woken by someone shaking his shoulder, and rushed to his feet.
‘Where’s the auto?’
‘Come with me.’
As they walked, they could hear the man under the tree: ‘We need a strategy to install Hindutva! They can’t keep holding us down!’ A bright white banner twisted itself across the brambles: Bharat is for the pure of blood and blood we will shed to keep it pure.
The auto man fluttered his hand by his side, indicating that Tochi keep his distance from the crowd. ‘These Maheshwar Sena people,’ he said.
Tochi waited, hoping for something further, but the man left it at that and they carried on over the maidaan and through the iron gates.
The auto was a broken, paint-peeled thing, the yellow roof bevelled with dents. Tochi pointed to the ruptured front tyre. ‘Is there a spare?’
‘Under the seat.’
Walking round the vehicle, he noticed Om stickers plastered to the rear grille-window and pictures of Sai Baba. ‘How much?’
The man turned his head, calling, ‘Bhaiya?’
Tochi hadn’t spotted the man sitting inside the auto, hidden by the deep grime of the window. His brother, Tochi remembered, as the man shuffled to the side and with some effort levered himself out. For balance, he kept one hand on the doorframe. He looked ill, and his voice, when it came, was the voice of a man decades older.
‘Whatever you can afford, bhaiya.’
‘I can’t afford anything. I’ll pay you from what I earn each day.’
The first man shook his head. ‘Do you think we’re stupid?’
‘Now, now, nikku,’ the brother said.
‘You’ll never see him again, I promise you that.’
The ill man looked at Tochi. Tochi said nothing. He just stood there in his stiff river-washed trousers and mouldy white shirt.
‘We’ll see,’ the man said.
‘You’re crazy!’
The ill man smiled. ‘Please excuse my brother-in-law. But the auto’s yours if you would like it.’
They agreed on the time and place Tochi would come each evening to make good on his payment, and then the man held out the keys and licence, and a list of regular pick-ups.
‘I hope it brings you better luck than it did me,’ he said.
Tochi lay in the auto, at the end of the slim gully that led to his house. He kept the keys in his fist and his fist hidden inside his armpit. He’d felt almost criminal driving home, as if he’d expected someone to halt him and point out how ridiculous it was for his family to own such a thing. Children throwing marbles into the fountain had stopped and stared. Even Kishen had looked up from his tailoring, tape measure clamped between his teeth, and asked if Tochi had taken to robbing banks.
Lovingly, Tochi ran his hand over the handlebars, the leather old and bristly against his palm. He heard something, and saw that it was Dalbir stepping out of the dark lane. He was carrying a steel bowl with a spoonful of dhal, and a single roti. He handed this to Tochi.
‘I’ll bring your tea later,’ Dalbir said, climbing in beside him. His wide eyes made a slow tour of the vehicle, neck arching as though he was inside some huge temple.
‘I can’t remember the last time Ma was so happy.’
‘Who’s asking you to?’
‘I’m asking myself.’
‘Don’t.’ Tochi passed him half of his roti.
‘I’ve eaten.’
‘Eat some more.’
At dawn, he filled a bucket with water from the pump and bought on credit a bar of crumbling strawberry soap from Bicky’s Friendship Store. He started at the back, scrubbing off the stickers, slowly working his way round. At some point, Dalbir came and asked for the spare rag.
It was far into the morning when the last of the polish had been applied. Tochi went back to the house and wrapped a shawl around his father’s torso. Then he helped him outside and sat him on a chair in front of the auto. Tochi’s mother and sister followed, heads covered and holding a bowl of yoghurt and a saucer of holy water Palvinder had fetched that morning from the gurdwara. She dipped her
‘Where’s the auto?’
‘Come with me.’
As they walked, they could hear the man under the tree: ‘We need a strategy to install Hindutva! They can’t keep holding us down!’ A bright white banner twisted itself across the brambles: Bharat is for the pure of blood and blood we will shed to keep it pure.
The auto man fluttered his hand by his side, indicating that Tochi keep his distance from the crowd. ‘These Maheshwar Sena people,’ he said.
Tochi waited, hoping for something further, but the man left it at that and they carried on over the maidaan and through the iron gates.
The auto was a broken, paint-peeled thing, the yellow roof bevelled with dents. Tochi pointed to the ruptured front tyre. ‘Is there a spare?’
‘Under the seat.’
Walking round the vehicle, he noticed Om stickers plastered to the rear grille-window and pictures of Sai Baba. ‘How much?’
The man turned his head, calling, ‘Bhaiya?’
Tochi hadn’t spotted the man sitting inside the auto, hidden by the deep grime of the window. His brother, Tochi remembered, as the man shuffled to the side and with some effort levered himself out. For balance, he kept one hand on the doorframe. He looked ill, and his voice, when it came, was the voice of a man decades older.
‘Whatever you can afford, bhaiya.’
‘I can’t afford anything. I’ll pay you from what I earn each day.’
The first man shook his head. ‘Do you think we’re stupid?’
‘Now, now, nikku,’ the brother said.
‘You’ll never see him again, I promise you that.’
The ill man looked at Tochi. Tochi said nothing. He just stood there in his stiff river-washed trousers and mouldy white shirt.
‘We’ll see,’ the man said.
‘You’re crazy!’
The ill man smiled. ‘Please excuse my brother-in-law. But the auto’s yours if you would like it.’
They agreed on the time and place Tochi would come each evening to make good on his payment, and then the man held out the keys and licence, and a list of regular pick-ups.
‘I hope it brings you better luck than it did me,’ he said.
Tochi lay in the auto, at the end of the slim gully that led to his house. He kept the keys in his fist and his fist hidden inside his armpit. He’d felt almost criminal driving home, as if he’d expected someone to halt him and point out how ridiculous it was for his family to own such a thing. Children throwing marbles into the fountain had stopped and stared. Even Kishen had looked up from his tailoring, tape measure clamped between his teeth, and asked if Tochi had taken to robbing banks.
Lovingly, Tochi ran his hand over the handlebars, the leather old and bristly against his palm. He heard something, and saw that it was Dalbir stepping out of the dark lane. He was carrying a steel bowl with a spoonful of dhal, and a single roti. He handed this to Tochi.
‘I’ll bring your tea later,’ Dalbir said, climbing in beside him. His wide eyes made a slow tour of the vehicle, neck arching as though he was inside some huge temple.
‘I can’t remember the last time Ma was so happy.’
‘Who’s asking you to?’
‘I’m asking myself.’
‘Don’t.’ Tochi passed him half of his roti.
‘I’ve eaten.’
‘Eat some more.’
At dawn, he filled a bucket with water from the pump and bought on credit a bar of crumbling strawberry soap from Bicky’s Friendship Store. He started at the back, scrubbing off the stickers, slowly working his way round. At some point, Dalbir came and asked for the spare rag.
It was far into the morning when the last of the polish had been applied. Tochi went back to the house and wrapped a shawl around his father’s torso. Then he helped him outside and sat him on a chair in front of the auto. Tochi’s mother and sister followed, heads covered and holding a bowl of yoghurt and a saucer of holy water Palvinder had fetched that morning from the gurdwara. She dipped her
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