collapsible gate.
It was Mr. Dalal. The years he had spent filing receipts had left him with purple crescents under his eyes. But today his gaze was bright. The tip of his tongue played between his teeth, and in the clamp of his thighs he held two small ceramic basins.
“Boori Ma, I have a job for you. Help me carry these basins upstairs.” He pressed a folded handkerchief to his forehead and throat and gave the rickshaw driver a coin. Then he and Boori Ma carried the basins all the way up to the third floor. It wasn’t until they were inside the flat that he finally announced, to Mrs. Dalal, to Boori Ma, and to a few other residents who had followed them out of curiosity, the following things: That his hours filing receipts for a distributor of rubber tubes, pipes, and valve fittings had ended. That the distributor himself, who craved fresher air, and whose profits had doubled, was opening a second branch in Burdwan. And that, following an assessment of his sedulous performance over the years, the distributor was promoting Mr. Dalal to manage the College Street branch. In his excitement on his way home through the plumbing district, Mr. Dalal had bought two basins.
“What are we supposed to do with two basins in a two-room flat?” Mrs. Dalal demanded. She had already been sulking over her lemon peels. “Who ever heard of it? I still cook on kerosene. You refuse to apply for a phone. And I have yet to see the fridge you promised when we married. You expect two basins to make up for all that?”
The argument that followed was loud enough to be heard
all the way down to the letter boxes. It was loud enough, and long enough, to rise above a second spell of rain that fell after dark. It was loud enough even to distract Boori Ma as she swept the stairwell from top to bottom for the second time that day, and for this reason she spoke neither of her hardships, nor of easier times. She spent the night on a bed of newspapers.
The argument between Mr. and Mrs. Dalal was still more or less in effect early the next morning, when a barefoot team of workmen came to install the basins. After a night of tossing and pacing, Mr. Dalal had decided to install one basin in the sitting room of their flat, and the other one in the stairwell of the building, on the first-floor landing. “This way everyone can use it,” he explained from door to door. The residents were delighted; for years they had all brushed their teeth with stored water poured from mugs.
Mr. Dalal, meanwhile, was thinking: A sink in the stairwell is sure to impress visitors. Now that he was a company manager, who could say who might visit the building?
The workmen toiled for several hours. They ran up and down the stairs and ate their lunches squatting against the banister poles. They hammered, shouted, spat, and cursed. They wiped their sweat with the ends of their turbans. In general, they made it impossible for Boori Ma to sweep the stairwell that day.
To occupy the time, Boori Ma retired to the rooftop. She shuffled along the parapets, but her hips were sore from sleeping on newspapers. After consulting the horizon on all four sides, she tore what was left of her quilts into several strips and resolved to polish the banister poles at a later time.
By early evening the residents gathered to admire the day’s labors. Even Boori Ma was urged to rinse her hands under the clear running water. She sniffed. “Our bathwater was scented
with petals and attars. Believe me, don’t believe me, it was a luxury you cannot dream.”
Mr. Dalal proceeded to demonstrate the basin’s various features. He turned each faucet completely on and completely off. Then he turned on both faucets at the same time, to illustrate the difference in water pressure. Lifting a small lever between the faucets allowed water to collect in the basin, if desired.
“The last word in elegance,” Mr. Dalal concluded.
“A sure sign of changing times,” Mr. Chatterjee reputedly admitted from
It was Mr. Dalal. The years he had spent filing receipts had left him with purple crescents under his eyes. But today his gaze was bright. The tip of his tongue played between his teeth, and in the clamp of his thighs he held two small ceramic basins.
“Boori Ma, I have a job for you. Help me carry these basins upstairs.” He pressed a folded handkerchief to his forehead and throat and gave the rickshaw driver a coin. Then he and Boori Ma carried the basins all the way up to the third floor. It wasn’t until they were inside the flat that he finally announced, to Mrs. Dalal, to Boori Ma, and to a few other residents who had followed them out of curiosity, the following things: That his hours filing receipts for a distributor of rubber tubes, pipes, and valve fittings had ended. That the distributor himself, who craved fresher air, and whose profits had doubled, was opening a second branch in Burdwan. And that, following an assessment of his sedulous performance over the years, the distributor was promoting Mr. Dalal to manage the College Street branch. In his excitement on his way home through the plumbing district, Mr. Dalal had bought two basins.
“What are we supposed to do with two basins in a two-room flat?” Mrs. Dalal demanded. She had already been sulking over her lemon peels. “Who ever heard of it? I still cook on kerosene. You refuse to apply for a phone. And I have yet to see the fridge you promised when we married. You expect two basins to make up for all that?”
The argument that followed was loud enough to be heard
all the way down to the letter boxes. It was loud enough, and long enough, to rise above a second spell of rain that fell after dark. It was loud enough even to distract Boori Ma as she swept the stairwell from top to bottom for the second time that day, and for this reason she spoke neither of her hardships, nor of easier times. She spent the night on a bed of newspapers.
The argument between Mr. and Mrs. Dalal was still more or less in effect early the next morning, when a barefoot team of workmen came to install the basins. After a night of tossing and pacing, Mr. Dalal had decided to install one basin in the sitting room of their flat, and the other one in the stairwell of the building, on the first-floor landing. “This way everyone can use it,” he explained from door to door. The residents were delighted; for years they had all brushed their teeth with stored water poured from mugs.
Mr. Dalal, meanwhile, was thinking: A sink in the stairwell is sure to impress visitors. Now that he was a company manager, who could say who might visit the building?
The workmen toiled for several hours. They ran up and down the stairs and ate their lunches squatting against the banister poles. They hammered, shouted, spat, and cursed. They wiped their sweat with the ends of their turbans. In general, they made it impossible for Boori Ma to sweep the stairwell that day.
To occupy the time, Boori Ma retired to the rooftop. She shuffled along the parapets, but her hips were sore from sleeping on newspapers. After consulting the horizon on all four sides, she tore what was left of her quilts into several strips and resolved to polish the banister poles at a later time.
By early evening the residents gathered to admire the day’s labors. Even Boori Ma was urged to rinse her hands under the clear running water. She sniffed. “Our bathwater was scented
with petals and attars. Believe me, don’t believe me, it was a luxury you cannot dream.”
Mr. Dalal proceeded to demonstrate the basin’s various features. He turned each faucet completely on and completely off. Then he turned on both faucets at the same time, to illustrate the difference in water pressure. Lifting a small lever between the faucets allowed water to collect in the basin, if desired.
“The last word in elegance,” Mr. Dalal concluded.
“A sure sign of changing times,” Mr. Chatterjee reputedly admitted from
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