‘Why the big rush? I’ll do it when I have some time.’ Gustad went outside, and saw that the pavement artist had finished building his little lean-to at the far end of the wall. Inside were a few clothes, his sleeping mat, the Petromax, and painting supplies. His old crayon boxes were also there, for though the artist had come to regard these with fond condescension, relics of a time outgrown, he did not have the heart to throw them away.
He was trying now to maintain some semblance of order amidst the stacks of offerings. No sooner did one set of devotees depart than others arrived, and never empty-handed. He saw Gustad watching. He shook his head wearily, but it was obvious he was enjoying the hectic pace, the role of shrine custodian. His carefree peregrinations had definitely passed into the realm of memory. ‘Victory in Bangladesh is making me work overtime.’
‘Very good, very good,’ said Gustad absently. Dilnavaz’s gibe about the blackout paper was buzzing inside his head, worrying him like the flies and mosquitoes of old. By and by, however, the wall’s fragrances wrapped their rich veils over him and made him forget.
For the next few days, newspapers continued to analyse the war. There were accounts of crucial battles, and moving stories of how Bangladeshis had cheered the arrival of the first Indian troops in Dacca. Gustad read whichever paper he could borrow in the canteen. And Dilnavaz, as she had been doing for the past few months since Mr. Rabadi’s bonfire, glanced over Miss Kutpitia’s copy of the Jam-E-Jamshed each morning. Particularly the pydust notices. It would be inexcusable, she felt, if they were to miss the funeral of some relative, however distant.
The lunch-hour had ended, the canteen was empty except for the boy cleaning tables and Gustad reading the newspaper. He wanted to finish the last little bit. There was a detailed description of the surrender ceremony, with the text of the instrument of surrender included. Like everyone else, Gustad had begun to feel the glow of national pride. Every day, he read every page, column by column, which was fortunate, or he would have missed an item that appeared inside, in an obscure corner.
It was barely an inch of column space. And when he read it, the glow of national pride dropped from him like a wet raincoat. He did not turn the page after that.
The boy approached with his damp rag. ‘Seth, table please.’
Clutching the newspaper, Gustad raised his outstretched arms in the air mechanically, while the boy gave the table a quick wet swipe. The forearms thudded down. Gustad did not notice the boy watching curiously, or the dampness creeping through his sleeves.
He sat staring at the paragraph, reading it over and over, the small paragraph which stated that Mr. J. Bilimoria, a former officer with RAW, had died of a heart attack while serving his four-year prison sentence in New Delhi.
He removed the page from the newspaper and folded it small to fit his pocket.
Chapter Twenty-One
i
Dr. Paymaster’s dispensary, like everything else in the vicinity, was closed. Not even the House of Cages was open for business. The day of the morcha had arrived.
The people of the neighbourhood were ready for the march to the municipal ward office, to voice their protests against overflowing sewers, broken water-pipes, pot-holed pavements, rodent invasions, bribe-extracting public servants, uncollected hills of garbage, open manholes, shattered street lights — in short, against the general decay and corruption of cogs that turned the wheels of city life. Their petitions and letters of complaint had been ignored long enough. Now the officials would have to reck the rod of the janata.
All manner of vendors and tradespeople, who had nothing in common except a common enemy, were waiting to march. There were mechanics and shopkeepers, indefatigable restaurant waiters, swaggering tyre retreaders, hunch-shouldered radio repairers, bow-legged tailors, shifty transistors-for-vasectomies salesmen, cross-eyed chemists, sallow cinema ushers, hoarse-voiced lottery-ticket sellers, squat clothiers, accommodating women from the House of Cages. Hundreds and thousands gathered, eager to march, arm in arm and shoulder to shoulder, to alleviate the miseries of the neighbourhood.
Even Dr. Paymaster and Peerbhoy Paanwalla enlisted. They had been reluctant at first, especially Dr. Paymaster. He tried to temper the zeal and soothe the passions by attempting to explain the larger picture. He pointed out that municipal corruption was only a microcosmic manifestation of the greed, dishonesty, and moral turpitude that flourished at the country’s centre. He described meticulously how, from the very top, whence all power flowed, there also dripped the pus of putrefaction, infecting every stratum of society below.
But Dr. Paymaster’s friends and neighbours looked at him blankly, which led him to suspect that perhaps his vision of villainy and baseness in New Delhi was too abstract. He tried again: imagine, he said, that our beloved country is a patient with gangrene at an advanced stage. Dressing the wound or sprinkling rose-water over it to hide the stink of rotting tissue is useless. Fine words and promises will not cure the patient. The decaying part must be excised. You see, the municipal corruption is merely the bad smell, which will disappear as soon as the gangrenous government at the centre is removed.
True, they said, but we cannot hold our breath for ever, we have to do something about the stink. How long to wait for the amputation? We have to get on with our lives, our noses cannot remain permanently plugged. Once again their fervid exuberance bubbled forth, and Dr. Paymaster and Peerbhoy relented, overpowered by the contagion of enthusiasm. Their friends, neighbours and customers convinced them of the valuable contribution they would make by leading the morcha. Their great ages, Dr. Paymaster’s revered occupation, Peerbhoy’s chubby, swami-like demeanour, would all go a long way to bestow respectability upon the morcha.
Naturally, Dr. Paymaster was to wear his white coat and stethoscope while carrying his black bag; thus, onlookers and the authorities could recognize at once how distinguished a profession was at the helm. Similarly, Peerbhoy would walk in nothing more and nothing less than his paan-selling attire: bare-chested, a low-slung loongi round his waist, so his august all-seeing navel, his venerable wrinkled dugs, and his massive forehead, furrowed with a thousand lines of wisdom, could inspire awe and esteem in bystanders.
The morcha directors, greatly impressed by Dr. Paymaster’s and Peerbhoy Paanwalla’s examples, decreed that all participants should wear work clothes and display their work implements. The mechanics would don their hole-infested vests and grease-stained pants while carrying spanners, wrenches, ratchets, and tyre irons. Lottery-ticket vendors agreed to walk with their cardboard displays of lottery tickets slung from their necks; barbers would wield hair clippers, combs, and scissors; and so on.
In addition, four handcarts were loaded with huge barrels containing: oozing, slimy samples of sludge and filth from overflowing gutters; crumbling concrete, sand, and mortar from disintegrating pavements; examples of fetid, putrefying matter from the garbage hills; and stacks of mange-eaten rodent specimens, some dead, others barely alive. The barrels were to be emptied in the lobby of the municipal office building.
For several days, everyone had been busy making banners and placards. Slogans were rehearsed and the police informed of the morcha’s route, so necessary traffic arrangements could be made. The morcha would start near the House of Cages and take two hours to reach the municipal offices, where a gherao was to be conducted. All entrances and exits would be blocked by the marchers in the spirit of non-violence, and remain blocked until the neighbourhood’s demands were met.