“Give it to someone… to your nephews?”
“Xerxes and Zarir don’t play. They are very busy men.”
Maneck nodded. “Thank you,” he said again.
“You’re welcome.”
He hesitated, turning the box around and around in his hands, gently running his fingers along the edge. “Bye-bye, Aunty.”
She nodded silently. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek lightly, quickly. She raised her hand as though to wave, stepped back, and began to close the door. He turned and hurried down the cobbled walkway.
He stopped when he heard the door shut. He was under a tree at the end of the path. A bird sang in the branches. He listened, staring at the board and box in his hands. Something fell on his head, and he jumped aside to avoid a second dropping. His fingers felt the sticky splotch. Using leaves from the tree, he wiped his hair and looked up. There was only a crow, the singing bird had flown. He wondered which one was in his hair. Daddy used to say a common crow’s droppings brought uncommon good luck.
He glanced at his watch: twenty to one. Ishvar and Om would be arriving soon. If he spent a few minutes here, he could see them. And they would see him. But — what would he say?
In the quiet street outside the house, he began strolling along the footpath. Up, towards the end of the street, then down again, to Dina Aunty’s house. After several turns, he saw two beggars rounding the corner from the main road.
One sat slumped on a low platform that moved on castors. He had no legs. The other pulled the platform with a rope slung over his shoulder. His plumpness sat upon him strangely, like oversized, padded clothes. Under his arm he carried a torn umbrella.
What shall I say? he asked himself desperately.
They drew nearer, and the one on the platform jiggled the coins in his tin can. “O babu, ek paisa?” he pleaded, looking up shyly.
Ishvar, it’s me, Maneck! Don’t you recognize me! The words raced uselessly inside his head, unable to find an exit. Say something, he commanded himself, say anything!
The other beggar demanded, “Babu! Aray, paisa day!” His voice was high-pitched, challenging, his look direct and mocking. They stopped expectantly, hand held out, tin rattling.
Om! Sour-lime face, my friend! Have you forgotten me!
But his words of love and sorrow and hope remained muted like stones.
The legless beggar coughed and spat. Maneck glanced at the gob; it was tinged with blood. The platform started to roll past him, and he saw that Ishvar was sitting on a cushion. No, not a cushion. It was dirty and fraying, folded to the size of a cushion. The patchwork quilt.
Wait, he wanted to call out — wait for me. He wanted to hurry after them, go back to Dina Aunty with them, tell her he had changed his mind.
He did nothing. The two turned into the cobbled walkway and disappeared from sight. He could hear the castors clattering briefly over the uneven stones. The sound died; he continued on his way.
Past the cricket maidaan, past Bal Baba’s marquee, past the injured carpenter by the kerb, Maneck hurried till he was in familiar surroundings again. He saw the new neon sign of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The place seemed like a prosperous restaurant now, enlarged by having swallowed the shops on either side, its lights humming and flickering fatuously in the afternoon sun. EAT DRINK, ENJOY IN OUR AIR-CONDITIONED COMFORT, said the smaller board under the neon.
He entered, and was shown to a shiny glass-topped table. A neat, uniformed waiter appeared, bearing a large, glossy menu. Maneck placed the chess set on an empty chair beside him and ordered a coffee.
The eating house was busy; it was lunchtime. The waiter hurried back with a glass of water. “Making fresh coffee, sahab. Two more minutes.”
Maneck nodded. On a high shelf behind the cash desk, a loudspeaker emitted vapid instrumental music, purposeless above the restaurant bustle. He gazed at the tables around him, at office workers in bush shirts, ties, jackets, eating energetically, their animated conversations supplementing the clatter of cutlery — office talk, about management treachery and dearness allowances, budgets and promotions. This was a new class of clientele, far removed from the peons and sweaty labourers who used to eat here in the old days.
The coffee arrived. Maneck added sugar, stirred at length, sipped a little. Immediately the waiter, lingering nearby, stepped forward. “Is it good, sahab?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The man adjusted the salt and pepper containers and wiped the ashtray with vigour. “So, sahab, the Prime Minister’s son has taken over. You think he will be a good ruler?”
“Who knows. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“That’s true. They all say one thing, do something else.” He left to attend another table, where the customers had finished eating. Maneck watched him stack the plates, then add to this stack at the next table, and the next, before staggering off to the kitchen with the lot.
He soon returned and inspected Maneck’s half-empty cup. “Anything to eat, sahab?”
Maneck shook his head.
“We have nice tasty ice cream also.”
“No, thank you.” The over-attentiveness was getting on his nerves — the polite smile like part of the new decor, he felt, in the new Vishram. Where he was alone. In the old Vishram, he had always come with Om and Ishvar. Afternoons, at that single, smelly table. And Shankar rolling outside, waving his incomplete hands, wiggling his truncated legs, smiling, rattling his tin. And then his funeral pyre. The priest’s chanting, the burning sandalwood, the fragrant smoke. Completeness. In the crematorium with Daddy this was missing, an open pyre was definitely better. Better for the living…
A group of customers noisily pushed back their chairs to leave; a new batch took their place. They greeted the staff by name. Regulars, apparently. Maneck picked up the maroon plywood box and pushed open the sliding lid, fishing out a piece at random. A pawn. He rolled it between his thumb and fingers, observed that the green felt on its base was peeling.
The waiter saw it too. “You should use Camel Paste, sahab, it will stick it strong.”
Maneck nodded. He drank what remained of the coffee and dropped the pawn back in the box.
“My son also plays this game,” said the waiter proudly.
Maneck looked up. “Oh? Does he have his own set?”
“No, sahab, it is too expensive. He plays in school only.” Noticing the empty cup, he offered the menu again. “Two o’clock, sahab, kitchen is closing soon. We have very nice karai chicken, also biryani. Or some small thing? Mutton roll, pakora with chutney, puri-bhaji?”
“No, just one more coffee.” Maneck rose and went to the back, looking for the wc.
It was occupied. He waited in the passage, where he could observe the brisk kitchen activity. The cook’s perspiring helper was chopping, frying, stirring; a skinny little boy was scraping off dirty plates and soaking them in the sink.
Despite the chrome and glass and fluorescent lights, something of the old Vishram remained, thought Maneck — kerosene and coal fuelled the stoves. Then the wc door creaked open, and he went in.
When he came out, the table nearest the kitchen had been vacated. He decided to take it. The waiter darted across to remind him his second coffee was waiting at the other table.
“I’ll have it here,” said Maneck.
“But it’s not good, sahab. Kitchen noise, and smell and all, over here.”
“That’s okay.”
The waiter complied, fetching the coffee and the chess set before retreating to discuss with a colleague the whims and idiosyncrasies of customers.
Someone called out an order of shish kebab to the kitchen. The cook’s helper stoked the coals and, when they had caught, arranged a few on a brazier. Skewers loaded with chunks of lamb and liver were placed over it. The coals perked up as they were fanned.