She swung the tool, describing a circle in the air below the mens’ bellies. The sun glinted on the short, nasty blade. ‘You spoil that picture, you break any part of this wall, and I promise you, I will make hijdaas out of you all,’ she said, once again lunging blood-thirstily with the tread-cutter.
The men lurched backwards, involuntarily covering the fronts of their striped shorts and dhotis. They were too embarrassed to retaliate. Silence, golden as the sound of Peerbhoy’s brass tray, hovered over them for a few brief seconds.
ii
Easing the black velvet prayer cap away from his forehead, Gustad hurried homeward after Ghulam’s taxi disappeared in the traffic. He was anxious to change out of his dugli and leave for the bank. But why all these big crowds and strict police bundobust, he wondered. And the street noisy as a festival day, like Ganesh Chaturthi or Gokul Asthami, packed from pavement to pavement.
He reached the gate of Khodadad Building in time to see Hydraulic Hema flourish the razor-sharp instrument. Malcolm spotted him: ‘Gustad! Gustad!’ he waved, then his voice was drowned by the uproar following the grisly threat, as the offended workers reached for crowbars and pickaxes. The policemen shuffled their feet and gripped their lathis, making a show of alertness. The sub-inspector, taking no chances, asked his jeep driver to radio the police station for urgent reinforcements.
Gustad craned impatiently — what was Malcolm doing in the middle of a rowdy morcha? One moment he saw him, the next he had disappeared. But he did not want to venture through the thick of it in search of him. Later, when things calmed.
Then Gustad spotted the woebegone pavement artist behind the gate; Tehmul was there, too, eagerly watching the unfolding drama. ‘GustadGustadGustad. Bigbigbigmachine. Bhumbhumbhum. BigbigloudloudmachinebigshoutingbigGustad.’ He was unable to stand still, weaving, waving his arms wildly, swaying with delight and excitement. What with the colourful morcha, the labourers and their intriguing equipment, the policemen and their lathis, Tehmul was utterly exhilarated. Now, on top of all that, his beloved Gustad had arrived. ‘GustadGustadGustad. Somuchsomuchsomuchfun.’
‘Yes, very nice,’ said Gustad. ‘And very smart of you to stay inside the compound. Well done.’ He patted his back, relieved that Tehmul had not wandered out into the maelstrom. No telling what might happen, given the present mood of the crowd, if the dressed-for-business prostitutes fanned his urges. What were the women doing here anyway?
The pavement artist, awaiting his turn to speak, said despondently, ‘Please, sir, they are telling me I have to give up my wall.’ Gustad had gathered this from the new notice on the pillar, the cement-mixers, and the waiting lorries. For the briefest of moments he felt the impending loss cut deeply, through memory and time; the collapse of the wall would wreck the past and the future. Helpless amid the noise and turmoil, he searched for words with which to console the artist. Then suddenly, he caught a glimpse of Dr. Paymaster. In the middle of the mob? First Malcolm; and now the doctor? He went out after him, into the sea of angry faces.
Tehmul promptly followed. ‘No, Tehmul. Be good now. Very dangerous, stay inside only.’ Crestfallen but obedient, Tehmul returned to the compound.
Upon Gustad’s fourth bellow, Dr. Paymaster turned around. It took some strenuous wading to close the distance. ‘What a powerful morcha we have produced!’ said the doctor, pumping Gustad’s hand vigorously. His initial regrets and misgivings had converted to conviction and confidence — he would have been willing now to tilt at windmills: ‘Seeing is believing! The greatest morcha in the history of our city!’
Gustad had never seen him in such genuine high spirits. All his spontaneous emotions, bottled up for God knows how long (like those green, dusty flasks of potions and pharmaceuticals at the rear of his dispensary) were suddenly popping their corks.
‘Almost the whole of our neighbourhood is here!’ the doctor boasted, like a rebel general who has succeeded in turning the army against the tyrant. ‘Onward we march! To the municipality! We will show them who is boss. We, the people!’
Gustad managed to steer him gradually to the pavement, away from the over-excited throngs, as Dr. Paymaster explained what had led to the confrontation between the morcha and the construction workers. ‘But that was not part of our programme. That was what might be called an act of God.’ He chuckled: ‘Or an act of artistry. Which comes to the same thing.’ He waved and set off, anxious to rejoin his comrades in arms.
Gustad returned to the gate, where the morcha had attracted neighbours from the building. Inspector Bamji, Mr. Rabadi with Dimple, Mrs. Pastakia, and Miss Kutpitia were debating excitedly, trying to predict the outcome. Police reinforcements had not yet arrived. Gustad wanted no part in their speculations, but at a suitable moment he asked the Inspector, ‘Soli, you think it would help if you try to persuade these people? Using your police seniority?’
Inspector Bamji laughed, shaking his head. ‘Bossie, one thing I learned from working with these Maratha buggers is to freely say: umcha section nai. Without a guilty conscience.’ Sohrab emerged from the flat and walked towards the group. He fleetingly met his father’s eyes, then turned away.
Gustad was surprised to see him. After seven months he looks upon his father’s face. Does he have the courage to…
‘Bossie, are you listening or no?’ The Inspector tugged at Gustad’s sleeve. To answer your question, I never interfere when off duty. Enough maader chod headaches I have on duty.’ Then he remembered the women’s presence and playfully covered his lips with his fingers, as though to stuff the mother-offending word back into his mouth. ‘Sorry ladies,’ he said, smiling suavely, not repentant in the least. ‘Bad habit I have, speaking mc-bc all the time.’
Miss Kutpitia sternly looked askance. Mrs. Pastakia giggled her forgiveness. And a sheepish simper covered Mr. Rabadi’s face; not used to foul language, he tried hard to pretend he was.
Tehmul watched their expressions, listening intently to every word. After a minute passed in silence and Bamji’s lapse was forgotten, he grinned at everyone and repeated gleefully: ‘Maaderchodmaaderchodmaaderchodmaaderchod.’ He would have kept going had Mrs. Pastakia not turned a horrified face to Bamji.
The Inspector cut him off with a wallop to his head. ‘Scrambled Egg! Shut your bloody mouth!’
Tehmul retreated, nursing the spot. Gustad transformed his contempt for Bamji into a veiled barb. ‘Poor fellow, he has no brains. Only repeats what others say.’
Thick-skinned as ever, Bamji replied, ‘This will teach him repetition is bad for his health.’
Gustad was groping for words to cut deeply but courteously, when Malcolm Saldanha materialized on the pavement. Gustad hurried out: ‘Where did you go? I saw you for one second, then you vanished.’
‘Had to find a telephone,’ said Malcolm. ‘To let the office know what is happening.’
‘What office?’
‘Municipality. You see, I am in charge of this bloody project.’
So this was Malcolm’s fate. My college friend, who used to summon the notes like magic. From the realm between wakefulness and sleep. For Chopin’s nocturnes. Those evenings, so long, long ago. Now supervising pickaxes and churning concrete. ‘And what did the office say?’
‘That the municipality cannot back down before a mob, the work of the city must go on. Bloody idiots don’t know how dangerous this is.’