She reminded herself of the terror he had inflicted upon her that night, but instead of anger she felt somehow responsible for the loss of his job. “Have you found other work?”
“At my age? Who will hire me?”
“Then how are you managing?”
He looked shamefully at the floor. “Some of the tenants help me a little. Recently, I have made a few friends among them. I stand outside the building and they, you know, give me — help. But never mind all that, sister, let me tell you the reason for my visit. I have come to warn you, you are in great danger from the landlord.”
“I’m not scared of that rascal. Beggarmaster is looking after me.”
“But sister, Beggarmaster is dead.”
“What are you saying? Have you gone crazy?”
“No, he was murdered yesterday. I saw it all, I was standing outside, it was horrible! Horrible!” Ibrahim started to tremble, staggering sideways. She led him to a chair and made him sit.
“Now take a deep breath and tell me properly,” she said.
He took a deep breath. “Yesterday morning I was standing near the gate with my tin can, waiting for help from my tenants — I mean, my friends. I was able to see everything. The police said I was their star witness, and took me along to give a full statement. They kept me till night, asking questions.”
“Who killed Beggarmaster?”
He took another deep breath. “A very sick-looking man. He was hiding behind the stone pillar at the gate. When Beggarmaster entered, he jumped upon his back and tried to stab him. But he was such a weak fellow, his blows were too soft, the knife would not go in. Anyone could have escaped such a feeble attacker.”
“Then why didn’t Beggarmaster?”
“Because Beggarmaster’s luck was not with him that day.”
What was with him, explained Ibrahim, was the large bag full of coins, chained to his wrist, which he had been out gathering from his beggars. Anchored to the ground by this deadweight, one hand immobilized, he was trapped. He thrashed and flailed with the free arm, kicking his legs about, while the frail murderer laboured on, sitting astride his victim’s back, trying to make the blade pass through the clothes, break the skin, enter the flesh and pierce the heart.
“At first it looked so comic. As if he was playing with a plastic folding knife from the balloonman. But he took his time, and finally Beggarmaster stopped moving. He who had lived by the beggings of helpless cripples died by those beggings, rooted by their heaviness. You see, sister, once in a while there is a tiny piece of justice in the universe.”
But Dina was remembering all the beggars at Shankar’s funeral. True, they were free now. But of what use was freedom to them? Scattered about the miserable pavements of the city, orphaned, uncared for — weren’t they better off in Beggarmaster’s custody?
“He wasn’t a completely bad man,” she said.
“Who are we to decide the question of good or bad? It’s just that for once, the scales look level. To be honest, sister, yesterday morning as I saw Beggarmaster approach, even I was thinking of asking him for help — to set me up somewhere in a good location. But the killer got to him first.”
“Did he try to steal the money?”
“No, he wasn’t interested in the bag. And if he was, he would have had to chop the wrist. No, he just threw down his knife and shouted that he was Monkey-man, he had killed Beggarmaster for revenge.”
Dina turned pale and slipped into a chair. Ibrahim struggled out of his own to touch her arm. “Are you all right, sister?”
“The one who said he was Monkey-man — did he have a big scar on his forehead?”
“I think so.”
“He came here last week, wanting to meet Beggarmaster for some business. I told him he was visiting on Thursday — yesterday.” She bunched her fingers in a fist and covered her mouth with it. “I helped the murderer.”
“Don’t say that, sister. You didn’t know he was going to kill.” He patted her hand, and she saw his nails were dirty. A few months ago she would have been repulsed by the touch. Now she was grateful for it. His skin, wrinkled and scaly, like a harmless reptile’s, filled her with wonder and sorrow. Why did I dislike him so much, she asked herself? Where humans were concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure; and sorrow, for the hopelessness of it all. And maybe Maneck was right, everything did end badly.
“Don’t blame yourself, sister,” he said, patting her hand again.
“Why do you keep calling me sister? You are more my father’s age.”
“Okay, I’ll say daughter, then.” He smiled, and it was not his automatic smile. “You see, this Monkey-man fellow would have found Beggarmaster sooner or later, whether you helped him or not. The police said he is a mental case, he didn’t even try to run, just stood there and shouted all kinds of nonsense, that Beggarmaster had stolen two children from him while he was unconscious, and cut off their hands, blinded them, twisted their backs, and turned them into beggars, but now he had fulfilled the prophecy, now his vengeance was complete. Who knows what devils are tormenting the poor man’s mind.”
He touched her hand again. “Now that Beggarmaster is dead, the landlord will soon send someone to throw you out. That’s why I came to warn you.”
“There is not much I can do against his goondas.”
“You must act before he does. You may have a little time. Your paying guest and tailors are gone, so he will need a new excuse. Get a lawyer and — ”
“I can’t afford expensive lawyers.”
“A cheap lawyer will do. He must — ”
“I don’t know how to find one.”
“Go to the courthouse. They will find you. Soon as you walk through the gate, they will come running to you.”
“And then?”
“Interview them, select one you can afford. Tell him you want to seek an injunction against the landlord, to cease and desist from threatening actions and other forms of harassment, that the status quo must be maintained until such time as — ”
“Let me write this down, I won’t remember.” She fetched paper and pencil. “You think it will work?”
“If you are quick. Don’t waste time, my daughter. Go — go now.”
She dug into her purse and found a five-rupee note. “Just till you find a job,” she said, pressing it into his scaly hand.
“No, I cannot take from you, you have enough troubles.”
“Can a daughter not help her old father?”
His eyes were wet as he accepted the money.
The courthouse gates swarmed with the bustle of an impromptu bazaar set up right outside the precinct, where people who had spent hours in the pursuit of justice, and had days, weeks, months more to go, were trying to purchase sustenance from vendors. Spotting the experienced litigants was easy — they were the ones come prepared with food packets, standing to the side and munching calmly. The man frying bhajia had drawn a large hungry crowd. No wonder, thought Dina, the aroma was delicious. Next to him, there was pineapple chilling on a large slab of ice. She admired the neatly serrated round slices, watching the woman notch the fruit with her long, sharp knife to remove the eyes.
Central to the activity outside the courthouse were the typists. They sat cross-legged in their stalls before majestic Underwoods as though at a shrine, banging out documents for the waiting plaintiffs and petitioners. On sale were legal-sized paper, paperclips, file folders, crimson cloth ribbon to secure the typed briefs, blue and red pencils, pens, and ink.
Black-jacketed members of the legal profession prowled among the crowds, hunting for cases. Dina avoided them carefully, deciding to first look around the courthouse compound. “No, thank you,” she repeated to those who offered their help.