As the sun rose on Wellington Circle and the pigeons did what they usually do on the Duke’s head, the streets seemed livelier. A crowd was congregating at the new eatery across from the circle although its shutters were still down. The eatery was not the sort of place that could have become popular overnight. It served bread and tea in the mornings. When the eatery did open, people stayed out. Although no orders were received, hot milk tea was served in short clear glasses. The shutters of the eatery remained at half-mast. The owner stepped out from behind the cash register and ventured to shut shop more fully by ineffectually pressing at the iron shutters, not once but twice. Two men remained inside and did not budge.

‘Oh, what a day! The tea has run out. I’ll have to get some more. These markets are so far away these days.’ A few glanced at the errand boy loitering outside the shop as if to suggest that the natural course of action would be to send him.

‘He doesn’t know much, he’s new,’ said the owner anticipating their words. ‘Doesn’t even know where Victoria Station is; a simple village idiot. Move along, you fool.’ The boy looked up with evident protest but didn’t say anything. He hadn’t left Bombay since the day he was born and knew no other place. He could have walked blindfolded to Victoria Station from anywhere in the city. The owner continued to lament, simultaneously downing the shutters and hinting to the boy to scram. The boy appeared easily excitable and the increasing size of the crowd did not help to curb his enthusiasm. He was unwilling to leave.

‘This time I’ll teach you how to do it, you fool, but never again. How I wish I had a donkey instead.’ He dragged the boy by his ear. Some laughed. A chair remained outside the eatery. An important-looking figure, the leader perhaps, sat on it. The owner decided not to make an issue of it. Several tea glasses were also left outside. Smiling, he walked away from the Circle. As the numbers grew, the guard at the museum ran towards them. He stopped when he saw sticks and steel. The people, they had become one by now, began marching towards Wellington Circle.

Most of the policemen had been seconded to Doctor Street to prevent a Muharram riot from breaking out. The Bohras, a prosperous merchant community among the Shias, had petitioned against the festival. The year before, the Sunnis had attacked the Bohras. The police had intervened. They had fired rifles and there had been many Sunni casualties, most of them factory workers.

~

Meanwhile, the annual meeting of the board of the Bombay Municipal Corporation remained a site of discord.

‘We will not survive. We cannot invest in housing and remain competitive.’

‘They’re all agriculturalists. They own houses in their villages. They don’t need much here.’