A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
“I will go with bare feet, my soles and heels cracked, torn, bleeding from a dozen lesions and lacerations to which shall be applied no salve or ointment. Snakes wandering across my path in dark jungles will not frighten me. Stray dogs will nip at my ankles as I roam through strange towns and remote villages. I will beg for my food. Children, and sometimes even adults, will mock me and throw stones at me, scared of my strange countenance and my frenzied inward-gazing eyes. I will go hungry and naked when necessary. I will stumble across rocky plains and down steep hills. I will never complain.”
His eyes had drifted from his audience, focusing wistfully in the distance, having already started their travels across the subcontinent. He seemed to be rather enjoying himself, as though it were a holiday itinerary he was planning. In the cook’s corner, the stove ran out of fuel. Without its roar the place was hushed.
The silence dragged Rajaram away from his daydream, back to the Vishram’s solitary and smelly table. The cook went to the rear to fetch the kerosene can. They watched him insert the funnel and fill the stove.
“Worldly life has led me to disaster,” said Rajaram. “It always does, for all of us. Only, it’s not always obvious, as was in my case. And now I am at your mercy.”
“But we don’t know anything about becoming a sanyasi,” said Ishvar. “What do you want from us?”
“Money. I need train fare to reach the Himalayas. There is hope of redeeming myself – if I can get away from the police and CID.”
They returned to the flat. Rajaram waited at the door while Ishvar went inside and asked Dina to let him have, out of their savings, the price of a third-class Frontier Mail ticket.
“It’s your money, and it’s not for me to say how you spend it,” she said. “But if he is renouncing the world, why does he need train fare? He can get there on foot, begging his way like other sadhus.”
“That’s true,” said Ishvar. “But that would take a lot of time. He is in a hurry for salvation.”
He took the money out to Rajaram on the verandah, who counted it, then hesitated. “Could I possibly have another ten rupees?”
“For what?”
“Sleeping berth surcharge. It’s very uncomfortable to sit all night through such a long train journey.”
“Sorry,” said Ishvar, almost ready to snatch back the notes. “We can’t spare any more than this. But please visit us if you are in the city sometime, we can have tea together.”
“I doubt it,” said Rajaram. “Sanyasis don’t take vacations.” Then he laughed mirthlessly and was gone.
Om wondered if they would ever see him again. “His habit of borrowing money was a nuisance, but he was an interesting fellow. He brought us news of the world.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ishvar. “With Rajaram’s luck, all the caves will be occupied when he gets there. He’ll come back with a story about how there was a No Vacancy sign in the Himalayas.”
XIV
Return of Solitude
DUST AND FLECKS OF FIBRE made Dina sneeze as she cleaned out the sewing room and sorted the leftovers. The rush of breath lifted bits of fabric. The last dresses had been delivered to Au Revoir, and Mrs. Gupta was informed about the six-week break.
Now Dina regarded the approaching emptiness of time with curiosity. Like a refresher course in solitude, she thought. It would be good practice. Without tailors, without a paying guest, alone with her memories, to go through them one by one, examine like a coin collection, their shines and tarnishes and embossments. If she forgot how to live with loneliness, one day it would be hard for her.
She set aside the best swatches for the quilt, stuffing the remainder in the bottom shelf. The Singers were pushed into a corner and the stools stacked on top, which provided more room around the bed. The tailors’ trunk, packed and ready, stood on the verandah. The things they were not taking were stored in cardboard boxes.
With two days to departure and nothing to do, the passing hours had a strangeness to them, loose and unstructured, as though the stitches were broken, the tent of time sagging one moment, billowing the next.
After dinner Dina resumed work on the quilt. Except for a two-square-foot gap at one end, it had grown to the size she wanted, seven by six. Om sat on the floor, massaging his uncle’s feet. Watching them, Maneck wondered what it might be like to massage Daddy’s feet.
“That counterpane looks good, for sure,” said Om. “Should be complete by the time we return.”
“Could be, if I add more pieces from old jobs,” she said. “But repetition is tedious. I’ll wait till there is new material.” They took opposite ends of the quilt and spread it out. The neat stitches crisscrossed like symmetrical columns of ants.
“How beautiful,” said Ishvar.
“Oh, anyone can make a quilt,” she said modestly. “It’s just scraps, from the clothes you’ve sewn.”
“Yes, but the talent is in joining the pieces, the way you have.”
“Look,” Om pointed, “look at that – the poplin from our first job.”
“You remember,” said Dina, pleased. “And how fast you finished those first dresses. I thought I had found two geniuses.”
“Hungry stomachs were driving our fingers,” chuckled Ishvar.
“Then came that yellow calico with orange stripes. And what a hard time this young fellow gave me. Fighting and arguing about everything.”
“Me? Argue? Never.”
“I recognize these blue and white flowers,” said Maneck. “From the skirts you were making on the day I moved in.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it was the day Ishvar and Om did not come to work – they had been kidnapped for the Prime Minister’s compulsory meeting.”
“Oh, that’s right. And do you recall this lovely voile, Om?”
He coloured and pretended he didn’t. “Come on, think,” she encouraged. “How can you forget? It’s the one on which you spilled your blood, when you cut your thumb with the scissors.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Maneck.
“It was in the month before you came. And the chiffon was fun, it made Om lose his temper. The pattern was difficult to match, so slippery.”
Ishvar leaned over to indicate a cambric square. “See this? Our house was destroyed by the government, the day we started on this cloth. Makes me feel sad whenever I look at it.”
“Get me the scissors,” she joked. “I’ll cut it out and throw it away.”
“No no, Dinabai, let it be, it looks very nice in there.” His fingers stroked the cambric texture, recapturing the time. “Calling one piece sad is meaningless. See, it is connected to a happy piece – sleeping on the verandah. And the next square – chapatis. Then that violet tusser, when we made masala wada and started cooking together. And don’t forget this georgette patch, where Beggarmaster saved us from the landlord’s goondas.”
He stepped back, pleased with himself, as though he had elucidated an intricate theorem. “So that’s the rule to remember, the whole quilt is much more important than any single square.”
“Vah, vah!” exclaimed the boys with a round of applause.
“That sounds very wise,” said Dina.
“But is it philosophy or fakeology?”
Ishvar rumpled his nephew’s hair in retaliation.
“Stop it, yaar, I’ve got to look good for my wedding.” Om pulled out his comb and restored the parting and puff.
“My mother collects string in a ball,” said Maneck. “We used to play a game when I was little, unravelling it and trying to remember where each piece of string came from.”
“Let’s try that game with the quilt,” said Om. He and Maneck located the oldest piece of fabric and moved chronologically, patch by patch, reconstructing the chain of their mishaps and triumphs, till they reached the uncompleted corner.
“We’re stuck in this gap,” said Om. “End of the road.”
“You’ll just have to wait,” said Dina. “It depends on what material we get with t
“Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past.”
Ishvar’s lighthearted words washed over Maneck like cold rain; his joy went out like a lamp. The future was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching – what? A bit of string, scraps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present…
“Are you listening?” asked Dina. “How strong is your memory? Can you remember everything about this one year without looking at my quilt?”
“Seems much longer than one year to me,” said Om.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Maneck. “It’s just the opposite.”
“Hoi-hoi,” said Ishvar. “How can time be long or short? Time is without length or breadth. The question is, what happened during its passing. And what happened is, our lives have been joined together.”
“Like these patches,” said Om.
Maneck said the quilt did not have to end when the corner was filled in. “You could keep adding, Aunty, let it grow bigger.”
“Here you go again, talking foolishly,” said Dina. “What would I do with a monster quilt like that? Don’t confuse me with your quiltmaker God.”
In the midst of the morning Dina was becalmed. The water chores were done, last night’s dishes were scrubbed, clothes were washed. Without the chatter and hammer of the Singers, the rest of the day stretched emptily. She sat and watched Maneck eat a late breakfast.
“You should have gone with Ishvar and Om,” he tried to cheer her up. “You could have helped to choose the wife.”
“Are you being smart again?”
“No, I’m sure they’d have been happy to take you. You could have joined the Bride Selection Committee.” He choked on his toast, retaining the morsel with difficulty.
She patted his back till the fit passed. “Weren’t you taught not to speak with your mouth full?”
“It’s Ishvar in my throat,” he grinned. “Taking revenge because I am making fun of his auspicious event.”
“Poor man. I just hope he knows what he is doing. And I hope that whoever they pick, she tries to fit in, get along with all of us.”
“I’m sure she will, Aunty. Om is not going to get a bad-tempered or unfriendly wife.”
“Oh, I know. But he may not have a choice. In these arranged marriages, astrologers and families decide everything. Then the woman becomes the property of the husband’s family, to be abused and bullied. It’s a terrible system, turns the nicest girls into witches. But one thing she will have to understand it’s my house, and follow my ways, like you and Ishvar and Om. Or it will be impossible to get along.”
She stopped, realizing she was sounding like a mother-in-law. “Come on, finish that egg,” she changed the subject. “Your final exams begin tomorrow?”
He nodded, chewing. She began to clear the breakfast things. “And five days later you leave. Have you made your reservation?”
“Yes, it’s all done,” he said, gathering his books for the library. “And I’ll be back soon, don’t give away my room to anyone, Aunty.”
The mail arrived, with an envelope from Maneck’s parents. He opened it, handed the rent cheque to Dina, then read the letter.
“Mummy-Daddy are all right, I hope?” she said, watching his face start to cloud.
“Oh yes, everything is normal. Same as always. Now their complaints are starting again. They say: ‘Why are you going to college for three more years? Your fees are not the problem, but we will miss you. And there is so much work in the shop, we cannot manage alone, you should take over.’“ He put the letter down. “If I do decide to go back, it will be fighting and shouting with Daddy every day.”
She saw his fist clench, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Parents are as confused by life as anyone else. But they try very hard.”
He gave her the letter, and she read the rest of it. “Maneck, I really think you should do what your mummy is requesting – visit the Sodawalla family. You haven’t seen them even once in this whole year.”
Shrugging, he made a face and went to his room. When he emerged, she noticed the box under his arm. “Are you taking your chess set to college?”
“It’s not mine. Belongs to a friend. I’m going to return it today.”
On the way to the bus stop he deliberated about the letter – Daddy’s turmoil, Mummy’s anguish, their doubts and fears writhing through the words. What if they really meant it? Maybe it would work out fine this time, maybe the year’s absence really had helped Daddy come to terms with the changes in his life.
He made a little detour past the Vishram in order to wave to Shankar. The beggar did not notice him, distracted, craning and staring down the pavement towards the corner. Maneck bent over, waving again, and Shankar acknowledged him by tapping his tin against the platform. “O babu, are you fine? My friends departed safely?”
“Yesterday,” said Maneck.
“How exciting for them. And today is an exciting day for me also. Beggarmaster’s barber is coming to shave me. But I wish Ishvar and Om were here. How they would enjoy seeing my face afterwards.”
“I’ll be here, don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Maneck, and continued to the bus stop.
Shankar’s eyes followed Maneck until he disappeared around the corner, then resumed their vigil for the barber. The platform stood motionless by the kerb. The begging tin remained empty, the begging song unheard. Shankar did nothing to attract the attention of alms-givers. All he could think of was the sumptuous grooming, the full luxury treatment that awaited him at the hands of Beggarmaster’s personal barber.
Shankar did not know that earlier in the morning the personal barber had declined the commission. Pavement work was something he did not do, he had told Beggarmaster. Instead, he had presented someone else for the job. “This is Rajaram. He is very good and very cheap, and does pavement work.”
“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram.
“Listen,” said Beggarmaster, “Shankar may be just a beggar but I love him dearly – I want the very best for him. No offence to you, but I cannot help questioning your skills. How much can a bald man know about hair?”
“That’s not a fair question,” said Rajaram. “Does a beggar possess a lot of money? No. Yet he knows how to handle it.”
Beggarmaster had liked the answer, and given his approval. So it was Rajaram who arrived outside the Vishram, armed with his barber’s kit.
Shankar thought he recognized the man from somewhere. “Babu, have I met you before?”
“Never seen you in my life,” said Rajaram, haunted by their hair connection, and anxious to disown it. Staying on in the city was risky, he knew, but he had decided it would be safer to commence his journey to the Himalayas in a sanyasi’s outfit. Saffron robes and beads and a hand-carved wooden bhiksha bowl didn’t come cheap, however; Beggarmaster’s bonus for this special job would certainly help.
He tied a white sheet round the beggar’s neck and whipped up a cup of lather with the shaving brush. Shankar bowed his head towards it to catch the fragrance, almost losing his balance. Rajaram pushed him back. “Sit still,” he said, his tone surly to discourage conversation.
Surliness was regular fare for Shankar, and could not diminish his good cheer. “Looks like a cream puff,” he said, when the froth rose in the cup.
“Why don’t you eat a bowlful?” Rajaram moistened the jowls and slapped on the soap. The careless brush strokes pushed some lather into Shankar’s open mouth. Rusty as Rajaram was, he also forgot to pinch the nostrils shut while lathering the upper lip. He opened the razor and began to strop the gleaming blade.
Shankar loved the swishing sound. “Do you ever make a mistake with your razor?” he asked.
“Lots of times. Some people’s throats are such weird shapes, they cut easily. And polic
“You better not make a mistake on my throat, it’s the proper shape! And Beggarmaster would punish you!”
Despite the bravado Shankar kept very still, tense till the blade had finished its dangerous tour of his map. Rajaram mopped up bits of lather missed by the razor, then glided an alum block over the shaved areas. The callow skin had been badly nicked in places.
“Show me the mirror,” demanded Shankar, feeling the smart and worrying that the razor had erred after all.
Rajaram held up the glass. The beggar’s anxious face peered back, but the styptic had checked the bleeding and there were no drops of red.
“Okay, next is face massage. That’s what Beggarmaster instructed.” From a bottle in his box he scooped out a dab of cream and spread it over the jowls.
Shankar went stiff, not sure what those muscular hands were up to. Then he allowed his head to roll with the rubbing, stroking movements. He began oohing and aahing with pleasure as the fingers kneaded his cheeks, worked under the eyes, around and over the nose, forehead and temples, massaging away a lifetime of pain and suffering.
“A little more,” he pleaded when the barber stopped and wiped his hands. “One extra minute, I beg you, babu, it feels so wonderful.”
“It’s all done,” said Rajaram, wrinkling his nose. He had never enjoyed giving face massages, not even to middle-class faces in the heyday of his career. He flexed his fingers before taking up the scissors and comb. “Now your haircut,” he said.
“No, that I don’t want.”
“Beggarmaster has told me what to do.” He jerked the head down to trim around the nape, anxious to finish and get away.
“Aray babu, I don’t want it!” Shankar started screaming. “I said I don’t want it! I like long hair!” He shook his tin to make noise, but it had been a slow morning, the tin remained silent. He banged it on the pavement.
Passersby slowed to examine the duo curiously, and Rajaram ceased to press him, worried about attracting more attention. “Don’t be scared, I will cut your hair very carefully, very handsomely.”