Noticing an unoccupied cycle-rickshaw, Kedarnath hailed it, and they got in. ‘To Ravidaspur,’ he said, and then continued: ‘You know, for a supposedly gentle, spiritual people, we seem to delight in rubbing other people’s noses in dog-shit, don’t you think? Certainly I cannot understand people like the Raja of Marh. He imagines himself to be a new Ganesh whose divine mission in life is to lead the armies of Shiva to victory over the demons. And yet he’s besotted with half the Muslim courtesans of the city. When he laid the foundation stone of the temple two people died. Not that this meant anything to him, he’s probably had twenty times that number murdered in his own time in his own state. Anyway, one of the two was a Muslim and that’s when the mullahs put the black flags up on the gate of the mosque. And if you look carefully, you’ll see that there are even some smaller ones on the minarets.’
Haresh turned back to look, but suddenly the cycle-rickshaw, which had been gathering speed downhill, collided with a slowly moving car, and they came to a sudden halt. The car had been crawling along the crowded road, and there was no damage to anyone, but a couple of the bicycle’s spokes had got bent. The rickshaw-wallah, who looked thin and unassertive, jumped off the cycle, glanced quickly at his front wheel, and banged aggressively on the window of the car.
‘Give me money! Phataphat! Immediately !’ he yelled.
The liveried driver and the passengers, who were two middle-aged women, looked surprised at this sudden demand. The driver half-recovered, and put his head out of the window.
‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘You were coming down the slope without control. We weren’t even moving. If you want to commit suicide do I have to pay for your funeral?’
‘Moneyl Quickly! Three spokes – three rupees !’ said the rickshaw-wallah, as brusquely as a highwayman.
The driver turned his face away.
The rickshaw-wallah grew angrier: ‘You daughter-fucker! I don’t have all day. If you don’t pay for my damages, I’ll give your car some of its own.’
The driver would probably have responded with some insults in kind, but since he was with his employers, who were getting nervous, he remained tight-lipped.
Another rickshaw-wallah passed, and shouted in encouragement: ‘That’s right, brother, don’t be afraid.’ By now about twenty people had gathered round to watch the sport.
‘Oh, pay him and let’s go on,’ said one of the ladies at the back. ‘It’s too hot to argue.’
‘Three rupees!’ repeated the rickshaw-wallah.
Haresh was about to leap out of the rickshaw to put an end to this extortion when the driver of the car suddenly flung an eight-anna coin at the rickshaw-wallah. ‘Take this – and fuck off!’ the driver said, stung to rage by his helplessness.
When the car had gone and the crowd had cleared, the rickshaw-wallah started singing with delight. He bent down and straightened the two bent spokes in twenty seconds, and they were on their way again.
4.4
‘I’VE only been a couple of times to Jagat Ram’s place, so I’ll have to make enquiries once we get to Ravidaspur,’ said Kedarnath.
‘Jagat Ram?’ asked Haresh, still thinking of the incident of the spokes and angry with the rickshaw-wallah.
‘The Shoemaker whose workshop we’re going to see. He’s a shoemaker, a jatav. He was originally one of those basket-wallahs I told you about who bring their shoes to Misri Mandi to sell to any trader who’ll buy them.’
‘And now?’
‘Now he has his own workshop. He’s reliable, unlike most of these shoemakers who, once they have a bit of money in their pockets, don’t care about deadlines or promises. And he’s skilled. And he doesn’t drink – not much. I began by giving him a small order for a few dozen pairs, and he did a good job. Soon I was ordering from him regularly. Now he’s able to hire two or three people in addition to his own family. It’s helped both him and me. And perhaps you might want to see if the quality of his work comes up to the standard that your people at CLFC need. If so…’ Kedarnath left the rest of the sentence in the air.
Haresh nodded, and gave him a comforting smile. After a pause, Haresh said, ‘It’s hot now that we’re out of the alleys. And it smells worse than a tannery. Where are we now? In Ravidaspur?’
‘Not yet. That’s on the other side of the railway line. It doesn’t smell quite so bad there. Yes, there’s an area here where they prepare the leather, but it isn’t a proper tannery like the one on the Ganga –’
‘Perhaps we should get down and see it,’ said Haresh with interest.