A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
Dina was happier meeting him without the bicycle. She felt he should give it up altogether, it was too dangerous in the city traffic.
“I’m going to get married,” announced Dina at the dinner table.
“Ah,” beamed her brother. “Good, good. Which one is it, Solly or Porus?” – these two being the gents he had most recently introduced.
Dina shook her head.
“Then it must be either Dara or Firdosh,” said Ruby, smiling meaningfully. “They are both crazy about you.”
“His name is Rustom Dalai.”
Nusswan was surprised; the name did not belong among the numerous candidates he had brought before Dina over the past three years. Perhaps it was someone she had met at one of the family gatherings he so detested. “And where did we come across him?”
“We didn’t. I did.”
Nusswan did not like the answer. He was offended that all his efforts, all his choices, were being spurned by her for a total stranger. “Just like that you want to marry this fellow? What do you know about him and his family? What does he know about you, your family?”
“Everything,” said Dina in a tone that made him anxious. “I’ve been seeing Rustom for a year and a half now.”
“I see. A well-kept secret,” he said, affecting sarcasm. “And what does he do, this Dalai fellow, your Rustom-in-hiding?”
“He’s a pharmaceutical chemist.”
“Hah! Pharmaceutical chemist! A bloody compounder! Why don’t you use the proper word? That’s what he is, mixing prescription powders all day long behind a counter.”
He reminded himself there was no sense in losing his temper just yet. “So, when are we going to meet this Father Forty-Lakhs of yours?”
“Why? So you can insult him in person?”
“I have no reason to insult him. But it is my duty to meet him, and then advise you properly. In the end it’s up to you.”
On the appointed day, Rustom arrived with a box of sweetmeats for Nusswan and Ruby, which he placed in the hands of little Xerxes, who was almost three now. For Dina, he brought a new umbrella. The significance was not lost on her, and she smiled. He winked at her when the others were not looking.
“It’s gorgeous,” she said, opening it up. “What a lovely pagoda shape.” The fabric was sea green, and the shaft was stainless steel, with a formidable spike at the end.
“That’s a dangerous weapon,” joked Nusswan. “Be careful who you point it at.”
They had tea, with cheese sandwiches and butter biscuits prepared by Ruby and Dina, and the time passed without unpleasantness. But that night, after the visitor left, Nusswan said he could not understand for one moment what was in his sister’s head – brains or sawdust.
“Selecting someone without looks, without money, without prospects. Some fiancés give diamond rings. Others a gold watch, or at least a little brooch. What does your fellow bring? A bloody umbrella! To think I wasted so much time and energy introducing you to solicitors, chartered accountants, police superintendents, civil engineers. All from respectable families. How will I hold my head up when people hear that my sister married an unambitious medicine-mixing fool? Don’t expect me to rejoice or come to the wedding. For me it will be a day of deep, dark mourning.”
It was sad, he lamented, that in order to hurt him she was ruining her own life. “Mark my words, your spite will come back to haunt you. I am powerless to stop you, you are twenty-one, no longer a little girl I can look after. And if you are determined to throw your life away in the gutter, I can only watch helplessly while you do it.”
Dina had expected all this. The words washed over her and gurgled into oblivion, leaving her untouched. The way the rain had rolled off Rustom’s lovely raincoat, she remembered, on that beautiful night. But she wondered again, as she had so many times, where her brother had learned to rave so proficiently. Neither their mother nor father had had much talent for it.
In a few days Nusswan grew calmer. If Dina was getting married and leaving for good, better that it should happen amicably, without too much fuss. Secretly he was also pleased that Rustom Dalai was no great catch. It would have been unbearable if his friends had been rejected in favour of someone superior.
He participated in the wedding plans with more enthusiasm and generosity than Dina expected. He wanted to book a hall for the reception and pay for everything out of the money he had been collecting for her. “We’ll have the wedding after sunset, and then dinner. We’ll show them how it’s done – everyone will envy you. A four-piece band, floral decorations, lights. I can afford about three hundred guests. But no liquor – too expensive and too risky. Prohibition police are everywhere, you bribe one and ten more show up for their share.”
That night in bed, Ruby, who was pregnant with their second child, expressed dismay at Nusswan’s extravagance. “It’s up to Rustom Dalai to spend, if they want to get married. Not your responsibility – especially when she wouldn’t even let you select the husband. She never appreciates anything you do for her.”
Rustom and Dina, however, had simpler preferences. The wedding took place in the morning. At Dina’s request, it was a quiet ceremony in the same fire-temple where her parents’ prayers were performed on each death anniversary. Dustoor Framji, old and stoop-shouldered, watched from the shadows, upset that he had not been asked to conduct the marriage rites. Time was slowing him down, and the flesh of young women was rarely caught now in his once-dexterous embraces. But the name of Dustoor Daab-Chaab clung to his autumnal years even as all else was withering. “It’s disgraceful,” he grumbled to a colleague. “Especially after my long association with the Shroff family. For death, they come to me – for saros-nu-paatru, for afargan, baaj, faroksy. But for a happy occasion, for wedding ashirvaad, I am not wanted. It’s a matter of shamefulness.”
In the evening there was a party at the Shroff residence. Nusswan insisted on at least this much celebration, and arranged for a caterer. There were forty-eight guests, of which six were Rustom’s friends, plus his Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle. The rest were from Nusswan’s circle, including extended family members who could not be left out without risking criticism from relatives – the insinuating, whispered kind of criticism to which he was so sensitive.
The dining room, drawing room, Nusswan’s study, and the four bedrooms were rearranged to allow mingling and movement, with tables set up for food and drink. Little Xerxes and his friends ran from room to room in a frenzy of adventure and discovery, screaming and laughing. They were thrilled by the sudden freedom they enjoyed in a house where their previous visits had felt like time spent in prison, grimly supervised by the very strict daddy of Xerxes. Nusswan himself groaned inwardly each time one of them collided with him, but smiled and patted the child on its way.
During the course of the evening he produced four bottles of Scotch whisky to general applause. “Now we will put some life in the evening, and into this newly married pair!” said the men to one another, with much nodding and laughter, and the whispering of things not meant for women’s ears.
“Okay, brother-in-law,” said Nusswan, clinking two empty glasses before Rustom. “You’re the expert, better start mixing a dose of Johnnie Walker medicine for everyone.”
“Sure,” said Rustom good-naturedly, and took the glasses.
“Just joking, just joking,” said Nusswan, holding on to the bottle. “How can the bridegroom be allowed to work at his own wedding?” It was his only pharmaceutical dig during the evening.
An hour after the Scotch was taken, Ruby went to the kitchen; it was time to serve dinner. The dining table had been moved against the wall and set up for a buffet. The caterer’s men staggered in with hot, heavy dishes, calling “Side please! Side please!” to get through. Everyone reverently made way for the food.
The aromas that had been filling the house with appetizing hints all evening, teasing nostrils and taunting palates, suddenly overwhelmed the gathering. A hush fell across the room. Someone chuckled loudly that where Parsis were co
ncerned, food was number one, conversation came second. Whereupon someone else corrected him: no, no, conversation came third, and the second thing couldn’t be mentioned with ladies and children present. Those within earshot rewarded the worn-out joke with hearty laughter.
Ruby clapped her hands: “Okay, everybody! Dinner is served! Please help yourselves and don’t be shy, there is lots of food!” She hovered around to play the host in the time-honoured fashion, repeating regretfully before each guest, “Please forgive us, we could manage nothing worthy of you.”
“What are you saying, Ruby, it all looks wonderful,” they replied. While helping themselves, they took the opportunity to inquire after her pregnancy and when she was expecting.
Nusswan examined the plates that passed before him, lightheartedly scolding the guests who took too little. “What’s this, Mina, you must be joking. Even my pet sparrow would go hungry with this quantity.” He spooned more biryani for Mina. “Wait, Hosa, wait, one more kabab, it’s delicious, believe me, one more, come on, be a sport,” and deftly plopped two onto the reluctant plate. “Come back for more, promise?”
When everyone had served themselves, Dina noticed Rustom’s Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle on the verandah, a little secluded from the rest, and went to them. “Please eat well. Have you taken enough?”
“More than enough, my child, more than enough. The food is delicious.” Shirin Aunty beckoned to bring her closer, and beckoned again, to make her bend till Dina’s ear was close to her mouth. “If you ever need anything – remember, anything at all, you can come to me and Darab.”
And Darab Uncle nodded; his hearing was very sharp. “Whatever the problem. We are like Rustom’s parents. And you are like our daughter.”
“Thank you,” said Dina, understanding that this was more than a customary welcoming speech from the other side. She sat with them while they ate. Near the dining table Nusswan, miming with plate and fork, signalled to her to get some food for herself. Yes, later, she mimed back, and stayed with Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle, who watched her with adoring eyes as they ate.
A few guests still remained when Nusswan gave the caterer’s men the go-ahead for the cleanup. The lingerers got the hint and said their thanks and goodbyes.
On the way out, someone clutched Rustom’s lapel and giggled, whispering with whisky breath that the bride and groom were fortunate not to have a mother-in-law on either side. “Not fair, not fair! No one to question you whether the equipment worked on the first night, you lucky rascal! No one to inspect the bedsheet, hahn!” He prodded Rustom in the stomach with one finger. “You’re getting off very lightly!”
“Good night, everybody,” said Nusswan and Ruby. “Good night, good night. Thank you very much for coming.”
When the last guest had departed, Rustom said, “That was a lovely evening. Thank you both for arranging it.”
“Yes, it really was, thank you very much,” added Dina.
“You’re welcome – most welcome,” said Nusswan, and Ruby nodded. “It was our duty.”
Originally, Dina and Rustom had agreed with Nusswan’s suggestion to spend the night there. Then they realized that the rooms would have to be put back in order after the party. So it was more convenient to go straight to Rustom’s flat.
“Now don’t worry about anything, these fellows will clear up, that’s what they are paid for,” said Nusswan. “You two carry on.” He gave them both a hug. It was the second time that day for Dina. The first time had been in the morning, after the dustoorji had finished reciting the wedding benediction; it had also been the first time in seven years.
A small lump came to her throat. She swallowed as Nusswan quickly passed his fingers over his eyes. “Wish you lots of happiness,” he said.
Dina fetched a valise that was packed and ready for the night. The rest of her things would be delivered later. Nusswan was going to let her have some furniture from their parents’ possessions. He accompanied them down the cobbled walkway to a taxi and waved goodbye. She noticed with surprise that his voice quavered as he said, “All the best! God bless you!”
They woke up late the next morning. Rustom had taken a week’s leave from work, though they couldn’t afford to go anywhere on a honeymoon.
Dina made tea in the gloomy kitchen while he watched anxiously. The kitchen was the dingiest room in the flat, its ceiling and plaster blackened by smoke. Rustom’s mother had cooked over coal fires all her life. Her brief acquaintance with kerosene had not been propitious – there had been a spill, and flames, and burns down her thighs; coal was more obedient, she had concluded.
Rustom had wanted to paint the kitchen before the wedding, along with the other rooms, but the money had refused to stretch that far. He began to apologize for the flat’s condition. “You are not used to living like this. Just look at these horrible walls.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s fine,” she said happily. “We’ll get it painted later.”
Perhaps it was due to her presence in the flat, unusual at breakfast time, but he began detecting new deficiencies around him. “After my parents died I got rid of things. Seemed like clutter to me. I was planning to live like a sadhu, you see, with only my violin for company. Instead of a bed of nails, the screeching of catgut to mortify myself.”
“Are the strings really made of cat intestines?”
“Used to be, in the olden days. And in the very olden days, violinists had to go out and hunt down their own strings. There were no music shops then, like L. M. Furtado or Godin & Company. At all the great conservatories of Europe, they taught music as well as animal evisceration.”
“Now don’t be silly so early in the morning,” she scolded, but his bizarre humour was what she liked most about him.
“Anyway, I have found my beautiful angel, and the sadhu days are over. The catgut can take a rest.”
“I enjoy your playing. You should practise more.”
“Are you joking? I sound worse than the fellow last week at Patkar Hall. And he played as though his f-holes were blocked.”
“Chhee, how filthy!”
He laughed at the face she made. “I can’t help it – that’s what they are called. Come, let me show you my f-holes.” He took the violin case down from the top of the cupboard. “See the shape of the two openings in the soundboard?”
“Oh, it looks just like a running-hand f.” She traced the curves with a finger, and touched the strings gently. “Play something while you have it open.”
He shut the case and, rising slightly on his toes, slipped it on top of the cupboard. “Play, play, play – that’s what my parents used to say.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I wish I had at least kept their double bed.” Then he asked shyly, “Were you comfortable last night?”
“Oh yes.” She blushed at the fresh memory of the narrow single bed in which they had clung together.
After a breakfast of an omelette and buttered toast, he opened the front door and said there was a surprise for her. “It was too dark to show you last night.”
“What is it?”
“You have to step outside.”
She saw the new brass nameplate gleaming in sunlight, engraved Mr. & Mrs. Rustom K. Dalai. He basked in the pleasure it gave her. “Day before yesterday is when I screwed it on.”
“It looks lovely.”
“Changing the nameplate was easy,” he chuckled. “It’s much more difficult to change the name on the rent receipt.”
“What do you mean?”
“The rent is collected in my father’s name though he’s been dead for nine years. The landlord hopes I will get impatient, offer money to transfer the flat to my name. He keeps hinting.”
“Are you going to?”
“Of course not. There’s nothing he can do, the Rent Act protects us. It doesn’t matter in whose name the rent receipt is issued. And you are entitled to live here too, as my wife. Even if I were to die tomorrow.”
“Rustom! Don’t say such things!”
&
nbsp; He laughed. “When the rent-collector comes with the receipt in my father’s name, sometimes I feel like telling him to go up, to heaven, to the renter’s new address.”
Dina rested her head against his shoulder. “For me, heaven is in this flat.”
Rustom drew her close and hugged her. “For me too.” Then he gave the nameplate another shine with his sleeve. While they were admiring it, two handcarts rolled up and stopped by their door, laden with things from the Shroff residence.
At first, Rustom had arranged for a small lorry because Dina had requested Nusswan to let her have Daddy’s huge wardrobe, the one with the carved rosewood canopy of a sunburst and flowers. She would forgo everything else, she said, for this one item. Nusswan promised to consider it but refused in the end. He said that squeezing the wardrobe through the narrow door of Rustom’s flat would damage it, the scratches would be unfair to their father’s memory, and, besides, its proportions wouldn’t suit the tiny rooms.
So he let her have another cupboard, smaller and plainer, a little desk, and twin beds. There was also a large box of kitchen utensils that Ruby had put together after discreetly inquiring whether Rustom’s kitchen was properly equipped. To get them started, she included pots and pans, a stove, some cutlery, a board and a rolling pin.
The two handcarts were unloaded and the twin beds assembled. One of the carters offered to buy the old single. Rustom let him have it for thirty rupees, and got ten for the mattress from the other man.
As Dina watched them carry it away, he said, “I know what you’re thinking. But this flat has no space for an extra bed.” She wondered how close they would sleep that night, now that there were twin beds.
But one of the two was as good as unslept in when they woke on their second morning. Reassured, she spent the day getting her new home organized the way she wanted it. First, she gave notice to Seva Sadan, terminating delivery of Rustom’s evening meals. And for lunch, she would pack something for him when he returned to work the following week.
“No more nonsense of eating out or not eating at all,” she said, and climbed up on a chair to examine the high shelf in the kitchen. She discovered a series of brass and copper vessels, a kettle, and a set of kitchen knives.
“I’m going to get married,” announced Dina at the dinner table.
“Ah,” beamed her brother. “Good, good. Which one is it, Solly or Porus?” – these two being the gents he had most recently introduced.
Dina shook her head.
“Then it must be either Dara or Firdosh,” said Ruby, smiling meaningfully. “They are both crazy about you.”
“His name is Rustom Dalai.”
Nusswan was surprised; the name did not belong among the numerous candidates he had brought before Dina over the past three years. Perhaps it was someone she had met at one of the family gatherings he so detested. “And where did we come across him?”
“We didn’t. I did.”
Nusswan did not like the answer. He was offended that all his efforts, all his choices, were being spurned by her for a total stranger. “Just like that you want to marry this fellow? What do you know about him and his family? What does he know about you, your family?”
“Everything,” said Dina in a tone that made him anxious. “I’ve been seeing Rustom for a year and a half now.”
“I see. A well-kept secret,” he said, affecting sarcasm. “And what does he do, this Dalai fellow, your Rustom-in-hiding?”
“He’s a pharmaceutical chemist.”
“Hah! Pharmaceutical chemist! A bloody compounder! Why don’t you use the proper word? That’s what he is, mixing prescription powders all day long behind a counter.”
He reminded himself there was no sense in losing his temper just yet. “So, when are we going to meet this Father Forty-Lakhs of yours?”
“Why? So you can insult him in person?”
“I have no reason to insult him. But it is my duty to meet him, and then advise you properly. In the end it’s up to you.”
On the appointed day, Rustom arrived with a box of sweetmeats for Nusswan and Ruby, which he placed in the hands of little Xerxes, who was almost three now. For Dina, he brought a new umbrella. The significance was not lost on her, and she smiled. He winked at her when the others were not looking.
“It’s gorgeous,” she said, opening it up. “What a lovely pagoda shape.” The fabric was sea green, and the shaft was stainless steel, with a formidable spike at the end.
“That’s a dangerous weapon,” joked Nusswan. “Be careful who you point it at.”
They had tea, with cheese sandwiches and butter biscuits prepared by Ruby and Dina, and the time passed without unpleasantness. But that night, after the visitor left, Nusswan said he could not understand for one moment what was in his sister’s head – brains or sawdust.
“Selecting someone without looks, without money, without prospects. Some fiancés give diamond rings. Others a gold watch, or at least a little brooch. What does your fellow bring? A bloody umbrella! To think I wasted so much time and energy introducing you to solicitors, chartered accountants, police superintendents, civil engineers. All from respectable families. How will I hold my head up when people hear that my sister married an unambitious medicine-mixing fool? Don’t expect me to rejoice or come to the wedding. For me it will be a day of deep, dark mourning.”
It was sad, he lamented, that in order to hurt him she was ruining her own life. “Mark my words, your spite will come back to haunt you. I am powerless to stop you, you are twenty-one, no longer a little girl I can look after. And if you are determined to throw your life away in the gutter, I can only watch helplessly while you do it.”
Dina had expected all this. The words washed over her and gurgled into oblivion, leaving her untouched. The way the rain had rolled off Rustom’s lovely raincoat, she remembered, on that beautiful night. But she wondered again, as she had so many times, where her brother had learned to rave so proficiently. Neither their mother nor father had had much talent for it.
In a few days Nusswan grew calmer. If Dina was getting married and leaving for good, better that it should happen amicably, without too much fuss. Secretly he was also pleased that Rustom Dalai was no great catch. It would have been unbearable if his friends had been rejected in favour of someone superior.
He participated in the wedding plans with more enthusiasm and generosity than Dina expected. He wanted to book a hall for the reception and pay for everything out of the money he had been collecting for her. “We’ll have the wedding after sunset, and then dinner. We’ll show them how it’s done – everyone will envy you. A four-piece band, floral decorations, lights. I can afford about three hundred guests. But no liquor – too expensive and too risky. Prohibition police are everywhere, you bribe one and ten more show up for their share.”
That night in bed, Ruby, who was pregnant with their second child, expressed dismay at Nusswan’s extravagance. “It’s up to Rustom Dalai to spend, if they want to get married. Not your responsibility – especially when she wouldn’t even let you select the husband. She never appreciates anything you do for her.”
Rustom and Dina, however, had simpler preferences. The wedding took place in the morning. At Dina’s request, it was a quiet ceremony in the same fire-temple where her parents’ prayers were performed on each death anniversary. Dustoor Framji, old and stoop-shouldered, watched from the shadows, upset that he had not been asked to conduct the marriage rites. Time was slowing him down, and the flesh of young women was rarely caught now in his once-dexterous embraces. But the name of Dustoor Daab-Chaab clung to his autumnal years even as all else was withering. “It’s disgraceful,” he grumbled to a colleague. “Especially after my long association with the Shroff family. For death, they come to me – for saros-nu-paatru, for afargan, baaj, faroksy. But for a happy occasion, for wedding ashirvaad, I am not wanted. It’s a matter of shamefulness.”
In the evening there was a party at the Shroff residence. Nusswan insisted on at least this much celebration, and arranged for a caterer. There were forty-eight guests, of which six were Rustom’s friends, plus his Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle. The rest were from Nusswan’s circle, including extended family members who could not be left out without risking criticism from relatives – the insinuating, whispered kind of criticism to which he was so sensitive.
The dining room, drawing room, Nusswan’s study, and the four bedrooms were rearranged to allow mingling and movement, with tables set up for food and drink. Little Xerxes and his friends ran from room to room in a frenzy of adventure and discovery, screaming and laughing. They were thrilled by the sudden freedom they enjoyed in a house where their previous visits had felt like time spent in prison, grimly supervised by the very strict daddy of Xerxes. Nusswan himself groaned inwardly each time one of them collided with him, but smiled and patted the child on its way.
During the course of the evening he produced four bottles of Scotch whisky to general applause. “Now we will put some life in the evening, and into this newly married pair!” said the men to one another, with much nodding and laughter, and the whispering of things not meant for women’s ears.
“Okay, brother-in-law,” said Nusswan, clinking two empty glasses before Rustom. “You’re the expert, better start mixing a dose of Johnnie Walker medicine for everyone.”
“Sure,” said Rustom good-naturedly, and took the glasses.
“Just joking, just joking,” said Nusswan, holding on to the bottle. “How can the bridegroom be allowed to work at his own wedding?” It was his only pharmaceutical dig during the evening.
An hour after the Scotch was taken, Ruby went to the kitchen; it was time to serve dinner. The dining table had been moved against the wall and set up for a buffet. The caterer’s men staggered in with hot, heavy dishes, calling “Side please! Side please!” to get through. Everyone reverently made way for the food.
The aromas that had been filling the house with appetizing hints all evening, teasing nostrils and taunting palates, suddenly overwhelmed the gathering. A hush fell across the room. Someone chuckled loudly that where Parsis were co
Ruby clapped her hands: “Okay, everybody! Dinner is served! Please help yourselves and don’t be shy, there is lots of food!” She hovered around to play the host in the time-honoured fashion, repeating regretfully before each guest, “Please forgive us, we could manage nothing worthy of you.”
“What are you saying, Ruby, it all looks wonderful,” they replied. While helping themselves, they took the opportunity to inquire after her pregnancy and when she was expecting.
Nusswan examined the plates that passed before him, lightheartedly scolding the guests who took too little. “What’s this, Mina, you must be joking. Even my pet sparrow would go hungry with this quantity.” He spooned more biryani for Mina. “Wait, Hosa, wait, one more kabab, it’s delicious, believe me, one more, come on, be a sport,” and deftly plopped two onto the reluctant plate. “Come back for more, promise?”
When everyone had served themselves, Dina noticed Rustom’s Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle on the verandah, a little secluded from the rest, and went to them. “Please eat well. Have you taken enough?”
“More than enough, my child, more than enough. The food is delicious.” Shirin Aunty beckoned to bring her closer, and beckoned again, to make her bend till Dina’s ear was close to her mouth. “If you ever need anything – remember, anything at all, you can come to me and Darab.”
And Darab Uncle nodded; his hearing was very sharp. “Whatever the problem. We are like Rustom’s parents. And you are like our daughter.”
“Thank you,” said Dina, understanding that this was more than a customary welcoming speech from the other side. She sat with them while they ate. Near the dining table Nusswan, miming with plate and fork, signalled to her to get some food for herself. Yes, later, she mimed back, and stayed with Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle, who watched her with adoring eyes as they ate.
A few guests still remained when Nusswan gave the caterer’s men the go-ahead for the cleanup. The lingerers got the hint and said their thanks and goodbyes.
On the way out, someone clutched Rustom’s lapel and giggled, whispering with whisky breath that the bride and groom were fortunate not to have a mother-in-law on either side. “Not fair, not fair! No one to question you whether the equipment worked on the first night, you lucky rascal! No one to inspect the bedsheet, hahn!” He prodded Rustom in the stomach with one finger. “You’re getting off very lightly!”
“Good night, everybody,” said Nusswan and Ruby. “Good night, good night. Thank you very much for coming.”
When the last guest had departed, Rustom said, “That was a lovely evening. Thank you both for arranging it.”
“Yes, it really was, thank you very much,” added Dina.
“You’re welcome – most welcome,” said Nusswan, and Ruby nodded. “It was our duty.”
Originally, Dina and Rustom had agreed with Nusswan’s suggestion to spend the night there. Then they realized that the rooms would have to be put back in order after the party. So it was more convenient to go straight to Rustom’s flat.
“Now don’t worry about anything, these fellows will clear up, that’s what they are paid for,” said Nusswan. “You two carry on.” He gave them both a hug. It was the second time that day for Dina. The first time had been in the morning, after the dustoorji had finished reciting the wedding benediction; it had also been the first time in seven years.
A small lump came to her throat. She swallowed as Nusswan quickly passed his fingers over his eyes. “Wish you lots of happiness,” he said.
Dina fetched a valise that was packed and ready for the night. The rest of her things would be delivered later. Nusswan was going to let her have some furniture from their parents’ possessions. He accompanied them down the cobbled walkway to a taxi and waved goodbye. She noticed with surprise that his voice quavered as he said, “All the best! God bless you!”
They woke up late the next morning. Rustom had taken a week’s leave from work, though they couldn’t afford to go anywhere on a honeymoon.
Dina made tea in the gloomy kitchen while he watched anxiously. The kitchen was the dingiest room in the flat, its ceiling and plaster blackened by smoke. Rustom’s mother had cooked over coal fires all her life. Her brief acquaintance with kerosene had not been propitious – there had been a spill, and flames, and burns down her thighs; coal was more obedient, she had concluded.
Rustom had wanted to paint the kitchen before the wedding, along with the other rooms, but the money had refused to stretch that far. He began to apologize for the flat’s condition. “You are not used to living like this. Just look at these horrible walls.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s fine,” she said happily. “We’ll get it painted later.”
Perhaps it was due to her presence in the flat, unusual at breakfast time, but he began detecting new deficiencies around him. “After my parents died I got rid of things. Seemed like clutter to me. I was planning to live like a sadhu, you see, with only my violin for company. Instead of a bed of nails, the screeching of catgut to mortify myself.”
“Are the strings really made of cat intestines?”
“Used to be, in the olden days. And in the very olden days, violinists had to go out and hunt down their own strings. There were no music shops then, like L. M. Furtado or Godin & Company. At all the great conservatories of Europe, they taught music as well as animal evisceration.”
“Now don’t be silly so early in the morning,” she scolded, but his bizarre humour was what she liked most about him.
“Anyway, I have found my beautiful angel, and the sadhu days are over. The catgut can take a rest.”
“I enjoy your playing. You should practise more.”
“Are you joking? I sound worse than the fellow last week at Patkar Hall. And he played as though his f-holes were blocked.”
“Chhee, how filthy!”
He laughed at the face she made. “I can’t help it – that’s what they are called. Come, let me show you my f-holes.” He took the violin case down from the top of the cupboard. “See the shape of the two openings in the soundboard?”
“Oh, it looks just like a running-hand f.” She traced the curves with a finger, and touched the strings gently. “Play something while you have it open.”
He shut the case and, rising slightly on his toes, slipped it on top of the cupboard. “Play, play, play – that’s what my parents used to say.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I wish I had at least kept their double bed.” Then he asked shyly, “Were you comfortable last night?”
“Oh yes.” She blushed at the fresh memory of the narrow single bed in which they had clung together.
After a breakfast of an omelette and buttered toast, he opened the front door and said there was a surprise for her. “It was too dark to show you last night.”
“What is it?”
“You have to step outside.”
She saw the new brass nameplate gleaming in sunlight, engraved Mr. & Mrs. Rustom K. Dalai. He basked in the pleasure it gave her. “Day before yesterday is when I screwed it on.”
“It looks lovely.”
“Changing the nameplate was easy,” he chuckled. “It’s much more difficult to change the name on the rent receipt.”
“What do you mean?”
“The rent is collected in my father’s name though he’s been dead for nine years. The landlord hopes I will get impatient, offer money to transfer the flat to my name. He keeps hinting.”
“Are you going to?”
“Of course not. There’s nothing he can do, the Rent Act protects us. It doesn’t matter in whose name the rent receipt is issued. And you are entitled to live here too, as my wife. Even if I were to die tomorrow.”
“Rustom! Don’t say such things!”
&
Dina rested her head against his shoulder. “For me, heaven is in this flat.”
Rustom drew her close and hugged her. “For me too.” Then he gave the nameplate another shine with his sleeve. While they were admiring it, two handcarts rolled up and stopped by their door, laden with things from the Shroff residence.
At first, Rustom had arranged for a small lorry because Dina had requested Nusswan to let her have Daddy’s huge wardrobe, the one with the carved rosewood canopy of a sunburst and flowers. She would forgo everything else, she said, for this one item. Nusswan promised to consider it but refused in the end. He said that squeezing the wardrobe through the narrow door of Rustom’s flat would damage it, the scratches would be unfair to their father’s memory, and, besides, its proportions wouldn’t suit the tiny rooms.
So he let her have another cupboard, smaller and plainer, a little desk, and twin beds. There was also a large box of kitchen utensils that Ruby had put together after discreetly inquiring whether Rustom’s kitchen was properly equipped. To get them started, she included pots and pans, a stove, some cutlery, a board and a rolling pin.
The two handcarts were unloaded and the twin beds assembled. One of the carters offered to buy the old single. Rustom let him have it for thirty rupees, and got ten for the mattress from the other man.
As Dina watched them carry it away, he said, “I know what you’re thinking. But this flat has no space for an extra bed.” She wondered how close they would sleep that night, now that there were twin beds.
But one of the two was as good as unslept in when they woke on their second morning. Reassured, she spent the day getting her new home organized the way she wanted it. First, she gave notice to Seva Sadan, terminating delivery of Rustom’s evening meals. And for lunch, she would pack something for him when he returned to work the following week.
“No more nonsense of eating out or not eating at all,” she said, and climbed up on a chair to examine the high shelf in the kitchen. She discovered a series of brass and copper vessels, a kettle, and a set of kitchen knives.