“Really?” she asked, sceptical about the change of heart.
“Oh yes, two beautiful tailors, or my name is not Nawaz. The thing is, they don’t have their own shop, they go out and work. But they are very skilled. You will be so happy with them.”
“Okay, I’ll see them tomorrow.” She departed, nurturing no expectations. There had been several false promises in the past few weeks.
On reaching home, she washed her feet and cleaned her shoes, sickened again at the thought of that lane where the children played with their paper boats. Her hopes would not be raised — neither by the tailor’s pledge nor by Zenobia’s assurance that a boarder was just round the corner, that their schoolfriend’s son, Maneck Kohlah, would drop in any day now to inspect the room.
And so, next morning, when the doorbell rang, Dina welcomed her change of fortune with open arms. The paying guest stood at her door, along with the fruit of yesterday’s square of paper: two tailors named Ishvar and Omprakash Darji.
As Zenobia would have put it, the whole jing-bang trio arrived at her flat together.
II. For Dreams to Grow
THE OFFICES OF AU REVOIR EXPORTS looked and smelled like a warehouse, the floors stacked high with bales of textiles swaddled in hessian. The chemical odour of new fabric was sharp in the air. Scraps of clear plastic, paper, twine, and packing material littered the dusty floor. Dina located the manager at a desk hidden behind metal shelving.
“Hello! Zenobia’s friend — Mrs. Dalai! How are you?” said Mrs. Gupta.
They shook hands. Dina reported that she had found two skilled tailors and was ready to start.
“Wonderful, absolutely wonderful!” said Mrs. Gupta, but it was evident that her excellent humour did not flow merely from Dina’s announcement. The real reason soon bubbled out: she had another appointment at the Venus Beauty Salon this afternoon. Unruly curls which had slipped the leash during the past week would be tamed and brought back into the fold.
This event alone would have been enough to ensure Mrs. Gupta’s happiness, but there were more glad tidings; minor irritants in her life were also being eradicated — the Prime Minister’s declaration yesterday of the Internal Emergency had incarcerated most of the parliamentary opposition, along with thousands of trade unionists, students, and social workers. “Isn’t that good news?” she sparkled with joy.
Dina nodded, doubtful. “I thought the court found her guilty of cheating in the election.”
“No, no, no!” said Mrs. Gupta. “That is all rubbish, it will be appealed. Now all those troublemakers who accused her falsely have been put in jail. No more strikes and morchas and silly disturbances.”
“Oh good,” said Dina nervously.
The manager opened her order book and selected a pattern for the first assignment. “Now these thirty-six dresses are a test for you. Test for neatness, accuracy, and consistency. If your two tailors prove themselves, I will keep giving you orders. Much bigger orders,” she promised. “As I told you before, I prefer to deal with private contractors. Union loafers want to work less and get more money. That’s the curse of this country — laziness. And some idiot leaders encouraging them, telling police and army to disobey unlawful orders. Now you tell me, how can the law be unlawful? Ridiculous nonsense. Serves them right, being thrown in jail.”
“Yes, serves them right,” echoed Dina, absorbed in the dress design. She wished the manager would stick to the work and not keep rambling into politics. “Look, Mrs. Gupta, the hem on the sample dress is three inches wide, but according to the paper pattern it’s only two inches.”
The discrepancy was too trivial for Mrs. Gupta’s consideration. She nodded and shrugged, which made the sari slip from her shoulder. A hand darted to halt the slide. “Thank God the Prime Minister has taken firm steps, as she said on the radio. We are lucky to have someone strong at a dangerous time like this.”
She waved aside further queries. “I have faith in you, Mrs. Dalai, just follow my sample. But did you see the new posters today? They are put up everywhere.”
Dina hadn’t; she keenly wanted to measure the fabrics allocated for the thirty-six dresses, in case there was a shortfall. On second thoughts, no, she decided, it would offend the manager.
“ ‘The Need of the Hour Is Discipline’ — that’s the Prime Minister’s message on the poster. And I think she is absolutely right.” Mrs. Gupta leaned closer and confided softly, “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to stick a few posters on the Au Revoir entrance. Look at those two rascals in the corner. Chatting away instead of stacking my shelves.”
Dina clucked sympathetically and shook her head. “Shall I come back in one week?”
“Please do. And best of luck. Remember, be firm with your tailors or they will sit on your head.”
Dina started to pick up the bundles of cloth but was stopped. The managerial fingers snapped twice to summon a man to load the material in the lift.
“I’ll say hello from you to Zenobia this afternoon. Wish me some luck also,” Mrs. Gupta giggled. “My poor hair is going under the knife again.”
“Yes, of course, good luck.”
Dina brought home the bolts of cloth and made space for the two tailors in the back room. The paying guest wasn’t moving in till next month; that would give her time to get used to one thing. She studied the paper patterns and examined the packet of labels: Chantal Boutique, New York. Restless, she decided to start cutting the patterns, have them ready for Monday. She wondered about the Emergency. If there were riots, the tailors might not be able to come. She didn’t even know where they lived. It would make a terrible impression if the delivery date were not met for this trial consignment.
The Darjis arrived promptly on Monday at eight a.m., by taxi, with their sewing-machines. “On hire purchase,” said Ishvar, proudly patting the Singers. “In three years, when payments are complete, they will belong to us.”
Everything the tailors could spare must have gone towards the first instalment, for she had to pay the taxi driver. “Please deduct from what we earn this week,” said Ishvar.
The machines were carried into the back room. They fitted the drive belts, adjusted the various tensions, loaded the bobbins, and ran off seams on waste cloth to test the stitches. Fifteen minutes later they were ready to sew.
And sew they did. Like angels, thought Dina. The treadles of the Singers rocked and the flywheels hummed as the needles danced in neat, narrow rows upon fabric, while the unfurling bolts of cloth were transformed into sleeves, collars, fronts, backs, pleats, and skirts.
I am the supervisor, she had to remind herself constantly, I must not join in the work. She hovered around, inspecting finished pieces, encouraging, advising. She scrutinized the tailors bent over the machines, their brows furrowed. The inch-long nails on their little fingers intrigued her; they used them for folding seams and making creases. Ishvar’s disfigured cheek was grotesque, she decided: what might have caused it? He did not look like the type to get into a knife fight. His smile and his funny, undecided moustache tended to soften the damage. She shifted her glance to the silent Omprakash. The skeletal figure, sharp and angular, seemed a mechanical extension of the sewing-machine. Delicate as cut-glass crystal, she thought with a pang of concern. And his oily hair — she hoped he wouldn’t smudge the cloth.
Lunchtime came and went, and they continued to work, stopping only to ask for a drink of water. “Thank you,” said Ishvar, gulping it down. “Very nice and cool.”
“Don’t you eat lunch at this time?”
He shook his head fervently as though the suggestion was preposterous. “One meal at night is sufficient. More than that is a waste of time and food.” After a pause, he asked, “Dinabai, what is this Emergency we hear about?”