Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [80]
“Shouldn’t I also give him something?” asked the former Carbide worker anxiously. He had always had to grease the tharagars’ palms to get himself taken on.
“You’re right, my friend! You’d better have fifty rupees ready, some pan and a good dozen packs of bidis. Once he’s accepted you, the police will look into whether you’ve been in any trouble in the past. There again you’d better have some baksheesh on to hand.” Ratna Nadar’s eyes widened as the amount he would have to lay out grew. “And then there’s the stationmaster’s P.A. He passes on the green light from the police to his boss, who is the guy who gives you your badge. Your badge is a talisman. When your bones ache too much for you to carry bags and suitcases, you can pass it on to your son. But be careful, if you refuse to take a minister’s or some other big shot’s baggage because they never tip, the stationmaster can take it away from you.”
In the time he had been working at the station, Satish Lal had done it all. He even claimed to have carried on his head the enormous trunks of Hamdullah Khan, the last nawab. They were very heavy; the locks on them were solid silver.
With his lunghi bulging at the waist with rupees for the various intermediaries, Nadar set out for the station in the company of his neighbor. Before entering the small office next to the cloakroom occupied by the coolies’ union, the two men stopped before an altar, which harbored, beside a tulsi, an orange statue of the god Ganesh. Ratna Nadar rang the small bell in front of the divinity to ask for his protection and placed a banana and a few jasmine petals in the offering bowl.
Ganesh fulfilled Padmini’s father’s wishes. A few days later, Satish burst into Ratna’s hut.
“You did it, my friend!” he announced triumphantly. “You’re Bhopal station’s one hundredth and first coolie. Go quickly and buy yourself a red tunic and turban. And a supply of tidbits and sweets. The stationmaster’s waiting to give you your badge.”
It was a ritual. At each full moon, the elders of the Kali Grounds took their places on sisal mats laid end to end, men on one side, women on the other, to discuss the affairs of their community. The men would exchange pan and bidis, the women sweets. One of the purposes of these meetings was to review the young people of the neighborhood who had reached marriageable age. Their names were listed and a debate ensued at once. Soon certain boys’ and certain girls’ names would be linked together. Comment on the merits and disadvantages of these hypothetical marriages would redouble. So seriously did the inhabitants of the bustees take their family lineage that the process was sometimes carried over to the next meeting.
One day old Prema Bai spoke up. “We have to find a good husband for Padmini,” she said emphatically.
“Prema Bai’s right,” said the lovely Dalima.
There followed some discussion. Several boys were mentioned, among them Dilip, Dalima’s adopted son. For that reason Dalima followed the conversation with rapt attention. As usual, Belram Mukkadam tried to calm things down.
“There’s no rush,” he declared. “As I understand it, Padmini Nadar is still too young.”
“You’ve been misinformed, brother,” the girl’s mother immediately replied, “she’s reached marriageable age. And we want to find the best possible husband for her.”
“You couldn’t find a better husband for your daughter than my son Dilip,” Dalima said proudly. “He’s an exceptional boy and I want a wife for him