A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
“Come to this side, quick,” said Ashraf. “We will get shelter here.” He led them into the doorway of a textile-merchant who used to refer customers to Muzaffar Tailoring. The shop was closed, and he rang the bell. There was no answer. “Never mind, we’ll just stay here till things are quiet. Police must be looking for criminals in the crowd.”
But the police were snatching people at random. Old men, young boys, housewives with children were being dragged into the trucks. A few managed to escape; most were trapped like chickens in a coop, unable to do anything except wait to be collected by the law enforcers.
“Look,” urged Ashraf, “that corner has only one havaldar. If you run fast you will get through.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be safe here, I’ll meet you later at the shop.”
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Ishvar, refusing to leave him. “We don’t need to run like thieves.”
They watched from the doorway while the police continued to chase the ones tearing frenziedly amid the spilled fruit and grain and broken glassware. Someone tripped, fell upon the shards and cut his face. His pursuer lost interest, picking a new quarry.
“Hai Ram!” said Ishvar. “Look at that blood! And now they are ignoring him! What is going on?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that demon Dharamsi is behind it,” said Ashraf. “He owns those garbage trucks.”
As the vehicles filled up, the numbers in the square began to dwindle. The police had to work harder to catch the remainder. Before long, six constables targeted the tailors. “You three! Into the truck!”
“But why, police-sahab?”
“Just come on, don’t argue,” said one, raising his lathi.
Ashraf flung up his hands before his face. The constable grabbed the prayer beads round his fingers and pulled, breaking the string. The beads rolled lazily about the pavement.
“Oiee!” yelled two others as they slipped on the tiny amber spheres. Seeing his comrades fall, the first one reacted by lashing out angrily with his lathi.
Ashraf groaned and crumpled slowly to the ground.
“Don’t hurt him, please, it was a mistake!” pleaded Ishvar. He and Om knelt to cradle his head.
“Stand up,” said the constable. “He’s okay, just pretending. I gave him just a light blow.”
“But his head is bleeding.”
“Just a little. Come on, get in the truck.”
The tailors ignored the command in favour of Ashraf Chacha. The constable kicked them, once each. They yelped and clutched their ribs. As he drew his foot back to kick again, they stood up. He shoved them towards the trucks.
“What about Ashraf Chacha?” screamed Ishvar. “You’re going to leave him on the pavement?”
“Don’t yell at me, I’m not your servant or something! Saala, one tight shot on your face I’ll give!”
“Sorry, police-sahab, please forgive! But Chachaji is hurt, I want to help him!”
The constable turned to look again at the injured old man. Blood was oozing through the skimpy white hair, dripping in a slow trickle onto the kerb. But the police had been instructed not to load anyone unconscious onto the vehicles. “Others will take care of him, it’s not your worry,” he said, pushing the two aboard a truck.
On the pavement a dog sniffed at the candy-floss Om had dropped. The fluff stuck to its muzzle. The animal worried the pink beard with a paw, and a child in the truck, sitting on its mother’s lap, laughed at the creature’s antics. The police discontinued the roundup when the garbage trucks were full. The people remaining in the square suddenly found themselves at liberty to leave.
The sterilization camp was a short ride from town. A dozen tents had been pitched in a field on the outskirts, where the stubble of the recent harvest still lingered. Banners, balloons, and songs identical to those at the marketplace booth welcomed the garbage trucks. The passengers’ terrified wailing grew louder as the vehicles were parked in an open area behind the tents, alongside an ambulance and a diesel generator.
Two of the tents were larger and sturdier than the rest, with electric cables running to them from the generator that throbbed powerfully beneath the music. Red cylinders for gas stoves squatted outside the canvas. Inside, office desks covered with plastic sheets had been set up as operating tables.
The medical officer in charge of the camp wrinkled his nose in the vicinity of the garbage trucks. The putrid smell of their usual cargo clung to them. He had a word with the police. “Wait for ten minutes, we’ll finish our tea by then. And bring only four patients at a time – two men and two women.” He didn’t want more in the tents than could be handled by the attending doctors, or it would lead to greater panic.
“No one is offering us any tea,” the constables grumbled among themselves. “And this stupid music. Same songs over and over.”
Half an hour later they got the go-ahead. Four persons were selected from the nearest truck, dragged screaming to the two main tents and forced onto the office desks. “Stop resisting,” said the doctor. “If the knife slips it will harm you only.” The warning frightened them into silent submission.
The constables watched the tents carefully, trying to maintain a steady supply according to instructions. But several who couldn’t read kept getting confused. They escorted women to the vasectomy tent. The mixup was understandable: except for the handwritten signs, both tents were identical, and the medical personnel in white coats all looked alike.
“Men to the left tent, women to the right,” the doctors reminded them repeatedly. Their annoyance grew with the suspicion that it was being done on purpose – perhaps some kind of inane police humour. Finally, a medical assistant improved the signs. With a black marker he drew figures on the signboards, of the sort found on public latrines. The turban on the male, and the sari and long plait on the female were unmistakable, and now the constables were able to work with greater accuracy.
As the sterilizations proceeded, an elderly woman tried to reason with her doctor. “I am old,” she said. “My womb is barren, there are no more eggs in it. Why are you wasting the operation on me?”
The doctor approached the district official keeping a tally of the day’s procedures. “This woman is past child-bearing age,” he said. “You should take her off your list.”
“Is that a medical conclusion?”
“Of course not,” said the doctor. “There is no equipment here for clinical verification.”
“In that case, just go ahead. These people often lie about their age. And appearances are deceptive. With their lifestyle, thirty can look like sixty, all shrivelled by the sun.”
Two hours into the campaign, a nurse hurried to the policemen with new instructions. “Please slow down the supply of lady patients,” she said. “There is a technical problem in the tubectomy tent.”
A middle-aged man took the opportunity to appeal to the nurse. “I beg you,” he wept. “Do it to me, I don’t mind – I have fathered three children. But my son here is only sixteen! Never married! Spare him!”
“I have no authority, you must speak to the doctor,” she answered, and hurried back to attend to the technical problem. The autoclave was not working, she had to boil water to disinfect the instruments.
“See, I was right,” Ishvar whispered to Om, holding him close in his trembling arms. “The doctor will let you go, that’s what the nurse just said. We must talk to the doctor and tell him you don’t have children yet.”
In the truck with the tailors a woman was feeding her baby, unaffected by the anguish around her. She softly hummed a song, swaying her body to help the infant fall asleep. “Will you hold my child for me when my turn comes?” she asked Ishvar.
“Hahnji, don’t worry, sister.”
“I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. Five children I already have, and my husband won’t let me stop. This way he has no choice – government stops it.” She began singing again, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan …”<
By and by, the constable beckoned to her, and she removed the child from her breast. The swollen nipple separated with a tiny pop. Om watched her tuck her breast back into her choli. Ishvar eagerly held out his arms and took the child. It started to cry as the mother was climbing down from the truck.
He nodded to reassure her, and rocked the child gently in his lap. Om tried to distract the infant by making funny faces. Then Ishvar began singing like the mother, imitating her little tune, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan.”
The baby stopped crying. They exchanged triumphant looks. Minutes later, tears were rolling down Ishvar’s cheeks. Om turned away. He did not need to ask the reason.
Frustrated by the malfunctioning equipment, the doctors operated slowly through the afternoon, and the Nussbandhi Mela was extended beyond its closing time of six p.m. The second autoclave had broken down as well. Around seven o’clock, a senior administrator from the Family Planning Centre arrived with his personal assistant.
The constables shuffled their feet and stood a little more erect while the camp was inspected. The administrator conveyed his displeasure regarding the number of patients still in the trucks. Then he came upon the doctors by the gas stoves, waiting for a fresh pot of water to boil, and decided to give them a piece of his mind.
“Stop wasting time,” he snapped as they wished him good evening. “Have you no sense of duty? There are dozens of operations left to do. A chupraasi can make tea for you.”
“We are not making tea. The water is for cleaning instruments. The machine is not working.”
“Instruments are clean enough. How long do you want to heat the water? Efficiency is paramount at a Nussbandhi Mela, targets have to be achieved within the budget. Who’s going to pay for so many gas cylinders?” He threatened that they would be reported to higher authorities for lack of cooperation, promotions would be denied, salaries frozen.
The doctors resumed work with partially sterile equipment. They knew of colleagues whose careers had suffered similarly.
The administrator watched for a while, clocking the operations and working out the average time per patient. “Too slow,” he said to his personal assistant. “A simple job of snip-snip-snip they turn into a big fuss.”
Before leaving, he delivered the final threat in his arsenal. “Remember, Thakur Dharamsi will be coming later to check the totals. If he is not pleased with you, you may as well send in your resignations.”
“Yes, sir,” said the doctors.
Satisfied, he went to inspect the other tents. His personal assistant stayed by his side like an interpreter, letting his facial expressions illuminate his superior’s speech.
“We have to be firm with the doctors,” confided the administrator. “If it is left to them to fight the menace of the population explosion, the nation will drown, choked to death, finished – end of our civilization. So it’s up to us to make sure the war is won.”
“Yes, sir – absolutely, sir,” said the aide, thrilled to receive this private pearl of wisdom.
The sun was disappearing at the horizon when it was the tailors’ turn. Ishvar said beseechingly to the constable who gripped his arm, “Police-sahab, there has been a mistake. We don’t live here, we came from the city because my nephew is getting married.”
“I cannot do anything about that.” He lengthened his stride.
Ishvar’s feet skipped in an effort to keep from being dragged. “Can I see the man in charge?” he panted, his voice uneven.
“Doctor is in charge.”
Inside the tent, Ishvar spoke timidly to the doctor. “There is a mistake, Doctorji. We don’t live here.”
The exhausted man made no response.
“Doctorji, you are like mother-father to us poor people, your good work keeps us healthy. And I also think nussbandhi is very important for the country. I am never going to marry, Doctorji, please do the operation on me, I will be grateful, but please leave out my nephew, Doctorji, his name is Omprakash and his wedding is happening soon, please listen to me, Doctorji, I beg of you!”
They were pushed onto the desks and their pants were removed. Ishvar started to weep. “Please, Doctorji! Not my nephew! Cut me as much as you like! But forgive my nephew! His marriage is being arranged!”
Om said nothing. He blocked out the humiliating appeals, wishing his uncle would behave with more dignity. The canvas ceiling undulated slightly in a breeze. He stared numbly as the guy ropes creaked and the electric lights swayed.
Dusk had turned to night when the tailors were helped off the table by the nurses. “Aiee!” said Om. “It hurts!”
“Soreness is normal for a few hours,” said the doctor. “Nothing to worry about.”
They were led limping through the dark field towards the recovery tent. “Now why are you keeping us here?” sobbed Ishvar. “Can’t we go home?”
“You could,” said the nurse. “But better to rest for a while.”
Half a dozen steps later, the pain was sharper. They decided to heed her advice and lie down on the straw mattresses. No one took notice of Ishvar’s crying; grief and tears were general throughout the tents. They were given water and two biscuits each.
“Everything is ruined,” he wept, passing his biscuits to Om. “The four families will never accept us now for their daughters.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are a stupid boy, you don’t understand what it means! I have let down your dead father! Our family name will die without children, it is the end of everything – everything is lost!”
“Maybe for you. But I still have my dignity. I’m not crying like a baby.”
A man on the next pallet was listening intently to their conversation. He raised himself on one elbow. “O bhai,” he said, “don’t cry. Look here, I’ve heard the operation is reversible.”
“But how can that be? After the nuss has been cut?”
“No, bhai, it’s possible. Specialists in big cities can reconnect the nuss.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure. Only thing is, it’s very expensive.”
“You hear that, Om? There is still hope!” Ishvar wiped his face. “Never mind how expensive – we will get it done! We will sew like crazy for Dinabai, night and day! I will get it reversed for you!”
He turned to his benefactor, the creator of hope. “God bless you for this information. May you also be able to reverse it.”
“I don’t want to,” said the man. “I have four children. A year ago I went to my doctor and had the operation of my own free will. These animals did it on me today for the second time.”
“That’s like executing a dead man. Don’t they listen to anything?”
“What to do, bhai, when educated people are behaving like savages. How do you talk to them? When the ones in power have lost their reason, there is no hope.” Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch, he lowered his elbow to lie down.
Ishvar wiped his eyes and lay down too. He reached over to the next mattress and stroked his nephew’s arm. “Bas, my child, we have found our solution, no need to worry now. We will go back, reverse the nussbandhi, and come next year for the wedding. There will be other families interested by then. And maybe by then this accursed Emergency will also be over, and sanity will return to government.”
A sound like a tap was heard, and a hissing; someone was urinating outside. His loud stream hitting the ground angered the twice-vasectomized man in the tent. He rose again on his elbow. “See? Like animals, I told you. These policemen don’t even have the decency to go to the end of the field to pass water.”
Darkness was falling, and the doctors were down to their last few operations when Thakur Dharamsi arrived. The policemen and Family Planning workers flocked to bow before him, jostling to touch his feet. He spoke briefly to the doctors and nurses, then strolled through the recovery tents, waving to the patients, thanking them for their cooperation in making the sterilization camp a success.
“Quick, turn y
Thakur Dharamsi stopped at the foot of Om’s mattress and stared. He murmured a few words to someone at his side. The man left, returning a moment later with one of the doctors.
The Thakur spoke to him softly, and the doctor recoiled, shaking his head vehemently. The Thakur whispered again. The doctor went pale.
Shortly, two nurses arrived and helped Om to his feet. “But I want to rest,” he protested. “It still hurts.”
“Doctor wants to see you.”
“Why?” shouted Ishvar. “You already finished his operation! Now what do you want?”
In the operating tent, the doctor was standing with his back to the entrance, watching the water come to a vigorous boil. The scalpel lay at the bottom, shining below the bubbles. He motioned to the nurses to get the patient on the table.
“Testicular tumour,” he felt obliged to explain to them. “Thakurji has authorized removal, as a special favour to the boy.” The quaver in his voice betrayed the lie.
Om’s pants were taken off for the second time. A rag soaked in chloroform was gripped at his nose. He tore at it briefly, then went limp. With a swift incision the doctor removed the testicles, sewed up the gash, and put a heavy dressing on it.
“Don’t send this patient home with the others,” he said. “He will need to sleep here tonight.” They covered him with a blanket and carried him to the recovery tent on a stretcher.
“What have you done to him?” screamed Ishvar. “He went out on his feet! You bring him back senseless! What have you done to my nephew?”
“Quiet,” they admonished, sliding Om from the stretcher onto the pallet. “He was very sick, and Doctor did a free operation to save his life. You should be grateful instead of simply shouting. Don’t worry, he’ll be all right when he wakes up. Doctor said for him to rest here till morning. You can also stay.”