“Government problems — games played by people in power. It doesn’t affect ordinary people like us.”
“That’s what I said,” murmured Omprakash. “My uncle was simply worrying.”
They returned to their Singers, and Dina felt piecework was a brilliant idea. She rinsed the glass and put it in a separate place. From now on it would be the tailors’ glass.
As the afternoon deepened, Ishvar seemed uncomfortable at his machine. She noticed him sitting hunched forward, legs tight together, as though he had stomach cramp. His feet began faltering on the treadle.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” he smiled embarrassedly.
His nephew came to the rescue, holding up his little finger. “He needs to go.”
“Why didn’t you say it earlier?”
“I was feeling bad to ask,” said Ishvar shyly.
She showed him the wc. The door shut, and she heard the stream hit the toilet. It rose and fell haltingly with the reluctance of an overfull bladder.
Omprakash took his turn when Ishvar returned. “The flush is out of order,” Dina called after him. “Throw some water from the bucket.”
The smell in the wc bothered her. Living alone for so long, I’ve grown too fastidious, she thought. Different diets, different habits — it was only natural their urine left a strange odour.
The pile of finished dresses grew without Dina having to do a thing except open the door every morning. Ishvar would have a greeting or a smile for her, but Omprakash’s skinny form darted past wordlessly. Perching on his stool like a grouchy little owl, she thought.
The three dozen dresses were completed before the due date. Mrs. Gupta was delighted with the results. She authorized a new assignment, for six dozen garments this time. And safely in Dina’s purse was the payment for the first batch. Almost like money for nothing, she felt, experiencing a hint of guilt. How much easier than those tangled days when her fingers and eyes were forever snarled in sewing and embroidery.
The tailors’ relief at being approved by the export company was enormous. “If the first lot is accepted, the rest will be no problem,” brimmed Ishvar with sudden confidence, as she counted out their payment.
“Yes,” cautioned Dina, “but they will always check the quality, so we cannot get careless. And we have to deliver on time.”
“Hahnji, don’t worry,” said Ishvar. “Always top quality production, on time.” And Dina dared to believe that her days of toil and trouble were ending.
The tailors began taking regular lunch breaks. Dina concluded that the onemeal-a-day formula Ishvar had proclaimed last week was dictated by their pocketbook rather than asceticism or a strict work ethic. But she was pleased because her enterprise was improving their nourishment.
Promptly at one, Omprakash announced, “I’m hungry, let’s go.” They put aside the dresses, returned their treasured pinking shears to the drawer, and departed.
They ate at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel on the corner. There were no secrets at the Vishram — everything was out in the open: the man chopping vegetables, another frying them in the huge black-bottomed pan, a boy washing up. With only one table in the little shop, Ishvar and Omprakash did not wait for a seat but ate standing with the crowd outside. Then they hurried back to work, past the legless beggar who was rolling back and forth on his platform to the squeal of his rusty castors.
Soon, Dina began to notice that the sewing no longer proceeded at the former breakneck speed. Their recesses became more numerous, during which they stood outside the front door and puffed on beedis. Typical, she thought, they get a little money and they start to slack off.
She remembered the advice that Zenobia and Mrs. Gupta had given: to be a firm boss. She pointed out, in what she presumed was a stern voice, that work was falling behind.
“No no, don’t worry,” said Ishvar. “Everything will finish punctually. But if you like, to save time we can smoke while we sew.”
Dina hated the smell; besides, a stray spark could burn a hole in the cloth. “You shouldn’t smoke anywhere,” she said. “Inside or outside. Cancer will eat your lungs.”
“We don’t have to worry about cancer,” said Omprakash. “This expensive city will first eat us alive, for sure.”
“What’s that? At last I am hearing words from your mouth?”
Ishvar chuckled. “I told you he speaks only when he disagrees.”
“But why worry about money,” she said. “Work hard and you will earn lots of it.”
“Not the way you pay us,” muttered Omprakash under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Ishvar hastily. “He was talking to me. He has a headache.”
She asked if he would like to take an Aspro for the pain. Omprakash refused, but from then on, his voice was heard increasingly.
“Do you have to go far to get the work?” he asked.
“Not far,” said Dina. “Takes about one hour.” She was pleased that he was settling in, making an effort to be agreeable.
“If you need help to carry the dresses there, let us know.”
How nice of him, she thought.
“And what is the name of the company you go to?”
Glad about his grumpy silences having ended, she almost blurted out the name, then pretended not to have heard. He repeated the question.
“Why bother with the name,” she said. “All that I am concerned with is the work.”
“Very true,” agreed Ishvar. “That’s what interests us also.”
His nephew scowled. After a while he tried again: Was there only one company or several different ones? Was she paid a commission, or a set price for the complete order?
Ishvar was embarrassed. “Less talk, Omprakash, and more sewing.”
Now Dina longed for the silent nephew. She saw what he was after, and from that day made sure the material from Au Revoir Exports bore no signs of its origin. Labels and tags were torn off the packages if the telltale name was featured. Invoices were kept locked away in the cupboard. Cracks began appearing in her optimism as it tried to keep up with the tailors. She knew the road had turned bumpy.
The Darjis lived far, at the mercy of the railways. Still, Dina worried now if they were late, certain she had been deserted for better-paying jobs. And since she could not afford to let them suspect her fears, she always masked her relief upon their arrival with a show of displeasure.
A day before the due date, they did not come till ten o’clock. “There was an accident, train was delayed,” explained Ishvar. “Some poor fellow dead on the tracks again.”
“It’s happening too often,” said Omprakash.
The empty-stomach smell floating out their mouths, like a cocoon containing words, was unpleasant. She was not interested in their excuses. The sooner they were at their sewing-machines the better.
But silence on her part could be misconstrued as weakness, so she said, drily, “Under the Emergency, government says railway runs on time. Strange that your train keeps coming late.”
“If government kept their promises, the gods would come down to garland them,” said Ishvar, laughing with a placating circular nod.
His peace-offering amused her. She smiled, and he was relieved. As far as he was concerned, jeopardizing the steady income would be foolish — Omprakash and he were very fortunate to be working for Dina Dalai.
They pulled out their wooden stools, loaded fresh bobbins, and started to sew while the sky prepared to rain. The gloom of grey clouds infiltrated the back room. Omprakash hinted that the forty-watt bulb was too dim.
“If I exceed the monthly quota, my meter will be disconnected,” she said. “Then we will be in total darkness.”