer’s charade. “Please sit for a few minutes.” He lowered his head and withdrew.

“Goodness knows why Nusswan still tries to impress me in these silly ways,” said Dina. “His busyness will end in exactly fifteen minutes.”

But in her second prediction she was proved wrong, for the peon had mentioned to Nusswan that his sister was beautifully dressed today and accompanied by someone.

“Who?” said Nusswan. “Have we seen her before?”

“Not her, sahab. Him.”

Very curious, thought Nusswan, feeling his chin where he had nicked it that morning. “Young? Old?”

“Young,” said the peon. “Very young.”

Even more curious, decided Nusswan, his imagination wandering wishfully. Boyfriend, maybe? Dina was very attractive at forty-two. Almost as beautiful as she was twenty years ago, when she married that poor, unfortunate Rustom. Unfortunate from beginning to end. In looks, in money, in his life span…

Nusswan paused in his thoughts, gazed ceilingward, and patted his cheeks alternately, reverently, with his right fingertips, to ensure that his brother-in-law rested in peace. He had no desire to speak ill of the departed. So sad, his death. But also a God-given second chance for Dina to set things right, find a more suitable husband. If only she had grabbed the chance.

Such a terrible thing her pride was, and her strange idea of independence. Working like a slave to earn a pittance, humiliating the whole family. And now this latest fiasco with the export company. Slowly, he had learned to let his skin grow thick. But shaking off embarrassment was easier than discarding his sense of duty. She was still his little sister, he had to do his best for her.