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‘Beti,’ he started, ‘business is not an easy thing.’

Nisha looked expectant.

‘I will help you in the beginning, but the responsibility, profit, and loss all are yours. In teaching no matter what you do, you get your salary. This is different.’

‘Six hundred rupees, Papaji!’ exclaimed Nisha. ‘It is like getting no money at all.’

‘It is not the amount,’ said Yashpal severely. ‘It is the attitude. If you start making six hundred rupee losses, some here, some there, see how quickly you go under. Now I will start you off with twenty-five thousand. Let us see what you do with it.’

Nisha held her breath. Twenty-five thousand! It made her feel adult. She who had been earning six hundred a month, to be responsible for twenty-five thousand! Her father was trusting her as he would have trusted a son.

‘The rent is six thousand. I will pay it the first month.’

She vowed she would return every paisa to him. As he himself pointed out, it was a question of business. Thirty days, she had thirty days in which to generate enough income to pay next month’s rent.

So this panic, this excitement, this challenge, this is what businessmen lived with. She felt a great pity for all teachers.

Her father hesitated. ‘One more thing. I will order twenty-five suits from you; if they are not sold within a month, you will have to take them back. And if there are any complaints about the quality, I will not repeat the order.’

Nisha looked at him. Complaints about her suits? What was he talking about? As yet unaware of the thousand things that could go wrong with orders, she felt like giving it to her father in blood that he would be satisfied with her quality. But softly, softly, cautioned her spirit, she had to go softly. She looked down, demurely said, yes, Papaji, and that night was the first to put the TV on.

Work started on the basement. Lights, fans, and switches were replaced and a partition erected. The larger space was for the tailors and their equipment, while the smaller was the display area and Nisha’s office.

In the few days it took to whitewash the basement, Nisha set about hiring workers. The master tailor, the one who cut, was the first and biggest essential. On her father’s suggestion one morning she patrolled the back lane of a boutique on Ajmal Khan Road along with her aunt. Rupa was quicker than she in identifying and accosting: Madam was establishing a business, she needed a Masterji and some tailors.

‘How much?’ demanded the man.

‘Negotiable,’ replied Rupa, ‘but anybody who works for her will not be disappointed.’ She wrote Nisha’s name and address on a piece of paper, and gave him till tomorrow to appear.

By the next evening Nisha had agreed to pay five thousand a month to the Masterji, Mohseen Khan by name, who promised to bring his sidekick for three thousand the minute Madam gave the word.

She could now resign from school.

Her father suggested she call her line Nisha’s Creations. He had seen many women come in with their creations, its common usage had not destroyed its artistic appeal. She ordered five hundred labels. Start small, she said to herself, but I have to pay the rent, she argued back, within three months I have to make this many suits.

From Motia Khan she procured one display rack with protective plastic covers for the suits, and two sewing machines, one for ordinary stitching at two thousand, one for embroidery at four thousand. Pointed in that direction by Mohseen Khan, she combed the bookshops of Karol Bagh for trendy design magazines, and discovered Suriya waiting for her at this stage of life as well, publisher of the monthly
Star and Style, Clothes for the Young at Heart
.

The material in her father’s shop was available to her at cost price, but for threads, laces, buttons, hooks etc. she had to go to wholesale dealers in Sadar Bazaar to keep her margins low. Her mother refused to let her go to these places alone; the first time she took Raju, the second time a salesperson from the shop, the third time she went by herself without telling anyone. Her business was not to be run standing on the shoulders of others.

Every day she honed her sense of colour and design. Within a few weeks, she could sketch variations on existing patterns. Mohseen Masterji became the man in her life. His expertise covered market trends, cutting corners in business, advice as to what she needed, and where she should buy it from. He cut five suits a day, brought her three tailors, which including the embroiderer and errand boy, made her the employer of six.

She learned to be meticulous in keeping track of every expense. What did it cost to make one suit? Salaries (the easiest part), rent, sewing machines and their depreciation, tea, cloth, hangers, plastic covers, scooter fares, threads, laces, hooks, scissors etc. etc. – nothing was too small to take into account.

Every time the electricity went, her production went down; she had to invest in an inverter. Another ten thousand to recover.

Sometimes she marvelled over the nature of business, so demanding of care, attention, and thought. No wonder the men in the family were incapable of brooding for days on the troubles at home. Now for her too the same indifference, her spirits instead rose and fell with the levels of her profit.

When she was out buying, Nisha had to use Sona to supervise in the basement, see what the tailors needed, check the embroidery samples, test the fastness of colours, keep an eye on the boy as he ran to and from the dyers.

Despite the activity, Sona found the basement depressing. It was damp, seepage stained the fresh paint, and it had a musty smell. Yet Nisha needed her help to control these tailors. There was a limit to how much tea they could drink, how early they could pack up and go home.

The first time Nisha left her mother in charge, she came back to find her bursting with accomplishment. She had shown them. Masterji had actually lain down after lunch, was Nisha paying him to rest?

Masterji showed his displeasure by not coming for two whole days. ‘Mummy, what have you done?’ wailed Nisha. ‘Even if he sleeps he never cuts less than five suits a day. I promised Gyan’s twenty by day after, if he doesn’t come, my reputation will be spoilt. Do you know how competitive the market is?’

Mummy was offended. ‘Don’t ask me to help if you are going to find fault. These people know how to take advantage of a young girl.’

There was no point saying anything. Nisha had to send the tailor Nasir to his house before Masterji unbent enough to come.

The next time Nisha left her mother in charge the same thing happened. This time it was the boy, who objected so much to being accused of making money with the threads that he quit. A boy was not like a Masterji, but it was irritating to have to find another, irritating to have to give her workers tips so they would ignore what Sona said.

There was another alternative lurking in the house. Shuchi was now in Play-Way, and her mother was relatively free. The delicate balance between sister-in-law and sister meant nothing was said in the open.

Pooja moved carefully. All her friends loved Nisha’s Creations, thought it remarkable that in a year she should be making suits as nice as the ones at Deepson’s and how fortunate they were to be getting one-third off when they bought from her.

Nisha looked pleasant and non-committal at the same time.

Raju picked up the thread. ‘They love your suits, Nishu.’

Nisha smiled accommodatingly. She didn’t mind supplying Pooja’s wide circle of acquaintance, but she was doing them a favour, they were saving on the store’s mark-up, for her it made no difference. She made this clear by saying, ‘Gyan’s was asking me just the other day whether I could increase the number to a hundred a month. I said I don’t know. Family comes first, but I have to see to the outside market as well.’

A few days later Pooja offered more directly. ‘I could help you in any way you like,’ she said, looking longingly at the magazines Nisha had just bought.

Nisha was divided. She was sure that Pooja would prove a more effective helper than her mother, but she was not her blood. Once she asked her, she could not unask her, and Pooja might prove as destructive in the basement as she had to her peace of mind earlier.

Meanwhile the marriage mill went on. On Nisha’s birthday the family pundit came to deliver his predictions for the year. He unrolled the little chart tied with red thread and assured the anxious parents that this was the year Nisha was definitely going to get married. Shanni had moved from its house, the malevolent influences on her life were weakening.

Babaji was visited along with sweets and five hundred and one rupees in an envelope. She needed a new stone, he said, the old one had done its work and was no longer needed.

‘What about her marriage?’

‘Soon,’ said Babaji. ‘She will make a good marriage but it cannot be hurried.’

To lighten the sorrow the thought of her marriage caused him, Yashpal turned his thoughts to his daughter’s business, where lay uncomplicated pride and pleasure. In a gruelling, competitive sphere she had proved herself with nothing beyond a small loan and a few initial introductions to big shops. Within a year she had increased the number of her tailors, invested in an inverter, and an ari machine for zardozi. A wooden frame, enabling sequins and beadwork, was now permanently installed in the basement with the craftsman specialising in this sleeping under it in the night.

She had repaid half the twenty-five thousand loan. With your blessings, Papaji, you will get the other half by next year, she laughed, almost recapturing the liveliness that had been hers in college. His daughter was growing, not in the way he had anticipated, but growing. Sometimes it occurred to him that she was more intelligent, methodical, and independent than Raju. Still, it was his duty to see that she married. Her fulfillment lay there, no matter how successful her business was.

Nisha had begun to respond to the issue of her marriage as a woman of a world she was not prepared to leave. She would only consent to a match with a family who let her work.

Sona objected: working was all right as a time pass, but if she started making such conditions, who would take her? Families wanted a daughter-in-law, wife, and mother; husbands were not looking for businesswomen. They might as well not waste their money on advertisements, if she was going to be so difficult.

‘If she wants to work, she should be allowed to,’ Yashpal said stubbornly. ‘My first duty is to her, not to her future family. Otherwise, the karma on our heads will be too much. Too-too much.’

‘Has the love of your daughter made you mad? You have a strange idea of karma. Her in-laws will not thank you.’

Yashpal was silent. He could not express his ideas and he ignored his wife’s barbs. But nobody who was privy to Nisha’s account books could call her Creations a mere time pass.

XXIV

Meeting

At last the searching narrowed down to a widower in his early thirties, just right for a twenty-six-year-old. No issue, reassured Sona, only child, lives with mother in Daryaganj, a manglik like you, no dowry, sole interest is in a steady, homely girl. Triumphantly she produced a picture. See, here he is.

Nisha looked but could make out nothing. Pictures lied. Her own certainly did.

‘What happened to the first wife?’

‘Died.’

‘How?’

‘Accident.’

‘What kind?’

‘Something on the road.’

‘Oh.’

‘When they come he wants to see you alone.’

This made her afraid. She was no longer what she was. For the last five years she had watched her skin darken and her future grow ugly. Her mind darted down the sewers of her past, weaving through Vijay Nagar and the threatening places of her old house. What would he find when he looked at her?

‘Why? Raju didn’t meet Pooja alone.’

‘Arre, Raju was a child, he knew nothing. This man is thirty-four, he has been married, he has certain ideas. What is the harm? We will be in the next room.’

‘Why does he want to see me?’ persisted Nisha. ‘I don’t want to see him. You have chosen, it is enough.’

Sona beamed at the proper feelings of her daughter. ‘Of course there is no need, but he is very particular. But mind, you don’t say much,’ she added.

At that moment Nisha’s skin began to prickle. She could not bear the sensation, and surreptitiously dug her nails through the thin material of her kurta and raked them across her skin.

Next morning the vigilant Sona noticed fresh weals on the inside folds of her daughter’s elbows. ‘Do you do this on purpose?’ she asked harshly. ‘The minute we mention somebody is coming to see you, you itch. I don’t see you scratching when you are talking to your tailors. Is that the class of men you prefer?’

Nisha stared at her mother in hatred. What a low mind she had. She wanted to get rid of her, get rid of them all. ‘What do you know about what I prefer?’ she demanded.

Yes, let the father go on indulging her; make her so independent she can talk back, thought Sona angrily.

Nisha spent the day in the basement with her tailors. Staring at her designs, discussing them with Mohseen Bhai, the tumult in her mind died down. One thing was certain, no matter who she married she was going to come here every single day. She too had something to say to the groom.

‘They will meet in Raju’s room,’ Yashpal declared. ‘The door will stay open, beti, don’t worry, we are near, you won’t feel odd.’

How could she not feel odd, when she had no idea of what he was looking for? She wanted no expectations, no hostile gaze, no turning away because her appearance hurt his eyes.

They would cover her up when he came to see her, that she knew, but could they cover her up in the married home? And what about cooking? For the first time she appreciated the concern that had made Pooja’s parents insist on a maid for their daughter. Would her parents insist too?

‘Papaji.’

Love and anxiety in his gaze, met by love and anxiety in her own. She would do anything for her father, anything. But she wanted to avoid humiliation.

‘Does he know about me?’

The father sighed. ‘We have told him. Babaji also advised.’