A Fine Balance (46 page)

“Mine has not been easy either. But we must make the best of what we have.”

“There is no other way,” he agreed.

From that day, he stayed behind more and more while Dina continued to make tea in Maneck’s name but poured it in Ishvar’s cup. They chatted about matters both tailoring and non-tailoring. His half-smile of gratitude was always something she looked forward to, with the frozen half straining to catch up as his face beamed at the pink roses along the rim of the saucer.

“Om’s sewing is improving, hahn, Dinabai?”

“He makes fewer mistakes.”

“Yes yes. He is much happier since Maneck came.”

“I am worried about Maneck, though. I hope he is studying properly – his parents are relying on it. They have a small shop, and it’s not doing well.”

“Everybody has troubles. Don’t worry, I will talk to him, remind him to work hard. That’s what these two young fellows have to do, work hard.”

Ishvar noted that the tea breaks upset Dinabai no more. It confirmed his suspicion, that she was longing for company.

The boys’ conversation inevitably took a different turn when they were on their own. Om was curious about the hostel Maneck had abandoned. “Were there any college girls living there?”

“You think I would leave if there were? They have a separate hostel. Boys are not allowed inside.”

From the Vishram they could see a cinema advertisement on a roof across the road, for a film called
Revolver Rani
. The billboard was a diptych. The first panel showed four men tearing off a woman’s clothes. An enormous bra-clad bosom was exposed, while the men’s lips, parted in lewd laughter, revealed carnivorous teeth and bright-red tongues. The second panel depicted the same woman, her clothes in tatters, mowing down the four men with automatic gunfire.

“Why is it called
Revolver Rani?”
said Om. “That’s a machine-gun in her hands.”

“They could have called it
Machine-Gun Maharani
. But that doesn’t sound as good.”

“Should be fun to see it.”

“Let’s go next week.”

“No money. Ishvar says we must save.”

“That’s okay, I’ll pay.”

Om searched Maneck’s face while drawing on the beedi, trying to decide if he meant it. “No, I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“I’ll ask my uncle.” His beedi went out and he reached for the matches. “You know, there’s a girl who lives near our house. Her breasts look like that.”

“Impossible.”

The outright dismissal made Om study the poster again. “Maybe you’re right,” he yielded. “Not exactly that big. They always paint them gigantic. But this girl has a solid pair, same beautiful shape as that. Sometimes she lets me touch them.”

“Go, yaar, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I swear she does. Her name is Shanti. She opens her blouse and lets me squeeze them whenever I like,” he said, giving his imagination free rein. Seeing Maneck laugh and slap his knee, he inquired innocently, “You mean you’ve never done that to a girl?”

“Of course I have,” Maneck answered hastily. “But you said you live with your uncle in a small house. How would you get the chance?”

“Easy. There is a ditch at the side of the colony, and lots of bushes behind it. We go there after dark. But for a few minutes only. If she’s away longer, someone would come looking for her.” He puffed airily at the beedi as he fabricated explorations that involved Shanti’s hair and limbs, and complicated excursions into her skirt and blouse.

“Good thing you’re a tailor,” said Maneck. “You know all the ins and outs of clothing.”

But Om continued undiscouraged, stopping short only of the final foray. “Once, I was on top of her, and we almost did it. Then there was a noise in the bushes so she got scared.” He drained his saucer and poured more from the cup. “What about you? Ever done it?”

“Almost. On a railway train.”

It was Om’s turn to laugh. “You’re a champion fakeologist, for sure. On a train!”

“No, really. A few months ago, when I left home to come to college.” Catalysed by Om’s fantasies, Maneck’s inventiveness took the field at a gallop. “There was a woman in the upper berth opposite mine, very beautiful.”

“More beautiful than Dinabai?”

The question made him pause. He had to think for a moment. “No,” he said loyally. “But the minute I got on the train, she kept staring at me, smiling when no one was watching. The problem was, her father was travelling with her. Finally night came, and people began going to sleep. She and I kept awake. When everyone had fallen asleep, including her father, she pushed aside the sheet and pulled one breast out from her choli.”

“Then what?” asked Om, happy to enjoy the imaginary fruits.

“She began massaging her breast, and signalled for me to come over. I was scared to climb down from my berth. Someone could wake up, you know. But then she put her hand between her legs and began rubbing herself. So I decided I had to go to her.”

“Of course. You’d be a fool not to,” Om breathed hard.

“I got down without disturbing anyone, and in a second I was stroking her breast. She grabbed my hand, begging me to climb in with her. I wondered what was the best way to get up there. I didn’t want to jolt her father’s berth underneath. Suddenly there was a movement. He turned over, groaning. She was so frightened that she pushed me away and started snoring loudly. I pretended I was on my way to the bathroom.”

“If only the bastard had kept sleeping.”

“I know. It’s so sad. I’ll never meet that woman again.” Maneck felt suddenly desolate, as though the loss was real. “You’re lucky Shanti lives near you.”

“You can see her one day,” said Om generously. “When you visit me and Ishvar. But you won’t be able to talk to her, just look at her from far. She’s very shy, and meets me secretly, as I said.”

They gulped their tea and ran all the way back, for they had exceeded the time.

Batata wada, bhel puri, pakora, bhajia, sherbet – Maneck paid for all the snacks and drinks at the Vishram because Om got just enough from Ishvar for one cup of tea. The allowance from Maneck’s parents was sufficient for the treats, since he no longer needed to supplement canteen food. The following week he kept his word and took Om to see
Revolver Rani
after the day’s sewing was done. He offered to pay for Ishvar too, who refused, saying his time would be better spent finishing one more dress.

“How about you, Aunty? Want to come?”

“I wouldn’t see such rubbish if you paid me,” said Dina. “And if your money weighs too much in your pocket, let me know. I can tell your mummy to stop sending it.”

“Bilkool correct,” said Ishvar. “You young people don’t understand the value of money.”

Undeterred by the reproaches, they set off for the cinema. She reminded Maneck to come straight home after the film, his dinner would be waiting. He agreed, grumbling to himself that Dina Aunty was taking her self-appointed role of guardian too seriously.

“The old woman’s prophecy came true,” said Om, as they started towards the train station. “Half of it, anyway – Monkey-man finally took his revenge.”

“What did he do?”

“A terrible thing. It happened last night.” Tikka had been back living with Monkey-man, and his neighbours assumed the two were friends again. But after the hutment dwellers had gone to sleep, Monkey-man put a wooden crate outside his shack and adorned it with flowers and an oil lamp. A photograph of Laila and Majnoo riding on Tikka’s back was propped up in the centre. It was a Polaroid shot taken long ago by an American tourist charmed by the act. The altar was ready. Monkey-man led Tikka before it, made the dog lie down, and slit his throat. Then he went around letting people know he had fulfilled his duty.

“It was horrible,” said Om. “We got there and saw poor Tikka floating in his blood. He was still twitching a little. I almost vomited.”

“If my father was there, he would have killed Monkey-man,” said Maneck.

“Are you boasting or complaining?”

“Both, I guess.” He kicked a stone from the footpath into the road. “My father cares more about stray dogs than his own son.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, yaar.”

“Why rubbish? Look, he feeds the dogs every day on the porch. But me he sent away. All the time I was there, he kept fighting with me, didn’t want me around.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, your father sent you here to study because he cares for your future.”

“You’re an expert on fathers or what?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you?”

“Because my father is dead. That quickly makes you an expert. You better believe me – stop talking rubbish about your father.”

“Okay, my father is a saint. But what happened to Monkey-man?”

“People in the colony were angry, they said we should tell the police, because ever since the monkeys died, Monkey-man has two small children living with him, three-four years old. They are his sister’s son and daughter, training for his new act. And if he went mad, it would be dangerous for the children. But then others in the colony said there was no point putting crooks in charge of the insane. Anyway, Monkey-man loves the children. He has been taking very good care of them.”

They alighted from the train, pushing their way through the crowd waiting to climb on. Outside the platform, a woman sat in the sun with a small basket of vegetables beside her. She was drying her laundered sari, one half at a time. One end was wound wet round her waist and over her shrunken breasts, as far as it would go. The drying half was stretched along the railway fence, flowing from her body like a prayer in the evening sun. She waved to Om as the two passed by.

“She lives in our colony,” he said, weaving through the traffic to cross the lane towards the cinema. “She sells vegetables. She has only one sari.”

Revolver Rani
ended later than they had expected. While the credits rolled, they began inching down the aisles, lingering, not wanting to miss the reprise of the soundtrack. Then the fluttering national flag appeared on the screen, “Jana Gana Mana” started to play, and there was a rush for the exits.

But the outward-bound audience ran into an obstacle. A squad of Shiv Sena volunteers guarding the doors blocked their way. People at the back, unaware of the reason for the bottleneck, began shouting. “Side please! Aray bhai, side please! Move on, mister! Filmshow finished!”

The crowd in the front couldn’t go forward, however, threatened by the Shiv Sena’s waving sticks and an assortment of signs:
RESPECT THE NATIONAL ANTHEM! YOUR MOTHERLAND NEEDS YOU DURING THE EMERGENCY! PATRIOTISM
is
A SCARED DUTY
! No one was allowed to leave till the flag faded on the screen and the lights came on.

“Why is patriotism a scared duty?” laughed Om. “They need to frighten people to be patriotic?”

“These idiots can’t even spell sacred, and they are telling us what to do,” said Maneck.

Om observed that the protesters were about fifty in all, whereas the audience was over eight hundred strong. “We could have easily overpowered them. Dhishoom! Dhishoom! Like that fellow in the film,” he said, clenching his fists before his chest.

In high spirits, they began repeating some of the more dramatic lines they remembered from
Revolver Rani
. “Blood can only be avenged by blood!” growled Maneck, with a swordfighting flourish.

“Standing on this consecrated earth, I swear with the sky as my witness that you will not see another dawn!” proclaimed Om.

“That’s because I wake up late every day, yaar,” said Maneck. The sudden departure from the script made Om lose his pose with laughing.

Outside the railway station, the woman was still sitting with her vegetable basket. The dry half of the sari was now wrapped around her, with the wet stretch taking its turn along the fence. The basket was almost empty. “Amma, time to go home,” said Om, and she smiled.

On the station platform, they decided to try the machine that said Weight & Fortune 25p. Maneck went first. The red and white wheel spun, lightbulbs flashed, there was a chime, and a little cardboard rectangle slid out into the curved receptacle.

“Sixty-one kilos,” said Maneck, and read the fortune on the reverse. “ ‘A happy reunion awaits you in the near future.’ That sounds right – I’ll be going home when this college year is finished.”

“Or it means you will meet that woman on the train again. You can finish her breast massage. Come on, my turn.” He climbed on, and Maneck fished in his pocket for another twenty-five-paise coin.

“Forty-six kilos,” said Om, and turned it over. “ ‘You will soon be visiting many new and exciting places.’ That doesn’t make sense. Going back to our village – that’s not a new place.”

“I think it means the places in Shanti’s blouse and skirt.”

Om struck a stance and raised his hand, reverting to the film dialogue. “Until these fingers are wrapped around your neck, squeezing out your wretched life, there shall be no rest for me!”

“Not when you weigh only forty-six kilos,” said Maneck. “You will have to first practise on a chicken’s neck.”

The train arrived, and they ran from the ticket window to get on. “These train tickets look exactly like the weight cards,” said Om.

“I could have saved the fare,” said Maneck.

“No, it’s too risky. They’ve become very strict because of Emergency.” He described the time when Ishvar and he had been trapped in a raid on ticketless travellers.

The rush hour was over, and the compartment was sparsely occupied. They put up their feet on the empty seat. Maneck unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, flexing his toes. “We walked a lot today.”

“You shouldn’t wear those tight shoes, yaar. My chappals are much more comfortable.”

“My parents would get very upset if I went out in chappals.” He kneaded the toes and soles, then pulled up his socks and put on the shoes.

“I used to massage my father’s feet,” said Om. “And he would massage my grandfather’s feet.”

“Did you have to do it every day?”

“I didn’t have to, but it was a custom. We sat outside in the evenings, on the charpoy. There would be a cool breeze, and birds singing in the trees. I enjoyed doing it for my father. It pleased him so much.” They swayed slightly in their seats as the train rocked along. “There was a callus under the big toe of his right foot – from treadling his sewing-machine. When I was small, that callus used to make me laugh if he wiggled the toe, it looked like a man’s face.”