A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
“You are acting like two little babas,” said Dina. “Come on, Ishvarbhai, let’s get to work.” She felt they would reconcile faster if left to themselves, without the burden of saving face.
Maneck stayed in his room all day, and Om sat on the verandah. Ishvar’s attempts to joke about the sour-lime face or hero number zero were stillborn. Dina felt sorry that the vacation was winding down on a bitter note.
“Look at them,” she said, “two mournful owls nesting in my house,” and she made an owlish face at the boys. Ishvar laughed alone.
Next morning, Om announced with the air of a martyr that he wanted to work full days again. “This holiday has lasted much too long for my taste.” Maneck pretended not to have heard.
The sewing started badly, and developed into a full-blown disaster. Dina had to warn Om: “The company will not tolerate this. You must keep your bad humour out of the stitches.”
As a badge of his martyrdom he continued to wear the torn shirt, pocket hanging loose, though it would have taken less than ten minutes to fix. At mealtimes, he pointedly avoided the knife and fork, which he had mastered by now, and used his fingers. In the absence of speech, a war of noises broke out. Maneck’s cutlery clattered against the plate, sawing a potato as if it were a deodar log. Om replied by slurping from his fingers, his tongue sucking and licking like a floor mop sloshing industriously. Maneck speared meat like a gladiator lunging at a lion. Om retaliated by involving his palm as well, suctioning food off it with little gurgles.
Their extravagant performances might have been amusing were it not for the palpable misery around the table. Dina felt cheated of the happy family atmosphere she had come to rely on. Instead, this wretched gloom sat uninvited at dinner, residing unwanted in her home.
For a fortnight after Divali, sporadic firecrackers kept puncturing holes in the night before dying out altogether. “Peace and quiet at last,” said Ishvar, throwing away the cotton-wool plugs he had saved carefully beside his bedding.
Maneck got his marks for the first-term exams, and they were not very good. Dina said it was due to his neglecting his studies. “From now on, I want to see you with your books for at least two hours. Every night, after dinner.”
“Even my mother is not so strict,” he grumbled.
“She would be if she saw these marks.”
Prodding him into the study routine turned out to be easier than she expected. His resistance was nominal, for there was little else to occupy him. Since the fight with Om, they barely spoke, though Ishvar kept trying valiantly to rekindle their friendship. He also supported Dina’s attempt to make Maneck work harder.
“Think how happy your parents will be,” he said.
“Never mind your parents – study for your own sake, you foolish boy,” she said. “You listen, too, Om. When you have children, make sure you send them to school and college. Look how I have to slave now because I was denied an education. Nothing is more important than learning.”
“Bilkool correct,” said Ishvar. “But why were you denied an education, Dinabai?”
“It’s a very long story.”
“Tell us,” said Ishvar, Maneck, and Om together. It made her smile, especially when the boys frowned to disown the coincidence.
She began. “I never like to look back at my life, my childhood, with regret or bitterness.”
Ishvar nodded.
“But sometimes, against my will, the thoughts about the past come into my head. Then I question why things turned out the way they have, clouding the bright future everyone predicted for me when I was in school, when my name was still Dina Shroff…”
Sounds on the verandah announced the tailors’ preparation for sleep. The bedding was unrolled and shaken out. Soon, Om began massaging his uncle’s feet. Maneck could tell from the soft sighs of pleasure. Then Ishvar said, “Yes, that one, harder, the heel aches a lot,” and inside, bent over his textbook, Maneck envied their closeness.
He yawned and looked at his watch – everyone in neutral corners. He missed their company, the walks, the after-dinner gatherings in the front room with Dina Aunty working on the quilt while they watched, chatting, planning next day’s work, or what to cook for tomorrow’s dinner: the simple routines that gave a secure, meaningful shape to all their lives.
In the sewing room the light was still on. Dina was maintaining her vigil till Maneck closed his books, making sure he did not shave a few minutes off the end of his study shift.
The doorbell rang.
The tailors bolted upright on the bedding and reached for their shirts. Dina came to the verandah and demanded through the door, “Who’s there?”
“Sorry for the trouble, sister.”
She recognized the rent-collector’s voice. Absurd, she thought, for him to come at this hour. “What is it, so late?”
“Sorry to bother you sister, but the office has sent me.”
“Now? Couldn’t wait till morning?”
“They said it was urgent, sister. I do as I am told.”
She shrugged at the tailors and opened the door, holding on to the knob. The next moment, two men behind Ibrahim shoved the door aside, and her with it, charging in as though expecting to meet heavy opposition.
One of them was nearly bald and the other had a mop of black hair, but their straggly moustaches, cold eyes, and slouching, bulky torsos made menacing twins of them. They seemed to have fashioned their mannerisms on cinema villains, thought Maneck.
“Sorry, sister,” Ibrahim smiled his automatic smile. “Office has sent me to deliver final notice – orally. Please listen very carefully. You must vacate in forty-eight hours. For violating tenancy terms and regulations.”
Fear brushed Dinas face lightly, like a feather, before she blew it aside. “I’m calling the police right now if you don’t take your goondas and leave! The landlord has a problem? Tell him to go to court, I will see him there!”
The bald man spoke, soft and soothing. “Why insult us by saying goondas? We are the landlord’s employees. Like these tailors are your employees.”
The other one said, “We are acting in the place of courts and lawyers. They are a waste of time and money. These days we can produce faster results.” He had a mouthful of paan, and spoke with difficulty, dark-red trickles escaping the corners of his lips.
“Ishvarbhai, run to the corner!” said Dina. “Fetch the police!”
The bald man blocked the door. Trying to get past him, Ishvar was sent reeling to the other end of the verandah.
“Please, please! No fighting,” said Ibrahim, his white beard trembling with his words.
“If you don’t leave I’m going to start screaming for help,” said Dina.
“If you scream, we’ll make you stop,” said the bald partner in a reassuring tone. He continued to guard the front door while the paanchewing man sauntered into the back room. Ibrahim, Dina, and the tailors followed helplessly. Maneck watched from his room.
The man stood motionless, looking around as though admiring the place. Then he exploded. He picked up one of the stools and began battering the sewing-machines with it. When its wooden legs fell apart, he continued with the second stool till it, too, had shattered.
He tossed it aside, kicked over the Singers, and started to rip the finished frocks stacked on the table, pulling them apart at the seams. He was struggling now – new cloth and fresh stitches did not give easily. “Tear, maaderchod, tear!” he muttered, addressing the dresses.
Ishvar and Om, paralysed up to now, rediscovered movement and rushed to rescue the products of their labour. They were both flung back like bundles of cloth.
“Stop him!” said Dina to Ibrahim, grabbing his arm and pulling, pushing him towards the fray. “You brought these goondas! Do something!”
Ibrahim wrung his hands nervously and decided to gather the wrecked frocks. As fast as the paan-chewing man could scatter them, he picked them up, folded the torn pieces, and placed them carefully on the table.
“Need any help??
“No, everything’s fine.” Finished with ripping the dresses, he started on the bolts of cloth, but this time the fabric, in its abundance, refused to tear.
“Set fire to it,” was the bald man’s advice, and he offered his cigarette lighter.
“No!” panicked Ibrahim. “Whole building might burn! Landlord won’t like that!”
The paan-chewing man conceded the point. Unfurling the cloth in a heap upon the floor, he sprayed it with the paan juice his mouth had worked up. “There,” he grinned at Ibrahim. “My red nectar is as fiery as flames.”
Pausing to survey the room, he spied the pinking shears that Ashraf Chacha had gifted to the tailors. He examined them. “Nice,” he said appreciatively, and lifted his hand to fling them out the window.
“No!” screamed Om.
The goonda laughed and released the tailors’ dearest possession. The crash of the shears landing on the pavement came through the window as Om rushed at him. The puny attack amused the man before he decided to end it, slapping Om twice, then punching him in the stomach.
“You bastard,” said Maneck. He grabbed the pagoda umbrella hanging from the cupboard and went after Om’s assailant.
“Please! No fighting!” begged Ibrahim. “There is no need for fighting!”
The man took a whack on his shoulder, noticed the steel shaft’s formidable point, and dodged around the fallen sewing-machines. Maneck feinted, relishing his superiority, while the man jerked backwards. He feinted again, and whacked him twice over the head.
The bald man entered the room quietly. Standing behind them, he pulled out a flick-knife and held it open, pointing to the ceiling. Like a film actor, thought Maneck, starting to tremble.
“Okay, batcha,” said the bald man in his soft voice. “Your little fun is over.”
The others turned to look. Dina screamed when she saw the knife, and Ibrahim was furious now. “Put that away! And get out, both of you! Your work is done, I am in charge!”
“Shut up,” said the bald man. “We know our job.” His partner snatched away the umbrella and drove his fist into Maneck’s face. Maneck fell against the wall. Blood trickled from his mouth in a painful reflection of the paan juice oozing from the other’s lips.
“Stop it! I was present when you got your orders! There was nothing about beatings and knives!” The rent-collector stamped his foot and shook his fist.
The impotent rage entertained the bald man. “Are you killing cockroaches with your shoe?” he laughed, feeling the blade with his finger before retracting it. Then he snapped it open again and slashed Dina’s pillows and mattress. He threw them about, watching the stuffing scatter. The sofa cushions in the front room were treated similarly.
“There,” he said. “Now the rest is in your hands, madam. You don’t want us to return with a second notice, do you?”
The other fellow kicked Maneck’s shins in passing. Giving his paan a final workout, he spat on the bed and around it, emptying his mouth over as much of the room as possible. “Are you coming or not?” he asked Ibrahim.
“Later,” he said, frowning angrily at them. “I have not finished.”
The front door closed. Dina regarded the rent-collector with loathing and went to Maneck, where Ishvar was cradling him, holding his head, asking if he was all right. Ibrahim followed close behind, whispering repeatedly, “Forgive me, sister,” like a secret prayer.
Maneck’s nose was bleeding and the upper lip was cut. He checked with his tongue – no teeth were broken. They wiped the blood with scraps lying around the sewing-machines. He tried to mumble something and rose groggily.
“Don’t talk,” said Om, who had got back his wind, “it will bleed more.”
“Thank God the knife wasn’t used,” said Dina.
The sound of shattering glass came from the front room. Ibrahim ran to the verandah. “Stop it, you fools!” he yelled. “What’s the idea? That will only cost the landlord!” A few more stones broke the remaining windowpanes, then there was silence.
They helped Maneck to the basin to wash his face. “I can walk by myself,” he muttered. After cleaning him up a bit, they led him to the sofa with a cloth pressed to his nose.
“What that lip needs is ice,” said Dina.
“I’ll buy some from Vishram,” volunteered Om.
“Not necessary,” said Maneck, but was overruled by the others. A ten-paisa lump would be enough, they decided. Ibrahim quickly fished a coin out of his sherwani and offered it to Om.
“Don’t touch his money!” ordered Dina, fetching her purse. The rent-collector pleaded for its acceptance before dropping the coin back in his pocket.
Waiting for Om to return, they contemplated the damage. Fluff from the shredded cushions floated around, settling slowly to the floor. Dina picked up the slashed casings; she felt dirty, as though the goondas’ hands had molested her own being. The ripped dresses and paan-soiled bolts began bearing down heavily on her. How would she explain to Au Revoir? What could she possibly tell Mrs. Gupta?
“I am finished,” she said, on the verge of tears.
“Maybe the frocks can be repaired, Dinabai,” said Ishvar, making an effort to console her. “And we can wash off the red stuff.”
But his words sounded so hopeless, even to himself, that instead he turned on Ibrahim. “You have no shame? Why are you trying to destroy this poor lady? What kind of monster are you?”
Ibrahim stood contritely, ready to listen. He welcomed the revilement, desired an excess of it, to salve his guilt.
“Your beard is pure white but your heart is rotten,” said Ishvar.
“You wicked, sinful man!” hissed Dina. “A disgrace to old age!”
“Please, sister! I did not know they –”
“You did this! You brought those goondas!” She shook with fear and rage.
Ibrahim could control himself no longer. Putting his hands over his face, he made a peculiar sound. It was not immediately apparent that he was trying to cry noiselessly. “It’s no use,” his voice broke. “I cannot do this job, I hate it! Oh, what has my life become!” He felt under the sherwani and pulled out his kerchief to blow his nose.
“Forgive me, sister,” he sobbed. “I did not know, when I brought them, that they would do such damage. For years I have followed the landlord’s orders. Like a helpless child. He tells me to threaten somebody, I threaten. He tells me to plead, I plead. If he raves that a tenant must be evicted, I have to repeat the raving at the tenant’s door. I am his creature. Everybody thinks I am an evil person, but I am not, I want to see justice done, for myself, for yourself, for everyone. But the world is controlled by wicked people, we have no chance, we have nothing but trouble and sorrow…”
He dissolved completely. Ishvar took his arm and led him to a chair, his resentment softening. “Here, sit down and don’t cry. Doesn’t look nice.”
“What else can I do but cry? These tears are all I have to offer. Forgive me, sister. I have harmed you. Now the goondas will return after forty-eight hours. They will throw your furniture and belongings on the pavement. Poor sister, where will you go?”
“I won’t open the door for them, that’s all.”
Her childish assertion touched Ibrahim, and he began weeping again. “It won’t stop them. They will bring policemen to break the lock.”
“As if the police will help them.”
“These Emergency times are terrible, sister. Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.”
“But what is it to the landlord if my tailors and I sew here?” Her voice rose uncontrollably. “Who am I harming with my work?”
“The landlord needs an excuse, sister. These flats are worth a fortune, the Rent Act lets him charge only the old worthless rent, so he –”
Ibrahim broke off and wiped his eyes. “But you know all that, sister. It’s not you alone, he is doing the same with other tenants, the ones who are weak and without influence.”
Om returned with a lump of ice that was too big to hold comfortably against the lip. He covered it in cloth and struck the floor with it. “You came like a real hero to save me,” he grinned, trying to cheer up Maneck, who looked very pale. “You jumped in just like Amitabh Bachchan.”
He unwrapped the fragments of ice and turned to the others. “Did you see it? For a minute that fucker was really scared by Maneck’s umbrella.”
“Language,” said Dina.
Maneck smiled, which stretched the cut lip. He restrained himself and took a piece of ice.
“That’s it – that’s your new name,” said Om. “Umbrella Bachchan.”
“What are you waiting for?” Dina turned angrily to the rent-collector again. “You tell your landlord, I am not leaving, I won’t give up this flat.”
“I don’t think it will help, sister,” said Ibrahim sorrowfully, “but I wish you best of luck,” and he left.
Maneck said he did not want to create trouble for Dina Aunty with his presence. “Don’t worry about me,” he uttered with minimum lip movement. “I can always return home.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “After all these months, more than halfway to your diploma, how can you disappoint your parents?”
“No no, he is right,” said Ishvar. “It’s not fair, all this suffering for you because of us. We will go back to the nightwatchman.”
“Stop talking nonsense, all of you,” snapped Dina. “Let me think for a minute.” She said they were missing the point. “You heard Ibrahim’s words – the landlord just wants an excuse. Your going away will not save my flat.”
The only thing she could count on, in her opinion, was her brother’s ability to straighten out the dispute – with money, smooth words, or whatever it was that he was so good at using in his business dealings. “Once again, I’ll have to swallow my pride and ask for his help, that’s all.”
XII
Trace of Destiny
THEY MOVED MECHANICALLY THROUGH their morning acts of washing and cleaning and tea-making. Om’s stomach was sore where he had been punched, but he did not tell his uncle. They crept into Maneck’s room to check on him. He was still asleep. There were stains on his pillow; his lip and nose had bled again during the night. They called Dina to see it.