A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
Ishvar went to his nephew’s side to see for himself. He sought verbal assurances. Sound asleep, Om did not answer. Ishvar pulled down the blanket and began examining him: his hands, fingers, toes were intact. He checked the back – there were no bloody welts of whiplashes. And the mouth was fine, the tongue and teeth were undamaged. His fear began to abate, perhaps the Thakur had left him alone.
Then he found bloodstains on the underside of the trouser crotch. Could it be from the nussbandhi operation? He looked down at himself – there was no blood. Fingers shaking, he undid Om’s trousers and saw the large dressing. He unbuttoned his own trousers to compare: there was only a small piece of gauze and surgical tape. He put his fingers on Om’s bandage and felt the absence. Swallowing hard, he moved his fingers around frantically, hoping to locate the testicles somewhere, refusing to believe they were missing.
Then he howled.
“Hai Ram! Look! Look what they have done! To my nephew! Look! They have made a eunuch out of him!”
Someone came from the main tent and told him to be quiet. “What are you shouting for again? Didn’t you understand? The boy was very sick, that part had a dangerous growth in it, a gaanth full of poison, it needed to be removed.”
The twice-vasectomized man had already departed. The remaining occupants of the tent were busy nursing their own sorrow and trying to cope with nausea and dizziness. One by one, when they felt strong enough, they rose and returned shamefaced to their homes. There was no one left to comfort Ishvar.
Alone through the night, he howled and wept, slept for a few minutes when exhausted, then wept once more. Om came out of the chloroform past midnight, retched, and fell asleep again.
After the roundup in the market square, Ashraf Chacha had been carried to the municipal hospital, and his relatives at the lumberyard were notified. He died a few hours later. The hospital, following standing orders, put down the cause of death as accidental: “Due to stumbling, falling, and striking of head against kerb.” His relatives buried him beside Mumtaz Chachi the next day, while Ishvar and Om were still making their way back from the sterilization camp.
Apart from a soreness in the groin, Ishvar felt no discomfort. But Om was in grave pain. The bleeding resumed when he took a few steps. His uncle tried to carry him on his back, which was more agonizing. Flat in his arms like a baby was the only comfortable position for Om, but too exhausting for Ishvar. He had to put him down every few yards along the road.
Towards afternoon, a man passing with an empty handcart stopped. “What is wrong with the boy?”
Ishvar told him, and he offered to help. They placed Om on the cartbed. The man removed his turban to make a pillow. Ishvar and he pushed the handcart. It was not heavy to roll, but they had to move very slowly over the rutted road. The jolts knifed their way through Om, and the distance was measured by his harrowing screams.
It was dark when they reached Muzaffar Tailoring. The handcart-man refused payment. “I was travelling in this direction anyway,” he said.
Ashraf’s nephew from the lumberyard was inside, come to secure the shop. “I have sad news,” he said. “Chachaji had an accident and passed away.”
The tailors were too distraught, however, to be able to mourn the loss or fully comprehend it. Yesterday’s events in the market square had merged with all the other tragedies in their lives. “Thank you for coming to inform us,” Ishvar kept saying mechanically. “I must attend the funeral, and Om will also come, yes, he’ll be better tomorrow.”
The man repeated it four times before they realized that Ashraf Chacha had already been buried. “Don’t worry, you can stay here till you are well,” he said. “I haven’t yet decided what to do with this property. And please let me know if you need anything.”
They went to sleep without eating, having no desire for food. To avoid climbing the flight of steps, Ishvar prepared a mattress downstairs beside the shop counter. During the night Om thrashed around in delirium. “No! Not Ashraf Chacha’s shears! Where’s the umbrella? Give me, I’ll show the goondas!”
Ishvar awoke in fright and groped for the light switch. He saw a dark blotch on the sheet. He cleaned Om’s wound and sat up the rest of the night to restrain him, lest the dressing tear open.
In the morning he half-dragged, half-carried him to a private dispensary in town. The doctor was disgusted by the castration but not surprised. He treated victims of caste violence from time to time, from the surrounding villages, and had given up trying to get the law to pursue the cause of justice. “Insufficient evidence to register a case” was the routine response, whether it was a finger or hand or nose or ear that was missing.
“You are lucky,” said the doctor. “This was done very cleanly, and stitched properly. If the boy rests for a week, it will heal.” He disinfected the wound and put a new dressing on it. “Don’t let him walk, walking will make it bleed again.”
Ishvar paid the fee out of the wedding money, then asked, despite knowing the answer, “Will he be able to father children?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Even though the pipe is intact?”
“The vessels which produce the seed have been cut off.”
Remembering the doctor’s advice, Ishvar staggered home with his nephew in his arms and put him to bed. He found a bottle and a pan so Om could relieve himself without having to walk to the lavatory. Ashraf Chacha’s neighbours avoided them. In the tiny kitchen where Mumtaz Chachi had cooked for her family of six, plus two apprentices, Ishvar prepared the joyless meals. The friendly ghosts of his childhood were unable to comfort him, and they ate in silence at Om’s bedside.
At the end of seven days, Ishvar carried him again to the private dispensary. In the street it was easy to spot the victims of forced vasectomies, especially among those who possessed only one set of garments. Pus stains at the crotch told the story.
“The healing is almost complete,” said the doctor. “It is all right to walk now – but no hurrying.” He did not charge for the second visit.
From the dispensary they took small, careful steps to the police chowki and said they wanted to register a complaint. “My nephew was turned into a eunuch,” said Ishvar, unable to control a sob as he spoke the word.
The constable on duty was perturbed. He wondered if this meant a fresh outbreak of inter-caste disturbances, and headaches for his colleagues and himself. “Who did it?”
“It was at the Nussbandhi Mela. In the doctor’s tent.”
The answer relieved the policeman. “Not police jurisdiction. This is a case for the Family Planning Centre. Complaints about their people are handled by their office.” And in all probability, he thought, it was just another instance of confusing sterilization with castration. A visit to the Centre would sort things out.
The tailors left the police chowki and walked very slowly to the Family Planning Centre. Ishvar was grateful for the unhurried pace. A terrible ache had grown around his own groin since the last three days, which he had ignored in his concern for his nephew.
Om noticed the peculiar walk, and asked his uncle what the matter was.
“Nothing.” He winced as waves of pain rolled leisurely down his legs. “Just stiffness from the operation. It will go.” But he knew that it was getting worse; this morning, a swelling had begun in the legs.
At the Family Planning Centre the moment Ishvar said eunuch, they refused to listen further. “Get out,” ordered the officer. “We are fed up with you ignorant people. How many times to explain? Nussbandhi has nothing to do with castration. Why don’t you listen to our lectures? Why don’t you read the pamphlets we give you?”
“I understand the difference,” said Ishvar. “If you take just one look, you will see what your doctor has done.” He motioned to Om to drop his pants.
But as Om began undoing the buttons, the officer ran and grabbed the waistband. “I forbid you to take off your clothes in my office. I am not a doctor, and whatever is in your pants is of no interest to me. If we s
Ishvar begged him to reconsider, to at least take one quick look. Om spoke in his uncle’s ear, warning him not to start crying again. The man kept advancing threateningly. They were forced to back up. When they were out in the street, the door was shut and a Closed For Lunch sign hung on it.
“You really thought they would help?” said Om. “Don’t you understand? We are less than animals to them.”
“Keep your mouth shut,” said Ishvar. “Your foolishness has brought this on us.”
“How? For my foolishness I lost my balls. But how is your nussbandhi my fault? That would have happened anyway. It happened to everyone in the market.” He paused, then continued bitterly, “In fact, it’s all your fault. Your madness about coming here and finding a wife for me. We could have been safe in the city, on Dinabai’s verandah.”
Ishvar’s eyes filled with tears. “So you are saying we should have stayed hidden on the verandah for the rest of our days? What kind of life, what kind of country is this, where we cannot come and go as we please? Is it a sin to visit my native place? To get my nephew married?” He could walk no further, and sank to the pavement, shaking.
“Come on,” hissed Om, “don’t do a drama on the street, it’s looking bad.”
But his uncle continued to weep, and Om sat down beside him. “I did not mean it, yaar, it’s not your fault, don’t cry.”
“The pain,” shivered Ishvar. “It’s everywhere … too much … I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s go home,” said Om gently. “I’ll help you. You must rest with your feet up.”
They rose and, with Ishvar limping, dragging, trembling with agony, they reached Ashraf Chacha’s shop. They agreed that a good night’s sleep would cure him. Om arranged the mattress and pillows comfortably for his uncle, then massaged his uncle’s legs. They both fell asleep, Ishvar’s feet clasped in his nephew’s hands.
A week later Ishvar’s legs were swollen like columns. His body burned with fever. From the groin to the knee the flesh had become black. They returned to the Family Planning Centre and peered timidly from the entrance. Fortunately, a doctor was present this time, and the man they had spoken to on the last visit was not around.
“The nussbandhi is fine,” said the doctor after a cursory glance. “It’s not connected to the sickness in your legs. There is a poison in your body which is causing the swelling. You should go to the hospital.”
Seeing that this was a reasonable man, Ishvar mentioned his nephew’s castration, and the doctor was instantly transformed. “Get out!” he said. “If you are going to talk nonsense, get out of my sight this moment!”
They went to the hospital, where Ishvar was given a course of pills: four times a day for fourteen days. The pills reduced the fever, but there was no improvement in his legs. At the end of the fortnight’s treatment he could not walk at all. The blackness had spread downwards like a stain, towards the toes, reminding him of the leather dye that used to impregnate his skin as a boy, when he worked with his father and the Chamaars.
Om found the handcart-man in the market that afternoon, and requested his help. “It’s my uncle this time. He cannot walk, he has to be taken to hospital.”
The man was unloading a consignment of onions from the cart. A few bulbs had been crushed during transit, and the air was charged with the pungent reek. He wiped his eyes, hoisted a sack over his shoulders, and took it to the godown. The vapours travelled into Om’s eyes too, though he stood at some distance.
“Okay, I’m ready,” said the handcart-man twenty minutes later. He dusted off the cartbed and they went to Muzaffar Tailoring to collect Ishvar. They positioned the cart close to the steps and hoisted him upon it. The neighbours watched, hidden behind curtains, as the rickety wheels trundled off towards the hospital.
The handcart-man waited outside the building while Ishvar huddled in the entrance and Om went in search of the emergency ward. “The pills have not worked,” the doctor on duty announced after the examination. “The poison in the blood is too strong. The legs will have to be removed in order to keep the poison from spreading upwards. It’s the only way to save his life.”
Next morning the blackened legs were amputated. The surgeon said the stumps would be observed for several days, to make sure all the poison had drained out. Ishvar spent two months in hospital. Om went every morning with food, and stayed till night.
“You must send a letter to Dinabai,” Ishavar reminded Om repeatedly. “Tell her what happened, she will be worrying about us.”
“Yes,” said Om, but he did not dare attempt the task. What would he write? How could he even begin to explain on a piece of paper?
At the end of the two months, the handcart-man returned to the hospital and helped to take Ishvar home to Muzaffar Tailoring. “My life is over,” wept Ishvar. “Just throw me in the river that runs by our village. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
“Leave it, yaar,” said Om. “Don’t talk rubbish. What do you mean, life is over? Have you forgotten Shankar? He doesn’t even have fingers or thumbs. You still have both hands, you can sew. Dinabai has an old hand-machine, she will let you use it when we go back.”
“You are a crazy boy. I can’t sit, I can’t move, and you are talking of sewing.”
“Let me know if you need more transport,” said the handcart-man, adding quickly, “I will take you for the price of a bus ticket from now on.”
“Yes, we’ll pay you, don’t worry,” said Om. “My uncle will need to go to the hospital. And maybe in a few weeks, once he feels stronger, you can take us to the train station. We’ll soon be returning to our city.”
The recovery was slow. Their money was running out. Ishvar ate poorly, and his nights continued to pass in the embrace of fever and nightmares. He often woke up crying. Om comforted him, asked him what he would like.
“Massage my feet, they are aching too much,” he always said.
One evening, Ashraf Chachas nephew from the lumberyard came to see them. He had found a buyer for the shop. “Very sorry to make you leave. But who knows when I will get another offer?” He proposed alternate accommodation in a shed or shack, certain that some corner of the lumberyard could be found for them.
“No, it’s okay,” said Om. “We’ll just return to the city and start sewing again.”
This time Ishvar agreed with him. It was better to go, he felt, than to stay in this place that had brought them nothing but misery. Each day now was mortifying, with the people who knew them, especially the neighbours, staring at them on their trips to and from the hospital, whispering among themselves, shying away when they saw the handcart coming.
“Can you do us one last favour?” Om asked Ashraf Chacha’s nephew. “Can you get your carpenter in the lumberyard to make a little trolley with small wheels, for my uncle?”
He said it would be an easy matter. The next day he delivered the rolling platform to the shop. There was a hook at the front end, with a rope for Om to pull the platform.
“This rope is unnecessary,” insisted Ishvar. “I will roll the gaadi with my own hands, like Shankar. I want to be independent.”
“Okay, yaar, we’ll see.”
They removed the rope, and Ishvar began practising indoors. He needed to learn how to slump his body so it would be stable without the counterweight of legs. His frustration mounted. In his weakened state he could not propel the platform. There was no question of venturing into the street.
“Patience,” said Om. “You will be able to do it as you get stronger.”
“What patience,” sobbed Ishvar. “Patience is not going to make my legs grow back.” Hopelessly defeated, he allowed the towing rope to be reconnected.
“Don’t be talking nonsense again,” said Om, shifting the platform around to leave.
“Can’t we stay here a little longer?”
“No, we have to go.” Om tugged at the rope, and the castors jolted over the earth of the graveyard. How light is my uncle, he thought, light as a baby, pulling him is no strain at all.
XVI
The Circle Is Completed
THE FIRST THING ZENOBIA SAW when Dina opened the door was the patchwork curtain rigged down the middle of the verandah. “What’s this, your washing?” she giggled. “Or are you starting a dhobi service?”
“No, that’s the bridal suite,” said Dina, breaking into laughter. She had endured four weeks of enforced solitude with resentment. Her friend dropping in was a great relief.
Zenobia found the joke hilarious without understanding what it meant. They went into the front room. Between renewed bursts of laughter, she learned why the verandah was partitioned.
“They should be back any day now,” said Dina. “The curtain isn’t thick enough to muffle the newlyweds’ noises, but it’s the best I can do.”
Zenobia no longer thought it funny. She stared at Dina as though she had gone mad. “How you’ve changed. Are you listening to what you are saying? Only a year ago you were against keeping a harmless paying guest. It took me days to convince you that Aban Kohlah’s son was no threat, that he was not going to eat up your flat.”
“And you were absolutely right – Maneck is a lovely boy. Two more weeks, and he’ll be back too. Look at this quilt I made. It’s going to be Om’s wedding present.”