A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
He sighed heavily, and his sarcasm was displaced by grief. “What are we to say, madam, what are we to think about the state of this nation? When the highest court in the land turns the Prime Minister’s guilt into innocence, then all this” – he indicated the imposing stone edifice – “this becomes a museum of cheap tricks, rather than the living, breathing law that strengthens the sinews of society.”
Touched by the weight of his anguish, Dina asked, “Why did the Supreme Court do that?”
“Who knows why, madam. Why is there disease and starvation and suffering? We can only answer the how and the where and the when of it. The Prime Minister cheats in the election, and the relevant law is promptly modified. Ergo, she is not guilty. We poor mortals have to accept that bygone events are beyond our clutch, while the Prime Minister performs juggling acts with time past.”
Mr. Valmik stopped suddenly, realizing that he was rambling while a potential client sat beside him. “But what about your case, madam? You seem like a veteran of this institution.”
“No, I’ve never been to court before.”
“Ah, then you have led a blessed life,” he murmured. “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but is there need for a lawyer?”
“Yes, it’s concerning my flat. The trouble started nineteen years ago, after my husband passed away.” She told him everything, starting with the landlord’s first notice a few months after Rustom’s death on their third wedding anniversary, and about the tailors, the paying guest, the rent-collector’s continuing harassment, the goondas’ threats, Beggarmaster’s protection, and Beggarmaster’s death.
Mr. Valmik steepled his fingertips and listened. He did not move once, not even to caress his beloved pens. She marvelled at how carefully he attended – almost as carefully as he spoke.
She finished, and he put his hands down. Then he said in his soft voice, which was beginning to turn hoarse, “It’s a very difficult situation. You know, madam, sometimes it may appear expeditious to act ex curiar Seeing her quizzical, he added, “That is, out of court. But in the end it leads to more problems. True, there are goondas galore in the wilderness of our time. After all, this is a Goonda Raj. So who can blame you for taking that route? Who would want to enter the soiled Temple of Justice, wherein lies the corpse of Justice, slain by her very guardians? And now her killers make mock of the sacred process, selling replicas of her blind virtue to the highest bidder.”
Dina began to wish Mr. Valmik would stop talking in this high-flown manner. It had been entertaining for a while but was rapidly becoming wearisome. How people loved to make speeches, she thought. Bombast and rhetoric infected the nation, from ministers to lawyers, rent-collectors to hair-collectors.
“So are you saying there is no hope?” she interrupted him.
“There is always hope – hope enough to balance our despair. Or we would be lost.”
Now he took out a writing pad from his briefcase, lovingly selected a pen from the well-stocked pocket, and began making notes. “Perhaps the ghost of Justice is still wandering around, willing to help us. If a decent judge hears our petition and grants the injunction, you will be safe till the case is tried. Your name, madam?”
“Mrs. Dalai. Dina Dalai. But how much do you charge?”
“Whatever you can afford to pay. We’ll worry later about that.” He jotted the landlord’s name and office address, and relevant details about the case history. “My advice to you is, don’t leave the flat unoccupied. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. And goondas are basically cowards. Is it possible to have someone, relatives or friends, stay with you?”
“There is no one.”
“Yes, never is, is there? Forgive my question.” He paused, then broke into a fearful coughing fit. “Excuse me,” he croaked, “I think I have exceeded my throat’s quota of conversation.”
“My goodness,” said Dina, “it sounds really bad.”
“And this is after treatment,” he said, in a tone that sounded like bragging. “You should have heard me a year ago. All I could do was squeak like a mouse.”
“But what was it that damaged your throat so badly? Were you in an accident or something?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he sighed. “After all, our lives are but a sequence of accidents – a clanking chain of chance events. A string of choices, casual or deliberate, which add up to that one big calamity we call life.”
Here he goes again, she thought. But his words did ring true. She tested them against her own experience. Random events controlled everything: her father’s death, when she was twelve. And the tailors’ entire lives. And Maneck – one minute coming back, next minute off to Dubai. She would probably never see him again, or Ishvar and Om. They came from nowhere into her life, and had vanished into nowhere.
Mr. Valmik, meanwhile, to answer her question, stroked his precious pens and began his story. Dina felt there was something slightly obscene about this habit of his. Still, touching pens was preferable to touching crotches, the way some men did, to push their things to left or right, or for no reason at all.
His voice was guttural as he told of the enthusiastic young student at law college whose promise was recognized early by his teachers, but who, after being called to the bar, craved peace and solitude, and found it in proofreading. “For twenty-five years I enjoyed the civilized companionship of words. Till one day, when my eyes turned allergic, and my world turned upside down.”
The rasping noises from his throat were so distorted that Dina was having trouble understanding him. But her ears became attuned to the rare timbres and bizarre frequencies. She realized that although Mr. Valmik depicted life as a sequence of accidents, there was nothing accidental about his expert narration. His sentences poured out like perfect seams, holding the garment of his story together without calling attention to the stitches. Was he aware of ordering the events for her? Perhaps not – perhaps the very act of telling created a natural design. Perhaps it was a knack that humans had, for cleaning up their untidy existences – a hidden survival weapon, like antibodies in the bloodstream.
As he spoke, he absently pulled out a fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and put the nib to his nose. She watched, perplexed, as each nostril in turn was pressed shut and the ink fragrance inhaled deeply.
Fortified by his fix of Royal Blue, he continued, “Now I had to contend with the noisy world of morcha productions and protest marches, in order to put food in the tummy-tum-tum. Slogan-making and slogan-shouting became my new profession. And thus began the devastation of my vocal cords.”
The lawyer’s tale reminded her of her languishing patchwork quilt. Om’s wedding gift. And Mr. Valmik had his own fragments to fashion his oral quilt, which he was now reciting for her benefit. Like a conjuror pulling an endless chain of silk scarves from his mouth.
“Ultimately, it was just another chance event – my finding the sergeant-major when I did. Shouting was second nature to him. He shouted even when there was no need. His rawhide throat thrived on it, and I was finally able to give mine a rest.”
He stopped to offer her a cough lozenge; she declined. He popped one in his own mouth. “Such plans I had, to expand, to open branch offices in every big city. I envisioned buying a helicopter and training a unit of Flying Sloganeers. Wherever there was a strike or unrest, whenever a protest march was required, one phone call and my men would descend from the sky, banners at the ready.”
The entrepreneurial gleam in his eye faded with reluctance. “Unfortunately, during this Emergency, morchas and demonstrations are banned by the government. So for the past year I have sat on this broken bench, armed with my law degree. The circle is completed.”
He crunched up the half-sucked lozenge, having run out of patience with shifting it from cheek to cheek. “How much I have lost, in describing the circle. Ambition, solitude, words, eyesight, vocal cords. In fact, that is the central theme of my life story – loss. But isn’t it the same with all life stories? Loss is essential. Loss is part and parcel of th
She nodded, not quite convinced.
“Mind you, I’m not complaining. Thanks to some inexplicable universal guiding force, it is always the worthless things we lose – slough off, like a moulting snake. Losing, and losing again, is the very basis of the life process, till all we are left with is the bare essence of human existence.”
Now Dina grew extremely impatient with Mr. Valmik. This last bit sounded like a lot of tiresome nonsense. “The snake has a brand-new skin underneath,” she cut him off. “I would prefer not to lose my flat, unless a new one will rise in its place.”
Mr. Valmik looked as though he had been struck in his diaphragm. But he recovered quickly and smiled, appreciating her argument. “Very good. Very good indeed, Mrs. Dalai. That was a poor example I gave. And you caught me. Very good. And a good sense of humour too. One of the drawbacks of my profession is the total lack of humour. The Law is a grim, unsmiling thing. Not Justice, though. Justice is witty and whimsical and kind and caring.”
He picked up his signboard and packed it away, stowing the brick under the bench till he should need it again. He dusted its red powder off his hands and declaimed, “I will arise and go now, and go to write this plea, and a convincing petition build, of words and passion made.”
The strange diction made her regard Mr. Valmik curiously. She wondered if she had chosen the right lawyer after all.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m inspired by the poet Yeats. I find his words especially relevant during this shameful Emergency. You know—things falling apart, centre not holding, anarchy loosed upon the world, and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” said Dina. “And everything ends badly.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Valmik. “Now that is too pessimistic for Mr. Yeats. He could never have written that line. But please come to my office, day after tomorrow, and I will bring you up to date.”
“Office? Where?”
“Right here,” he laughed. “This broken bench is my office.” He tenderly patted the pen he had reinserted into the plastic sheath. “Mrs. Dalai, I must thank you for listening to my story. Not many people have the time these days to indulge me. The last opportunity I had was a year ago, with a college student. We were both on a very long train journey. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Valmik.”
After he left, a fresh group of youngsters became engrossed in plundering the mango tree’s sparse green treasures. Their effort and excitement were amusing to observe. Dina sat for a few minutes longer before starting back to her flat.
A police sergeant and constable were joined in argument with two men over the question of the padlock on the front door. The scene had been rehearsed frequently in Dina’s mind; she felt no sense of crisis. One phase of life was concluding, another beginning. Time for the latest instalment, she thought. A new patch in the quilt.
She recognized the two men, the landlord’s goondas. Their hands looked so different, she realized, thanks to Beggarmaster. The fingers were bent in grotesque ways, misshapen, of incongruous lengths, as in a child’s drawing. The man was dead but his work lived on.
“What is it, what do you want here?” she bluffed.
“Sergeant Kesar, madam,” he said, plucking his thumbs out of his belt where he had stuck them aggressively while addressing the goondas. “Very sorry for the trouble. There is an eviction order for this flat.”
“You can’t do that. I’ve just come from my lawyer, he is applying for a court injunction.”
The bald goonda grinned. “Sorry, sister, we were first.”
“What do you mean, first?” She appealed to Sergeant Kesar: “It’s not a race or something, I have a right to go to court.”
He shook his head sadly; he had a long professional acquaintance with the goondas, and was waiting for the day when they could be put away in the lockup. “Actually speaking, madam, there is nothing I can do. Sometimes the law works just like a lemon-and-spoon race. The eviction has to take place. You can appeal later.”
“I might as well bang my head against a brick wall.”
The goondas agreed with her, nodding sympathetically. “Courts are useless. Arguments and adjournments, testimony and evidence. Takes forever. All those stupid things are unnecessary under the Emergency.” His partner rattled the padlock, reminding the law to get a move on.
“Please, madam,” said Sergeant Kesar, “will you open it now?”
“If I refuse?”
“Then I would have to break the lock,” he said sorrowfully.
“And what will happen after I open it?”
“The flat will be emptied out,” he murmured, shame making his words indistinct.
“What?”
“Emptied out,” he repeated a little louder. “Your flat will be emptied out.”
“Thrown out on the pavement? Why? Why do they behave like animals? At least give me a day or two so I can make arrangements.”
“Actually speaking, madam, that’s up to the landlord.”
“Time has run out,” said the bald goonda. “As the landlord’s agents, we cannot allow any delaying tactics.”
Sergeant Kesar turned to Dina. “Don’t worry, madam, your furniture will be safe. I will make sure they treat everything carefully. My constable will guard it. If you like, I can send him to hire a truck for you.”
She found the key in her purse and unlocked the door. The goondas tried to rush in, as though it might spring shut again, but were foiled by Sergeant Kesar’s arm. Like a traffic policeman, he held it up to block them.
“After you, madam,” he bowed, following behind.
The first things they saw were the tailors’ cardboard cartons stacked in a corner of the verandah. The goondas started to take them out.
“Those are not my boxes, I don’t want them,” Dina burst out, directing her anger at the absent ones – they had abandoned her, they had left her to face this alone.
“Not yours? Good, then we’ll take the boxes.”
She put away clothes and knickknacks into drawers and cupboards, trying to stay a few steps ahead of the goondas as they began to carry the furniture outside. Sergeant Kesar waddled about after her, anxious to help. “Have you decided where to transport everything, madam?”
“I’ll go to Vishram and phone my brother. He will be able to send his office truck.”
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye on those two. Anything else I can do while you are gone, madam?”
“Are you allowed to help a criminal?”
He shook his head sadly. “Actually speaking, madam, the criminals are those two, and the landlord.”
“And yet I am being thrown out.”
“That’s the crazy world we live in. If I did not have a family to feed, you think I would do this job? Especially after the ulcers it has given me? Since the Emergency began, my ulcers began. At first I thought it was just stomach acidity. But doctor has confirmed the diagnosis, I have to be operated soon.”
“I am very sorry to hear that.” She found the screwdriver on the kitchen shelf and handed it to him. “If you like, you can remove the nameplate for me from the front door.”
He seized the tool with joy. “Oh, most certainly. I will be happy to, madam.” He went off, his guilt a tiny bit assuaged, and was soon huffing and puffing over the tarnished brass plate, sweating as he wrestled with the screws.
“What?” screamed Nusswan through the telephone. “Evicted? You call me after the furniture is on the pavement? Digging a well when the house is on fire?”
“It happened suddenly. Can you send your truck or not?”
“What choice do I have? It’s my duty. Who else will help you if I don’t?”
The men had almost finished when she returned to the flat. Pots and pans and the stove from the kitchen were the last to be carried out. The constable stood guard over all of it on the footpath. Her household, stacked in this manner, did not seem like very much, she thought, did not seem capable of filling the
Sergeant Kesar was relieved that rescue was on the way. “You are so fortunate, madam, at least you have somewhere to go. Daily I see cases where people end up making the pavement their home. Lying there exhausted, lost, defeated. The amazing thing is how quickly they learn to use cardboard and plastic and newspaper.”
He requested Dina to inspect the rooms before handing over custody of the flat. “Are you sure you don’t want the stuff on the verandah?” he whispered.
“It’s not mine – garbage, as far as I care.”
“You see, madam, whatever is left here automatically becomes the property of the landlord.”
“That’s us,” said the goondas, grabbing the boxes. They shut the front door and slipped a fresh padlock on the hasp. Sergeant Kesar completed the formalities; cyclostyled documents were signed in triplicate.
Then the two goondas turned their attention to the boxes, eager to examine their unexpected bonus. “Wait a second,” said the bald one, lifting out a handful of black tresses. “What rubbish is this?”
“Why rubbish?” laughed his partner. “Hair is just what you need.”
The bald one was not amused. “See what’s in the other box.”
Sergeant Kesar watched them for a minute, then hitched his thumbs in his belt. He was ready for action. He remembered the murders of the two beggars – the infamous Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide. Here was the chance he was waiting for. He unbuttoned the flap of his holster, just in case, and whispered instructions to the constable.
“Excuse me,” he said politely to the goondas. “You are both under arrest for murder.”
They laughed. “Heh-heh, Sergeant Kesar is becoming a joker.” When their wrists were smartly handcuffed by the constable, they protested that the joke had gone too far. “What are you talking about? We haven’t murdered anybody!”