Suleiman watched the large kite fly unchallenged, and decided it was all a frivolous waste of time. He needed to get back to work. Soon, the room filled with the click and hum of the sewing machine, and he hunched over the cloth, engrossed in the intricate play of line and thread. Fortunate that he was the most skilled, and reasonably priced, tailor in the neighbourhood. Fortunate too that even in times of unrest, buttons came undone, trouser pockets inexplicably tore, and shirts mysteriously snagged on washing lines. Despite the small town he lived in ripping itself apart, people, outsiders or not, still dropped by to have things mended.
Although that was all they did. Especially the Khasis.
Where once they’d chat idly about the weather, share neighbourhood gossip and discuss how close they were to betting the correct thoh teem numbers, now they hurried away, as though he had the plague or terrible body odour. Or worse that his being dkhar was somehow contagious and that others less forgiving and tolerant would know they’d visited him.
‘Khublei, dorji,’ they’d mumble their thanks and shuffle out of the door.
Others from his community were almost as reluctant to stay on. Although from the newspapers they sometimes left behind, he could see why. The pages were filled with reports of disturbances and violence—shoot-outs in Iew Duh and riots in Police Bazaar. A few months ago, he’d read that the central government in Delhi had sent the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) to Shillong to ‘help maintain law and order.’ Suleiman didn’t think it had helped much, the presence of the CRPF. In fact, the town seemed more inflamed and enraged. Try as he did to not let it affect him, to cocoon himself against the drama, it had changed his life in subtle ways. He no longer cycled around dropping off tailored and mended clothes to his clients. They were to come pick them up. The skullcap he usually wore had lain untouched under his pillow for weeks.
Today, though, rather than fear, Suleiman felt a deep and profound annoyance. He was tempted to walk up to a member of the KSU and say, ‘I’ve been in Shillong for a long time. I’m thirty-four years old and I came here before some of you were even born.’ He snapped a line of thread between his teeth. All he wanted to do was fly a kite. He glanced out of the window. At the row of houses beyond the courtyard wall. He’d known some of his neighbours for almost two decades—old Bah Swer was sitting outside, dozing as usual, there was Kong Belinda whose jaiñsem he was mending. These traditional two-piece costumes, that women wore pinned over their shoulders, were often sent to him to be hemmed. He knew Kong Belinda liked green, her jaiñsems were usually that colour. At the moment she was hanging up the washing; her daughter Christine, unfortunately, was nowhere in sight. He thought her especially handsome; with a face like a soft full moon and a sheet of slippery dark hair that reached her waist. Her gold earrings, decorated with pink diamond stones, glinted whenever she opened the door and flirted with him, if her mother and brothers weren’t around.
‘Have you brought my clothes?’ she’d say with a smile. ‘The ones I left in your room.’
Suleiman adjusted the jaiñsem material under the sewing needle. It was no good. He ought to get Christine off his mind. He’d be accused of stealing Khasi women away from their men. And who knew what might happen then. At the moment, it was manageable, leaving his house only if he had to, stocking up on food for weeks at a stretch. Often at night, though, there were stones thrown on his roof, shouts resounding in the street—‘Dkhar liah, mih na Shillong.’ You bastard outsider, get out of Shillong. These were the things, thought Suleiman, that weren’t reported in newspapers.
From his window, he could see the path that wound through the courtyard, leading on one end to the main road and the other to the cluster of houses behind his, accessible only by a flight of steep stone steps. He thought that was where the young man was headed, the one who swaggered by, wearing a red chequered shirt and light denim jeans. Instead, a knocking sounded on the door, sharp and persistent. Suleiman looked up from his sewing.
‘Who is it?’
There was no answer. The knocking didn’t stop.
He pushed himself away from the sewing machine. It was best to open the door.
After he undid the latch, the young man walked in without invitation.
‘Ei, dorji, mend this.’
He thrust a black leather jacket into Suleiman’s arms. Across the elbow was a jagged rip.
‘Can you do it quickly?’
The young man cast a glance at the mirror on the wall, and then around the room. Suleiman saw him take in the small kitchen space in the corner with its shelf of pots and pans and stout cooking stove. The tailored shirts and dresses hanging on a clothes horse, the large ironing table, the scraps of cloth on the floor, and finally the rihal holding the Holy Book and the rolled-up prayer mat. The tailor retreated to his workstation, where he fumbled with needle and thread. The young man stood by the door and lit a cigarette; the smell of cheap tobacco quickly filled the room.
‘How long will you take? I have to go to work.’
‘Five minutes.’
‘Good.’
The boy seemed unused to standing still. He shuffled in his place, then crossed to the ironing table, rifled through a pile of clothes, and picked up a large heavy pair of scissors. They made a sharp rasping sound as he snipped the air. Suleiman watched from the corner of his eye. He was about twenty-five, small, like a bird, with their restless energy rather than their grace. His eyes were black and bright, but heavy-lidded, giving him the appearance of being sleep deprived. Or having just woken up from a long nap. Wrapped around the scissors, his fingers were short and rough, and with a line of black grime under the nails.
The cigarette was soon dropped to the floor, and stubbed by an unpolished black boot.
Suleiman sewed quickly and carefully. The garment in his hands carried the faint odour of old sweat and tobacco; the leather was faded yet tough. When he finished, he made a neat knot and snapped the thread.
‘How much?’ asked the young man.
‘Five rupees.’
‘I’ll give you three, okay…’ He placed the coins on the table and snatched up the jacket. Standing in front of the mirror, the young man continued talking. ‘I just lost first round at thoh teem… I can’t afford to pay you so much.’ He was referring to the numbers that the gambling houses released in the morning. It was a lottery of sorts, calculated by an archery game held in an open field at Polo Grounds; there was another one in the afternoon to determine the ‘second round’ numbers in the evening. The young man settled his hair and then held up his elbow. The mended rip was barely visible. His tone became friendlier. ‘Are you a betting man, dorji?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Me too…almost got the second round last week…I bet three and four came. Keep missing it by a few…’ He listed his various gambling exploits. Evidently, it was something he enjoyed, even if he wasn’t very lucky.
‘I won both rounds a few years ago,’ said Suleiman. ‘Clean sweep.’
The young man stared, his eyes wide in disbelief. ‘How did you manage that?’
The tailor smiled. ‘It came to me in a dream.’
‘Aah…I’ve heard about that…calculating numbers from dreams. My granny used to do it…I should have asked her. She’s dead now. Never understood how it’s done.’ He glanced at Suleiman, and added, ‘Do you…know?’
‘Which number came up this morning?’ asked Suleiman.
‘Two.’
‘You can try eight, for the second round.’
The young man laughed. ‘How do you know? You’re a tailor.’
With that, he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Suleiman put away the scissors. He’d rather not have them lying around.
Later, the town settled into the quiet of the evening, its shops shuttered and streets emptied by the curfew. Looking out of their windows, people would say, ‘Not a soul outside, not even a dog.’ The uneasy silence deepened with the blackout at six o’clock. It had been announced over a loudspeak
er on a KSU van driving through Shillong that it was mandatory to switch off the lights, to paste newspaper over window-panes so even the glow of a candle would be subdued. It was a sign of protest, the KSU declared, but they didn’t mention it also helped turn entire neighbourhoods into battlegrounds where rebels and the police alike were offered shelter by the darkness. For the people who stayed indoors, this was a time to huddle around coal fires, take out a well-thumbed pack of cards, or set out the carrom board. Otherwise, there was little to while away the hours. Suleiman usually ate his dinner early and lay on his bed until he fell asleep. This evening, though, he was making a kite. The radio crackled softly in the corner, playing a programme called ‘Songs of India’ that attempted, through a selection of folk music, to invoke patriotic camaraderie among its listeners. He left it on mostly to keep the silence at bay. Else, he would only hear the wind outside, swooping over the hills. The guava tree near the window tapped on the roof. In the distance there were shouts of a fight or a call for dinner; it was hard to tell. He’d cut out the tissue paper earlier before daylight faded, and now was carefully pasting them together with gluey rice. The smaller the pieces, the better. The kite would resist tears and could be easily mended. It was going to be a large one; the bamboo slivers lay waiting to be bound together into a frame. He was almost done when the first stone hit the roof. And then another. They rolled off and fell to the ground in dull, solid thuds. Tonight he hadn’t been called any names, but in alarm, he’d pulled at the tissue paper, and it lay on the floor torn and ruined.
The next afternoon, as Suleiman expected, the young man reappeared. This time he waved amiably at the tailor as he walked across the courtyard. He knocked once.
‘It’s open.’
He entered and shut the door carefully behind him.
‘Kumno dorji.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Suleiman was measuring fabric on the ironing table. The young man stood behind him.
‘Kwai?’ he offered, holding out betel nut and paan wrapped in a torn scrap of newspaper.
‘No, it’s alright.’ The tailor straightened up. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Banri. My name’s Banri.’
Suleiman moved to the sewing machine. The young man followed.
‘I was hoping…you could help me…’
‘Do you need something mended?’
The boy hesitated. ‘It’s not really about that…’
‘Which number came up yesterday? In the second round.’
The young man rushed forward in excitement. ‘See, that’s the thing…eight. Just like you said.’
Suleiman bent over the machine, stringing up new thread, hiding a smile.
Banri pulled up a moora and sat close to him.
‘Can you tell me what will come today?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Do you remember your dream?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s the thing, I never remember my dreams. But Don, he’s a mechanic I work with, he told me his dream this morning. Will that do?’ He looked hopeful.
Suleiman shrugged.
‘Don said he dreamed he was in a boat, you know in Ward’s Lake, there was no one else around. Just him in this boat, and he didn’t know how to get back to the bank. He had no oars, nothing. Suddenly these two huge fish jumped into his lap. Two live fish. What do you think that means?’
Carefully, the tailor arranged Kong Belinda’s jaiñsem under the needle, in a neat, straight line. He picked up a piece of chalk and made a few illegible marks on the fabric.
‘Try five and nine.’
‘Five and nine…okay.’
Banri was about to light a cigarette when he stopped. ‘You don’t mind me smoking here? No? Alright, khublei.’ He settled himself comfortably on the moora. ‘Dorji, how do you do it?’
‘How do I do what?’
‘These dreams and numbers.’
Suleiman stopped working the machine. He straightened the cloth. ‘Everything in the world runs on calculations.’
‘But…’ Banri laughed. ‘I get it, you’re like a magician, who doesn’t reveal his tricks.’
‘Go make your bet and then tell me if you think this is trickery.’
‘Hey, relax, I was only joking.’
The young man didn’t wait to finish his cigarette, he offered Suleiman more kwai, and then hurried out. The closest thoh teem shops were up the hill in Mawkhar, and the tailor assumed that was where Banri was headed. He put away the jaiñsem and smoked a beedi by the window. In the sky, he could see two kites engaged in a fight, each desperately trying to cut the other’s manja. They danced around each other like birds performing an ancient, ritualistic dance, until one slowly swung low and dropped out of sight.
In Mawkhar, thoh teem shops sprouted in tiny nooks and crevices, in side rooms and makeshift tin stalls and spaces under stairs. The warren of alleyways in Iew Duh spilled into the Mawkhar neighbourhood, and its streets were packed with small local shops. Bakeries sold Khasi sweets on white melamine counters—piles of long, twisted deep fried dough coated in sugar, warm, sticky slabs of rice putharo, and deep bowls of lal mohan swimming in syrup. There were shops that sold clothes and wool by the kilo, while some were lined with shelves of cheap, fake leather shoes. Further away from this, after the spread of residential houses, along the road leading out of town, began the rows of car workshops, each with their own graveyard of abandoned parts and automobiles. Somewhere in the middle, no less grimy and greasy than the others, was Bah Heh’s workshop where Banri worked.
As he could be found on most afternoons, Bah Heh was lounging in a chair, lazily strumming a guitar.
‘How many roads must a man walk down…’ he sang, ‘before you can call him a man…’ Having forgotten the rest of the lyrics, he made do with tuneful humming. The day was unusually warm and humid, and Bah Heh roused himself by shouting at the mechanics in his workshop. They went about doing their jobs paying him no attention; they were accustomed to his attempts at feeling important.
‘All of you buggers, hungover from last night, I know it.’
‘What else to do but drink when there’s curfew in the evening?’ said Don, walking past with a bucket of dirty, soapy water.
‘You only need some excuse, useless bastards.’
‘Actually even when there’s no curfew I drink every evening,’ mumbled Khraw as he hunched over an engine, and tinkered with the battery.
‘And where’s that idiot Banri? Has he found himself a woman or what?’
‘No, a tailor,’ said Don, and Khraw sniggered.
‘She’s a tailor?’
‘No, some dkhar guy he’s become friends with. He’s been visiting him every day now…for at least a week.’
‘See here, I don’t want any trouble in my workshop. Who’s this dkhar?’
‘You can ask him yourself,’ said Khraw pointing to the gate. Banri was strolling in with a plastic bag in his hand.
‘Time-out mo, Bah Heh,’ he announced as he approached.
‘Time-out? Where do you think you are? A basketball court?’
‘I have momos for everyone.’ From the plastic bag he drew out a banana leaf packet tied in string.
Khraw and Don crowded around.
‘What’s the treat for, bro?’
‘You and the tailor getting married?’
Even Bah Heh joined in the laughter.
Banri ignored them; he undid the small plastic packet of virulent red chilli sauce and poured it over the dumplings.
‘I won, only the first round. But still…’
‘Again? At thoh teem? But you never win…’ Don sounded justifiably incredulous.
‘What jadoo-mantar has this tailor been doing?’ Khraw bit into a momo, the pork and onion filling, shiny with oil and fat, oozed out of its floury skin.
‘Nothing,’ said Banri quickly. He hadn’t explained in too much detail how Suleiman could interpret dream
s, or as the tailor said mysteriously, ‘calculate the value of symbols.’ ‘Anyway, never mind all that. The important thing is I won.’
Bah Heh reached for the plumpest dumpling in the pile. ‘Okay, everybody hurry up and eat…plenty of work to be done.’
Half an hour later, there was another interruption—a group of young men walked in through the gate. Banri recognized some faces—they were from lower Wahingdoh and Umsohsun. They went up to Bah Heh and instructed him, politely and firmly, to keep the workshop shut the next day.
‘For the rally,’ said the one who was evidently the leader of the pack. He had a smooth, clean-shaven head and face. ‘We hope all of you will be attending? Yes? Good. Good. We need our youth to support us. After all, this is for your future benefit only.’ His eyes glinted as he looked them over; they rested on Banri who was wiping his greasy hands on an even greasier rag. ‘This rally will be big; the government must listen to us this time. Remember,’ he ended with practised ease, ‘it all depends on your support.’ They trooped out like a small, determined army, and headed to the next workshop.
‘Great,’ said Khraw. ‘Holiday tomorrow.’
‘Which means you do extra hours today and the day after. Now get back to work, scumbags.’
Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories Page 8
