A Fine Balance

  The picture of Ishvar, Om and his wife sleeping on the verandah bothered her. Just imagine, she thought, if on my wedding night Darab Uncle and Shirin Aunty had slept in the same room with Rustom and me.

  The only solution she could come up with was to string a curtain down the middle of the verandah. She measured the distance, then stitched together the thickest fabrics from the hoard of remnants. Better a token wall than nothing.

  She hoped Ishvar and Om would be pleased with her efforts. She had done what she could. If the new wife tried half as hard, she was certain they would get along well.

  Two nails plus a length of twine, and the symbolic partition was erected. She stood back, examining each side of the curtain. The lives of the poor were rich in symbols, she decided.

  XV

  Family Planning

  AGAUNT, BEARDED FIGURE hurried towards the tailors as they wrestled their trunk out of the compartment and onto the platform. “At last,” he clapped for joy. “Here you are.”

  “Ashraf Chacha! We were going to surprise you at the shop!” They dragged their belongings to the side, shaking hands, hugging, laughing with no reason other than the pleasure of being together again.

  Ishvar and Om were the sole passengers to alight. Two coolies resting by the water tap remained on their haunches; instinct told them their services were not required. The sleepy little station awakened gradually under the engine’s pulse. Vendors with fruit, cold drinks, tea, pakora, ice gola, sunglasses, magazines besieged the train, embellishing the air with their cries.

  “Come,” said Ashraf. “Let’s go home, you must be tired. We’ll eat first, then you can tell me what wonders you have been up to in the city.”

  A woman with a small basket of figs sang at their side: “Unjir!” The shrill call started out in a plea, sliding into a rebuke as they passed her by. The cry went unrepeated. She tried the passengers on the train, framed by windows like a travelling gallery of portraits. Jogging alongside the compartments, she supported the basket at her hip; it bounced like a baby. The guard blew the warning whistle and startled a cream-coloured mongrel drowsing near the siding tracks. It scratched languidly behind an ear, face screwed up like a man shaving.

  “Chachaji, you’re a genius,” said Om. “We don’t write you the arrival date and yet you meet the train. How did you know we were coming today?”

  “I didn’t,” he smiled. “But I knew it would be this week. And the train rolls in at the same hour every day.”

  “So you waited here every day? And what about the shop, hahn?”

  “It’s not that busy.” He reached to help with the luggage. His hand, corded by prominent veins, shook uncontrollably. The whistle blew again, and the train rumbled past. The vendors disappeared. Like a house abandoned, the railway station sank from sleepy to forlorn.

  But the emptiness was transitory. Slowly, more than a dozen figures materialized from the shadows of the sheds and storehouses. Lapped in rags, wrapped in hunger, they lowered their brittle bodies over the edge of the platform onto the rails and began moving systematically down the tracks from sleeper to sleeper, searching for the flotsam of railway journeys, bending now and then, collecting the garbage of travellers. When two hands grabbed the same prize, there was a tussle. The wood and gravel underneath where the wc had halted was wet, stinking, buzzing with flies. The tattered army retrieved paper, food scraps, plastic bags, bottle tops, broken glass, every precious bit jettisoned by the departing train. They tucked it away in their gunny sacks, then melted into the shadows of the station, to sort their collections and await the next train.

  “So the city has been good to you, nah?” said Ashraf, as they took the level-crossing to the other side. “Both of you look prosperous.”

  “Chachaji, your eyes are generous,” said Ishvar. The trembling of Ashraf’s hands distressed him. And age, taking advantage of the tailors’ absence, had finally taught his shoulders to stoop. “We have no complaints. But how are you?”

  “First class, for my years.” Ashraf straightened, patting his chest, though the stoop returned almost immediately. “And what about you, Om? You were so reluctant to go. Look at you now, a healthy shine upon your face.”

  “That’s because my worms have vacated the premises.” He explained with gusto how the parasites had been vanquished by the vermifuge.

  “You meet Chachaji after a year and a half, and all you can talk about is your worms?”

  “Why not?” said Ashraf. “Health is the most important thing. See, you could never have got such good medicine over here. One more reason to be happy you went, nah?”

  Ishvar and Om slowed at the corner near the rooming house, but Ashraf steered them on towards his shop. “Why waste money for a bed filled with bugs? Stay with me.”

  “That’s too much trouble for you.”

  “But I insist – you must use my house to entertain for the wedding. Do me that favour. It’s been so lonely this last year.”

  “Mumtaz Chachi won’t be pleased to hear you say that,” said Om. “Doesn’t her company count?”

  Puzzlement clouded Ashraf’s smile. “You didn’t receive the letter? My Mumtaz passed away, about six months after you left.”

  “What?” They stopped and let the luggage slip from their hands. The trunk hit the ground hard.

  “Careful!” Ashraf bent to lift it.”But I wrote to you, care of Nawaz.”

  “He didn’t give it to us,” said Om indignantly.

  “Maybe the letter came late – after we moved to the hutment colony.”

  “He could have brought it to us.”

  “Yes, but who knows if he received it.”

  They dropped their speculating and took turns hugging Ashraf Chacha; they kissed his cheeks three times, as much for their own comfort as his.

  “I was worried when there was no reply,” he said. “I thought you must be very busy, trying to find work.”

  “No matter how busy, we would have written if we knew,” said Ishvar. “We would have come to you. This is terrible – we should have been here for the funeral, she was like my mother, we should never have left…”

  “Now that is foolish talk. Nobody can see into the future.”

  They resumed walking, and Ashraf told them about the illness that had overtaken, and then taken, Mumtaz Chachi. As he spoke about his loss, it became clear why he had waited at the station platform every day to meet their train: he was matching his wits with time the great tormentor.

  “It’s a strange thing. When my Mumtaz was alive, I would sit alone all day, sewing or reading. And she would be by herself in the back, busy cooking and cleaning and praying. But there was no loneliness, the days passed easily. Just knowing she was there was enough. And now I miss her so much. What an unreliable thing is time – when I want it to fly, the hours stick to me like glue. And what a changeable thing, too. Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl’s hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.” He sighed and smiled sadly. “But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.”

  A clutter of troublesome feelings filled Ishvar – guilt, sorrow, the foreboding of old age waiting to waylay his own future. He wished he could assure Ashraf Chacha that they would not leave him alone again. Instead he said, “We would like to visit Mumtaz Chachi’s grave.”

  The request pleased Ashraf greatly. “Her anniversary date is next week. We can go together. But you have come a long way for a joyous occasion. Let us talk about that now.”

  He was determined not to let the sad news dampen their spirits. He explained that preliminary meetings with each of the four families were three days away. “Some of them were worried at first. I, a Muslim, making arrangements for you, nah.”

  “How dare they,” said Ishvar indignantly. “Didn’t they know we are one family?”

  “Not at first,” said Ashraf. But
others who were aware of the longstanding ties between them had explained there was no cause for concern. “So it’s fixed now. The bridegroom must be anxious,” he prodded Om’s stomach playfully. “You will have to be patient a little longer. Inshallah, everything will go well.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Om. “So tell me what’s new. Anything in town?”

  “Not much. A Family Planning Centre has opened. I don’t think you would be interested in that,” he chuckled. “And everything else, good or bad, has remained the same.”

  A surge of excitement quickened Om’s steps as their street came into view, and then the signboard of Muzaffar Tailoring. He walked ahead, greeting the hardware-store owner, the banya, the miller, the coal-merchant, who leaned out from their doorways and bubbled good wishes and blessings for the auspicious event.

  “Let me know when you are hungry,” said Ashraf. “I have cooked some dal and rice. I also have your favourite mango achaar.”

  Om licked his lips. “It’s such fun to be back.”

  “It’s good to have you back.”

  “Yes,” said Ishvar. “You know, Chachaji, Dinabai is very nice, and we get along very well now, but here it’s different. This is home. Here I can relax more. In the city, every time I go out anywhere, I feel a little scared.”

  “What, yaar, you’re simply letting all those troubles haunt you. Forget them now, it was a long time ago.”

  “Troubles?”

  “Nothing much,” said Ishvar. “We’ll tell you later. Come, let’s eat before the rice and dal becomes dry.”

  They sat in the shop, talking till late in the night, Ishvar and Om taking care to soften the details of their trials. They did this instinctively, wishing to spare Ashraf Chacha the pain, seeing how he winced in empathy with everything they described.

  Around midnight Om began nodding off, and Ashraf suggested they go to bed. “My old head could stay up listening all night, it has not much need of sleep. But you two must rest.”

  Ishvar moved aside the chairs to make space for bedding on the floor. Ashraf stopped him. “Why here? There is just me upstairs. Come on.” They climbed the steps from the shop to the room above. “What life there was in this place once. Mumtaz, my four daughters, my two apprentices. What fun we had together, nah?”

  He got extra sheets and blankets from a trunk smelling of naphthalene. “My Mumtaz packed it all away after our daughters married and left. She was so careful – every year she would air it out, and put in new mothballs.”

  Om was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. “Reminds me of you and Narayan,” whispered Ashraf. “When you first came here as little boys, remember? You would go down to the shop after dinner and spread your mats. You would fall asleep so peacefully, as though it was your own house. You could have paid me no greater compliment.”

  “The way you and Mumtaz Chachi looked after us, it felt like our own house.” They reminisced a few minutes longer before switching off the light.

  Ashraf wanted to present new shirts to Ishvar and Om. “We’ll go for them this afternoon,” he said.

  “Hoi-hoi, Chachaji. That’s too much to take from you.”

  “You want to cause me unhappiness, refusing my gift?” he protested. “For me, too, Om’s marriage is very important. Let me do what I want to do.” The shirts were to wear at the four bride-viewing visits. The wedding garments would be negotiated later, with the family of the girl they selected.

  Ishvar relented, but on one condition – that he and Om would help him make the shirts. Chachaji toiling alone at the sewing-machine was out of the question.

  “But nobody needs to sew,” said Ashraf. “There is the new ready-made shop in the bazaar. The one that stole our customers. How can you forget? That shop was the reason you had to leave.”

  He told them about the faithful clients who, one by one, had abandoned Muzaffar Tailoring, including those whose families had been customers since his father’s time. “The loyalty of two generations has vanished like smoke on a windy day, by the promise of cheaper prices. Such a powerful devil is money. Good thing you left when you did, there is no future here.”

  It was not long before Om brought up the other, always unspoken, reason for their flight to the city. “What about Thakur Dharamsi? You haven’t mentioned him. Is that daakoo still alive?”

  “The district has put him in charge of Family Planning.”

  “So what is his method? Does he murder babies, to control the population?”

  His uncle and Ashraf Chacha exchanged uneasy glances.

  “I think our people should get together and kill that dog.”

  “Don’t start talking nonsense, Omprakash,” warned Ishvar. His nephew’s old unhappy rage seemed to be on the verge of returning, and it worried him.

  Ashraf took Om’s hand. “My child, that demon is too powerful. Since the Emergency began, his reach has extended from his own village to all the way here. He is a big man now in the Congress Party, they say he will become a minister in the next elections – if the government ever decides to have elections. Nowadays, he wants to look respectable, avoids any goonda-giri. When he wants to threaten someone, he doesn’t send his own men, he just tells the police. They pick up the poor fellow, give him a beating, then release him.”

  “Why are we wasting our time talking about that man?” said Ishvar angrily. “We are here for a joyous occasion, we have nothing to do with him, God will deal with Thakur Dharamsi.”

  “Exactly,” said Ashraf. “Come on, let’s go buy the shirts.” He hung out a sign that the shop would reopen at six. “Not that it matters. Nobody comes.” He struggled with the steel collapsibles, and Om went to help. The grating stuck in its track, demanding to be reversed, shaken loose, coaxed forward.

  “Needs oiling,” he panted. “Like my old bones.”

  They took the dirt road to the bazaar, treading the hard, dry earth past grain sheds and labourers’ hovels. Their sandals crunched lightly and kicked up tiny tongues of dust.

  “How was the rain in the city?”

  “Too much,” said Ishvar. “Streets were flooded many times. And here?”

  “Too little. The devil held his umbrella over us. Let’s hope he shuts it this year.”

  The way to the clothes shop led past the new Family Planning Centre, and Om slowed down, peering inside. “You said Thakur Dharamsi is in charge here?”

  “Yes, and he makes a lot of money out of it.”

  “How? I thought government pays the patients to have the operation.”

  “The rogue puts all that cash in his own pocket. The villagers are helpless. Complaining only brings more suffering upon their heads. When the Thakur’s gang goes looking for volunteers, the poor fellows quietly send their wives, or offer themselves for the operation.”

  “Hai Ram. When a demon like this is allowed to prosper, the world must really be passing through the darkness of Kaliyug.”

  “And you tell me I am talking nonsense,” said Om scornfully. “Killing that swine would be the most sensible way to end Kaliyug.”

  “Calm down, my child,” said Ashraf. “He who spits paan at the ceiling only blinds himself. For the crimes in this world, the punishment occurs in the Next World.”

  Om rolled his eyes. “Yes, definitely. But tell me, how much money can he make from that place? The operation bonus is not very big.”

  “Ah, but it’s not his only source. When the patients are brought to the clinic, he auctions them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You see, government employees have to produce two or three cases for sterilization. If they don’t fill their quota, their salary is held back for that month by the government. So the Thakur invites all the schoolteachers, block development officers, tax collectors, food inspectors to the clinic. Anyone who wants to can bid on the villagers. Whoever offers the most gets the cases registered in his quota.”

  Ishvar shook his head in despair. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, putting his h
ands over his ears. “Bas, I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Ashraf. “To listen to the things happening in our lifetime is like drinking venom – it poisons my peace. Every day I pray that this evil cloud over our country will lift, that justice will take care of these misguided people.”

  As they were moving away from the building, someone from the Family Planning Centre came to the door. “Please step inside,” he said. “No waiting, doctor is on duty, we can do the operation right away.”

  “Keep your hands off my manhood,” said Om.

  The fellow started explaining wearily that it was a misconception people had about vasectomy, the manhood was not involved, the doctor did not even touch that part.

  “It’s all right,” smiled Ashraf. “We know. The boy is only teasing you.” He waved genially, and they continued on their way.

  Outside the ready-made shop, shirt-and-pant combinations flapped on wire hangers, suspended from the awning like headless scarecrows. The main stock was in cardboard boxes on shelves. Having assessed their sizes, the salesman proceeded to display some shirts. Om made a face.

  “You don’t like?”

  Om shook his head. The man pushed the boxes aside and showed a battery of alternate selections. He watched his customers anxiously.

  “That’s a nice one,” said Ishvar, out of consideration for the man. He examined a short-sleeved shirt with checks. “Just like the one Maneck has.”

  “Yes, but look how badly the buttons are sewn,” objected Om. “One wash and they will come off.”

  “If you like the shirt, take it,” said Ashraf. “I will strengthen the buttons for you.”

  “Let me show you more,” said the salesman. “This box has our special patterns, top quality, from Liberty Garment Company.” He fanned out half a dozen specimens along the counter. “Stripes are very popular nowadays.”

  Om picked up a light-blue shirt with dark-blue lines and slid off the transparent plastic bag. “Look at that,” he said disgustedly, shaking it open. “The pocket is crooked, the stripes don’t even meet.”