Mr. Valmik, meanwhile, to answer her question, stroked his precious pens and began his story. Dina felt there was something slightly obscene about this habit of his. Still, touching pens was preferable to touching crotches, the way some men did, to push their things to left or right, or for no reason at all.
His voice was guttural as he told of the enthusiastic young student at law college whose promise was recognized early by his teachers, but who, after being called to the bar, craved peace and solitude, and found it in proofreading. “For twenty-five years I enjoyed the civilized companionship of words. Till one day, when my eyes turned allergic, and my world turned upside down.”
The rasping noises from his throat were so distorted that Dina was having trouble understanding him. But her ears became attuned to the rare timbres and bizarre frequencies. She realized that although Mr. Valmik depicted life as a sequence of accidents, there was nothing accidental about his expert narration. His sentences poured out like perfect seams, holding the garment of his story together without calling attention to the stitches. Was he aware of ordering the events for her? Perhaps not — perhaps the very act of telling created a natural design. Perhaps it was a knack that humans had, for cleaning up their untidy existences — a hidden survival weapon, like antibodies in the bloodstream.
As he spoke, he absently pulled out a fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and put the nib to his nose. She watched, perplexed, as each nostril in turn was pressed shut and the ink fragrance inhaled deeply.
Fortified by his fix of Royal Blue, he continued, “Now I had to contend with the noisy world of morcha productions and protest marches, in order to put food in the tummy-tum-tum. Slogan-making and slogan-shouting became my new profession. And thus began the devastation of my vocal cords.”
The lawyer’s tale reminded her of her languishing patchwork quilt. Om’s wedding gift. And Mr. Valmik had his own fragments to fashion his oral quilt, which he was now reciting for her benefit. Like a conjuror pulling an endless chain of silk scarves from his mouth.
“Ultimately, it was just another chance event — my finding the sergeant-major when I did. Shouting was second nature to him. He shouted even when there was no need. His rawhide throat thrived on it, and I was finally able to give mine a rest.”
He stopped to offer her a cough lozenge; she declined. He popped one in his own mouth. “Such plans I had, to expand, to open branch offices in every big city. I envisioned buying a helicopter and training a unit of Flying Sloganeers. Wherever there was a strike or unrest, whenever a protest march was required, one phone call and my men would descend from the sky, banners at the ready.”
The entrepreneurial gleam in his eye faded with reluctance. “Unfortunately, during this Emergency, morchas and demonstrations are banned by the government. So for the past year I have sat on this broken bench, armed with my law degree. The circle is completed.”
He crunched up the half-sucked lozenge, having run out of patience with shifting it from cheek to cheek. “How much I have lost, in describing the circle. Ambition, solitude, words, eyesight, vocal cords. In fact, that is the central theme of my life story — loss. But isn’t it the same with all life stories? Loss is essential. Loss is part and parcel of that necessary calamity called life.”
She nodded, not quite convinced.
“Mind you, I’m not complaining. Thanks to some inexplicable universal guiding force, it is always the worthless things we lose — slough off, like a moulting snake. Losing, and losing again, is the very basis of the life process, till all we are left with is the bare essence of human existence.”
Now Dina grew extremely impatient with Mr. Valmik. This last bit sounded like a lot of tiresome nonsense. “The snake has a brand-new skin underneath,” she cut him off. “I would prefer not to lose my flat, unless a new one will rise in its place.”
Mr. Valmik looked as though he had been struck in his diaphragm. But he recovered quickly and smiled, appreciating her argument. “Very good. Very good indeed, Mrs. Dalai. That was a poor example I gave. And you caught me. Very good. And a good sense of humour too. One of the drawbacks of my profession is the total lack of humour. The Law is a grim, unsmiling thing. Not Justice, though. Justice is witty and whimsical and kind and caring.”
He picked up his signboard and packed it away, stowing the brick under the bench till he should need it again. He dusted its red powder off his hands and declaimed, “I will arise and go now, and go to write this plea, and a convincing petition build, of words and passion made.”
The strange diction made her regard Mr. Valmik curiously. She wondered if she had chosen the right lawyer after all.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m inspired by the poet Yeats. I find his words especially relevant during this shameful Emergency. You know-things falling apart, centre not holding, anarchy loosed upon the world, and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” said Dina. “And everything ends badly.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Valmik. “Now that is too pessimistic for Mr. Yeats. He could never have written that line. But please come to my office, day after tomorrow, and I will bring you up to date.”
“Office? Where?”
“Right here,” he laughed. “This broken bench is my office.” He tenderly patted the pen he had reinserted into the plastic sheath. “Mrs. Dalai, I must thank you for listening to my story. Not many people have the time these days to indulge me. The last opportunity I had was a year ago, with a college student. We were both on a very long train journey. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Valmik.”
After he left, a fresh group of youngsters became engrossed in plundering the mango tree’s sparse green treasures. Their effort and excitement were amusing to observe. Dina sat for a few minutes longer before starting back to her flat.
A police sergeant and constable were joined in argument with two men over the question of the padlock on the front door. The scene had been rehearsed frequently in Dina’s mind; she felt no sense of crisis. One phase of life was concluding, another beginning. Time for the latest instalment, she thought. A new patch in the quilt.
She recognized the two men, the landlord’s goondas. Their hands looked so different, she realized, thanks to Beggarmaster. The fingers were bent in grotesque ways, misshapen, of incongruous lengths, as in a child’s drawing. The man was dead but his work lived on.
“What is it, what do you want here?” she bluffed.
“Sergeant Kesar, madam,” he said, plucking his thumbs out of his belt where he had stuck them aggressively while addressing the goondas. “Very sorry for the trouble. There is an eviction order for this flat.”
“You can’t do that. I’ve just come from my lawyer, he is applying for a court injunction.”
The bald goonda grinned. “Sorry, sister, we were first.”
“What do you mean, first?” She appealed to Sergeant Kesar: “It’s not a race or something, I have a right to go to court.”
He shook his head sadly; he had a long professional acquaintance with the goondas, and was waiting for the day when they could be put away in the lockup. “Actually speaking, madam, there is nothing I can do. Sometimes the law works just like a lemon-and-spoon race. The eviction has to take place. You can appeal later.”
“I might as well bang my head against a brick wall.”
The goondas agreed with her, nodding sympathetically. “Courts are useless. Arguments and adjournments, testimony and evidence. Takes forever. All those stupid things are unnecessary under the Emergency.” His partner rattled the padlock, reminding the law to get a move on.