A Fine Balance

  “Don’t worry, I understand your concern.”

  “Good, that’s all I wanted to say. Come on, time for cards. Ruby!” he called to the kitchen. “Time for rummy!” Now there would be progress, Nusswan was certain.

  Over the next few weeks he continued to invite the old assortment of bachelors. “Come, Dina,” he would say, “let me introduce you.” Then, pretending a memory lapse, he would exclaim, “Wait, wait, what am I saying, where is my head? You already know Temton. So let it be a reintroduction.”

  All this was enacted in a manner suggesting that a relationship of deep significance was being resumed, a passion rekindled. It irritated Dina intensely, but she tried to keep from frowning while pouring the tea and passing the sandwiches. When the visitors departed, Nusswan resumed with his sledgehammer hints, praising one’s looks, commending the merits of another’s career, pointing out the inheritance awaiting a third.

  After four months of bachelor-entertaining and no sign of cooperation from Dina, Nusswan lost his patience. “I have been tactful, I have been kind, I have been reasonable. But which raja’s son are you waiting for? Every chap I introduce, you turn your face away from him and go to the other side of the room. What is it that you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How can you want nothing? Your whole life will be nothing. Be sensible.”

  “I know you are doing it for my own good, but I am just not interested.”

  The answer reminded Nusswan once again of the old Dina, the ungrateful little sister. He suspected that she looked down upon his friends. And they were such good fellows, all of them. Never mind, he would not let her anger him.

  “Fine. As I said, I am a reasonable person. If you don’t like these men, no one is forcing you. Find one yourself. Or we can hire a matchmaker. I hear that Mrs. Ginwalla has the best track record for successful kaaj. Let me know what you prefer.”

  “I don’t want to get married so soon.”

  “Soon? You call this soon? You are twenty-six years old. What are you hoping for? For Rustom to return miraculously? Be careful, or you’ll go crazy like Bapsy Aunty – she at least had an excuse, her husband’s body was never found after the dock explosion.”

  “What a horrible thing to say!” Dina turned away in disgust and left the room.

  She had been very young when it happened, but remembered the day clearly, during wartime, when two British ammunition ships had blown up after docking, killing thousands within a large radius of the harbour. Rumours about Nazi spies had begun to spread while the detonations were still in progress. The authorities said that many of those unaccounted for were vaporized during the deadly blasts, but Bapsy Aunty refused to accept this theory. She felt her husband was alive, wandering amnesiac somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before he was located. Alternately, Bapsy Aunty allowed that he might have been hypnotized or fed something by an unscrupulous sadhu and led away into slavery. In either case, she believed her husband would be found. That seventeen years had passed since the calamity did not diminish her faith. She spent her time chatting busily with his photograph, which sat in a heavy silver frame at her bedside, narrating for his benefit each day’s news and gossip in detail.

  “It’s your depressing behaviour which reminds me of Bapsy Aunty,” said Nusswan, following Dina into the next room. “What excuse do you have? You were at the funeral, you saw Rustom’s body, you heard the prayers. He has been dead and digested for more than a year now.” As soon as he said it, he rolled his eyes heavenward to ask forgiveness for this bit of irreverence.

  “Do you know how fortunate you are in our community? Among the unenlightened, widows are thrown away like garbage. If you were a Hindu, in the old days you would have had to be a good little sati and leap onto your husband’s funeral pyre, be roasted with him.”

  “I can always go to the Towers of Silence and let the vultures eat me up, if that will make you happy.”

  “Shameless woman! What a loose mouth! Such blasphemy! All I am saying is, appreciate your position. For you it is possible to live a full life, get married again, have children. Or do you prefer to live forever on my charity?”

  Dina did not answer. But the next day, while Nusswan was at work, she began moving her belongings back to Rustom’s flat.

  Ruby tried to stop her, following her from room to room, pleading with her. “You know how hotheaded your brother is. He does not mean everything he says.”

  “Neither does he say everything he means,” she replied, and continued packing.

  In the evening Ruby told Nusswan about it. “Hah!” he scoffed, loud enough for Dina to hear. “Let her go if she wants. I would just love to see how she supports herself.”

  After dinner, while still at the table, he cleared his throat. “As the head of the family, it’s my duty to tell you I don’t approve of what you are doing You are making a big mistake, which you will regret. It’s a hard world out there, but I’m not going to beg you to stay. You are welcome here if you will be reasonable.”

  “Thank you for the speech,” said Dina.

  “Yes, make fun of me. You have done it all your life, why stop now. Remember, this is your decision, no one is kicking you out. None of our relatives will blame me, I have done all I can to help you. And will continue to do so.”

  It was not long before the children understood that Dina Aunty was leaving. First they were bewildered, and then angry. Xerxes hid her handbag, screaming, “No, Aunty! You cannot go!” When she threatened to leave without it, Zarir brought it tearfully from the hiding place.

  “You can always visit me,” she tried to pacify the two, hugging them and drying their eyes. “On Saturday and Sunday. And maybe during the vacation. It will be such fun.” They were excited at the prospect but would have much preferred that she stay with them forever.

  The morning after she was back in her flat, Dina went to visit Rustom’s Darab Uncle and Shirin Aunty. “Darab! Look who’s here!” Shirin Aunty shouted excitedly. “Our dearDina! Come in, my child, come in!”

  Darab Uncle emerged, still in his pyjamas, and hugged Dina, saying they had waited a long time for this. “Excuse my appearance,” he said, sitting down opposite her and smiling broadly.

  As always, Dina was touched by their happiness at seeing her. She felt their love pour over her like something palpable. It reminded her of the milk bath she was given as a child on her birthday, by her mother, when half a cup of warm milk, with rose petals afloat, came trickling down her face and neck and chest in tiny white runnels over her light-brown skin.

  “The hardest part,” she said, “is leaving the two little boys. I have become so attached to them.”

  “Yes, that’s how it is with children,” said Shirin Aunty. “But you know, Rustom had told us how shabbily your brother treated you in the years before you were married.”

  “He is not a bad person,” Dina objected feebly. “He just has his own ideas about things.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Shirin Aunty, sensing the weight of family loyalty. “Anyway, you can stay with us. We are so happy you came.”

  “Oh,” said Dina, anxious to keep the misunderstanding from going further. “Actually, I have decided to live in Rustom’s flat from now on. I came only to ask if you could find me some work.”

  Her words made Darab Uncle’s mouth begin to move. He laboured to swallow the disappointment suddenly filling it, his soft slurping sounds teasing the quiet while Shirin Aunty played desperately with the hem of her dustercoat. “Work,” she said, blank, unable to think. “My dear child … yes, work, you must work. What work, Darab? What work for her, do you think?”

  Dina waited in guilty silence for his answer. But he was still struggling with his mouthful. “Go change your clothes,” Shirin Aunty scolded him. “Almost afternoon, and still loitering in your sleeping suit.”

  He rose obediently and went inside. Shirin Aunty relinquished her hem, rubbed her hands over her face and sat up. By the time Darab Uncle returned, having
exchanged his blue-striped pyjamas for khaki pants and bush shirt, she had the beginnings of a solution for Dina.

  “Tell me, my child, can you sew?”

  “Yes, a little. Ruby taught me how to use a sewing-machine.”

  “Good. Then there will be work for you. I have an extra Singer you can take. It is quite old, but runs well.”

  For years, Shirin Aunty had supplemented her husband’s salary from the State Transport Corporation by sewing for a few families. She made simple things like pyjamas, nightgowns, baby blouses, bed-sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths. “You can be my partner,” she said. “There is lots of work, more than I can manage now with my weak old eyes. We will start tomorrow.”

  Dina picked up her handbag and hugged Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle. They accompanied her to the front door. Then a commotion in the street drew them to the balcony. A huge protest march was surging down the road.

  “It’s another silly morcha about language,” said Darab Uncle, spotting the banners. “The fools want to divide the state on linguistic lines.”

  “Everyone wants to change things,” said Shirin Aunty. “Why can’t people learn to be happy with things as they are? Anyway, let’s go back inside. Dina cannot leave now. All the traffic is stopped.” She sounded quite pleased about it, and enjoyed Dina’s company for two more hours, till the streets had returned to normal.

  Over the next few days, Dina was taken around and introduced to the customers. At each stop she waited nervously by Shirin Aunty’s side, smiling timidly, trying to grasp the barrage of names and the tailoring instructions. Shirin Aunty kept handing over most of the new jobs to her.

  At the end of the week, Dina finally protested: “I cannot accept so much, I cannot deprive you of your income.”

  “My dear child, you are not depriving me of anything. Darab’s pension is enough for us. I was going to give up the sewing anyway, it was becoming too hard for me. Here, don’t forget this new pattern.”

  Along with the assignments, Shirin Aunty passed along background material on the customers, information that would help Dina in her dealings with them. “The Munshi family is the best – always pays promptly. The Parekhs too, except that they like to haggle. You just be firm, tell them I have set the rates. Who else? Oh yes, Mr. Savukshaw. He has a big problem with the bottle. By the end of the month his poor missis has hardly any money left. Make sure you take advance payment.”

  With the Surtees, the situation was rather unique. Whenever Mr. and Mrs. Surtee fought, she did not cook any dinner. Instead, she pulled out all his pyjamas from the cupboard and set fire to them, saving the ashes and charred wisps in a dinner plate to set before him when he came home from work.

  “The result,” said Shirin Aunty, “is more business for you. Every two or three months, after they make up, Mrs. Surtee will give you a large order for pyjamas. But you must pretend it’s normal, or she will get rid of you.”

  Dina’s collection of domestic portraits continued to grow as Shirin Aunty rendered descriptions of the Davars and Kotwals, the Mehtas and Pavris, the Vatchas and Seervais, and added them to the portfolio. “You must be getting fed up with all these details,” she said. “Just one last thing, and the most important: never measure the misters for their inseam. Ask for a sample to sew from. And if that is not possible, make sure there is someone present when you measure, a wife or mother or sister. Otherwise, before you know it, they move thisway-thatway and thrust something in your hand which you don’t want. Believe me, I had a nasty experience when I was young and innocent.”

  This last bit of advice was uppermost in Dina’s mind when she was taken to meet Fredoon, a bachelor who lived alone. Shirin Aunty warned her not to go alone to his flat. “Although he is a perfect gentleman, people’s tongues are mischievous. They will talk that some funny business is going on. Your name will be spoilt.”

  Dina did not care about people’s tongues and felt no danger from Fredoon, though she was prepared to bolt if he ever asked her to take his inseam. To reassure Shirin Aunty, she said a friend was always with her. What she did not say was that the friend was Fredoon. For that was what he soon became. His commissions consisted mainly of little frocks and short pants and pinafores; to help Dina, he presented clothing on birthdays to the children of friends and relatives instead of envelopes stuffed with rupees.

  Their friendship grew. Dina often accompanied him to textile stores to help him select material for the gifts. After the shopping, they would stop for tea and cakes at Bastani’s. Sometimes Fredoon invited her back to his flat for dinner, picking up fried mutton chops or vindaloo on the way. He was always encouraging her to try new frock patterns, assert herself forcefully before her clients, demand higher rates.

  Over the next several months, Dina became more confident about her abilities. The sewing was easy, thanks to her sister-in-law’s training. And when there was something tricky, she consulted Shirin Aunty. Her visits brought the two old people such pleasure, she went regularly, pretending to be confused by something or other: ruched collars, raglan sleeves, accordion pleats.

  The sewing produced snippets of fabric every day, and Shirin Aunty suggested collecting them. “Waste nothing – remember, there is a purpose for everything. These scraps can be very useful.” She quickly demonstrated by making a lumpy sanitary pad.

  “What a good idea,” said Dina. Her budget needed all the help it could get. The textile stuffing was not as absorbent as the pads she used to buy, but the homemade ones could be changed more frequently since they cost nothing. As an added precaution, though, she wore a very dark skirt for the duration.

  Work made the hours pass quickly in the little flat. While her eyes and fingers were immersed in the sewing, she acquired a heightened awareness of noises from the flats around her. She collected the sounds, sorted them, replayed them, and created a picture of the lives being lived by her neighbours, the way she transformed measurements into clothes.

  Rustom’s policy regarding neighbours had been to avoid them as much as possible. A little sahibji-salaam was enough, he said, or it led to gossiping and kaana-sori that got out of hand. But the washing of pots and pans, ringing of doorbells, bargaining with vendors, laundry noises, the flop and slap of clothes thrashed in soapy water, family quarrels, arguments with servants – all this seemed like gossip too. And she realized that the noises from her own flat would narrate her life for the neighbours’ ears, if they bothered to listen. There was no such thing as perfect privacy, life was a perpetual concert-hall recital with a captive audience.

  Sometimes, the old pastime of attending free concerts tempted her, but she was reluctant to resume it. Anything which seemed like a clutching at bygone days made her wary. The road towards self-reliance could not lie through the past.

  By and by, when the tailoring had settled into a comfortable routine for Dina, Shirin Aunty taught her to knit pullovers. “There is not much demand for woollen things,” she said, “but some people order them for style, or if they are going to hill-stations for a holiday.” As they progressed towards complicated patterns, Shirin Aunty presented her with her entire collection of design books and knitting needles.

  Lastly, she instructed Dina in embroidery, with a warning: “Needlework on table napkins and tea-cloths is very popular, and pays well. But it’s a great strain on the eyes. Don’t do too much, or it will catch up with you after forty.”

  And so, three years later, when Shirin Aunty passed away, followed by Darab Uncle a few months later, Dina felt confident of managing on her own. She also felt very alone, as though she had lost a second set of parents.

  Contrary to Nusswan’s conviction that no one would blame him for Dina’s leaving, the relatives quickly grouped into two camps. While a few, professing neutrality, felt comfortable on both sides of the line, at least half were staunchly in support of Dina. To show their approval of her independent spirit, they came out with numerous ideas for money-making ventures.

  “Butter biscuits. That’s where all the
cash is.”

  “Why don’t you start a crèche? Any mother would prefer you to look after her children, instead of an ayah.”

  “Make a good rose sherbet and you won’t have to look back. People will buy it by the gallon.”

  Dina listened with gratitude to everything, inclining her head interestedly as they formulated their schemes. She became an expert at non-committal nodding. When the tailoring was slow, she filled their orders for cakes, bhakras, vasanu, and coomas.

  Then her friend Zenobia had a brainwave about in-home haircuts for children. Zenobia had fulfilled her schoolgirl ambition: she was now chief hairstylist at the Venus Beauty Salon. After the shop closed at night, she instructed Dina on a wig glued to a plaster-of-Paris cranium. The comb kept getting caught in the cheap mop’s knotted strands.

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured Dina. “It’s much easier with real hair.” From the surplus in the shop she put together a kit of scissors, hair clippers, brush, comb, talcum powder and powder puff. Then they made a list of friends and relatives with children who could be used as guinea pigs. Xerxes and Zarir’s names were left out; though Nusswan would have welcomed the opportunity to save on haircuts, Dina felt uncomfortable now in his house.

  “Just go after the brats, one by one, till you have cropped the whole jing-bang lot,” said Zenobia. “It’s only a question of practice.” She monitored the results, and soon declared Dina trained and ready. Now Dina began going door to door.

  After a few days, however, the enterprise folded without a single haircut. Neither she nor Zenobia had remembered that most people regarded hair clippings within their dwellings as extreme bad luck. Dina related the misadventures to her friend, how the thought of hair hitting the floor made the prospective clients hit the ceiling. “Madam, you have no consideration? What have we done to you that you want to bring misfortune within our four walls?”

  Some people did offer her their children’s heads. “But only if you do it outside,” they said. Dina refused. There were limits to what she would do. She was an in-home children’s stylist, not an open-air pavement barber.