A Fine Balance (26 page)

Ishvar and Om wondered aloud on the steps outside – was this it, the full extent of Nawaz’s help? But he came back in a minute with paper and pencil for them, dictating names of tailoring shops and instructions to get there. They thanked him for the advice.

“By the way,” said Ishvar, “we heard some terrible screams last night. Do you know what happened?”

“It was those pavement-dwellers. One fellow was sleeping in someone else’s spot. So they took a brick and bashed his head. Animals, that’s what they all are.” He returned to his work, and the tailors left.

After stopping for tea in a stall at the street corner, the two spent a futile, frightening day locating the addresses. The street signs were missing sometimes, or obscured by political posters and advertisements. They had to stop frequently to ask storekeepers and hawkers for directions.

They tried to follow the injunction repeated on several billboards: “Pedestrians! Walk On Pavement!” But this was difficult because of vendors who had set up shop on the concrete. So they walked on the road with the rest, terrified by the cars and buses, marvelling at the crowds who negotiated the traffic nimbly, with an instinct for skipping out of the way when the situation demanded.

“Just takes practice,” said Om with an experienced air.

“Practice at what? Killing or getting killed? Don’t act smart, you’ll get run over.”

But the only mishap they witnessed that day involved a man’s handcart; the rope securing a stack of boxes snapped, scattering the goods. They helped him to reload the cart.

“What’s in them?” asked Om, curious about the rattling.

“Bones,” said the man.

“Bones? From cows and buffaloes?”

“From people like you and me. For export. It’s a very big business.”

They were glad when the cart rolled away. “If I knew what was inside, I would never have stopped to help,” said Ishvar.

By evening, the addresses on the list had been exhausted, yielding neither work nor hope. They tried to make their way back to Nawaz’s shop. Though they had walked this route in the morning, nothing seemed familiar now. Or everything looked the same. Either way it was confusing. Approaching darkness made it worse. The cinema billboards they had hoped to use as landmarks led them astray because all of a sudden there seemed to be so many of them. Was it a right turn or left at the
Bobby
advertisement? Was it the lane with the poster of Amitabh Bachchan facing a hail of bullets while kicking a machine-gun-wielding-villain in the face, or the one with him flashing a hero-type smile at a demure, rustic maiden?

Famished and tired, they at last found Nawaz’s street, and debated whether to buy food before returning to the awning. “Better not,” decided Ishvar. “Nawaz and his bibi will be insulted if they are expecting us to eat with them today. Maybe last night they were just unprepared.”

Their host was at his sewing-machine as they passed the shop. They waved but he didn’t appear to notice, and they went round to the back. “I am finished,” said Omprakash, unrolling the bedding and letting himself drop.

Lying on their backs, they listened to Nawaz’s wife working in the kitchen. A tap was running, glasses rattled, and something clanged. Presently they heard his voice calling “Miriam!” She left the kitchen, and her words were too soft for them to hear. Then from the front came his loud, surly tone again, “No need for all that, I told you already.”

“But it’s just a little tea,” said Miriam. Now husband and wife were both in the kitchen.

“Haramzadi! Don’t argue with me! No means no!” They heard the sharp sound of a slap, and Omprakash flinched. A cry escaped her lips. “Let them go to a restaurant! The thing is, you pamper them and they’ll never leave!”

Miriam’s sobs prevented them outside from picking up what she said, except for fragments: “But why…” and then “… Ashraf’s family…”

“Not my family,” he spat.

The tailors left the awning and went to the stall where they had stopped for morning tea. After devouring a plate of puri-bhaji, Omprakash said, “What I wonder is, how Ashraf Chacha can have someone so horrible for his friend.”

“All people are not the same. Besides, Nawaz’s years in the city must have altered him. Places can change people, you know. For better or worse.”

“Maybe. But Ashraf Chacha would be ashamed to hear him now. If only we had somewhere else to stay.”

“Patience, Om. This is our first day. We’ll find something soon.”

But in four weeks of searching, they obtained a mere three days of work, at a place called Advanced Tailoring. The proprietor, a man named Jeevan, hired them to meet a deadline. The work was very simple: dhotis and shirts, a hundred of each.

“Who needs so many?” asked Omprakash in amazement.

Jeevan strummed his pursed lips with one finger, as though checking the instrument for tuning. He did this whenever he was about to make what he thought was a significant utterance. “Don’t repeat it to anyone – the clothes are for bribes.” Ordered by someone running in a by-election, he explained. The candidate was going to distribute them to certain important people in his constituency.

There was room for only one tailor in Advanced Tailoring, but Jeevan had props in the back that quickly converted the place into a workshop for three. At a height of four feet from the floor, he arranged planks horizontally on brackets in the walls, making a temporary loft. The planks were supported below with bamboo poles. Then he rented two sewing-machines, hoisted them into the loft, and sent Ishvar and Om up after them.

They settled gingerly on their stools. “Don’t be scared,” said Jeevan, strumming his lips. “Nothing will happen to you, I have done this many times before. Look, I am working under you – if you collapse, I also get crushed.”

The structure was shaky, and trembled heavily when the treadles worked. Traffic passing in the street made Ishvar and Om jiggle up and down on the stools. If a door slammed somewhere in the building, their scissors rattled. But they soon got used to the unsteadiness of their existence.

Returning to solid earth after working twenty hours a day for three days, they found the absence of vibrations quite strange. They thanked Jeevan, helped him dismantle the loft, and returned exhausted to their awning.

“Now for some rest,” said Omprakash. “I want to sleep the whole day.”

Nawaz came repeatedly to register his disapproval while they lay recovering. He posed in the back door, looking disgusted, or muttering to Miriam about useless, lazy people. “The thing is, work only comes to those who genuinely want it,” he preached. “These two are wasters.”

Ishvar and Omprakash were too tired to feel indignation, let alone anything stronger. After their day of recuperation, it was back to the routine: asking for directions in the morning and searching for work until evening.

“God knows how much longer we have to suffer those two,” the complaint emerged through the kitchen window. Nawaz did not trouble to lower his voice. “I told you to refuse Ashraf. But did you listen?”

“They do not bother us,” she whispered. “They only –”

“Careful, that one hurts, you’ll cut my toe!”

Ishvar and Omprakash exchanged questioning looks while Nawaz continued his harangue. “The thing is, if I wanted people living under my back awning, I would rent it for good money. You know how dangerous it is, keeping them for so long? All they have to do is file a claim for the space, and we’d be stuck in court for – aah! Haramzadi, I said be careful! You’ll make a cripple out of me, slashing away with your blade!”

The tailors sat up, startled. “I have to see what’s going on,” whispered Omprakash.

He stretched up on tiptoe and peered through the kitchen window. Nawaz was seated on a chair, his foot upon a low stool. Miriam knelt before it with a safety razor blade, slicing away slivers of tough skin from his corns and calluses.

Omprakash lowered himself from the window and described the sight for his uncle. They chuckled a long time about it. “What I am wondering is, how that chootia gets corns if he sits at his sewing-machine all day,” said Omprakash.

“Maybe he walks a lot in his dreams,” said Ishvar.

Roughly four months after the tailors’ arrival, Nawaz began scolding them one morning when they asked him for advice. “Every day you pester me while I am working. This is a very big city. You think I know the names of all the tailors in it? Go search for yourself. And if you cannot find tailoring, try other things. Be a coolie at the railway station. Use your heads, carry wheat and rice for ration-shop customers. Do something, anything.”

Omprakash could see his uncle discomposed by the outburst, so he was quick to retort. “We wouldn’t mind that at all. But it would be an insult to Ashraf Chacha who trained us for so many years and gave us his skills.”

Nawaz was embarrassed by the reminder of that name. “The thing is, I am very busy right now,” he mumbled. “Please go.”

In the street, Ishvar patted his nephew’s back. “Sabaash, Om. That was a first-class reply you gave him.”

“The thing is,” mimicked Omprakash, “the thing is, I am such a first-class fellow.” They laughed and toasted their tiny victory with half-glasses of tea at the street corner. The celebration was short-lived, however, extinguished by the reality of their dwindling savings. Out of desperation Ishvar took up work for a fortnight in a cobbler’s shop that specialized in custom-made shoes and sandals. His job was to prepare the leather for soles and heels. To induce the hardness required in this type of leather, the shop used vegetable tanning. He was familiar with the process from his village days.

They kept the job a secret, for Ishvar was much ashamed of it. The reek from his hands was strong, and he preserved his distance from Nawaz.

Another month passed, their sixth in the city, with their prospects bleak as ever, when Nawaz opened the back door one evening and said, “Come in, come in. Have some tea with me. Miriam! Three teas!”

They approached and put their heads around the doorway. Had they heard him correctly, they wondered?

“Don’t stand there – come, sit,” he said cheerfully. “There is good news. The thing is, I have work for you.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Ishvar, instantly bursting with gratitude. “That’s the best news! You won’t be sorry, we will sew beautifully for your customers –”

“Not in my shop,” Nawaz rudely snuffed out the exuberance. “It’s somewhere else.” He tried to be pleasant again, smiling and continuing. “You will enjoy this job, believe me. Let me tell you more about it. Miriam! Three teas, I said! Where are you?”

She entered with three glasses. Ishvar and Omprakash stood up, joining their palms: “Salaam, bibi.” They had heard her gentle silvery voice often, but it was the first time they found themselves face to face with her. In a manner of speaking, that is, for a black burkha hid her countenance. Her eyes, caged behind the two lace-covered openings, were sparkling.

“Ah, good, tea is ready at last,” said Nawaz. He pointed out the spot where he wanted the glasses set down, then waved his hand at her in a curt dismissal.

After a few sips he got back to business. “A rich Parsi lady came here this afternoon while you were out. Her shoe fell in the gutter.” He snickered. “The thing is, she has a very big export company, and is looking for two good tailors. Her name is Dina Dalai and she left her address for you.” He drew it out of his shirt pocket.

“Did she say what kind of sewing?”

“Top quality, latest fashions. But easy to do – she said paper patterns will be provided.” He watched them anxiously. “You will go, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ishvar.

“Good, good. The thing is, she said she was handing out these slips at many shops. So lots of tailors will be applying.” On the back of the paper he wrote down directions and the train station where they should get off. “Now don’t get lost on your way there. Go to sleep early tonight, wake up early in the morning. Nice and fresh, clear-headed, so you can win the job from the lady.”

Like a mother bustling her charges on the first day of school, Nawaz opened the back door at dawn and roused them by shaking their shoulders, presenting a big smile to their reluctant eyelids. “You don’t want to be late. Please come in for tea after washing and gargling. Miriam! Two teas for my friends!”

He murmured encouragement, advice, caution while they drank. “The thing is, you have to impress the lady. But it must not sound like big talk. Answer all her questions politely, and never interrupt her. Don’t scratch your head or any other part – fine women like her hate that habit. Speak with confidence, in a medium voice. And take a comb with you, make sure you look neat and tidy before you ring her doorbell. Bad hair makes a very bad impression.”

They listened eagerly, Omprakash making a mental note to buy a new pocket-comb; he had broken his, last week. When the tea was drunk Nawaz sped them on their way. “Khuda hafiz, and come back soon. Come back successful.”

They returned after three o’clock, explaining sheepishly to an anxious Nawaz that though they had got there on time, finding the train station for the return journey had been difficult.

“But that would be the same station you got off at in the morning.”

“I know,” Ishvar smiled embarrassedly. “I just cannot tell what happened. The place was so far, we had never been there before, and we-”

“Never mind,” said Nawaz, magnanimous. “A new destination always seems further away than it really is.”

“Every street looks the same. Even when you ask people, the directions are confusing. Even that nice college boy we met on the train had the same problem.”

“You be careful who you talk to. This is not your village. Nice boy could steal your money, cut your throat and throw you in the gutter.”

“Yes, but he was very kind, he even shared his watermelon sherbet with us and –”

“The thing is, did you get the work?”

“Oh yes, we start from Monday,” said Ishvar.

“That’s wonderful. Many, many congratulations and felicitations. Come inside, sit with me, you must be tired. Miriam! Three teas!”

“You are too generous,” said Omprakash. “Just like Ashraf Chacha.”