A Fine Balance (12 page)

One evening, while the slow local waited for a signal change, she gazed beyond the railway fence where a stream of black sewer sludge spilled from an underground drain. Men were hauling on a rope that disappeared into the ground. Their arms were dark to the elbows, the black slime dripping from hands and rope. In the slum behind them, cooking fires smouldered, with smoke smudging the air. The workers were trying to unblock the overflowing drain.

Then a boy emerged out of the earth, clinging to the end of the rope. He was covered in the slippery sewer sludge, and when he stood up, he shone and shimmered in the sun with a terrible beauty. His hair, stiffened by the muck, flared from his head like a crown of black flames. Behind him, the slum smoke curled towards the sky, and the hellishness of the place was complete.

Dina stared, shuddering, transfixed by his appearance, covering her nose against the stench till the train had cleared the area. But the underworld vision haunted her for the rest of the day, and for days to come.

The long, depressing trips, the squalid sights, wore her down. Her spirits were lower than ever. Zenobia could see it in her eyes. “What’s this gloomy face for,” she said, pinching Dina’s cheek lightly.

“I am fed up with this struggle. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You mustn’t give up now. Look, more people have contacted me for paying guests. And one of them is Maneck Kohlah – Aban’s son. Remember her? She was at school with us. She wrote to me that Maneck hates his college hostel, he is desperate to move. I just want to be sure we pick a good character.”

“All these train fares are a waste of money,” said Dina, not listening. She wanted her friend’s approval to abandon the soul-draining journeys.

“But just think – once you find two tailors, how easy your life will be. You want to give up your independence and live with Nusswan or what?”

“Don’t even joke about it.” The prospect persuaded her to continue to leave her address at more and more shops. She felt like the lost children in that fairy tale whose title had slipped her mind, leaving a trail of bread, hoping to be rescued. But birds had devoured the bread. Would she ever be saved, she wondered, or would her trail of paper be devoured, by the wind, by the black sewer sludge, by the hungry army of paper-collectors roaming the streets with their sacks?

Tired and discouraged, she entered a lane where a rivulet of waste water flowed down the middle. Vegetable peelings, cigarette butts, eggshells bobbed along the surface. A little further, the lane narrowed and turned almost entirely into a gutter. Children were floating paper boats in the effluent, chasing them down the lethargic current. Planks had been thrown across to form walkways into shops and houses. When a boat sailed under a plank, emerging safely on the other side, the children clapped with glee.

Dina heard the familiar rattle and hum of a sewing-machine from someone’s doorway. This would be the last tailor for today, she decided, gingerly crossing the plank, and then she would go straight home.

Halfway across, her foot went through a rotten spot. A brief cry escaped her; she kept her balance but lost a shoe. The children waded in, yelling, groping beneath the dark surface, competing to retrieve it.

She reached the shop entrance and took back her dripping shoe, giving the excited little boy who found it a twenty-five-paisa coin. The sound of the sewing-machine had ceased; its operator stood in the doorway, summoned by the commotion.

“What are you rascals up to again?” he shouted at the children.

“They were helping me,” said Dina. “I was coming to your shop and my shoe fell in.”

“Oh,” he grunted, a little deflated. “The thing is, they are always playing bad mischief.” Recognizing a potential customer, he changed his tone. “Please come in, please.”

Her inquiry about tailors disappointed him. He dismissed it with an indifferent “Okay, I’ll try,” playing with his tape measure while she wrote down her name and address.

Then he brightened suddenly. “The thing is, you have come to the right place. I have two wonderful tailors for you. I will send them tomorrow.”

“Really?” she asked, sceptical about the change of heart.

“Oh yes, two beautiful tailors, or my name is not Nawaz. The thing is, they don’t have their own shop, they go out and work. But they are very skilled. You will be so happy with them.”

“Okay, I’ll see them tomorrow.” She departed, nurturing no expectations. There had been several false promises in the past few weeks.

On reaching home, she washed her feet and cleaned her shoes, sickened again at the thought of that lane where the children played with their paper boats. Her hopes would not be raised – neither by the tailor’s pledge nor by Zenobia’s assurance that a boarder was just round the corner, that their schoolfriend’s son, Maneck Kohlah, would drop in any day now to inspect the room.

And so, next morning, when the doorbell rang, Dina welcomed her change of fortune with open arms. The paying guest stood at her door, along with the fruit of yesterday’s square of paper: two tailors named Ishvar and Omprakash Darji.

As Zenobia would have put it, the whole jing-bang trio arrived at her flat together.

T
HE OFFICES OF AU REVOIR EXPORTS
looked and smelled like a warehouse, the floors stacked high with bales of textiles swaddled in hessian. The chemical odour of new fabric was sharp in the air. Scraps of clear plastic, paper, twine, and packing material littered the dusty floor. Dina located the manager at a desk hidden behind metal shelving.

“Hello! Zenobia’s friend – Mrs. Dalai! How are you?” said Mrs. Gupta.

They shook hands. Dina reported that she had found two skilled tailors and was ready to start.

“Wonderful, absolutely wonderful!” said Mrs. Gupta, but it was evident that her excellent humour did not flow merely from Dina’s announcement. The real reason soon bubbled out: she had another appointment at the Venus Beauty Salon this afternoon. Unruly curls which had slipped the leash during the past week would be tamed and brought back into the fold.

This event alone would have been enough to ensure Mrs. Gupta’s happiness, but there were more glad tidings; minor irritants in her life were also being eradicated – the Prime Minister’s declaration yesterday of the Internal Emergency had incarcerated most of the parliamentary opposition, along with thousands of trade unionists, students, and social workers. “Isn’t that good news?” she sparkled with joy.

Dina nodded, doubtful. “I thought the court found her guilty of cheating in the election.”

“No, no, no!” said Mrs. Gupta. “That is all rubbish, it will be appealed. Now all those troublemakers who accused her falsely have been put in jail. No more strikes and morchas and silly disturbances.”

“Oh good,” said Dina nervously.

The manager opened her order book and selected a pattern for the first assignment. “Now these thirty-six dresses are a test for you. Test for neatness, accuracy, and consistency. If your two tailors prove themselves, I will keep giving you orders. Much bigger orders,” she promised. “As I told you before, I prefer to deal with private contractors. Union loafers want to work less and get more money. That’s the curse of this country – laziness. And some idiot leaders encouraging them, telling police and army to disobey unlawful orders. Now you tell me, how can the law be unlawful? Ridiculous nonsense. Serves them right, being thrown in jail.”

“Yes, serves them right,” echoed Dina, absorbed in the dress design. She wished the manager would stick to the work and not keep rambling into politics. “Look, Mrs. Gupta, the hem on the sample dress is three inches wide, but according to the paper pattern it’s only two inches.”

The discrepancy was too trivial for Mrs. Gupta’s consideration. She nodded and shrugged, which made the sari slip from her shoulder. A hand darted to halt the slide. “Thank God the Prime Minister has taken firm steps, as she said on the radio. We are lucky to have someone strong at a dangerous time like this.”

She waved aside further queries. “I have faith in you, Mrs. Dalai, just follow my sample. But did you see the new posters today? They are put up everywhere.”

Dina hadn’t; she keenly wanted to measure the fabrics allocated for the thirty-six dresses, in case there was a shortfall. On second thoughts, no, she decided, it would offend the manager.

“ ‘The Need of the Hour Is Discipline’ – that’s the Prime Minister’s message on the poster. And I think she is absolutely right.” Mrs. Gupta leaned closer and confided softly, “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to stick a few posters on the Au Revoir entrance. Look at those two rascals in the corner. Chatting away instead of stacking my shelves.”

Dina clucked sympathetically and shook her head. “Shall I come back in one week?”

“Please do. And best of luck. Remember, be firm with your tailors or they will sit on your head.”

Dina started to pick up the bundles of cloth but was stopped. The managerial fingers snapped twice to summon a man to load the material in the lift.

“I’ll say hello from you to Zenobia this afternoon. Wish me some luck also,” Mrs. Gupta giggled. “My poor hair is going under the knife again.”

“Yes, of course, good luck.”

Dina brought home the bolts of cloth and made space for the two tailors in the back room. The paying guest wasn’t moving in till next month; that would give her time to get used to one thing. She studied the paper patterns and examined the packet of labels: Chantal Boutique, New York. Restless, she decided to start cutting the patterns, have them ready for Monday. She wondered about the Emergency. If there were riots, the tailors might not be able to come. She didn’t even know where they lived. It would make a terrible impression if the delivery date were not met for this trial consignment.

The Darjis arrived promptly on Monday at eight a.m., by taxi, with their sewing-machines. “On hire purchase,” said Ishvar, proudly patting the Singers. “In three years, when payments are complete, they will belong to us.”

Everything the tailors could spare must have gone towards the first instalment, for she had to pay the taxi driver. “Please deduct from what we earn this week,” said Ishvar.

The machines were carried into the back room. They fitted the drive belts, adjusted the various tensions, loaded the bobbins, and ran off seams on waste cloth to test the stitches. Fifteen minutes later they were ready to sew.

And sew they did. Like angels, thought Dina. The treadles of the Singers rocked and the flywheels hummed as the needles danced in neat, narrow rows upon fabric, while the unfurling bolts of cloth were transformed into sleeves, collars, fronts, backs, pleats, and skirts.

I am the supervisor, she had to remind herself constantly, I must not join in the work. She hovered around, inspecting finished pieces, encouraging, advising. She scrutinized the tailors bent over the machines, their brows furrowed. The inch-long nails on their little fingers intrigued her; they used them for folding seams and making creases. Ishvar’s disfigured cheek was grotesque, she decided: what might have caused it? He did not look like the type to get into a knife fight. His smile and his funny, undecided moustache tended to soften the damage. She shifted her glance to the silent Omprakash. The skeletal figure, sharp and angular, seemed a mechanical extension of the sewing-machine. Delicate as cut-glass crystal, she thought with a pang of concern. And his oily hair – she hoped he wouldn’t smudge the cloth.

Lunchtime came and went, and they continued to work, stopping only to ask for a drink of water. “Thank you,” said Ishvar, gulping it down. “Very nice and cool.”

“Don’t you eat lunch at this time?”

He shook his head fervently as though the suggestion was preposterous. “One meal at night is sufficient. More than that is a waste of time and food.” After a pause, he asked, “Dinabai, what is this Emergency we hear about?”

“Government problems – games played by people in power. It doesn’t affect ordinary people like us.”

“That’s what I said,” murmured Omprakash. “My uncle was simply worrying.”

They returned to their Singers, and Dina felt piecework was a brilliant idea. She rinsed the glass and put it in a separate place. From now on it would be the tailors’ glass.

As the afternoon deepened, Ishvar seemed uncomfortable at his machine. She noticed him sitting hunched forward, legs tight together, as though he had stomach cramp. His feet began faltering on the treadle.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” he smiled embarrassedly.

His nephew came to the rescue, holding up his little finger. “He needs to go.”

“Why didn’t you say it earlier?”

“I was feeling bad to ask,” said Ishvar shyly.

She showed him the wc. The door shut, and she heard the stream hit the toilet. It rose and fell haltingly with the reluctance of an overfull bladder.

Omprakash took his turn when Ishvar returned. “The flush is out of order,” Dina called after him. “Throw some water from the bucket.”

The smell in the wc bothered her. Living alone for so long, I’ve grown too fastidious, she thought. Different diets, different habits – it was only natural their urine left a strange odour.