A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
She reminded herself of the terror he had inflicted upon her that night, but instead of anger she felt somehow responsible for the loss of his job. “Have you found other work?”
“At my age? Who will hire me?”
“Then how are you managing?”
He looked shamefully at the floor. “Some of the tenants help me a little. Recently, I have made a few friends among them. I stand outside the building and they, you know, give me – help. But never mind all that, sister, let me tell you the reason for my visit. I have come to warn you, you are in great danger from the landlord.”
“I’m not scared of that rascal. Beggarmaster is looking after me.”
“But sister, Beggarmaster is dead.”
“What are you saying? Have you gone crazy?”
“No, he was murdered yesterday. I saw it all, I was standing outside, it was horrible! Horrible!” Ibrahim started to tremble, staggering sideways. She led him to a chair and made him sit.
“Now take a deep breath and tell me properly,” she said.
He took a deep breath. “Yesterday morning I was standing near the gate with my tin can, waiting for help from my tenants – I mean, my friends. I was able to see everything. The police said I was their star witness, and took me along to give a full statement. They kept me till night, asking questions.”
“Who killed Beggarmaster?”
He took another deep breath. “A very sick-looking man. He was hiding behind the stone pillar at the gate. When Beggarmaster entered, he jumped upon his back and tried to stab him. But he was such a weak fellow, his blows were too soft, the knife would not go in. Anyone could have escaped such a feeble attacker.”
“Then why didn’t Beggarmaster?”
“Because Beggarmaster’s luck was not with him that day.”
What was with him, explained Ibrahim, was the large bag full of coins, chained to his wrist, which he had been out gathering from his beggars. Anchored to the ground by this deadweight, one hand immobilized, he was trapped. He thrashed and flailed with the free arm, kicking his legs about, while the frail murderer laboured on, sitting astride his victim’s back, trying to make the blade pass through the clothes, break the skin, enter the flesh and pierce the heart.
“At first it looked so comic. As if he was playing with a plastic folding knife from the balloonman. But he took his time, and finally Beggarmaster stopped moving. He who had lived by the beggings of helpless cripples died by those beggings, rooted by their heaviness. You see, sister, once in a while there is a tiny piece of justice in the universe.”
But Dina was remembering all the beggars at Shankar’s funeral. True, they were free now. But of what use was freedom to them? Scattered about the miserable pavements of the city, orphaned, uncared for – weren’t they better off in Beggarmaster’s custody?
“He wasn’t a completely bad man,” she said.
“Who are we to decide the question of good or bad? It’s just that for once, the scales look level. To be honest, sister, yesterday morning as I saw Beggarmaster approach, even I was thinking of asking him for help – to set me up somewhere in a good location. But the killer got to him first.”
“Did he try to steal the money?”
“No, he wasn’t interested in the bag. And if he was, he would have had to chop the wrist. No, he just threw down his knife and shouted that he was Monkey-man, he had killed Beggarmaster for revenge.”
Dina turned pale and slipped into a chair. Ibrahim struggled out of his own to touch her arm. “Are you all right, sister?”
“The one who said he was Monkey-man – did he have a big scar on his forehead?”
“I think so.”
“He came here last week, wanting to meet Beggarmaster for some business. I told him he was visiting on Thursday – yesterday.” She bunched her fingers in a fist and covered her mouth with it. “I helped the murderer.”
“Don’t say that, sister. You didn’t know he was going to kill.” He patted her hand, and she saw his nails were dirty. A few months ago she would have been repulsed by the touch. Now she was grateful for it. His skin, wrinkled and scaly, like a harmless reptile’s, filled her with wonder and sorrow. Why did I dislike him so much, she asked herself? Where humans were concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure; and sorrow, for the hopelessness of it all. And maybe Maneck was right, everything did end badly.
“Don’t blame yourself, sister,” he said, patting her hand again.
“Why do you keep calling me sister? You are more my father’s age.”
“Okay, I’ll say daughter, then.” He smiled, and it was not his automatic smile. “You see, this Monkey-man fellow would have found Beggarmaster sooner or later, whether you helped him or not. The police said he is a mental case, he didn’t even try to run, just stood there and shouted all kinds of nonsense, that Beggarmaster had stolen two children from him while he was unconscious, and cut off their hands, blinded them, twisted their backs, and turned them into beggars, but now he had fulfilled the prophecy, now his vengeance was complete. Who knows what devils are tormenting the poor man’s mind.”
He touched her hand again. “Now that Beggarmaster is dead, the landlord will soon send someone to throw you out. That’s why I came to warn you.”
“There is not much I can do against his goondas.”
“You must act before he does. You may have a little time. Your paying guest and tailors are gone, so he will need a new excuse. Get a lawyer and –”
“I can’t afford expensive lawyers.”
“A cheap lawyer will do. He must –”
“I don’t know how to find one.”
“Go to the courthouse. They will find you. Soon as you walk through the gate, they will come running to you.”
“And then?”
“Interview them, select one you can afford. Tell him you want to seek an injunction against the landlord, to cease and desist from threatening actions and other forms of harassment, that the status quo must be maintained until such time as –”
“Let me write this down, I won’t remember.” She fetched paper and pencil. “You think it will work?”
“If you are quick. Don’t waste time, my daughter. Go – go now.”
She dug into her purse and found a five-rupee note. “Just till you find a job,” she said, pressing it into his scaly hand.
“No, I cannot take from you, you have enough troubles.”
“Can a daughter not help her old father?”
His eyes were wet as he accepted the money.
The courthouse gates swarmed with the bustle of an impromptu bazaar set up right outside the precinct, where people who had spent hours in the pursuit of justice, and had days, weeks, months more to go, were trying to purchase sustenance from vendors. Spotting the experienced litigants was easy – they were the ones come prepared with food packets, standing to the side and munching calmly. The man frying bhajia had drawn a large hungry crowd. No wonder, thought Dina, the aroma was delicious. Next to him, there was pineapple chilling on a large slab of ice. She admired the neatly serrated round slices, watching the woman notch the fruit with her long, sharp knife to remove the eyes.
Central to the activity outside the courthouse were the typists. They sat cross-legged in their stalls before majestic Underwoods as though at a shrine, banging out documents for the waiting plaintiffs and petitioners. On sale were legal-sized paper, paperclips, file folders, crimson cloth ribbon to secure the typed briefs, blue and red pencils, pens, and ink.
Black-jacketed members of the legal profession prowled among the crowds, hunting for cases. Dina avoided them carefully, deciding to first look around the courthouse compound. “No, thank you,” she repeated to those who offered their help.
Nearer the main building, the crowds grew dense, and an overwhelming sense of chaos hung over the area. People were surging in and out through the entranceway, those inside gesticulating frantically to their contacts in the compound, others on the out
While one great surge was flowing inwards, Dina allowed herself to be carried along. She found herself in a corridor overlooking the compound. Here, too, people were in perpetual motion, pouring into or out of overbrimming courtrooms, up and down the stairs, as though an epidemic of disorientation had overcome everyone. The rooms and hallways resounded in a constant din of voices. Sometimes it was a steady buzz with intermittent flashes of clamour. Dina wondered how anyone could follow the legal arguments.
She stood awhile in a doorway where a case appeared to be in progress. The judge sucked the stem of his spectacles meditatively. The defence lawyer had the floor. Not a word could be heard. His precise hand movements and bulging throat tendons were the only signs that he was engaged in presenting the facts.
Occasionally, people stopped dead in their tracks in the corridor and urgently yelled out a name or a number. Sometimes the search party split up and dashed off in various directions with that name or number on their lips. Could something have gone wrong in the judicial system, wondered Dina, a strike, perhaps? Maybe the peons and clerks and secretaries had phoned in sick, thus plunging the courthouse into this mad muddle.
She decided to closely follow one family who seemed to know what they were doing. She ran where they ran, she listened to what they said, she followed the gaze of their eyes. And after careful observation, she began to see a pattern emerge from the turmoil and disorder. Just like working with a new dress, she thought. Paper patterns also seemed haphazard, till they were systematically pieced together.
Now she was able to realize that all of the frantic commotion was part of a normal day at the courthouse. The stampeding crowds in the corridors, for example, were merely trying to find the notice board displaying their case number with the room location where the case would be heard. The groups huddling suspiciously in dark corners were middlemen negotiating bribes. The ones yelling out names were lawyers looking for their clients, or vice versa, because their cases were about to come up. After waiting for months, and sometimes years, the litigants’ frenzy was understandable. Nothing would have been more devastating than to have the bench reschedule the hearing because the solicitor had chosen that crucial moment to go to the toilet, or for a cup of tea, without informing the clerk.
Once Dina had traced the filament of order within the confusion, she felt more confident. She returned outside to the compound and inspected the lawyers for hire. Some were displaying handwritten signs listing their services and specialities: DIVORCE CASES HANDLED HERE; WILLS AND PROBATES; KIDNEY SALES ARRANGED; DEPOSITIONS DRAFTED WITH QUICKNESS & CLARITY IN GOOD ENGLISH.
Others preferred to call out their offerings like vendors in the marketplace: “True copies, five rupees only! Affidavits, fifteen rupees! All cases, all offences, low rates!”
She stopped by one whose billboard stated, at the top of the menu: RENT ACT DISPUTES – RS. 500 ONLY. As she was preparing to speak to him, a horde of them, sensing an opportunity, descended on her, their black jackets flapping. Many of these barely passed for black, the dye having faded to grey in the wash.
The lawyers jostled for her attention but maintained their dignity by keeping the contest impersonal. The professional rivalry did not show on their faces; there was not a frown or a cross word among them. Each seemed oblivious to the others’ presence while pleading to be considered.
One got in front of the rest and thrust his law credentials under her face. “Please, O madam! Look at this – genuine degree from good university! Lots of crooked fellows are pretending to be lawyers! Whoever you pick, be careful, always remember to check the qualifications!”
“Special offer!” yelled a man from the rear of the pack. “No extra charges for typing of documents – all inclusive in one low fee!”
They had her completely surrounded. Harried by the unwanted attention, she tried to extricate herself from the melee. “Excuse me please, I am –”
“What are the charges, madam?” shouted someone standing on his toes to be seen. “I can handle criminal and civil!”
Specks of his spit landed on her glasses and cheeks. She flinched, and tried again to free herself. Then, in the crush, a hand squeezed her bottom, while another passed neatly over her breast.
“You rogues! You shameless rascals!” She struck out with her elbows, and managed to kick a shin or two before they scattered. She wished she had her pagoda parasol with her – what a lesson she would teach them.
Her hands were shaking, and she had to concentrate hard to place one foot in front of the other without losing her step. She retreated toa less crowded part of the compound, at the side of the building. Devoid of lawyers, the area was quiet. Wooden benches lined the compound railing. People were resting on the grass, taking naps with their sandals under their heads for safekeeping and for pillows. Others were eating from shiny stainless steel tiffin boxes. A mother peeled a chickoo with a penknife and fed the sweet brown fruit to her child. Music from a soft transistor radio buzzed like a dragonfly through the hot afternoon.
In this tranquil setting, on a broken bench, sat a man gazing up into a mango tree. Three little boys were throwing stones at the hard green fruit while their parents dozed on the lawn. Their efforts managed to dislodge one mango. They took bites and passed it around, the tart raw flesh making their mouths shrink. Shuddering with delight, eyes tightly shut, they clenched their teeth to savour its astringent pleasures.
The man on the broken bench smiled and nodded, relishing memories evoked by the children. His shirt pocket bulged with pens clipped inside a special plastic case. At his feet was a cardboard rectangle, about fifteen inches by ten, propped up with a brick.
Curious, Dina went closer and read the inscription on the board: Vasantrao Valmik – B.A., LL.B. Strange, she thought, that he should be content to sit here passively if he was a lawyer. And without so much as a black jacket, making no effort to obtain business.
“Madam, on behalf of my profession, I would like to apologize for that disgraceful display near the entrance,” said Mr. Valmik.
“Thank you,” said Dina.
“No, please, I must thank you for accepting the apology. It was shameful, the way they mobbed you. I saw it all from here.” He uncrossed his legs, and his toe nudged the cardboard sign, making it collapse. He straightened it and adjusted the supporting brick.
“From my seat here on the bench, there is much that I observe every day. And most of it makes me despair. But what else to expect, when judgement has fled to brutish beasts, and the country’s leaders have exchanged wisdom and good governance for cowardice and self-aggrandizement? Our society is decaying from the top downwards.”
He shifted to the edge of the ramshackle bench, making room for her on the less broken part of it. “Please, do sit down.”
Dina accepted, impressed by his speech and manners. She felt he was out of place in these surroundings. A tastefully appointed office with a mahogany desk, leather-upholstered chair, and well-stocked bookcases would have better suited him. “On this side of the courthouse everything is so calm,” she said.
“Yes, isn’t it nice? Families relaxing peacefully, passing the time till the Wheels of Justice grind out their cases. Who would believe that this beautiful locale is really the shabby theatre for rancour and revenge, the splintered stage where tragedies and farces are played out? Out here it looks more like a picnic ground than a battlefield. A few months ago I even witnessed a woman going into labour and giving birth right here, most happily. She didn’t want to go to hospital, didn’t want any more postponements of her case. She was my client. We won.”
“So you are also a practising lawyer?”
“Yes, indeed,” he pointed to the sign. “Fully qualified. But once upon a time, many years ago, when I was in college, in First Year Arts,
“How was that?”
“Lord of the Last Bench,” said Mr. Valmik, smiling. “They gave me this honorary degree because I always took the rearmost seat in the classroom – it gave me a good view of things. And I must confess, the location taught me more about human nature and justice than could be learned from the professors’ lectures.”
He touched the sheaf of pens in his shirt pocket as though to make sure they were all present and accounted for. They bristled formidably in their plastic protector, like a quiverful of arrows. “Now here I am, with a new degree: L.BB. – Lord of the Broken Bench. And my education continues.” He laughed, and Dina joined him politely. Their rickety seat shook.
“But why is it, Mr. Valmik, that you are not out in front like the other lawyers, trying to get clients?”
He directed his gaze into the mango tree and said, “I find that kind of behaviour utterly uncouth, quite infra dig.” Quickly he added, “It’s below my dignity,” worried that she might construe the Latinism as a form of snobbery.
“But if you just sit here, how can you make a living?”
“My living makes itself. A little at a time. Eventually people discover me. People like you, who are disgusted with those legal louts and tawdry touts. Of course, they are not all bad characters – just desperate for work.” He waved genially at a passing court clerk and touched his pens again. “Even if I had the temperament for vulgar conduct, my vocal disability would not let me compete in that loud contest. You see, I have a serious throat impediment. If I raise my voice, I lose it altogether.”
“Oh, how unfortunate.”
“No, not really,” Mr. Valmik reassured her. He considered genuine sympathy a precious commodity, and hated to see it squandered. “No, it matters not a jot to me. There is not much call these days for lawyers who can make their voices ring out sonorously through the courtroom, holding judge and jury spellbound in webs of brilliant oratory.” He chuckled. “No demand here for a Clarence Darrow – there are no more Scopes Monkey Trials taking place. Although monkeys there are in plenty, in every courtroom, willing to perform for bananas and peanuts.”