A Fine Balance (87 page)

“Please tell Om I am sorry not to be there to meet his wife. I am sure she will be very happy with a wonderful mother-in-law like you. (Ha ha, joking again, Aunty.) But next year, when I come home from the Gulf on vacation, I am planning to stop over and see all of you.

“Lastly, I want to thank you for letting me stay in your flat, and for looking after me so well.” The next sentence had been cancelled out, but she could decipher two fragments under the heavy scratches: “the happiest” and “life.”

There was not much more after this. “Good luck with the tailoring. Lots of love to Ishvar and Om, and to you.”

Below his name he had added a postscript. “I have asked Mummy to write the enclosed cheque for three months’ rent, since I did not give proper notice. I hope this is all right. Thanks again.”

The writing went quite blurry now. She removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes. Such a wonderful boy. Would she ever get used to being without his company? His teasing, his constant chatter, his helpful nature, the good-morning smile, his antics with the cats, even if his ideas about life and death were a bit grim. And how generous the cheque was; she was certain he had pressured his mother into writing it.

But it was selfish to feel sad, she thought, when she should be happy about Maneck’s opportunity. He was right, lots of people had made fortunes by working in these oil-rich countries.

Two days after receiving the letter, Dina went to the Venus Beauty Salon. The receptionist returned from the rear and announced that Zenobia was with a customer. “Please wait in the waiting area, madam.”

Dina sat near a withered plant and picked up a stale issue of
Woman’s Weekly
, smiling to herself. Clearly, Zenobia was still miffed about the business of Om’s wife, and this was her way of letting her know, or she would have come running, clutching scissors and comb, breathless, said hello, and run back.

Forty-five minutes passed before Zenobia emerged to escort her customer to the door. The extravagantly coiffed woman was none other than Mrs. Gupta. “What a surprise to see you here, Mrs. Dalai,” she said. “Is Zenobia doing your hair?” Despite the smile, something about the left corner of her upper lip suggested she did not approve of the idea.

“Oh no, I could never afford her services! I just dropped in to chat.”

“I hope her charges for chatting are more reasonable than for hairstyling,” tittered Mrs. Gupta. “But I’m not complaining, she is a genius. Just look – what a miracle she has performed today.” She moved her head in a slow rotation from left to right and back again, letting it come to rest statuesquely in a gaze frozen at the ceiling fan.

“So lovely,” said Dina without wasting time. Mrs. Gupta was capable of holding her pose indefinitely if a compliment were not forthcoming.

“Thank you,” she said coyly, and allowed her cranium to move again. “But when are we going to see you at Au Revoir? Have your tailors returned or not?”

“I think we’ll start next week.”

“Let’s hope they don’t ask for honeymoon leave when their wedding leave finishes. Or there will be another population increase.” Mrs. Gupta tittered again, glancing in the mirror behind the reception counter. She patted her hair and departed reluctantly; the angle of that particular glass had given her immense satisfaction.

Alone with her friend, Dina smiled confidentially, sharing a wordless opinion of Mrs. Gupta. But Zenobia’s response was cold. “You wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes, I got a letter from Maneck Kohlah. He doesn’t need my room anymore.”

“I’m not surprised,” she sniffed. “Must be fed up of living with tailors.”

“Actually, they all got along very well.” She was aware, as she mouthed the words, that the statement did not do justice to her household. But what else to say? Could she describe for Zenobia the extent to which Maneck and Om had become inseparable, and how Ishvar regarded both boys like his own sons? That the four of them cooked together and ate together, shared the cleaning and washing and shopping and laughing and worrying? That they cared about her, and gave her more respect than she had received from some of her own relatives? That she had, during these last few months, known what was a family?

It was impossible to explain. Zenobia would say she was being silly and imagining fancy things, turning a financial necessity into something sentimental. Or she would accuse the tailors of manipulating her through fawning and flattery.

So Dina merely added, “Maneck isn’t coming back because he has got a very good job in the Gulf.”

“Well,” said Zenobia. “Whatever the real reason, you need a replacement paying guest.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. Do you have someone?”

“Not right now. I’ll keep it in mind.” She rose to return to work. “It’s going to be difficult. Anyone who sees your Technicolour curtain and a tribe of tailors on the verandah will run from that room.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remove the curtain.” Dina expected her friend would come through; when Zenobia was upset, she took a few days to recover, that was all.

She went home and made sure Maneck’s room was spotless. But she must stop thinking of it now as Maneck’s room, she resolved. Dusting and cleaning, she found the chess set in the cupboard. Should she send it to Maneck? By the time it reached the hill-station, he would have left for the Gulf. Better to save it till he visited next year, as he had written.

Dina liked this idea, and tucked away the set among her own clothes in the sewing room. It seemed to fix Maneck’s visit more definitely in time. It was a comforting thought, drowning the other, painful one – that he would never live here again.

At night, she went to the kitchen window and fed the cats, calling them by the names he had given them.

The full six weeks had elapsed, and yet she kept waiting patiently, certain at every ring of the doorbell that Ishvar and Om had returned. Then the hire-purchase man arrived to demand the overdue amount on the two Singers.

“The tailors are coming next week,” she stalled. “You know how busy it gets when there is a wedding.”

“They have been late too often,” grumbled the man. “The company shouts at me that I am not collecting on time.” He agreed to wait for seven more days.

Later that morning, the doorbell rang again. She ran to the verandah.

It was Beggarmaster. He was carrying a small wedding gift. “An aluminium tea kettle,” he said, disappointed that the tailors were not yet back.

“I’m hoping for next week, latest,” said Dina. “The export company is also getting impatient.”

“I’ll bring the gift next Thursday.”

She knew what he was getting at: his instalment, like the hire-purchase maris, was overdue. “There won’t be any problem with the landlord, will there? Because the tailors haven’t paid? I can give you a little right now, if you insist.”

“Not at all. I am looking after the flat, don’t worry. With such good people I am not concerned about temporary arrears. You came to Shankar’s funeral, I won’t forget that.”

He made a collection note in his diary and shut the briefcase. “Yesterday I finally made the donation to the temple in Shankar’s memory. There was a small puja, and as the priest was ringing the bell, I felt such peace. Maybe it’s time for me to give up this business, devote myself to prayer and meditation.”

“Are you serious? What will happen to all your beggars? And to the tailors and me?”

Beggarmaster nodded wearily. “That’s the thing. For the sake of my worldly duties, I must keep in check my spiritual urges. Don’t worry, I will not abandon any of my dependants.” The briefcase chain on his wrist rattled softly as he left. She noticed it had started to rust.

The reassurance bestowed by his solemn pledge evaporated within minutes. After the morning’s two visitors, the anxiety she had kept at bay began closing in, prowling and circling like a predator. Now she was certain that the tailors’ failure to return meant more than a brief delay. And not even the courtesy of a postcard. What could have happened that they could not let her know in a few words: please excuse us, Dinabai, we have decided to settle again in our village, Om and his wife prefer it. Just a few lines. Was that too much to expect? Zenobia was right, it was foolish to trust their type of people. They had used her, and discarded her.

To complete the day, the bell taunted her a third time, late in the afternoon. She turned the knob without putting on the chain. The bright sun made the precaution seem unnecessary. Then the opening door presented a fearful apparition.

“Ohhh!” she screamed, badly scared. The man, wasted and with freshly healed scars on his forehead, a wild gaze about his eyes, looked as though he had risen from his deathbed.

She tried to push the door shut. But he spoke, and her fears diminished. “Don’t be frightened, ma-ji,” he gasped. “I mean no harm.” It was the pitiful whine of a wounded creature, the wheezing of damaged lungs. “Two tailors work here? Ishvar and Omprakash?”

“Yes.”

The man almost collapsed with relief. “Please, can I see them?”

“They are away for a few days,” said Dina, stepping back; his smell was strong.

“They will come back soon?” his words groped desperately.

“Maybe. Who are you?”

“A friend. We lived in the same jhopadpatti, till government flattened it.”

For a moment Dina wondered if this could be Rajaram, the one who wanted to renounce the world and become a sanyasi. She had seen him only once or twice – could the hardship of sanyas have already altered him so greatly? “You are not the hair-collector, are you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I am Monkey-man. But my monkeys are dead.” He fingered his forehead, touching the itchy scars delicately. “The tailors had told me they worked in this neighbourhood. Since yesterday, I’ve been going to every building on this road, knocking at every flat. And now – they are not here.” He looked ready to cry. “Ishvar and Om are still with Beggarmaster, yes?”

“I think so.”

“You know where he lives?”

“No. Beggarmaster always comes here to collect. In fact, he was here today.”

Monkey-man’s eyes lit up. “How long ago? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know – hours ago, in the morning.” The hope vanished from his face. Like light from a bulb, she thought, on and off.

“I have very important business with him. And I don’t know how to find him.”

His helplessness, the sight of his battered body, the despair in his voice made Dina wince. “Beggarmaster is coming again next Thursday,” she volunteered.

Monkey-man touched his forehead and bowed. “May God bless you and grant all your wishes for helping a wretch like me.”

The hire-purchase man returned the following week and said he could not wait any longer for payment. Expecting more excuses from Dina, he was determined to be firm this time.

“I don’t want you to wait,” she snapped. “Take the machines right now, I refuse to keep them another minute.”

“Thank you,” he said, astonished. “Our van will pick them up tomorrow morning.”

“Did you hear me? I said right now. If they are not gone in one hour, I will push them out of my flat. I’ll leave them in the middle of the road.” The man hurried off to telephone the office for an urgent pickup.

Expelling the sewing-machines made her feel better. Let the rascals come back and find their Singers vanished, she thought. That would teach them a lesson for life.

Next, she waited for Beggarmaster and his wedding gift. With him, too, she decided to change tactics and let him know the tailors had disappeared. His missing instalments would make him act quickly, track them down wherever they were.

But Beggarmaster did not keep his appointment. How unlike his punctual habit, she thought, as the day passed. Could he and the tailors have formed a wicked alliance against her, planning to get rid of her and take over the flat? Anxiety stimulated her imagination, causing nefarious plots to flower, to plague her with their scent till next morning, when a knock on the door finally revealed the truth.

Disappointment, betrayal, joy, heartache, hope – they all entered her life through the same door, she thought. She listened for the clink of Beggarmaster’s briefcase chain. Nothing. And then another soft knock. Whoever it was, was staying clear of the jangling bell. She opened the door, leaving on the security chain.

A wisp of white beard came through the crack, and then the voice: “Please sister, let me in! I’ll be punished if someone from the office sees me, I’m hot supposed to be here!”

Reluctantly, she unhooked the chain and allowed Ibrahim inside. “What do you mean, not supposed to be here? You’re the rent-collector.”

“Not anymore, sister. Landlord dismissed me last week. He said I was destructive with office property, that I was breaking too many folders. He showed me the stationery records since I started there forty-eight years ago. Seven folders I had been through – one leather-bound, three buckram, and three plastic. Seven is the limit, the landlord told me, seven folders and you’re out.”

“What nonsense,” said Dina. “You were always so careful with it, keeping it clean, opening and shutting it gently. It’s not your fault if they give you cheap-quality folders that fall apart in a few years.”