A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
“Who cares about Rajaram, I’m dying here.” He extended his sore left arm, the limb delicate as porcelain.
The gesture finally melted Dina. She brought out her bottle of Amrutanjan Balm. “Come, this will make it better,” she said.
He shook his head.
“Dinabai is right,” said Ishvar. “I’ll rub it for you.”
“You keep sewing, I’ll do it,” said Dina. “Or the balm smell from your fingers will fill the dress.” Besides, she thought, if he starts wasting time, I might as well start begging for next month’s rent.
“I’ll apply it myself,” said Om.
She uncapped the bottle. “Come on, take off your shirt. What are you shy about? I’m old enough to be your mother.”
He unbuttoned reluctantly, revealing a vest with many holes. Like Swiss cheese, she thought. A salty-sour odour tarried about him. She dug a dark-green blob out of the bottle and started at the shoulder, spreading the cold unguent down towards the elbow in frigid one-finger lines. He shuddered. The chill of it made his skin horripilate. Then she began to massage, and the salve released its heat, causing his arm, her hand, to tingle. The goose flesh dwindled and vanished.
“How is it?” she asked, kneading the muscles.
“Cold one minute, hot the next.”
“That’s the beauty of balm. Nice zhumzhum feeling. Just wait, the pain will soon be gone.”
The odour from his flesh had disappeared, drowned in the balm’s pungency. How smooth the skin, she thought. Like a child’s. And almost no hair, even on his shoulder.
“How does it feel now?”
“Good.” He had enjoyed the rub.
“Anything else hurting?”
He pointed from elbow to wrist. “All this.”
Dina hooked out another blob and rubbed his forearm. “Take some of it with you tonight, apply it when you go to bed. Tomorrow your arm will be good as new.”
Before washing her hands she went to the kitchen, to the dusty shelf by the window. Standing on tiptoe and still unable to see, she felt around. The blind hand dislodged a pivotal box. Things came sliding down: board and rolling pin, the coconut grater with its circular serrated blade, mortar and pestle.
She dodged the avalanche, letting the kitchen implements crash to the floor. The tailors came running. “Dinabai! Are you okay?” She nodded, a bit shaken but pleased to glimpse the look of concern on Om’s face before he erased it.
“Maybe we could fix the shelf a little lower,” said Ishvar, helping her replace the fallen items. “So you can reach it.”
“No, just leave it. I haven’t used these things in fifteen years.” She found what her fingers had been groping for: the roll of wax paper in which she used to wrap Rustom’s lunch. She blew off the dust and tore out a hanky-sized square, transferring green daubs of Amrutanjan onto it.
“Here,” she said, folding the piece into a little triangular packet. “Don’t forget to take it with you – your balm samosa.”
“Thank you,” laughed Ishvar, trying to prompt Om into showing his appreciation. And against Om’s wishes, a sliver of gratitude pushed a weak smile across his face.
In the evening, as they were leaving, she mentioned the trunk. “Why don’t you leave it where you sleep?”
“There’s no room for it there.”
“Then you might as well keep it here. No sense carrying this burden morning and night.”
Ishvar was overcome by the offer. “Such kindness, Dinabai! We are so grateful!” He thanked her half a dozen times between the back room and verandah, joining his hands, beaming and nodding. Om, once again, was more careful in spending his gratitude. He slipped out a softly murmured “thank you” while the door was shutting.
“See? She is not as bad as you think.”
“She did it because she wants money from my sweat.”
“Don’t forget, she applied the balm for you.”
“Let her pay us properly, then we can buy our own balm.”
“It’s not the buying, Omprakash – it’s the applying I want you to remember.”
Rajaram came to the chemist’s on a bicycle, which impressed Om. “It’s not exactly mine,” said the hair-collector. “The employers have provided it for the job.”
“What is this job?”
“I must thank my stars for it. That night, after the colony was destroyed, I met a man from my village. He works for the Controller of Slums, driving one of the machines for breaking down houses. He told me about the new job, and took me next morning to the government office. They hired me straight away.”
“And your work is also to destroy homes?”
“No, never. My title is Motivator, for Family Planning. The office gives me leaflets to distribute.”
“That’s all? And the pay is good?”
“It depends. They give me one meal, a place to sleep, and the cycle. As Motivator, I have to go around explaining the birth-control procedures. For each man or woman I can persuade to get the operation, I am paid a commission.”
He said he was happy with the arrangement. Gathering just two vasectomies or one tubectomy each day would equal his takings as a hair-collector. His responsibility ended once the candidates signed the forms and were shepherded to the clinic. There were no restrictions, anyone qualified for the operation, young or old, married or unmarried. The doctors were not fussy.
“In the end, everybody is satisfied,” said Rajaram. “Patients get gifts, I get paid, doctors fill their quotas. And it’s also a service to the nation – small families are happy families, population control is most important.”
“How many operations have you collected so far?” asked Ishvar.
“So far, none. But it’s only been four days. My talking style is still developing force and conviction. I’m not worried, I’m sure I’ll succeed.”
“You know,” said Om, “with this new job, you could continue the old one side by side.”
“How? There isn’t enough time for hair-collecting.”
“When you take patients to the clinic, does the doctor shave the beards between their legs?”
“I don’t know.”
“He must,” said Om. “They always shave before the operation. So you can collect all that hair and sell it.”
“But there is no demand for such short, curly hair.”
Om sniggered at the answer, and Rajaram caught on. “Rascal, making fun of me,” he laughed. “But listen, the office is hiring more Motivators. You should apply right away.”
“We are happy with tailoring,” said Ishvar.
“But you told me the woman was difficult, and cheating you.”
“Still, it’s the profession we trained for with Ashraf Chacha. Motivator – now that’s something we know nothing about.”
“That’s just a small obstacle. They will teach you the job at the Family Planning Centre. Don’t be afraid to change, it’s a great opportunity. Millions of eligible customers. Birth control is a growth industry, I’m telling you.”
But Rajaram’s efforts to persuade the tailors and the nightwatchman were unsuccessful. He picked up his bicycle and got ready to leave. “Any one of you interested in vasectomy? I can use my influence and give you special treatment, double gifts.”
They declined the offer.
“By the way, what about your hair in our trunk?” asked Ishvar.
“Can you keep it a little longer? Once I finish my probation period as Motivator, I can get rid of those plaits.”
He waved and disappeared down the road, ringing his bicycle bell in farewell. Om said the job did sound interesting, in a way. “And the cycle would be wonderful to have.”
Ishvar’s opinion was that only someone like Rajaram, speaking with his long, dangerous tongue, could succeed as a Motivator. “Telling us we are afraid to change. What does he know? Would we have left our native place and come all the way here if we were afraid of change?”
The nightwatchman agreed. “In any case, no human being has a choice in that
During the evening, Dina went repeatedly to look at the tailors’ dented trunk. Maneck watched her with amusement, wondering how long she would keep it up. “I hope you are happy,” she said after dinner. “Now pray that my kindness does not come back to hurt me.”
“Stop worrying so much, Aunty. How can it hurt you?”
“Do I have to explain everything again? I only did this because that poor skinny tailor is starting to look like his battered trunk. You think I am unkind to them, that I don’t care about their problems. You will think it strange if I tell you this, but after they leave in the evening I miss them – their talking and sewing and joking.”
Maneck did not think it strange at all. “I hope Om’s arm is better tomorrow,” he said.
“One thing is certain, he wasn’t pretending. The way his muscles felt while applying the balm, I knew he was in pain. I have experience in massaging. My husband had chronic backaches.”
She used Sloane’s Liniment in those days, she said, more efficacious than Amrutanjan Balm, making his knotted muscles ease under her very fingers. “Rustom would say there was magic in my hands that worked better than the doctor’s antispasmodic intramuscular injection.”
She examined her hand wistfully, holding it before her. “They have a long memory, these fingers. They still remember that feeling, of Rustom’s muscles relaxing.” She lowered her hand. “And in spite of his aching back he loved to cycle. Every chance he got, he jumped on it and pedalled off.”
Till bedtime came, Dina kept talking about Rustom: how they had met, and how her jackass of a brother had reacted, and then the wedding. Her eyes shone, and Maneck was touched by the stories. But he couldn’t understand why listening to her was making him bend once again under the familiar weight of despair, while she was delighting in her memories.
VIII
Beautification
IN ABOUT A WEEK, THE ALCHEMY of time had translated the noisy nocturnal street outside the chemist’s shop into a lulling background for the tailors. Now their sleep was no longer poisoned by nightmares. The shadows and disturbances – bookies yelling out the midnight Matka numbers, winners hooting with delight, dogs howling, drunks locked in mortal combat with their demons, the crash of milk-bottle racks, doors slamming on bakery vans – all these became, for Ishvar and Om, the bonging of hours by a faithful clock.
“I told you the street was nothing to be frightened of,” said the nightwatchman.
“True,” said Ishvar. “Noises are like people. Once you get to know them, they become friendly.”
The rings around their eyes began to fade, their work improved, and their sleep grew pleasant. Ishvar dreamt a wedding celebration in the village; Om’s bride was beautiful. And Om dreamt about the deserted slum. Shanti and he, holding hands, fetched water from the tap, then romped through the wasted field, now transformed into a garden teeming with flowers and butterflies. They sang, danced around trees, made love while flying aboard a magic carpet of clouds, machine-gunned Sergeant Kesar and his evil policemen as well as the Controller of Slums, and restored the hutment dwellers to their rightful place.
The chemist’s shop was the centre of the tailors’ new routine. They picked out a change of clothing from the trunk when leaving Dina’s flat at the end of the day. Soap and toothbrushes went back and forth with them. After dinner at the Vishram, they washed their clothes in the railway station bathroom and dried them in the chemist’s entrance. Electrical wiring that had lost its moorings hung like a clothesline for the laundry. Pants and shirts floated like truncated sentries while they slept. On windy nights the garments danced on the wire, friendly funambulating ghosts.
Then came the night of noises that were strangers on the street. Police jeeps and a truck roared down the road and parked across from the chemist’s. Sergeant Kesar barked short, sharp instructions to his men; the constables’ sticks thudded hollowly on cardboard boxes sheltering sleepers along the pavement; heavy steps in regulation footwear pounded the footpath.
The noises, like menacing interlopers, barged their way into the tailors’ slumber. Ishvar and Om awoke trembling as though from a bad dream, and crouched fearfully behind the nightwatchman. “What’s happening? What do you see?” they asked him.
He peered around the entrance. “Looks like they are waking all the beggars. They are beating them, pushing them into a truck.”
The tailors shook off their sleep and saw for themselves. “That really is Sergeant Kesar,” said Om, rubbing his eyes. “I thought I was dreaming about our jhopadpatti again.”
“And that other chap, the one next to Sergeant Kesar – he also seems familiar,” said Ishvar.
The small, clerkish-looking man was hopping along like a rabbit, sniffling with a heavy cold. He periodically snorted back the mucus and gulped it. Om edged forward. “It’s that fellow who wanted to sell us a ration card for two hundred rupees – the Facilitator.”
“You’re right. And he is still coughing and sneezing. Come on back, better stay hidden, it’s safer.”
The Facilitator was making notes on a clipboard, keeping count as the truck was loaded. “Wait a second, Sergeant,” he protested. “Look at that one – completely crippled. Leave her out, no.”
“You do your work,” said Sergeant Kesar, “I’ll do mine. And if you have extra time, look after your spectacles.”
“Thank you,” said the Facilitator, his hand shooting up to halt the slide of his glasses. On the way down, the fingers collected the pearl dangling at his nose. It was a smooth combination of gestures. “But please listen to me, no,” he sniffed. “This beggar is useless in her condition.”
“Actually speaking, that’s not my concern. I have to follow orders.” Tonight, Sergeant Kesar had decided he was going to tolerate no nonsense, his job was getting harder by the day. Gathering crowds for political rallies wasn’t bad. Rounding up MISA suspects was also okay. But demolishing hutment colonies, vendors’ stalls, jhopadpattis was playing havoc with his peace of mind. And prior to his superiors formulating this progressive new strategy for the beggary problem, he had had to dump pavement-dwellers in waste land outside the city. He used to return miserable from those assignments, get drunk, abuse his wife, beat his children. Now that his conscience was recuperating, he was not about to let this nose-dripping idiot complicate matters.
“But what good is she to me?” objected the Facilitator. “What kind of labourer will such a cripple be?”
“With you it’s always the same complaint,” said Sergeant Kesar, sticking his thumbs in the black leather belt that followed the generous curve below his belly. He was a fan of cowboy films and Clint Eastwood. “Don’t forget, they will all work for free.”
“Hardly free, Sergeant. You’re charging enough per head.”
“If you don’t want them, others will. Actually speaking, I am sick and tired of listening to your moaning every night. I cannot pick and choose healthy specimens for you – this isn’t a cattle market. My orders are to clear the streets. So you want them or not?”
“Yes, okay. But at least tell your men to hit carefully, not to make them bleed. Or it becomes very difficult for me to find places for them.”
“Now there I agree with you,” said Sergeant Kesar. “But you don’t need to worry, my constables are well trained. They know the importance of inflicting hidden injuries only.”
The sweep continued, the policemen performing their task efficiently, prodding, poking, kicking. No obstacle slowed them down, not shrieks nor wails nor the comical threats of drunks and lunatics.
The policemen’s detached manner reminded Ishvar of the street-sweeper who came for the garbage at five a.m. “Oh no,” he shuddered, as the team reached the street corner. “They’re after the poor little fellow on wheels.”
The legless beggar made a break for it. Pushing the ground with his palms, he propelled the platform forward. The policemen were amused and cheered him on, wanting to see how fast
“Just look at this one!” cried the agitated Facilitator. “No fingers, no feet, no legs – a great worker he will be!”
“You can do what you like with him,” said one constable.
“Let him out beyond the city limits if you don’t need him,” said the other. A slight push, and the platform rolled till it came to rest at the front end of the truck bed.
“What are you saying, how can I do that? I have to account for all of them,” said the Facilitator. Remembering Sergeant Kesar’s ultimatum, he looked over his shoulder cautiously, biting the cap of his ballpoint – had he heard? To make up, he voiced agreement for a change. “Those blind ones are fine. Blindness is no problem, they can do things with their hands. Children also, many little jobs for them.”
The constables ignored him as they pursued their quarry. Once the initial panic had subsided, the beggars went meekly. Most of them had endured such roundups outside businesses or residences that persuaded the police, with a little baksheesh, to remove the eyesores. Sometimes the policemen themselves stationed the beggars there, then eagerly awaited the lucrative removal request.
Lined up by the truck, the pavement-dwellers were counted off and asked to give their names, which the Facilitator noted on his clipboard along with sex, age, and physical condition. One old man remained silent, his name locked away in his head, the key misplaced. A policeman slapped him and asked again. The grizzled head rolled from side to side with each blow.
His friends tried to help, calling out the various names they used for him. “Burfi! Bevda! Four-Twenty!” The Facilitator selected Burfi, and entered it on the roster. For the age column he used a rough estimate by appearance.
The drunks and the mentally disturbed were a little more difficult to deal with, refusing to move, screaming abuse, most of it incoherent, and making the police laugh. Then one drunk began swinging his fists wildly. “Rabid dogs!” he shouted. “Born of diseased whores!” The constables stopped laughing and set on him with their sticks; when he fell, they used their feet.