A Fine Balance

  Tears returned to his eyes, and he began walking homewards. The rain had created numerous little rivulets that were coursing down the hill. They would go to swell the mountain streams and strengthen the impromptu waterfalls. Tomorrow everything would burst with green and freshness. He pictured the ashes, carried by all this shining water, travelling everywhere over the mountainside. His father had got his wish – he was being strewn abundantly, with more thoroughness than any human could have exercised: nature’s mighty and scrupulous hand had taken charge, and he was everywhere, inseparable from the place he had loved so deeply.

  Wrapped in a Kashmiri shawl, Mrs. Kohlah waited anxiously on the porch, gazing down the road. She waved frantically when Maneck came into view. He picked up his pace.

  “Maneck! Where were you? I woke from my nap and you were gone! And it was raining so heavily, I got worried.” She grasped his arm. “Look at you, you’re soaking! And there is mud on your face and clothes! What happened?”

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. “I’m fine, I felt like taking a walk. I slipped,” he added to explain the mud.

  “You’re just like Daddy, doing crazy things. He also loved rain walks. But go, change your clothes, I’ll make tea and toast for you.” The rain had made the years fall away. He was her little boy again, drenched and helpless.

  “How’s your knee?”

  “Much better. The ice pack helped.”

  He went up to his room, washed, and changed into dry clothes. The tea was ready when he returned downstairs. His mother added two spoons of sugar for him and one for herself. His had been poured in his father’s cup. She stirred it before moving it towards him. “You remember how Daddy always used to drink the first cup, strolling about the kitchen?”

  He nodded.

  She smiled. “Getting in my way when I was busiest. But he stopped doing that in the last few years. He would just come in and sit down quietly.” Leaning sideways in her chair, she touched Maneck’s head lightly with her fingers. “Look at that, your hair is still dripping.”

  She got a napkin from the linen cupboard and began to dry it. Her vigorous towelling with short, rapid strokes made his head roll back and forth. He was on the verge of protesting, but found it relaxing and let her continue. His eyes closed. He could see the masseurs in the city, eight years ago with Om at the beach, where customers sat in the sand to have their heads kneaded and rubbed and pummelled. Waves breaking in the background, and a soft twilight breeze. And the fragrance of jasmine, wafting from vendors selling chains of the milk-white flowers for women to twine in their hair.

  “I think I will visit our relatives. And also Dina Aunty.” Her brisk efforts with his wet hair added a curious vibrato to his voice.

  “How funny you sound. As if you were trying to talk and gargle at the same time.” She laughed and put away the napkin. “They’ll be so happy to see you. When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow?” She wondered if it was a ruse to get away from her. “And when will you return here?”

  “I think I’ll go back to Dubai straight from there. More convenient.”

  She knew the hurt was showing in her face, and he did not seem aware of it. His words grew indistinct to her ears, already travelling the distance he was to put between them.

  “What I want to do,” he continued, “is get back to my job quickly – give them notice, find out how soon they will release me.”

  “You mean, resign? And then?”

  “I’ve decided to come back and settle here.”

  Her breath quickened. “That’s a wonderful plan,” she said, restraining, as best she could, the tide of emotion that swept through her. “You can start your own business by selling the shop and –”

  “No. The shop is why I’m coming back.”

  “Daddy would like that.”

  He left the table and went to the window. It did not always have to end badly – he was going to prove it to himself. First he would meet all his friends: Om, happily married, and his wife, and at least two or three children by now; what would their names be? If there was a boy, surely Narayan. And Ishvar, the proud grand-uncle, beaming away at his sewing-machine, disciplining the little ones, cautioning them if they ventured too close to the whirring wheels and galloping needles. And Dina Aunty, supervising the export tailoring in her little flat, orchestrating the household, holding sway in that busy kitchen.

  Yes, he would see all this with his own eyes. If there was an abundance of misery in the world, there was also sufficient joy, yes – as long as one knew where to look for it. Soon, he would return to take charge of Kohlah’s Cola and the General Store. The foundation cables needed attention. The house would be refurbished. He would install new bottling machinery. He had more than enough money saved up.

  Mrs. Kohlah went to stand beside him at the window. His hands were on the sill, clutching it tight, the knuckles white. They were strong hands, like his father’s, she thought.

  “It’s getting cloudy again,” he said. “There’ll be lots more rain tonight.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “which means everything will be green and fresh tomorrow. It will be a beautiful day.”

  He put his arm around his mother and gave her the good-morning hug of his childhood although it was evening. Her contented sigh was almost inaudible. Her grip on his hand, where it rested on her shoulder, was tight and warm.

  The rain followed Maneck down the country, down the hills and across the plains, for thirty-two hours on the southbound train. He had almost missed the train; the bus from the town square to the railway station had been delayed by mud slides. Yesterday’s promise of sun and green and freshness remained unfulfilled, the storm still going strong. And at journey’s end, when he emerged from the crowd and clamour of the station concourse, the city streets were shining wet from a heavy downpour.

  The taxi stand was empty. He waited at the kerb, surrounded by puddles. There was nowhere to put his suitcase, and he shifted the bag to the other hand.

  Then he noticed the crack in the flagstones behind him. Worms were pouring out of it, slithering dark red across the rain-slick pavement. Phylum Annelida. Several had been pulped under the feet of pedestrians. Dozens more continued to emerge, gliding along on a film of water, undulating over the dead ones.

  While he watched, the gears of time slid effortlessly into reverse, and the busy pavement became Dina Aunty’s bathroom. It was his first morning in her flat, he could hear her calling through the door, and he froze, keeping an eye on the wiggling battalion’s advance. How she had teased him afterwards. He smiled at the memory. The crack in the flagstones was now almost depleted of worms, as the last stragglers dragged themselves to the safety of the gutter.

  He decided to spend the evening with his mother’s relatives, get that task out of the way. Then tomorrow could be devoted entirely to Dina Aunty and Ishvar and Om.

  A taxi rattled up beside him. The driver, his arm hanging out the window, looked expectant, smelling a fare.

  “Grand Hotel,” said Maneck, opening the door.

  He washed, changed his shirt, and set off to suffer the fond attentions of the Sodawalla family. During the course of the evening he patiently allowed himself to be called Mac, flinching while they hugged and

  patted and fawned over him. It was a bit like being the prize dog at a kennel show.

  “What a terrible shock it was when we heard that your daddy passed away,” they said. “And you people live so far away, we couldn’t even go to the funeral. So sorry.”

  “It’s all right, I understand.” He remembered what Daddy used to say about the Sodawalla relatives – no fizz, dull as a flat soda, in danger of boring themselves to death. And in the end, Daddy had lost his own effervescence.

  Maneck felt suddenly oppressed in the house, exhausted by the visit. He thought he would collapse if he spent any more time with his relatives. He rose and held out his hand. “It was very good seeing you again.”

>   “Stay a little longer, spend the night with us,” they insisted. “It will be so nice. In the morning we will eat omelette, and make some fresh prawn patia.”

  He refused firmly. “I have a business appointment for dinner. Also some early breakfast meetings. I must get back to the hotel.”

  They were understanding about this, suitably awed by the idea of breakfast meetings. They saw him off with blessings and good wishes, and instructions to come soon for another visit. “Don’t make us starve again so many years,” they said.

  On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at the airline office and checked his reservation. The agent confirmed the booking: “It’s for day after tomorrow, sir. And your flight departure time is eleven-thirty-five p.m. Please be at the airport before nine p.m.”

  “Thank you,” said Maneck.

  At the Grand Hotel, he ate a plate of mutton biryani in the dining room. Afterwards, he read the newspaper in the lobby for a few minutes, then collected his key and went to bed. He fell asleep thinking about Dina Aunty, and the time they had sat up late into the night, completing the dresses for Au Revoir when Ishvar and Om had gone missing. The time of trouble with a capital t.

  Renovations had transformed the place beyond recognition, and for a moment Maneck thought he was at the wrong address. Marble stairways, a security guard, the foyer walls faced with gleaming granite, air-conditioning in every flat, a roof garden – the low-rent tenement had been converted into luxury apartments.

  He checked the nameplates listed in the entrance. The bastard landlord had finally done it, got rid of Dina Aunty – it had ended badly for her. And what about the tailors, where were they working now?

  Outside, he felt the returning grip of despair, the sun pounding his head. Perhaps Dina Aunty would know where Ishvar and Om were. There was only one place she could have gone: to her brother, Nusswan. But he didn’t have the address. And why bother – would she really be pleased to see him? He could look it up in the telephone directory. Under what surname?

  He rattled his memory for Dina Aunty’s maiden name. She had mentioned it once. One night, all those years ago, when Ishvar and Om and he had sat listening to her tell them about her life. It was after dinner, and she had the quilt in her lap, connecting a new patch. Never look back at the past with regret, Dina Aunty had said. And something about her bright future lost… no, clouded… back when she was still a schoolgirl, and her name was – Dina Shroff.

  He stopped at the chemist’s to consult the telephone directory. There were several Shroffs but only one Nusswan Shroff, and he noted the address. The clerk said it wasn’t far. He decided to walk.

  After leaving behind the old neighbourhood, the road became unfamiliar. He asked directions of a carpenter sitting by the kerb with his tools in a sack. The carpenter’s thumb was heavily bandaged. He told Maneck to turn right at the next intersection, past the cricket maidaan.

  There was a marquee set up at the edge of the field, although no cricket match was in progress. Inquiring crowds were milling around it, peering inside. Over the entrance a sign proclaimed: WELCOME TO ONE & ALL FROM HIS HOLINESS, BAL BABA – DARSHAN AVAILABLE FROM 10.00 A.M. TO 4.00 P.M. EVERY DAY INCLUDING SUNDAY & BANK HOLIDAY.

  A hardworking godman for sure, thought Maneck, wondering what his specialty was – producing gold watches out of thin air, tears from the eyes of statues, rose petals from women’s cleavages?

  But his name suggested a trick to do with hair. He asked someone at the entrance, “Who is Bal Baba?”

  “Bal Baba is a very very holy man,” said the attendant. “He has returned to us after many many years of meditationing in a Himalayan cave.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He has a very especial, very saintly power. He tells you any sort of thing you will want to know. All he needs is to hold some of your hairs between his holy fingers for ten seconds only.”

  “And what’s the charge for it?”

  “Bal Baba has no charges,” said the man indignantly. Then he added, with an oily smile, “But all donations are mostly welcome by the Bal Baba Foundation, anymuch amount.”

  Maneck grew curious, and went in. Just for a quick look, he decided – at the latest fakeologist in the city, as Om would say. It would be amusing to tell the tailors what he saw. Something to laugh about together, after eight years.

  The crowds were bigger outside the marquee than inside. Only a few people were waiting near a screen behind which sat the very very saintly Bal Baba. Shouldn’t take long, thought Maneck, at the rate of ten seconds per meditation per customer. This was assembly-line darshan and consultation.

  He joined the queue, and soon it was his turn. The man behind the screen, in a saffron robe, was bald and clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes had been plucked clean. Not a hair was visible on his face or on the skin left uncovered by the robe.

  Despite the bizarrely smooth and shining countenance, however, Maneck recognized him. “You’re Rajaram the hair-collector!”

  “Eh?” jumped Bal Baba, startled enough to let the unsaintly ejaculation escape him. Then he regained his composure, raised his head, and enunciated beatifically, embroidering his words with graceful hand and finger movements: “Rajaram the hair-collector renounced his life, his joys and sorrows, his vices and virtues. Why? So that Bal Baba could be incarnated, and could use his humble gift to assist humanity along the pathway to moksha.”

  The fancy mannerisms were discontinued after this declaration. He inclined his head and asked in a normal voice, “But who are you?”

  “Remember Ishvar and Om? The tailors who used to lend you money in your previous incarnation – your hairy days? I lived in that same flat with them.” While the hair-collector took this in, Maneck added, “I’ve grown a beard. Maybe that’s why you don’t recognize me.”

  “Not at all. No hairstyle or beard on earth can deceive Bal Baba,” he said grandly. “So what is your question for me?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, just try me. Go ahead, ask. Ask about job, health, marriage prospects, wife, children, education, anything. I’ll give you the answer.”

  “I already have the answer. I’m searching for the question.”

  Bal Baba looked askance at him, annoyance shadowing the glabrous face – enigmatic utterances of this sort were his preserve. But he controlled his displeasure and reattached the requisite smile of enlightenment.

  “On second thoughts, I do have a question,” said Maneck. “How would you help someone who has a bald head like yours?”

  “That is only a small obstacle. The Bal Baba Foundation sells a special hair tonic at cost price – postage and handling charges extra. Made from rare Himalayan herbs, works like magic. In a few weeks, the bald head is covered with thick hair. Then the person comes here, I hold the newly grown hair for meditation, and answer the question.”

  “Do you ever feel like chopping it off? For your collection?”

  Bal Baba grew enraged. “That was another life, another person. That’s all finished, don’t you understand?”

  “I see. And have you visited Ishvar and Om since you returned from your cave? They might have questions for you.”

  “Bal Baba cannot afford the luxury of visiting anybody. He is bound to this place, to allow people the opportunity for darshan.”

  “Right,” said Maneck. “In that case I better not waste your time. There are thousands waiting outside.”

  “May you soon find the bliss of contentment,” said Bal Baba, raising one hand in a transcendent farewell. His eyes were still furious.

  Maneck decided to come again next morning, bring Om and Ishvar with him – he didn’t have to leave for the airport till tomorrow night. It would be a great joke, and lots of fun to deflate Bal Babas pomposity. Take him down a notch or two, make him look back at his yesterdays.

  The way out was through the rear of the marquee, past a man writing at a wobbly table stacked with letters and envelopes. Maneck stared, trying to remember whe
re they had met. Then he spotted the plastic case in the maris shirt pocket, with its battery of pens and ballpoints. It came back to him – the train, the passenger with the hoarse voice.

  “Excuse me, you’re the proofreader, aren’t you?”

  “Erstwhile,” he said. “Vasantrao Valmik, at your service.”

  “You don’t recognize me because I’ve grown a beard, but I was the student on the train with you, many years ago, when you were travelling for specialist treatment for your throat problem.”

  “Say no more,” said Mr. Valmik, smiling with delight. “I remember perfectly, I’ve never forgotten you. We talked a lot on that journey, didn’t we.” He chuckled, and screwed the cap on his pen. “You know, it’s so very rare to find a good audience for one’s story. Most people get restless when a stranger tells them about his life. But you were a perfect listener.”

  “Oh, I enjoyed listening. It shortened the journey. Besides, your life is so interesting.”

  “You are very kind. Let me tell you a secret: there is no such thing as an uninteresting life.”

  “Try mine.”

  “I would love to. One day you must tell me your full and complete story, unabridged and unexpurgated. You must. We will set aside some time for it, and meet. It’s very important.”

  Maneck smiled. “Why is it important?”

  Mr. Valmik’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t know? It’s extremely important because it helps to remind yourself of who you are. Then you can go forward, without fear of losing yourself in this ever-changing world.”

  He paused, touching his pen pocket. “I must be truly blessed, for I have been able to tell my whole story twice. First to you on the train, then to a nice lady in the courthouse compound. But that was also many years ago. I’m thirsting to find a new audience. Ah, yes, to share the story redeems everything.”