A Fine Balance

  A week passed, and his peregrinations took him to his first customer’s neighbourhood. He cycled among the shacks, seeking to motivate the masses, his head overflowing with various ways of saying the same thing, formulating phrases to make sterility acceptable, even desirable, when someone from the old man’s family recognized him and began shouting for help: Motorwaiter is here! Aray, the rascal Motorwaiter has come again!

  Rajaram was soon surrounded by an angry crowd threatening to break every bone in his body. In response to his pleas for mercy and his terror-stricken cries of why? why? he learned that something had gone wrong with the operation. The old maris groin had filled up with pus. When the rot began to spread, the clinic was no help, and the old man died.

  Ishvar nodded in sympathy as he peeled his banana. He had always felt that the hair-collector’s new job was fraught with danger. “Did they beat you badly?”

  Rajaram unbuttoned his shirt and showed them the purple bruises on his back. Across the chest was a gouge, starting to heal, made by some sharp tool. He lowered his head to point out the torn patch of scalp where an attacker had pulled out a clump of hair. “But I was lucky to escape with my life. They told me I should have known better, the only reason their grandfather went for the operation was because of the cash bonus and gifts. The old man had wanted to help with his granddaughter’s dowry.

  “I returned straight to my supervisor and made a complaint. How could I produce results, I said, if the doctors killed the patients? But he said the man died because he was old, and the family was simply at all blaming the Family Planning Centre.”

  “Goat-fucking bastard,” said Om.

  “Exactly. But guess what else the supervisor told me. From now on my job would be easier, he said, because of a policy change.” The new scheme had been explained to Rajaram – it was no longer necessary to sign up individuals for the operation. Instead, they were to be offered a free medical checkup. And it wasn’t to be viewed as lying, just a step towards helping people improve their lives. Once inside the clinic, isolated from the primitive influence of families and friends, they would quickly see the benefits of sterilization.

  Rajaram picked the crumbs from his pao-bhaji wrapper, then tossed it in the rubble. “Even though I didn’t like the new system, I agreed to try it. By now, everyone realized that Motivators were giving bogus talk to people. Wherever I went, city or suburb, they insulted me, called me a threat to manhood, a dispenser of napusakta, a castrator, a procurer of eunuchs. And here I was, just doing a government job, trying to make a living. How can you function like this day after day? No, I said, this is not for me.”

  He told his employers he was willing to work in the old way, distribute leaflets and explain procedures, but no more deception. They said the old way was no longer an option – quotas had fallen behind badly. Concrete results were needed to justify each Motivator’s food, shelter, and bicycle.

  “So last week I lost all three when they threw me out. Now I am desperate. There is nothing to do but go back to my old profession.”

  “Hair-collecting?”

  “Yes, I’m going to sell these plaits right away,” he indicated the package the tailors had brought from their trunk. “And I am also starting my original trade. Barbering. I’ll have to do both because without storage space, hair-collecting will be limited. But I need eighty-five rupees. For combs, scissors, clippers, razor. Can you lend me the money?”

  “Let me think it over,” said Ishvar. “Meet us tomorrow.”

  “We would really like to do something for him, Dinabai,” said Ishvar. “He was our neighbour in the hutment colony, and very good to us.”

  “I don’t have enough to advance you the amount.” But she offered an alternate solution. From the back of her cupboard she dug out the haircutting tools Zenobia had set her up with, years ago.

  “Aray wah,” said Om, impressed. “You are also a barber?”

  “Used to be – children’s hairdresser.”

  Maneck fitted his hand around the clippers and pretended to tackle Om’s puff. “That’s a nice shrub to practise on.”

  “Are you exchanging air-conditioning for barbering?” said Dina. She placed the kit before Ishvar. “It’s old, but still works. Your friend can have it if he likes.”

  “Are you sure? What if you need it again?”

  “Not likely. My haircutting days are over.” She said that with her eyes and forgotten skills, children’s ears would be in danger.

  “There is one more problem,” said Rajaram, gratefully receiving the instruments when they met the next day.

  “Now what?”

  “My hair agent visits the city only once a month. And sleeping on the street, I have nowhere to store what I collect. Will you keep it in your trunk? For me? Your good friend?”

  “A month’s supply won’t fit in the trunk,” objected Ishvar, not anxious to accumulate the unappetizing parcels.

  “But it will. I’m going to specialize in long hair – in a month there will be ten plaits at the most, if I’m lucky. Won’t take up more than a corner of your trunk. And at month’s end I’ll sell them to the agent.”

  “Your coming to the flat so often – it will annoy our employer.” He wished Rajaram would give up; he felt awkward making excuses to block him. “It isn’t our home, you know, we cannot keep receiving visitors.”

  “That’s only a small obstacle. I can meet you outside. Here, at Vishram, if you like.”

  “We rarely come here,” said Ishvar, then caved in. “Okay, what you can do is, leave the packet with Shankar, the beggar outside, the one on wheels. He knows us. We’ll introduce you.”

  “That beggar is your friend? Strange friends you make.”

  “Yes, very strange,” said Ishvar, but the hair-collector, absorbed in smoothing the knots and tangles of his life, missed the irony.

  If with Ishvar it was the bile-seeking fingers that bothered Dina, with Om it was the itchy scalp. She had tolerated the scratching in the old days, knowing it would end at six o’clock. Now, apart from the annoying sight and the constant, irritating rasp, she feared that the itch would migrate to her own hair.

  She spoke privately to Ishvar: lice was as bad as any other kind of sickness, and his nephew’s health would improve if the parasite was eradicated.

  “But problem is money,” said Ishvar. “I cannot afford to take him to doctor.”

  “You don’t need a doctor for lice. There’s a perfectly good home remedy.” And when she explained the procedure, he remembered his mother using it too.

  While topping up the stove, she filled an empty hair-oil bottle with kerosene. “Do it after tea,” she said. “Massage it properly and leave for twenty-four hours. It can be washed off tomorrow.”

  “Only twenty-four? I thought the remedy said forty-eight. That’s how long my mother used to leave it on.”

  “Then your mother was a brave woman. Anything can happen in forty-eight hours. We don’t want your nephew turning into a human torch.”

  “What are you talking about?” puzzled Om. He took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. “Chhee! It’s kerosene!”

  “You expected rose water? You want to pamper the lice or kill them?”

  “That’s right,” said Ishvar. “Don’t fuss, your Roopa Daadi used to do it for your father and me when we were children.”

  Grumbling and cringing, Om bent over the basin, complaining that people didn’t have enough kerosene to cook their food and here they were, wasting it on hair. Ishvar took a few drops at a time in his palm and worked it in. Under the lightbulb, the oil-streaked black hair turned iridescent. “Beautiful as a peacock,” he said.

  “Dig your fingers in,” instructed Dina. “Spread it well.” His energetic hands heeded her, rocking the protesting Om back and forth.

  “Stop it, yaar! You’ll poison me if it enters my blood!”

  When he was done she gave him a broken spoon to scratch with. “Don’t use your fingers, or you’ll get it on the dresses.”

/>   He sat at the machine, miserable, wrinkling his nose, exhaling forcefully to blow out the smell. Relieving the itch with the spoon was not as satisfying as using fingernails. Now and again, he shook his head like a wet dog while they teased him.

  “Would you like to smoke a beedi? Take your mind off?” asked Ishvar. “I’m sure Dinabai will make an exception today.”

  “Of course I will. Shall I bring the matches?”

  “Go ahead, laugh,” said Om darkly, “while I choke to death on these fumes.”

  At lunchtime he told his uncle he was not going to the Vishram, he couldn’t possibly eat with the stink in his nose. So Ishvar stayed back as well.

  Later in the afternoon, Maneck came home and started sniffing around. “Smells like a kitchen in here.” Keeping his nose low like a bloodhound, he followed the scent to Om. “Are you starting a new career as a stove?”

  “Yes, he is,” said Dina. “Tonight we’ll cook our meal on top of his head. He has always been a hot-headed fellow.”

  It was her own joke that first made Dina consider giving the tailors dinner in the flat that night. Other factors reinforced the idea. It would throw off that rascal Ibrahim completely; the tailors hadn’t gone for lunch, and they wouldn’t emerge for dinner. And besides, Om sitting patiently all day wearing kerosene deserved a reward.

  So she chopped another onion and boiled three more potatoes to include them. The breadman arrived at dusk. Instead of two small loaves she bought four. “Maneck, come here,” she called from the kitchen, and took him into her confidence.

  “Really? That’s great, Aunty! They’ll be thrilled to eat with us!”

  “Who said anything about eating with us? I’m going to put their plates on the verandah.”

  “Are you trying to be nice or offensive?”

  “What’s offensive about it? It’s a good, clean verandah.”

  “Fine. In that case, I’ll also eat on the verandah. I cannot take part in such an insult. My father feeds only stray dogs on the porch.”

  She grimaced, and he knew he had won.

  Dina remembered the last time all sides of the table had been occupied: on her third wedding anniversary, the night Rustom had been killed, eighteen years ago. She set out four plates and called in the tailors. Their faces plainly showed what an immense honour they considered it.

  “You have taken your cure like a good boy,” she said to Om, “and now you get your dinner.” She brought the pot to the table, and a scraped carrot for herself. The tailors regarded her curiously as she bit into it. “You are not the only one taking a home remedy. This is medicine for my eyes. Right, Dr. Mac?”

  “Yes, it’s a prescription for improving vision.”

  “You know, I’ve grown to like raw carrots. But I hope Om doesn’t get fond of his medicine. Or we’ll have to suffer the kerosene stink every day.”

  “But how does it work? Does it poison the lice in my hair?”

  “I can tell you,” said Maneck.

  “You are a champion fakeologist,” said Om.

  “No, listen. First, every little louse soaks itself in the kerosene. Then, in the middle of the night, after you are asleep, Dina Aunty gives each one a tiny matchstick. At the count of three they commit suicide in bursts of tiny flames without hurting you. There’ll be a beautiful halo round your head when it happens.”

  “That’s not funny,” said Dina.

  “Suicide isn’t supposed to be, Aunty.”

  “I don’t want such a subject at dinnertime. Not even as a joke. You shouldn’t even say the word.”

  She started eating, and Maneck picked up his fork, winking at Om. The tailors sat motionless, watching the food. When she looked up, they smiled nervously. Exchanging glances, they touched the cutlery, uncertain, hesitating to pick it up.

  Dina understood.

  How stupid of me, she thought, to set it out tonight. Abandoning her own knife and fork, she used fingers to convey a piece of potato to her mouth. Maneck caught on as well, and the tailors started their meal.

  “Very tasty,” said Ishvar, and Om nodded agreement with his mouth full. “You eat bread every day?”

  “Yes,” said Dina. “Don’t you like it?”

  “Oh, it’s very good,” said Ishvar. “No, I was just thinking, must be expensive to buy ready-made bread every day. You don’t get wheat on your ration card?”

  “It’s available. But taking it to the mill for grinding, mixing flour, making chapati – that’s too much for me to do. I used to when my husband was alive. Afterwards, I didn’t care. Nothing worse than cooking for just one.” She broke a piece of her loaf to soak up some gravy. “Must be expensive for you also, eating at Vishram.”

  Ishvar said yes, it was difficult, especially with having to pay Beggarmaster weekly. “When we had our own place in the colony and a Primus stove, we spent much less, even without the benefit of a ration card. We made chapatis every day.”

  “You can buy wheat on my card if you like. I only take rice and sugar.”

  “Problem is, where to cook?”

  The question was rhetorical, but Maneck had an answer. He let the silence linger over the table for a few moments, then spoke up brightly. “I have a great idea. Ishvar and Om are used to making chapatis, right? And Dina Aunty has all that grain quota on the ration card, right? So you can share the cost of food, and we can eat together. Both sides will save money.”

  More than money, it would save trouble with the landlord, thought Dina, by defeating Ibrahim. He could wait twenty-four hours outside the flat and see no one. Nosey neighbours too, if they were planning to snitch to him, get into his good books to solve their own problems. And besides, fresh puris and chapatis were absolutely delicious.

  But was this reason enough to get more familiar with the tailors? Was it wise to tamper with the line she had drawn so carefully? “I don’t know,” she said. “Ishvar and Om might not like to have my food every day.”

  “Not like? It’s so tasty!” said Om.

  She chewed slowly, giving herself time to think. “Well, we can try it for a week.”

  “That will be very good,” said Ishvar.

  “I’ll make the chapatis,” said Om. “I’m the chapati champion.”

  The government truck was delivering fresh stock at the ration shop. Dina and the tailors joined the queue while two coolies unloaded fifty-kilo gunnies upon their backs. Sunlight flashed from the large steel hooks they swung to claw a grip into the burlap. Their dripping sweat, when it chanced to fall upon the beige jute sacking, created dark-brown dots. Inside the shop, the sacks of grain landed neatly in a row, like dead bodies in a morgue, beside the scales hanging from the ceiling by a heavy chain.

  “These fellows are taking too long,” said Ishvar, “carrying one at a time. Go on, Om, show them how to carry two.”

  “Don’t tease the poor boy,” said Dina, as he pretended to roll up his sleeves. “Why is he so thin anyway? Are you sure he does not have worms?”

  “No no, Dinabai, no worms, trust me. Bas, I’ll soon get him married, and his wife’s cooking will put weight on him.”

  “He’s too young for marriage.”

  “Almost eighteen – that’s not young.”

  “Dinabai is right, forget your crazy idea,” scowled Om. “Sour-lime face.”

  The line was growing longer. Someone shouted from the back to hurry up, and the banya emerged belligerently, ready to take on the heckler. “Use your sense when you speak! If the truck is not allowed to unload, what am I going to give you? Rocks and sand?”

  “That’s what you usually sell us!” the heckler yelled back, and people laughed. “Have you ever tasted your own stock?” He was a small man with a large goitre, which drew the stares of the people in line.

  “Aray saala, go! Nobody is forcing you to buy!”

  Those near the heckler tried to prevent the argument from overheating. They reminded him it wasn’t wise to fight at a ration shop, it was impossible to win when you depended on them for
your food. Someone said the swelling on his neck might burst if he got too excited.

  “This swelling is also caused by rascal banyas!” he raged. “They sell bad salt – salt without iodine! These fat, greedy banyas are responsible for all our suffering! Blackmarketeers, food-adulterers, poisoners!”

  The grain truck rolled away. A sprinkle of wheat from leaking sacks marked the place where it had stood. A barefoot man in a vest and short pants quickly collected the spilled grain in an empty vanaspati tin, then ran after the truck to its next destination; tonight he would eat well.

  The attendant engaged the scales, and the shop began serving again. The appropriate entries were made in Dina’s ration card. Besides the usual sugar and rice, she bought, under the tailors’ guidance, her full quota of red and white wheat as well as the allotment of jowar and bajri, which they said was very tasty, very nourishing, and, best of all, not expensive.

  They watched the scales while each item was weighed, gazing up at the pointer till the beam came to rest. A cloud of dust rose when the man tipped the pan into Dina’s cloth bags. The grain cascaded with the sound of a soft waterfall. Afterwards, the tailors took the bags to the mill.

  In the evening Om grew a little anxious about his chapati reputation. He mixed the flour and kneaded the dough more strenuously than he normally would have, concentrating hard while rolling out the chapatis, trying to make them perfectly round. A wayward arc meant that the dough was squished into a ball and rolled out again.

  At dinner, everyone complimented his success. The praise was also delivered in the speed with which the eight he had made vanished. Pleased, he decided to make twelve from now on.

  The cats came miaowing as soon as the window opened. Maneck told Ishvar and Om the names he had given to some: John Wayne, who liked to swagger about, implying he had the alley under control;