A Fine Balance (30 page)

Rajaram clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. “What foolishness on my part — I completely forgot to warn you. You see, it’s been months and months since a raid.” He slapped his forehead again. “Some people travel all their lives without buying a single ticket. And you two get caught on the first day. Even with tickets,” he chuckled.

Ishvar and Om, appreciating the irony, started laughing too. “Just bad luck. Must be a new policy because of Emergency.”

“But it was all a big show. Why did the inspector let everyone go, if they are really getting strict?”

Rajaram thought about it while chewing, and fetched glasses of water for everyone. “Maybe they had no choice. From what I hear, the jails are full with the Prime Minister’s enemies – union workers, newspaper people, teachers, students. So maybe there is no more room in the prisons.”

While they were mulling over the incident, cries of joy went up near the water tap. It had started gurgling! And so late in the night! People watched the spout, holding their breath. A few drops dribbled out. Then a little stream. They cheered it like a winning racehorse as it gathered strength, gushing full and strong. A miracle! The hutment dwellers clapped and shouted with excitement.

“It has happened once before,” said Rajaram. “I think someone made a mistake at the waterworks, opening the wrong valve.”

“They should make such mistakes more often,” said Ishvar.

Women ran to the tap to make the most of the fortuitous flow. Babies in their arms squealed with delight as cool water glided over their sticky skin. Older children skipped about gleefully, bursting into little involuntary dances, looking forward to the generous drenching instead of the meagre mugfuls at dawn.

“Maybe we should also fill up now,” said Om. “Save time in the morning.”

“No,” said Rajaram. “Let the little ones enjoy. Who knows when they’ll get a chance like this again.”

The festivities lasted less than an hour; the tap went dry as suddenly as it had started. Children soaped in anticipation had to be wiped off and sent to bed disappointed.

Over the next fortnight, the slumlord erected another fifty ramshackle huts in the field, which Navalkar rented out in a day, doubling the population. Now the fetid smell from the ditch hung permanently over the shacks, thicker than smoke. There was nothing to distinguish the small hutment colony from the huge slum across the road; it had been incorporated into the inferno. The rush at the water tap assumed riotous proportions. Accusations of queue-jumping were exchanged every morning, there was pushing and shoving, scuffles broke out, pots were overturned, mothers screamed, children wailed.

The monsoon season started, and on the first night of rain, the tailors were awakened by the roof leaking on their bedding. They sat huddled in the only dry corner. The rain poured down beside them in a steady stream and gradually lulled them into slumber. Then the rain slowed. The leak became an aggravating drip. Om began counting the splashes in his head. He reached a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, counting, adding, tallying, as though hoping to dry them out by attaining a high enough number.

They ended up sleeping very little. In the morning, Rajaram climbed onto the roof to examine the corrugated iron. He helped them spread a piece of plastic, not quite wide enough, over the leaking area.

Later that week, heartened by the remuneration from Dina Dalai, Ishvar was able to plan a little shopping excursion to buy a large plastic sheet and a few other items. “What do you say, Om? Now we can make our house more comfortable, hahn?”

His suggestion was greeted with a mournful silence. They stopped at a pavement stall selling polythene bowls, boxes, and assorted tableware. “So, what colour plates and glasses shall we get?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“A towel? That yellow one with flowers, maybe?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Would you like new sandals?”

“Doesn’t matter” came yet again, and Ishvar finally lost his patience. “What’s wrong with you these days? All the time with Dinabai you make mistakes and argue. You take no interest in tailoring. Anything I ask, you say doesn’t matter. Make an effort, Om, make an effort.” He cut the shopping expedition short, and they started back with two red plastic buckets, a Primus stove, five litres of kerosene, and a package of jasmine agarbatti.

Ahead they heard the familiar
dhuk-dhuka dhuk-dhuka
of Monkey-man’s little handheld drum. The string-tied rattle bounced upon the skin as he spun his wrist. He was not looking to collect a crowd, merely accompanying his charges home. One of his little brown monkeys had hitched a ride on his shoulder, the other ambled along listlessly. The emaciated dog followed at a distance, sniffing, chewing newspaper in which food had once been wrapped. Monkey-man whistled, and called “Tikka!” and the mongrel trotted up.

The monkeys started teasing Tikka, tweaking his ears, twisting his tail, pinching his penis. He bore his tormentors with a dignified calm. His reprieve came when the red plastic buckets swinging from Om’s hands attracted the monkeys’ attention. They decided to investigate, and hopped in.

“Laila! Majnoo! Stop it!” scolded their master, tugging the leashes. They bobbed their heads out over the bucket rims.

“It’s okay,” said Om, enjoying their pranks. “Let them have some fun. They must have worked hard all day.”

They walked together to the hutment colony, the tailors, Monkey-man, and his animals, moving to the drum’s hypnotic
dhuk-dhuka
. Laila and Majnoo soon tired of the buckets and began clambering over Om, sitting on his shoulders or his head, hanging from his arms, clinging to his legs. He laughed all the way home, and Ishvar smiled with pleasure.

Om’s playfulness vanished when he and the monkeys parted company. Once again he sank into his gloom, casting a nauseated look in Rajaram’s direction, who was sorting his bags of hair outside the shack. The little black mounds looked like a collection of shaggy human heads.

Seeing the two laden with purchases, Rajaram complimented them. “Makes me happy to see you started on the road to prosperity.”

“You need spectacles if you think this is the road to prosperity,” snapped Om. He went inside and unrolled the bedding.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Rajaram, hurt.

“I think he’s just tired. But listen, today you must eat with us. To celebrate our new stove.”

“How can I refuse such good friends?”

They prepared the food together, and called Om when it was ready. Halfway through the meal, Rajaram asked if he could borrow ten rupees. The request took Ishvar by surprise. He had assumed the hair-collector was doing well in his line of work, judging by his enthusiastic talk during the past fortnight.

The hesitation showed on his face, for Rajaram added, “I’ll return it in a week, don’t worry. Business is little slow right now. But a new style is coming into fashion for women. Everyone will start chopping off their plaits. Those long chotelas will fall straight into my lap.”

“Stop talking about hair,” said Om. “It makes my stomach sick.” After dinner, instead of sitting outside to chat and smoke with them, he said he had a headache and went to bed.

His uncle came in an hour later and stood watching the back of Om’s head for a minute. Poor child, what a burden of terrible memories he had to carry. He leaned across and saw his eyes were open. “Om? Headache gone?”

He groaned and answered no.

“Patience, Om, it will go.” To cheer him up, he added, “Our stars must be in the proper position at last. Everything is going well, hahn?”

“How can you keep repeating such rubbish? A lousy, stinking house we live in. Our jobs are terrible, that Dinabai watching us like a vulture, harassing us, telling us when to eat and when to belch.”

Ishvar sighed; his nephew was in one of his implacable black moods. He lit two sticks from the jasmine agarbatti package. “This will make our house smell nice. Sleep well, your headache will be gone in the morning.”

Late at night, after the harmonium player’s song was silent and Tikka stopped barking, it was the noises from the hair-collector’s shack that continued to keep Om awake. There was a visitor. A woman giggled, then Rajaram laughed. Soon he was panting, and the sounds through the plywood walls tormented Om. He thought of them naked amid those eerie bags of hair, contorting in the erotic poses of cinema posters. He thought of Shanti by the water tap, her lovely shining hair, the tightness of her blouse when she lifted the big brass pot to her head, the things he could do with her in the bushes by the railroad. He looked at his uncle, sound asleep. He got out of bed, went to the side of the shack, and masturbated. The woman next door was just departing. He hid in the shadows till she was gone.

He fell asleep after midnight only to be awakened by piercing screams. This time Ishvar was roused as well. “Hai Ram! What can that be?”

Outside, they ran into Rajaram, smiling contentedly. Om scowled at him with equal parts of envy and disgust. People were emerging from shacks all down the row. Then word spread that it was a woman in labour, and everyone went back to sleep. The screams ceased after a while.

In the morning, they heard that a girl had been born during the early hours. “Let’s go and give them good wishes,” said Ishvar.

“You go if you like,” said Om gloomily.

“Ah, don’t be so unhappy,” he ruffled his hair. “We will find a wife for you, I promise.”

“Find her for yourself, I don’t need one.” He moved out of reach and snatched the comb on the packing case to restore his hair.

“Back in two minutes,” said Ishvar. “Then off to work.”

Om sat in the doorway, fingering a piece of chiffon he had slipped in his pocket yesterday from the scraps littering Dina Dalai’s floor. How comforting it felt, liquid between his fingers – why couldn’t life be like that, soft and smooth. He caressed his cheek with it, observing the drunkard’s children running about, sprawling in the dust, passing the time till their mother took them out to beg. One of them found a curiously shaped stone, which he showed off to his siblings. Then they chased a crow probing a lump of something rotten. The mettlesome bird refused to fly away, hopping, circling, returning to the putrefying tidbit to provide more fun for the children. How could they be so happy? wondered Om – dirty and naked, ill-fed, sores on their faces, rashes on their skin. What was there for anyone to laugh about in this wretched place?

He slipped the chiffon back into his pocket and wandered to Monkey-man’s shack. Laila was grooming Majnoo, and he settled down to watch. A minute later, they had jumped onto his shoulders, combing their delicate infant-sized fingers through his hair.

Seeing that Om did not mind, Monkey-man smiled and let them be. “They do it to me also,” he said. “Means they like you. Best way of keeping a clean head.”

Laila found something in Om’s hair and held it up to examine. Majnoo grabbed it from her paw and put it in his mouth.

Om chose a black Hercules at the rental shop on the road to Dina Dalai’s flat. It had an impressive spring-loaded carrier over the rear wheel and a large shiny bell on the handlebars.

“But why do you need a cycle?” persisted Ishvar. His nephew smiled cunningly while the man used a spanner to adjust the seat height.

“One month has passed since we started working for her,” said Om. “That’s long enough, I’ve made my plan.” The freshly pumped-up tyres withstood the inspecting squeeze of his fingers. He wheeled it out into the main street. “Today is her day to go to the export company, right? And I’m going to follow her taxi on my cycle.” Swinging one leg lightly over the saddle, he rolled off.

“Careful,” said Ishvar. “Traffic is heavy, it’s not our village road.” On the kerb he quickened his pace to keep up. “The plan is good, Om, but you forgot one thing – her padlocked door. How will you get out?”

“Wait and see.”

Freewheeling alongside his uncle, Om was in high spirits. The mudguards rattled and the brakes were spongy, though the bell worked perfectly.
Tring-tring tring-tring
, his thumb urged it on,
tring-tring
. Brimming with confidence, he plunged into the traffic on his carilloning cycle, on the wheels that would help put the future right.

He returned to the safety of the kerb, and Ishvar breathed easier. The scheme was absurd, but he was happy that his nephew was enjoying himself. He watched him swing the handlebars from side to side and backpedal, to keep from racing ahead. Om on the saddle performed an intricate dance, the dance of balancing-at-slow-speed. Soon, hoped Ishvar, he would forsake his crazy ideas and perform with equal facility the arduous dance of sewing-for-the-employer.

At Om’s prompting, Ishvar got on the carrier behind the saddle. He sat sideways, legs straight out. With his feet inches off the ground, sandals grazing the road now and then, they sailed away. Om’s optimism pealed in the
tring-tring
showers spouting from the bell. For a while the world was perfect.

Soon, the tailors neared the corner where the beggar was wheeling his platform around. They stopped to toss him a coin. It landed with a clink in the empty can.

They hid the bicycle at a safe distance from Dina Dalai’s door, in a cobwebby stairwell that smelled of urine and country liquor. Chaining it to a disused gas pipe, they emerged brushing off the invisible threads clinging to their hands and faces. Ghosts of the webs continued to bother them for some time. Their fingers kept returning to their foreheads and necks to remove strands that were not there.

Dina’s fingers flitted like skittish butterflies, folding the dresses for delivery to Au Revoir Exports. She checked the paper patterns to make sure everything was accounted for. The manager had been repeatedly dire about them. “Guard the patterns with your life,” Mrs. Gupta always said. “If they fall in the wrong hands my entire company will be ruined.”

Dina thought this was somewhat exaggerated. Nonetheless, she could not help feeling, while sorting through the brown-paper sections of bodice and sleeve and collar, that her own torso and arms and neck were at stake. Of late, she sensed a haughtiness in Mrs. Gupta, as though the manager had discovered they were not social equals. She no longer left her desk to greet her and see her off, nor did she offer tea or a Fanta.