A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
“I won’t have them in the kitchen,” she objected. “It’s unhygienic.”
Om volunteered to keep the box on the verandah.
“Fine,” she said. At night, though, she wanted the kittens returned to the hollow of the fireplace. She was still hoping the mother would retrieve her offspring. The broken windowpane was left unrepaired to welcome back the cat.
For seven nights Dina cleared the kitchen of pots and pans, secured the cabinet, and shut the kitchen door. Seven dawns she went to the coal fireplace as soon as she rose, wishing it to be empty, and the kittens greeted her happily, eager for their breakfast.
She began to look forward to the morning reunion. By the end of the week she found herself worrying when she went to bed – what if it was tonight, what if the cat took them away? She ran to the kitchen on waking and – ah, relief! They had not disappeared!
The nightly ritual of transfer from box to fireplace was discontinued. The tailors were happy to share their quarters with the kittens. Growing fast, the three took to exploring the verandah, and the adjoining doors had to be kept shut to stop them wandering into the sewing room and messing up the fabric. Soon they were making brief outdoor forays through the bars on the verandah window.
“You know, Dinabai,” said Ishvar one night after dinner. “The cat paid you a great tribute. By leaving her babies here she was saying she trusted this house – which is an honour to you.”
“What complete nonsense.” She was having none of this sentimental rubbish. “Naturally the cat came here with her kittens. This was the window from which three softhearted fools regularly tossed food for her.”
But Ishvar was determined to wring some moral, some kind of higher truth out of the situation. “No matter what you say, this house is blessed. It brings good fortune. Even the wicked landlord couldn’t hurt us in here. And the kittens are a good omen. It means Om will also have lots of healthy children.”
“First he must have a wife,” she said drily.
“Bilkool correct,” he said earnestly. “I have been thinking hard about it, and we mustn’t wait much longer.”
“How can you talk so foolishly?” she said, a little annoyed. “Om is just starting in life, money is short, you don’t have a place for yourselves. And you think about a wife for him?”
“Everything will come in time. We must have faith. The important point is, he must marry soon and start a family.”
“You hear that, Om?” she called to the verandah. “Your uncle wants you to marry soon and start a family. Just make sure it’s not in my kitchen again.”
“You must forgive him,” said Om, putting on a paternalistic tone. “Sometimes, my poor uncle’s screw comes a little loose, and he says crazy things.”
“Whatever you do, don’t rely on me for accommodation,” said Maneck. “I have no more cardboard boxes to spare.”
“What, yaar,” complained Om. “I was hoping you would stack two boxes for me, make me a two-storey bungalow.”
“It’s not nice to make fun of auspicious events,” said Ishvar, a little offended. He didn’t think his proposal warranted ridicule.
The kittens returned from their wanderings punctually at mealtimes, through the bars on the verandah window. “Look at them,” said Dina fondly. “Coming and going like this was a hotel.”
Then the absences grew longer as they learned to forage for food, haunting the alleys with their kin. The gutters and garbage heaps beckoned with irresistible smells, and the kittens answered the call.
Their random disappearances saddened everyone. Maneck and Om kept saving tidbits carefully piled high in one plate. Each day they hoped that the kittens would deign to put in an appearance. After waiting till late at night they got rid of the scraps, before it attracted vermin; they fed whatever was prowling outside the kitchen window, eyes gleaming anonymously in the dark.
When the kittens did show up, it became an occasion for rejoicing. If there were no suitable leftovers, Maneck or Om would dash out to buy bread and milk from the Vishram. Sometimes the kittens lingered after the snack, ready to play a little, worrying the snippets of cloth near the sewing-machines. More often, they departed immediately.
“Eating and running,” said Dina, “as though they owned the place.”
By and by, the visits grew less frequent and briefer in duration. The kittenish curiosity displayed at every little thing was outgrown; the milk and bread was completely ignored. Outdoor scrounging had evidently endowed them with a more adventurous palate.
To draw their attention, Om and Maneck got down on all fours beside the bowl. “Miaow!” they chorused. “Mii-aooow!” Om sniffed loudly along the rim, and Maneck let his tongue flap in and out in a manic display of lapping. The kittens were not impressed. They watched the performance detachedly, yawned, and began cleaning themselves.
Three months after they were discovered in the coal fireplace, the kittens disappeared altogether. When a fortnight passed without a sign of them, Dina was convinced they had been run over. Maneck said they could equally well have been attacked by a crazy pariah dog.
“Or those big rats,” said Om. “Even full-grown cats are scared of them.”
Considering these gloomy possibilities, they grew morose, though Ishvar continued to believe the kittens were all right. They were smart, tough little creatures, he reminded the others, and used to life on the streets. No one shared his optimism. They became annoyed with him, as though he had suggested something morbid.
Into their grief and dejection arrived Beggarmaster to collect his instalment. The dusk seemed darker than usual because the streetlights had not come on. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is the landlord bothering you again?”
“No,” said Dina. “But our sweet little kittens have disappeared.”
Beggarmaster began to laugh. The sound startled them, for it was the first time they had heard it from him. “Look at your gloomy faces,” he said. “You did not seem so upset even about those goondas.” He laughed again. “I’m sorry I can’t help you – I’m not Kittenmaster. But I do have some happy news, maybe it will cheer you up.”
“What?” asked Ishvar.
“It’s about Shankar.” He smiled from ear to ear. “I cannot tell him the news right now, for his own good. But I simply have to share it – it’s so wonderful – and you are his only friends. You must swear not to mention anything to him.”
They all gave him their word.
“It happened a few weeks after I took Shankar and you from that irrigation project. One of my beggarwomen, who was very sick, began telling me things about her childhood, and about Shankar’s youth. Every time I came for collection, she would start reminiscing. She was old, very old for a beggar, about forty. Last week she finally died. But just before her death, she told me she was Shankar’s mother.”
Now this in itself had not been a surprise, explained Beggarmaster, for he had always suspected it. As a small boy, when he used to accompany his father on rounds, he would often see her suckling a baby. Everyone called her Nosey because of her noseless face. She was young then, about fifteen, with a perfect body that would have fetched a decent price, the brothel-keepers had agreed, had it not been for the disfigured face. It was said that when she was born, her drunken father had slashed off her nose in his rage, disappointed with the mother for producing a daughter instead of a son. The mother had nursed the wound and saved the newborn’s life, though the father kept saying let her die, her ugly face was the only dowry in store for her, let her die. Because of his continuing harassment and persecution, the child was sold into the begging profession.
“I don’t know exactly at what age my father acquired Nosey,” said Beggarmaster. “I only remember seeing her with her little baby.” Then, a few months later, the infant who was called Shankar was separated from her and sent for professional modifications.
The child was not returned to the mother. It was more profitable to circulate him among beggarwomen in various neighbourhoods. Also, str
“So Shankar grew up, branched out on his own, and got the rolling platform, never knowing his mother,” said Beggarmaster. “And by the time I took over the business, I had forgotten my childhood suspicion that he was Nosey’s son. Till recently.”
It was Nosey who had reminded him, as she lay dying on the pavement. Not only that, she claimed that Beggarmaster’s father was also Shankar’s father. At first, Beggarmaster was stunned that she would have the temerity to suggest something so offensive. He threatened to remove her from his list of clients if she did not apologize. She said it was all the same to her, this close to death she couldn’t care.
Still refusing to believe her, he wondered why she would utter such a pointless falsehood. What was she hoping to gain by it? He watched in a daze of anger as pedestrians continued to throw coins in Nosey’s tin can. Unaware of the drama taking place, some of them stopped and began eyeing him suspiciously.
“They probably thought you were waiting to steal from her,” said Maneck.
“You are right. And I was so upset, I felt like yelling at them to go fuck themselves.”
Dina flinched, almost admonishing him for his language. The front room had grown dark, and she switched on the light. It made everyone blink and shade their eyes for a moment.
“But I controlled myself,” said Beggarmaster. “In my profession, we have a saying – the almsgiver is always right.”
So, ignoring the inquisitive rabble, he focused on Nosey’s claim. After the outrage came the uncertainty. He accused her of a cheap lie, of playing a vicious trick on him while passing through death’s door, leaving him forever in doubt.
Be quiet and listen, she said to Beggarmaster, I am your stepmother, whether you like it or not. And I have proof. Did you ever massage your father’s back and shoulders?
Yes, he answered, I have been a good son. I regularly massaged my father whenever he summoned me, right till the day of his passing.
In that case, said Nosey, you would have been familiar with a larger-than-normal bump, a big swelling at the nape of your father’s neck, just where the backbone began.
“I wondered how in the world she knew about it,” said Beggarmaster. “But she insisted on an answer, did he or didn’t he have a lump in that place? She would not say another word until I admitted, reluctantly, that yes, my father possessed the feature she had described. Then she was anxious to continue.”
It had happened long, long ago, when Nosey was young and her body had just learned to bleed. Beggarmaster’s father had come to her corner of the pavement late one night, when he was drunk, too drunk to be repulsed by hier physiognomy, and had slept with her. The liquor-stinking mouth made her want to refuse, but she averted her face and controlled the impulse. She lay inert, as though dead under him, letting him do what he wanted. After he finished she sat and threw up beside his snoring, rumbling body. During the night he awoke and enlarged her little splash with a torrent of bilious vomit. Later, she heard a slurping and opened her eyes; rats were supping at their mingled effluent.
Nosey assumed he must have enjoyed her body, for he kept returning on other nights, even when he was not drunk. Now she hated it less. When he lay on top of her and looked at her face without the armour of alcohol, she started to like it. She let her flesh come alive, and enjoyed melting with him. Her hands explored his body then, discovering the large knob at the nape. She giggled, and asked him about it. He joked that he had grown it for her pleasure – so she would have not one but two big bones to play with.
And thus it was that the man who could look upon her hideous face and still love her found a place in her heart. He explained what the doctor had told him about his special bone. He had been born with thirty-four vertebrae instead of the normal thirty-three, the extra one having fused at the top of the column, and responsible for his chronic pain.
Is it not your father I am describing, said Nosey, is there any doubt remaining now?
Beggarmaster agreed that all this was true. But it was only evidence of his father’s drunken fornications, and nothing else.
Not only drunken, she corrected him with pride, but sober as well. This distinction was the dearest thing in her life, and of the utmost importance to her even at death’s door.
Grudgingly he admitted it. But it was still not proof, he maintained, that Shankar was his father’s son and his own half-brother. Yes, it was, said Nosey, because Shankar had the identical protuberance at the nape of his neck, and it would take only a moment to verify it. Beggarmaster could, of course, pretend it was a coincidence, she said, but he would know the truth in his heart.
“And she was right, the truth was in my heart. Also in my heart was a great, hopeless mixture of feelings. I was angry and frightened and confused. But also happy. For I realized that I, an only child, left in the world without parents, without any relatives, was suddenly blessed with a brother. And a stepmother, even if she was close to my own age, and close to death.”
So, having accepted the truth, all his rage and resentment towards the dying woman was replaced by gratitude. He asked why she had not told him earlier. She said out of fear of what he might have done if the secret angered or shamed him – maybe killed her and Shankar, or sold them to a less pleasant owner in a far-off place where they would have been strangers. Her greatest terror was to lose the familiar pavements of her youth.
But now it did not matter, she would be dead in a short while, and he would be the sole keeper of the knowledge, to do with it as he wished. It would be up to him to tell or not tell Shankar.
He reassured her that her confidences had brought him nothing but happiness. The urgent matter was to get her to a good hospital. He wanted to make her comfortable for whatever time was left to her, and went to hail a taxi.
The first few to stop refused the fare when they saw the sick beggar-woman, concerned about the car’s interior. Finally, he flagged one down by waving a thick wad of rupees at the driver. The taxi had a broken headlight and a clanking bumper. In the back seat, with Nosey cradled in his arms through the journey, Beggarmaster heard the driver’s hard-luck story about a policeman who had maliciously damaged the vehicle because the driver had been late that week in slipping him the envelope with his parking hafta.
At the hospital there was a long delay. Nosey was left on the floor in a corridor crowded with destitutes awaiting treatment. The antiseptic odour of phenol from the stone tiles penetrated faintly through the human fetor. Beggarmaster did his best to motivate the people in charge, and spoke to a kind-looking doctor. His white coat was torn at the large lower pocket into which he had squeezed his stethoscope. Beggarmaster asked him to please hurry and attend his mother, he would make it worth his while. The doctor said in a gentle voice not to worry, everyone would be looked after. Then he rushed away with his hand in the torn pocket.
Beggarmaster assumed that medical people, dedicated to their noble calling, were not impressed by his sweat-soaked roll of rupees like most of society. But he was unable to sample more doctors and nurses to arrive at an actuarially valid conclusion. Before his stepmother could be treated, her life had ended. He consoled himself by paying for a good funeral instead of a hospital bill.
“And when all this was dealt with, I went to see Shankar,” sighed Beggarmaster. “Of course, I did not mention the main news right away, because I first wanted to think in peace and quiet about what Nosey had told me.”
He asked Shankar how the begging was going, if the platform was working well, if the castors needed oiling – the usual chitchat of inspection rounds. Shankar complained that almsgiving was drying up in this neighbourhood of misers, people were so bad-tempered. Beggarmaster knelt by his side and put a h
“And there, beneath my fingertips, was my father’s backbone. The same large bump. My hand was trembling with emotion. My whole body shook with excitement, I could barely keep my balance as I knelt. There was my brother before me, and there, also, my father, living in that spinal column. It was all I could do to keep from embracing Shankar, pressing him to my chest, and confessing everything.”
With a superhuman effort he had restrained himself. Premature divulgence could have caused untold anguish. First, he had to decide on the best course for Shankar. It was all very well to imagine he could take his brother home, keep him in comfort for the rest of his life, and live happily together. Such dreams were cheap, people had them all the time.
But what if Shankar could not adjust to the new life? Suppose it seemed purposeless, or worse than purposeless? A prison, where his inadequacies were highlighted instead of being put to use as they were in begging on the pavement? And more important, what if the horrific story of the early years became an ulcer on Shankar’s spirit, eating him from within, turning the remainder of his life into one bitter and ravaging accusation of Beggarmaster and his father? After such knowledge, could there be forgiveness?
“I felt it was better for me to wrestle with my own soul, contain within its bounds the truth imparted by Nosey. To involve my poor unfortunate brother in the misery, just for my own comfort – that would have been too selfish.” He reasoned that Shankar’s life had already been wrecked once, in infancy. But Shankar had learned to inhabit that wreckage. To wreak a second destruction upon him would be unforgivable.
“So I have decided to wait. To wait, and talk to him about his childhood. Perhaps I will share little things, and watch his reaction. By and by, I will know which is the best course for us. And here is where I need your help.”