A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
“I think, Ma, that you are wrong,” he said, keeping his voice so soft that it was almost lost in the crackling fire. “I think I should sew for anybody who comes to me, Brahmin or Bhunghi.”
“You do, do you? Wait till your father comes home, see what he says about it! Brahmin yes, Bhunghi no!”
That evening Roopa told Dukhi about their son’s outrageous ideas, and he turned to Narayan. “I think your mother is right.”
Narayan dropped his hand from the crank and braked the fly wheel. “Why did you send me to learn tailoring?”
“That’s a stupid question. To improve your life – why else?”
“Yes. Because the uppers treat us so badly. And now you are behaving just like them. If that’s what you want, then I am going back to town. I cannot live like this anymore.”
Roopa was stunned by the ultimatum, and horrified when Dukhi turned to her and said, “I think he is right.”
“Father-of-Ishvar, make up your mind! First you say I am right, then you say he is right! From side to side you sway, like a pot without an arse! And this is what comes from sending him to town! Forgetting our village ways! It will only lead to trouble!” Boiling and bubbling, she left the hut, calling Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri to come and hear what-all crazy things were happening in her unfortunate household.
“Toba, toba!” said Savitri. “Poor Roopa, so upset she is shaking.”
“Children – Hai Ram,” said Pyari, throwing up her hands. “How easily they forget about a mother’s feelings.”
“What to do,” said Amba. “We feed them milk from our breast when they are babies, but we cannot feed them good sense.”
“Be patient,” said Padma. “Everything will be all right.”
After bathing in their sympathy, Roopa was calmer. The thought of losing her son a second time made her think carefully. She forgave him his lunatic proposals and agreed to turn a blind eye to them on the basis of a compromise: she would reserve the right to control entry into her hut; some customers would have to conduct their transactions outside.
Two years later Narayan could afford to build his own hut, next to his parents’. Roopa wept that he was abandoning them. “Again and again he breaks his mother’s heart,” she complained. “How will I look after him and his business? Why must he separate?”
“But Ma, it’s only thirty feet away,” said Narayan. “You are welcome there any time to sharpen my pencils.”
“Sharpen pencils, he says! As if that’s all I do for him!”
Eventually, though, she got accustomed to the idea and made it a point of pride, speaking of the other hut to her friends as her son’s factory. He bought a large worktable, a clothes stand, and a new foot-operated sewing-machine which could do straight and zigzag stitches.
For this last purchase he went to take Ashraf Chacha’s advice. The little town had grown since his departure, and Muzaffar Tailoring Company was doing well. Ishvar had rented a room near the shop. From assistant, Ashraf had elevated him to partner. The brothers agreed that their father need not work anymore, between them they would provide for their parents.
“You are such good boys,” said Dukhi, when Narayan told him of the decision. “We are truly blessed by God.”
Roopa fetched the vest and choli made long ago by their children, and faded by now. “Remember these?”
“I didn’t know you still had them.”
“The day you and Ishvar brought these for us, you were so young, both of you,” she said, starting to cry. “But even then I knew, in my heart, that everything would be all right in the end.” She went to announce the good tidings to her friends, who hugged her and teased her that she would soon become rich and not have anything to do with them.
“But one thing is certain,” said Padma. “Time for marriage has come close.”
“You must start looking for two suitable daughters-in-law,” said Savitri.
“Don’t delay any longer,” said Pyari.
“We will help you with everything, don’t worry,” said Amba.
The happy news spread within their community, and outside it. Among the upper castes, there was still anger and resentment because of what a Chamaar had accomplished. One man in particular, Thakur Dharamsi – who always took charge of the district polls at election time, delivering votes to the political party of his choice – taunted the tailor periodically.
“There is a dead cow waiting for you,” he notified Narayan through a servant. Narayan merely passed on the message to other Chamaars, who were happy to have the carcass. Another time, when a goat perished in one of the drains on Thakur Dharamsi’s property, he sent for Narayan to unclog it. Narayan politely sent his reply that he was grateful for the offer but was no longer in this line of work.
Among the Chamaars in the village, he was now looked upon as the spokesman for their caste, their unelected leader. Dukhi wore his son’s success modestly, out of sight, indulging himself only sometimes, when he sat smoking with his friends under the tree by the river. Slowly, his son was becoming more prosperous than many upper-caste villagers. Narayan paid to have a new well dug in the untouchable section of the village. He leased the land on which the two huts stood, and replaced them with a pukka house, one of only seven in the village. It was large enough to accommodate his parents and his business. And, thought Roopa fondly, a wife and children before long.
Dukhi and she would have preferred the older son’s marrying first. But when they offered to find him a wife, Ishvar made it clear he was not interested. By now, Roopa had learned that trying to make her sons do what they did not want to do was a futile endeavour. “Learning big-town ways,” she grumbled, “forgetting our old ways,” and left it at that, turning her attention to Narayan.
They made inquiries, and a suitable girl was recommended in another village. A showing-day was fixed, when the boy’s family would call on the girl’s family. Roopa made certain that Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri were included in plans for the visit – they were like family, she said. Ishvar chose not to go, but arranged a twenty-seven-seater Leyland to transport the bride-viewing party.
The battered little bus arrived in the village at nine in the morning, and stopped in a cloud of dust. The opportunity for a bus ride attracted volunteers for the auspicious event, many more than could be accommodated in that modest conveyance.
“Narayan is like a son to me,” said one. “It’s my duty to come. How can I let him down at this most important time?”
“I will not be able to hold my head up if you don’t take me,” pleaded another, refusing to take no for an answer. “Please don’t leave me behind.”
“I have attended every single bride-showing in our community,” bragged a third. “You need my expertise.”
Many took their going for granted, and climbed aboard without bothering to check with Dukhi or Roopa. When the excursion was ready to commence an hour later, there were thirty-eight people crammed inside, and a dozen sitting cross-legged on the roof. The driver, who had witnessed nasty accidents with low branches along rural roads, refused to proceed. “Get down from the top! Down, everybody, down!” he yelled at the ones settled serenely in lotus positions. So the dozen from the roof had to be left behind, and the bus set off at a sensible crawl.
They reached their destination two and a half hours later. The girl’s parents were impressed by the bus and the size of the visiting delegation, as was the entire village. The thirty-eight visitors stood around uncertainly. There was not room for everyone inside the dwelling. After much agonizing, Dukhi selected a group of seven, including his best friends, Chhotu and Dayaram. Padma and Savitri also made it in, but Amba and Pyari had to wait outside with the unlucky thirty-one, watching the proceedings through the doorway.
Inside, the inner circle had tea with the parents and described the journey. “Such fine scenery we saw along the way,” said Dukhi to the girl’s father.
“Once, all of a sudden, the bus made a big noise and stopped,” said Chhotu. “It too
By and by, the parents compared genealogies and family histories, while Roopa talked modestly of Narayan’s success to the girl’s mother. “So many customers he has. Everybody wants to have clothes made by Narayan only. As if there is no other tailor in the whole country. My poor son works morning till night, sewing, sewing, sewing. But his expensive new machine is so good. What-all wonderful things it can do.”
Then it was time for the bride-viewing moment. “Come, my daughter,” called the mother casually. “Bring something sweet for our guests.”
The girl, Radha, sixteen years old, entered with a platter of laddoos. Conversation ceased. Everyone took a good look as she went around with her head modestly lowered and eyes averted. Outside, there was much whispering and jockeying for position as they tried to catch a glimpse.
Narayan kept his eyes on the laddoos when she stopped in front of him. He was nervous about looking – her family was watching for his reaction. The platter had almost reached the end of its circuit. If he didn’t see her now, there would be no second chance, she would not return, that was certain, and he would have to make a blind decision. Look, oh look! he persuaded himself – and looked. He caught a profile of her features as she bent before her mother.
“No, daughter,” said the mother, “none for me,” and with that, Radha disappeared.
Then it was time to go home. During the return journey, those who had been unable to see or hear from outside were fully briefed. Now everyone had the facts, and were able to take part in final discussions back in the village. Opinions were entertained in order of seniority.
“Her size is good, and colour is good.”
“The family also looks honest, hardworking.”
“Maybe horoscopes should be compared before final decision.”
“No horoscopes! Why horoscopes? That is all brahminical nonsense, our community does not do that.”
Thus it continued for a while, and Narayan listened silently. His approval at the end, though not essential, did serve to strengthen the consensus, to his parents’ relief and the gathering’s applause.
Now the arrangements went ahead. Some of the traditional expenditures were sidestepped at Narayan’s insistence; he did not want Radha’s family indebted to the moneylender in perpetuity. All he would accept from them were six brass vessels: three round-bottomed, and three flat.
Roopa was furious. “What-all do you understand about complicated things like dowry? Have you been married before?”
Dukhi was also upset. “Much more than six vessels is due. It is our right.”
“Since when has our community practised dowry?” asked Narayan quietly.
“If it’s okay for the uppers to do it, so can we.”
But Narayan stood firm, with Ishvar’s backing. “Learning big-town ways,” grumbled their mother, foiled again. “Forgetting our village ways.”
There was a last-minute hitch. Two days before the wedding, under coercion from Thakur Dharamsi and others, the village musicians withdrew their services. They were too frightened to even meet with the family and discuss the problem. So Ishvar arranged for replacements from town. Narayan did not mind the cost of transporting them and their instruments. It was a small price, he felt, for frustrating the landlords.
The new musicians did not know some of the local wedding songs. The elders among the guests were quite concerned – strange anthems and chants could be unpropitious for the marriage. “Especially for producing children,” said an old woman who used to assist at births before her infirmity. “The Womb doesn’t become fertile just like that, without correct procedure.”
“True,” said another. “I have seen it with my own eyes. When the songs are not sung properly, nothing but unhappiness for husband and wife.” They conferred in worried groups, debating and discussing, trying to determine the antidote that would thwart the impending ill-fortune. They looked disapprovingly at those who were enjoying all that alien music and dancing.
The celebrations lasted three days, during which Chamaar families in the village ate the best meals of their lives. Ashraf and his family, the guests of honour, were lodged and looked after in Narayan’s house, which made some people unhappy. There were mutterings about an inauspicious Muslim presence, but the protests were few and muted. And by the third night, to the elders’ relief, the musicians were able to pick up many of the local songs.
A son was born to Radha and Narayan; they named him Omprakash. People came to sing and rejoice with them at the happy occasion. The proud grandfather personally carried sweets to every house in the village.
Later that week, Dukhi’s friend Chhotu came with his wife to see the newborn. Taking Dukhi and Narayan aside, he whispered, “The uppers chucked the sweets in the garbage.”
They did not doubt his word; he would know, for he collected the trash from many of those houses. The news was hurtful but Narayan laughed it away. “More for the ones who found the packages.”
Visitors continued to arrive, marvelling at how healthy the baby looked, considering it was a Chamaar’s child, and how it was always smiling. “Even when he is hungry there is no puling or mewling,” Radha became fond of boasting. “Just makes a tiny kurr-kurr, which stops as soon as he gets my breast.”
Three daughters were born after Omprakash. Two survived. Their names were Leela and Rekha. No sweets were distributed.
Narayan began teaching his son to read and write, conducting the lessons while sewing. The man sat at the sewing-machine, the child sat with slate and chalk. By the time Omprakash was five, he could also do buttons with great style, imitating the flourish with which his father licked the thread and shot it through the needle’s eye, or his flair in stabbing the needle through the cloth.
“All day he spends stuck to his Bapa,” grumbled Radha happily, surveying the adoring father and son.
Her mother-in-law reviewed the scene and drank it in with pleasure. “Daughters are a mother’s responsibility but sons are for the father,” pronounced Roopa, as though she had been granted a brand-new revelation, and Radha received it as such, nodding solemnly.
In the week following Omprakash’s fifth birthday, Narayan took him to the tannery, where the Chamaars were busy at work. Since his return to the village, he had continued to join in their labours periodically, helping with whatever stage of skinning, curing, tanning, or dyeing that was in progress. And now he proudly showed his child how it was done.
But Omprakash held back. Narayan did not like this behaviour. He insisted the boy dirty his hands.
“Chhee! It stinks!” shrieked Omprakash.
“I know it stinks. Do it anyway.” He seized the boy’s hands and dunked them in the tanning vat, plunging him in to the elbows. He was ashamed of his son’s display before his fellow Chamaars.
“I don’t want to do this! I want to go home! Please, Bapa, take me home now!”
“Tears or no tears, you will learn this work,” said Narayan grimly.
Omprakash sobbed and wailed, going into convulsions of rage, wrenching his hands away. “You do that and I will throw your whole body inside,” his father threatened, soaking the arms again and again.
The others tried to persuade Narayan to let it be – the child might have a fit or seizure of some sort, they feared, the way he was screaming hysterically. “It’s his first day,” they said. “Next week he will do better.” But Narayan forced him to keep at it till he called a halt an hour later.
Omprakash was still crying when they got home. On the porch, Radha was massaging her mother-in-law’s scalp with coconut oil. They upset the bottle in their rush to comfort him. Roopa tried to hug her grandson but the thin grey strands hanging greasy and stiff over her forehead made him pull away. He had never seen his grandmother look so frightful.
“What is ailing him? What have you done to him, my poor little laughing-playing child?”
Narayan explained how they had spent the morning, and Dukhi laughed
“Dirty work? You, a Chamaar’s daughter! Saying it is dirty work!”
She was startled by the outburst. It was the first time Narayan had shouted at her. “But why does he –”
“How will he appreciate what he has if he does not learn what his forefathers did? Once a week he will come with me! Whether he likes it or not!”
Radha silently appealed to her father-in-law and began mopping up the coconut oil. Dukhi acknowledged her by tilting his head. Later, when he and Narayan were alone, he said, “Son, I agree with you. But no matter what we think, once a week is only a game. It will never be for him like it was for us. And thank God for that.”
Omprakash spent the rest of the day in misery, in the kitchen, clinging to his mother. Radha kept patting his head while doing her work. “Won’t only leave me alone,” she grumbled happily to her mother-in-law. “I still have to chop the spinach and make the chapatis. God knows when I’ll finish.”
Roopa crinkled her forehead. “When sons are unhappy, they remember their mothers.”
In the evening, while his father was relaxing on the porch, his eyes closed, Omprakash crept out and began massaging his feet, the way he had seen his mother do it. Narayan started, and opened his eyes. He looked down, saw his son and smiled. He held out his arms to him.
Omprakash leapt into them, flinging his hands round his father’s neck. They stayed hugging for a few minutes without speaking a word. Then Narayan pried the child’s fingers loose and sniffed them. He offered his own to him. “See? We both have the same smell. It’s an honest smell.”
The child nodded. “Bapa, shall I do some more chumpee for your feet?”
“Okay.” He watched fondly as his son squeezed the heel, rubbed the arch, kneaded the sole, and massaged each toe, copying Radha’s methodical manner. Roopa and Radha stood concealed in the doorway, beaming at each other.
The weekly leather-working lessons continued for the next three years. Omprakash was taught how to pack the skins with salt to cure them. He collected the fruit of the myrobalan tree to make tannin solution. He learned to prepare dyes, and how to impress the dye in the leather. This was the filthiest task of them all, and it made him retch.