A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
Ishvar was a little nervous, his chalk poised above the slate, fearful of what might happen. Gingerly he made contact, and drew a line, then another, and another. He grinned at Narayan – how easy it was to make his mark!
Now Narayan, his fingers shaking with excitement, chalked a short white line and displayed it proudly. They grew more adventurous, departing from straight lines, covering the slates with loops and curves and scrawls of all shapes and sizes, stopping only to admire, marvelling at the ease with which they could create, then erase with a sweep of the hand and re-create at will. And the chalk dust on their palms and fingers set them to giggling too – it could make thick funny lines on the forehead just like the caste marks of the Brahmins.
They returned to the cupboard to examine the rest of its contents, unrolling alphabet charts and opening picture books. Lost in the forbidden world, they did not notice that the dancing in the yard had ended, nor did they hear the teacher sneak up behind. He grabbed them by their ears and dragged them outside.
“You Chamaar rascals! Very brave you are getting, daring to enter the school!” He twisted their ears till they yelped with pain and started to cry. The schoolchildren fearfully huddled together.
“Is this what your parents teach you? To defile the tools of learning and knowledge? Answer me! Is it?” He released their ears long enough to deliver stinging blows to the head, then seized them again.
Sobbing, Ishvar said, “No, masterji, it isn’t.”
“Then why were you in there?”
“We only wanted to look –”
“Wanted to look! Well, I will show you now! I will show you the back of my hand!” Holding on to Narayan, he slapped Ishvar six times in quick succession across the face, then delivered the same number to his brother’s face. “And what is this on your foreheads, you shameless creatures? Such blasphemy!” He slapped them again, and by now his hand was sore.
“Get the cane from the cupboard,” he ordered a girl. “And you two remove your pants. After I am through, not one of you achhoot boys will ever dream of fooling with things you are not supposed to touch.”
The cane was presented, and the teacher asked four older students to hold the trespassers to the ground, face down, by their hands and ankles. He commenced the punishment, alternating strokes between the two. The watching children flinched each time the cane landed on the bare bottoms. A little boy started to cry.
When the two had received a dozen strokes each, the teacher stopped. “That should teach you,” he panted. “Now get out, and don’t let your unclean faces be seen here ever again.”
Ishvar and Narayan ran off with their pants straggling, stumbling and tripping comically. The other children grabbed the opportunity to laugh; they were grateful for the relief it provided.
Dukhi did not hear till evening about his sons’ punishment. He grimly told Roopa to delay baking the chapatis. “Why?” she asked, alarmed. “After a whole day in the fields you are not hungry? Where-all are you going?”
“To Pandit Lalluram. He must do something about this.”
“Leave it for now,” she pleaded. “Don’t disturb such an important man at dinnertime.” But Dukhi washed the day’s dust off his hands and went.
Pandit Lalluram was not just any Brahmin, he was a Chit-Pavan Brahmin – descended from the purest among the pure, from the keepers of the Sacred Knowledge. He was neither the village headman nor a government official, but his peers said he commanded their unswerving respect for his age, his sense of fairness, and for the Sacred Knowledge locked inside his large, shiny cranium.
Disputes of any sort, over land or water or animals, were presented before him for arbitration. Family quarrels concerning disobedient daughters-in-law, stubborn wives, and philandering husbands also fell within his jurisdiction. Thanks to his impeccable credentials, everyone always went away satisfied: the victim obtained the illusion of justice; the wrongdoer was free to continue in his old ways; and Pandit Lalluram, for his trouble, received gifts of cloth, grain, fruit, and sweets from both sides.
The learned Pandit also enjoyed a reputation for promoting communal harmony. For instance, during the periodic protests against Muslims and cow slaughter, Pandit Lalluram persuaded his coreligionists that it was not right for Hindus to condemn the cow-eaters. He explained that the Muslim, by his religion, was burdened with four wives, poor fellow, and he needed to eat the flesh of animals to heat up his blood and service those four wives – he was carnivorous out of necessity, not out of fondness for cow flesh or to harass Hindus, and, as such, should be pitied and left in peace to satisfy his religious requirements.
With his spotless record, Pandit Lalluram’s champions were many. So honest and fair was he, they said, even an untouchable could receive justice at his hands. That no untouchable could verify this claim in living memory was beside the point. People seemed to remember, vaguely, the time a landlord had beaten a Bhunghi to death for arriving late at the house, well after sunrise, to cart away the household’s excrement. Pandit Lalluram had ruled – or it might have been his father, or perhaps his grandfather; in any case, someone had ruled – that the offence was serious, but not serious enough to warrant the killing, and that the landlord, in recompense, must provide food, shelter, and clothing for the dead man’s wife and children for the next six years. Or was it for six months, or perhaps six weeks?
Relying on this legendary reputation for justice, Dukhi sat at Pandit Lalluram’s feet and told him about the beating of Ishvar and Narayan. The learned man was resting in an armchair, having just finished his dinner, and belched loudly several times during his visitor’s narration. Dukhi paused politely at each eructation, while Pandit Lalluram murmured “Hai Ram” in thanks for an alimentary tract blessed with such energetic powers of digestion.
“How much he slapped my sons – you should see their swollen faces, Panditji,” said Dukhi. “And their backsides look like an angry tiger raked them with his claws.”
“Poor children,” sympathized Pandit Lalluram. He rose and went to a shelf inside. “Here, put this ointment on their backs. It will soothe the burning pain.”
Dukhi bowed his head. “Thank you, Panditji, you are truly kind.” He removed the cloth from his head and wrapped the small flat tin in it. “Panditji, some time ago I was hammered badly by Thakur Premji for no fault of mine. But I did not come to you. I did not want to trouble you.”
Pandit Lalluram raised his eyebrows and rubbed his big toe. Nodding, he kneaded sweat and dirt into black bits that rolled off his fingers.
“That time I suffered silently,” said Dukhi. “But for my children, I have come to you. They should not have to suffer unjust beatings.”
Still silent, Pandit Lalluram sniffed the fingers which had finished massaging his big toe. He pivoted on one buttock and broke wind. Dukhi leaned back to allow it free passage, wondering what penalty might adhere to the offence of interfering with the waft of brahminical flatus.
“They are only children,” he pleaded, “and they were doing no harm.” He waited for a response. “They were doing no harm, Panditji,” he repeated, wanting the learned man to at least agree with him. “That teacher should be punished for what he has done.”
Pandit Lalluram sighed long and hard. He leaned sideways and blew a thick stream of mucus out of his nose on to the dry earth. The impact of its landing raised a tiny puff of dust. He rubbed his nose and sighed again. “Dukhi Mochi, you are a good, hardworking man. I have known you for a long time. You always try to do your duty, don’t you, according to your caste?”
Dukhi nodded.
“Which is wise,” approved Pandit Lalluram, “for it is the path to happiness. Otherwise, there would be chaos in the universe. You understand there are four varnas in society: Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Shudra. Each of us belongs to one of these four varnas, and they cannot mix. Correct?”
Dukhi nodded again, hiding his impatience. He had not come to hear a lecture on the caste system.
“Now just as
Dukhi shook his head.
“Punishing your sons for their misdeeds was part of the teacher’s duty. He had no choice. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Panditji, punishment is sometimes necessary. But such a terrible beating?”
“It was a terrible offence that they-”
“But they are only children, and curious, like all –”
Pandit Lalluram rolled his eyes at the interruption, pointing heavenward with the index finger of his right hand to silence Dukhi. “How can I make you understand? You do not have the knowledge that would help you to appreciate these matters.” Now the note of patient suffering in his voice was replaced by something harsher. “Your children entered the classroom. They polluted the place. They touched instruments of learning. They defiled slates and chalks, which upper-caste children would touch. You are lucky there wasn’t a holy book like the Bhagavad Gita in that cupboard, no sacred texts. Or the punishment would have been more final.”
Dukhi was calm as he touched Pandit Lalluram’s sandals to take his leave. “I understand completely, Panditji, thank you for explaining to me. I am so lucky – you, a Chit-Pavan Brahmin, wasting precious time on an ignorant Chamaar like me.”
Pandit Lalluram absently lifted his hand in farewell. There was a small doubt in his mind as to whether he had been flattered or insulted. Presently, though, another vigorous belch came rumbling upwards, displacing the doubt and putting both mind and belly at ease.
On the way home, Dukhi came across his friends who were still smoking under the tree by the river. “Oyeh, Dukhi, out so late in that part of the village?”
“Went to see that Chit-Pavan Brahmin,” said Dukhi, and narrated his visit in detail. “Goo-Khavan Brahmin is what he should be called instead.”
They laughed with delight, and Chhotu agreed that Shit-Eating Brahmin was indeed a more suitable name. “But how does he have the appetite, after gobbling a pound of ghee and two pounds of sweets at every meal?”
“He gave me this ointment for the children,” said Dukhi. They passed the tin around, examining, sniffing the contents.
“Looks like boot polish to me,” said Chhotu. “He must apply it to his head every morning. That’s why it shines like the sun.”
“Aray bhaiya, you are confusing his head with his arse-hole. That’s where he applies the polish – that’s where the sun shines from, according to his caste brothers. That’s why the shit-eaters all try to lick their way into it.”
“I have a shlokha of advice for all of them,” said Dayaram, and recited in mock Sanskrit, imitating the exalted cadences of a pujari reading scriptures: “Goluma Ekdama Tajidevum! Chuptum Makkama Jhaptum!”
The men roared at the references to buggery and copulation. Dukhi threw the tin in the river. Leaving his friends to speculate about what exactly, if anything, lay below the rolls of fat that constituted Pandit Lalluram’s belly, he went home.
He told Roopa he would be leaving early next morning for town. “My mind is made up. I am going to talk to Ashraf the tailor.”
She did not ask why. Her mind was busy planning the strategy for another nocturnal assault on someone’s butter-churn, this time for her children’s backsides.
Ashraf wanted no payment to apprentice Dukhi’s sons. “They will be a help to me,” he said. “And how much food can two little boys eat? Whatever we cook, they will share with us. That’s all right, nah? No restrictions?”
“No restrictions,” said Dukhi.
Two weeks later he returned to the tailor’s shop with Ishvar and Narayan. “Ashraf is like my brother,” he explained to the children. “So you must always call him Ashraf Chacha.”
The tailor beamed with pleasure, honoured by the title of uncle, as Dukhi continued, “You will stay with Ashraf Chacha for some time, and learn with him. Listen carefully to everything he says, and treat him with the same respect you have for me.”
The boys had been prepared for the separation in advance by their father. This was only the formal announcement. “Yes, Bapa,” they answered.
“Ashraf Chacha is going to turn you into tailors like himself. From now on, you are not cobblers – if someone asks your name, don’t say Ishvar Mochi or Narayan Mochi. From now on you are Ishvar Darji and Narayan Darji.”
Then Dukhi gave them each a pat on the back, and a slight push, as though to propel them into the other maris keeping. They left their father’s side and stepped towards the tailor, who put out his hands to receive them.
Dukhi watched Ashraf’s fingers, the warmth with which he gripped the children’s shoulders. Ashraf was a good and gentle man, he knew his sons would be well-cared for. All the same, an icy ache was spreading around his heart.
During the journey back to the village, he slumped in the bullock cart, feeling exhausted, barely aware of the wheels jouncing over ruts and bumps, jarring his bones. Simultaneously, he felt crazy surges of energy that made him want to hop out of the cart and run. He knew he had done the best thing possible for his sons, and a weight had lifted. Why, then, did he not feel lighter? What was this other thing pressing down on him?
Late in the afternoon he jumped off the bullock cart by the village road. Roopa was sitting idle in the hut, staring out the entrance, when his shadow appeared in the doorway. He told her everything was settled.
She looked at him accusingly. He had made a hole in her life that nothing could fill. Each time she thought of her two sons – distanced by miles to live with a stranger, and a Muslim at that – then her grief leapt up into her throat, and she felt she would choke, she told her husband. He observed bitterly that at least his Muslim friend treated him better than his Hindu brothers.
Muzaffar Tailoring Company was located on a street of small family businesses. There was a hardware store, coal-merchant, banya, and miller, all in a row, the shops identical in shape and size, distinguished solely by the interior noises and smells. Muzaffar Tailoring Company was the only one that displayed a signboard.
Ashraf’s shop was cramped, as were the living quarters over it: one room and kitchen. He had married last year, and had a month-old daughter. His wife, Mumtaz, was less pleased than he to have two more mouths staying with them. It was decided that the apprentices would sleep in the shop.
Ishvar and Narayan were overwhelmed by the sudden change in their lives. Buildings, electric lights, water that flowed from taps – everything so different from the village, and so amazing. On the first day they sat in awe on the stone steps outside the shop, watching the street and seeing a universe of frightening chaos. Gradually, they perceived the river of traffic in the street and, within it, the currents of handcarts, bicycles, bullock carts, buses, and the occasional lorry. Now they learned the wild river’s character. They were reassured that it was not all madness and noise, there was a pattern in things.
They observed people come to the banya to purchase salt, spices, coconut, pulses, candles, oil. They saw grain being taken to the miller to be made into flour. The miller’s arms slowly became white while he worked; sometimes, his face and eyelashes too. The coal-merchant’s arms and face turned black as the hours progressed; his delivery boys ran back and forth all day with baskets of coal. Ishvar and Narayan loved to watch their neighbours when they washed at night, emerging brown from behind their daytime colours.
Ashraf left them alone for two days, till their curiosity turned of its own accord towards the tailoring shop. The centre of their desire was, of course, the sewing-machine. To satisfy them, he let each take a turn at working the treadle while he guided a scrap under the needle. The brothers were thrilled that they could make the machine perform. It was as inspiring as making their mark with chalk upon slate.
Now they were ready to settle down to less exciting things, like threading a needle and hand-stitching. Eager to learn, they impressed Ashraf with their quickness. The next tim
The man carried striped material for a shirt. Ashraf opened the order book to a new page, noted the customer’s name, then unrolled his measuring tape with a flourish, which the boys simply adored. They had already begun to practise it in private, to Ashraf’s amusement.
“Collar, fourteen and half inches,” he dictated. “Chest, thirty-two.” He glanced at Ishvar, who was bent over the book, his tongue sticking out in grave concentration. Turning to the customer, Ashraf continued, “Sleeves. Short or long?”
“Has to be long,” said the man. “I am wearing it to a friend’s wedding.” The formalities completed, the customer left, assured that his shirt would be ready in time for the wedding next week.
“Now let’s see the measurements,” said Ashraf.
Smiling proudly, Ishvar handed him the book. The page was covered with black scratches and squiggles.
“Ah, yes, I see.” Ashraf controlled his dismay, patting the boy’s back. “Yes, very good.” He quickly jotted down what he could remember of the figures.
After dinner, he began teaching them the alphabet and numbers. Mumtaz was not pleased. “Now you are becoming their schoolmaster as well. What next? Will you find wives for them also, when they are old enough?”
Next day he finished the wedding-guest’s shirt. The man came for it at the end of the week and tried it on. Ashraf had got everything right except the length: it hung closer to the knees than was desirable. The man looked in the mirror, dubious, turning left and right.
“Absolutely perfect,” admired Ashraf. “This northern Pathani style has become very fashionable these days.” The man left, still a bit uncertain, and the three burst out laughing.