The elderly woman in dark glasses was the first to scream. Then the shriek of the pneumatic brakes drowned all other sounds. The fast train took several hundred yards to stop.
Maneck’s last thought was that he still had Avinash’s chessmen.
Under the tree where the cobbled walkway met the pavement, Om dropped Ishvar’s towrope, and they settled down to wait. A bird startled in the dense foliage above them. They kept glancing at the wrist-watches of passersby whom they pestered for alms.
At one o’clock they left the pavement and trundled over the cobbles. The shrubbery and the garden wall of the Shroff residence shielded them from the neighbours’ view. They made straight for the back door, keeping close to the side of the house, and knocked softly.
Dina ushered them in. She filled water glasses for them and, while they drank, dished out masoor in plates from Ruby’s everyday set on the sideboard. How many more years could she do this before Ruby or Nusswan found out, she wondered. “Anyone saw you come in?”
They shook their heads.
“Eat fast,” she said. “My sister-in-law is coming back earlier than usual.”
“It’s very tasty,” said Ishvar, carefully balancing the plate on his lap.
Om grunted his affirmation, adding, “Chapatis are a little dry, not as nice as yesterday. You didn’t follow my method or what?”
“This fellow thinks he’s too smart,” she complained to Ishvar.
“What to do,” said Ishvar, laughing. “He’s the chapati champion of the world.”
“They are from last night,” said Dina. “I didn’t make fresh ones. I had a visitor. You’ll never guess who.”
“Maneck,” they said.
“We saw him passing half an hour ago. We knew him in spite of his beard,” said Ishvar.
“Didn’t you talk to him?”
They shook their heads.
“He didn’t recognize us,” said Om. “Or he ignored us. We even said ‘Babu, ek paisa’ to get his attention.”
“You have altered very much from when he knew you.” She held out the platter of chapatis. “Have another.” Ishvar took one and shared with Om, tearing it in half.
“I told him you would come at one o’clock,” she continued. “I asked him to wait but he was getting late. Next time, he said.”
“That will he nice,” said Ishvar.
Om shrugged angrily. “The Maneck we knew would have waited today.”
“Yes,” said Ishvar, scooping up the last bit of masoor from his plate. “But he went so far away. When you go so far away, you change. Distance is a difficult thing. We shouldn’t blame him.”
Dina agreed. “Now remember, tomorrow is Saturday, everyone will be home – you mustn’t come for the next two days.” She put their plates in the sink and opened the door to let them out.
“Hoi-hoi,” said Ishvar. “What’s this?” A thread had unravelled from the quilt he was sitting on, and was tangled in one of the castors.
“Let me see.” Om reached down to slide the quilt out as his uncle levered himself up slightly on his arms. They found the patch from which the thread had strayed.
“Good thing you saw it,” said Dina. “Or that piece might have fallen off completely.”
“It’s easy to fix,” said Ishvar. “Can I borrow your needle, Dinabai? For a few minutes?”
“Not now. I told you my sister-in-law is returning early.” But she went to her room and fetched a spool of thread with a needle stuck into it. “Take this with you.” She opened the door again for them. “Don’t forget the umbrella.” She tucked it under Om’s arm.
“It was very useful last night,” he said. “I hit a thief who tried to grab our coins.” He raised the rope and hauled. Ishvar made a clacking-clucking sound with his tongue against the teeth, imitating a bullock-cart driver. His nephew pawed the ground and tossed his head.
“Stop it,” she scolded. “If you behave that way on the pavement, no one will give you a single paisa.”
“Come on, my faithful,” said Ishvar. “Lift your hoofs or I’ll feed you a dose of opium.” Chuckling, Om trotted away plumply. They quit clowning when they emerged into the street.
Dina shut the door, shaking her head. Those two made her laugh every day. Like Maneck used to, once. She washed the two plates, returning them to the sideboard for Nusswan and Ruby to dine off at night. Then she dried her hands and decided to take a nap before starting the evening meal.
Rohinton Mistry is the author of a collection of short stories, Tales from Firozsha Baag (1987), and three internationally acclaimed novels, Such a Long Journey (1991), A Fine Balance (1995), and Family Matters (2002). His fiction has won many prestigious international awards, including The Giller Prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best Book, the Governor General’s Award, the Canada-Australia Literary Prize, the SmithBooks/Books in Canada First Novel Award, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction, The Royal Society of Literature’s Winifred Holtby Award, and the Kiriyama Pacific Rim Book Prize for Fiction. A Fine Balance was also an Oprah’s Book Club® selection.
Born in Bombay in 1952, Rohinton Mistry came to Canada in 1975.
Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance
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