Ashraf left them alone for two days, till their curiosity turned of its own accord towards the tailoring shop. The centre of their desire was, of course, the sewing-machine. To satisfy them, he let each take a turn at working the treadle while he guided a scrap under the needle. The brothers were thrilled that they could make the machine perform. It was as inspiring as making their mark with chalk upon slate.
Now they were ready to settle down to less exciting things, like threading a needle and hand-stitching. Eager to learn, they impressed Ashraf with their quickness. The next time a customer came to Muzaffar Tailoring Company, he decided to let Ishvar write down the measurements.
The man carried striped material for a shirt. Ashraf opened the order book to a new page, noted the customer’s name, then unrolled his measuring tape with a flourish, which the boys simply adored. They had already begun to practise it in private, to Ashraf’s amusement.
“Collar, fourteen and half inches,” he dictated. “Chest, thirty-two.” He glanced at Ishvar, who was bent over the book, his tongue sticking out in grave concentration. Turning to the customer, Ashraf continued, “Sleeves. Short or long?”
“Has to be long,” said the man. “I am wearing it to a friend’s wedding.” The formalities completed, the customer left, assured that his shirt would be ready in time for the wedding next week.
“Now let’s see the measurements,” said Ashraf.
Smiling proudly, Ishvar handed him the book. The page was covered with black scratches and squiggles.
“Ah, yes, I see.” Ashraf controlled his dismay, patting the boy’s back. “Yes, very good.” He quickly jotted down what he could remember of the figures.
After dinner, he began teaching them the alphabet and numbers. Mumtaz was not pleased. “Now you are becoming their schoolmaster as well. What next? Will you find wives for them also, when they are old enough?”
Next day he finished the wedding-guest’s shirt. The man came for it at the end of the week and tried it on. Ashraf had got everything right except the length: it hung closer to the knees than was desirable. The man looked in the mirror, dubious, turning left and right.
“Absolutely perfect,” admired Ashraf. “This northern Pathani style has become very fashionable these days.” The man left, still a bit uncertain, and the three burst out laughing.
A month after the apprentices had started, Ashraf was wakened in the night by a soft mewling. He sat up to listen, but there was nothing more. He lay down and began to drift.
A few minutes later the sound nudged his sleep again. “What is it?” asked Mumtaz. “Why do you keep waking?”
“A noise. Was the baby crying?”
“No, but she will if you keep jumping up.”
Then the soft sobs came again. “It’s downstairs.” He got out of bed and lit the lamp.
“So why do you have to go? Are you their father?”
Her reproaches followed him as he descended the steps into the shop. He entered and held up the lamp. The light caught Narayan’s tear-glistened cheeks. Ashraf knelt on the floor beside him, gently rubbing his back.
“What’s wrong, Narayan?” he asked, although he knew the answer, having expected an attack of homesickness sooner or later. “I heard you crying. Is something hurting?”
The boy shook his head. Ashraf put his arm around him. “When your father is not here, I stand in his place. And Mumtaz Chachi is like your mother, nah? You can tell us anything you like.”
Narayan burst into sobs at that. Now Ishvar awoke as well and rubbed his eyes, shielding them from the lamp.
“Do you know why your brother is crying?” asked Ashraf.
Ishvar nodded gravely. “He thinks of home every night. I also think of it, but I don’t cry.”
“You are a brave boy.”
“I don’t want to cry either,” said Narayan. “But when it gets dark and everybody is sleeping, my father and mother come in my mind.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “I see our hut, and it makes me very sad, and then it makes me cry.”
Ashraf held him on his lap, saying it was all right to think of his parents. “But don’t be sad, your Bapa will arrive in a few weeks to take you home for a visit. And when you have learned all the tailoring, you will open your own shop and earn lots of money. How proud your parents will be, nah?”
He told the boys that whenever they felt sad, they could come and tell him about their village, the river, the fields, their friends. Talking together about it would change the sadness to happiness, he assured them. He lay by their side till they fell asleep, then crept upstairs with the lamp turned low.
Mumtaz was sitting in the dark, waiting for him. “Are they all right?” she asked anxiously.
He nodded, reassured by her concern. “They were just feeling lonely.”
“Maybe we should let them sleep upstairs from tomorrow.”
Her offer touched him, and his eyes swam with love. “They are brave boys. They will learn to sleep alone, it’s good for them to become tough,” he said.
It soon became known in Dukhi’s village that his children were learning a trade other than leather-working. In the old days, punishment for stepping outside one’s caste would have been death. Dukhi was spared his life, but it became a very hard life. He was allowed no more carcasses, and had to travel long distances to find work. Sometimes he obtained a hide secretly from fellow Chamaars; it would have been difficult for them if they were found out. The items he fashioned from this illicit leather had to be sold in far-off places where they had not heard about him and his sons.
“Such suffering you have brought upon our heads,” said Roopa almost daily. “No work, no food, no sons. What crimes have I committed to be punished like this? My life has become a permanent shadow.”
But her horizon brightened as the day approached for the children’s visit. She dreamed and made plans, her heartache diverted by the desire to have some treat waiting for them. And if the treat was unaffordable, she determined, then it would be obtained moneylessly, in darkness.
For the first time since the children were born, Dukhi acknowledged that he was aware of her night walks. As she rose stealthily after midnight, he said, “Listen, mother-of-Narayan, I don’t think you should go.”
Roopa jumped. “O, how you scared me! I thought you were asleep!”
“Taking such a risk is stupid.”
“You never said that before.”
“It was different then. It’s not like the boys will starve without butter or a peach or a bit of jaggery.”
Roopa went anyway, promising herself it was the last time. After all, her children had been away for three months, she had to give them something special.
On the long-awaited day, Dukhi left at dawn and brought his sons back for a week. The two boys sat very close to their father, and couldn’t stop touching him throughout the journey, leaning against him on either side, Narayan holding on to his knee, Ishvar clutching his arm. They talked nonstop, then repeated everything for their mother when they got home in the late afternoon.
“The machine is amazing,” said Ishvar. “The big wheel is — ”
“You do your feet likethis-likethis,” said Narayan, flapping his hands to mimic the treadle, “and the needle jumps up and down, it’s so good — ”
“I can do it very fast, but Ashraf Chacha can do it very-very fast.”
“I like the small needle also, with my fingers, it goes in and out of the cloth smoothly, it’s very pointy, once it poked me in my thumb.”
Their mother immediately asked to see the thumb. Assuring herself that there was no permanent damage, she let the story proceed. By dinnertime the boys were exhausted, and started falling asleep over the food. Roopa wiped their hands and mouths, then Dukhi guided them to their mats.