A Fine Balance (36 page)

Mrs. Kohlah had never been one for walking. “I prefer to enjoy the view from my kitchen,” she said whenever her husband invited her. “It’s less tiring.”

But for Mr. Kohlah, long, solitary rambles were the great pleasure of his life, especially after winter, when every outing was graced by delicious uncertainty – what lay round the next bend? A newborn rivulet, perhaps? Wildflowers he had not noticed yesterday? Among his more awesome memories was a mighty boulder riven by a shrub growing out of it. Sometimes he was the victim of a sweet ambush: a prospect of the valley from a hitherto unseen angle.

Nowadays, every stroll was like a deathwatch, to see what was still standing and what had been felled. Coming upon a favourite tree, he would stop under its branches a while before moving on. He would run his hand along the gnarled trunk, happy that an old friend had survived another day. Many of the rocky ledges that he used to sit on to watch the sunset had been removed by dynamite. When he did find one, he rested for a few minutes and wondered if it would be here for him the next time.

Before long they began talking in town about him. “Mr. Kohlah’s screw is getting a little loose,” they said. “He speaks to trees and rocks, and pats them like they were his dogs.”

When Maneck heard the gossip, he burned with shame, wishing his father would stop this embarrassing behaviour. He also boiled with anger, wishing to slap some sense into the ignorant, insensitive people.

On the fifth anniversary of the new road, the local punchayet, dominated by a new breed of businessmen and entrepreneurs, organized a small celebration, inviting everyone to participate. Repulsed by the very idea, Mr. Kohlah left the shop early that evening. He pulled off his eyepatch and started on his walk. The rented loudspeakers, from their perches on tree branches in the town square, followed him for some distance with tinny music and the babble of empty speeches.

He must have walked about three miles when the light of day turned towards the promise of sunset. Strains of pink and orange were weaving their ephemeral threads through the sky. He stopped to gaze westwards, eager to savour the moment. At times like these he wished for two eyes again, to get a wider sweep of the landscape.

Then his gaze was pulled downwards, across the treeless hillside. From hundreds of shacks there rose the grey, stinging smoke of frugal cooking fires. The gauze obscured the horizon. Facing upwind, he could smell the acrid haze and, behind it, the stench of human waste that it grimly tried to shroud. He shifted his weight uncertainly. A twig snapped under his feet. He stood still, asking himself what he was waiting for. He heard the stark voices of mothers calling, the shrieks of children, the barking of pariah dogs. He imagined the miserable contents of the pots blackening over the fires while hungry mouths waited around.

Suddenly, he noticed that dusk had fallen: the sunset was forfeited behind the pall. And the entire scene was so mean and squalid by twilight, so utterly beyond his ability to accept or comprehend. He felt lost and frightened. Waves of anger, compassion, disgust, sorrow, failure, betrayal, love – surged and crashed, battering and confusing him. For what? Of whom? And why was it? If only he could…

But he could make no sense of his emotions. He felt a tightness in his chest, then his throat constricted as if he were choking. He wept helplessly, silently.

The evening darkened. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. It was a moment before he realized, dabbing at phantom tears, that only the good eye was wet. Strange, he could have sworn the missing one had cried too.

Returning home through the gloom, he decided there was no meaning in going for walks from now on. If meaning there was, it was too new and terrifying for him to explore.

There was no place of escape. Not for himself, at any rate. His dreams had succumbed, as they must, during their collisions with the passing years. He had struggled, he had won, he had lost. He would keep on struggling – what else was there for him?

But for his son, he began considering other options for the first time.

Between them, relations did not improve when Maneck came home for the two-week break before his final term. Their most frequent arguments concerned the running of the store. Maneck was full of ideas about merchandising and marketing, which his father rejected outright.

“At least let me finish talking,” said Maneck. “Why are you so stubborn? Why not give it a try?”

“This is not a little hobby that we can try and toy with,” said Mr. Kohlah, his face mournful. “It’s our bread and butter.”

“Are you fighting again, you two?” said Mrs. Kohlah. “I’m going crazy listening to it.”

“You have no control over your son,” said Mr. Kohlah, even more mournful. “Can you not do something about his non-stop keech-keech? He contradicts everything I say. He thinks he has a new formula for success – he thinks this is a science experiment.”

He refused to let Maneck order new brands of soap or biscuits which were proving popular elsewhere. Suggestions to improve the lighting in the dingy interior, paint the walls, renovate the shelves and glass cases to make the display more attractive were all received like blasphemy.

Maneck had trouble reconciling this absurdly cautious man with the image that had grown in his head from stories told by his mother, and by his father’s friends: of the fearless individual who had descended a rope into the rain-swollen gorge to rescue a puppy; who had shrugged off the loss of his eye to flying glass as though it was no more than a mosquito bite; and who had once thrashed three thieves that had wandered into the store looking for easy prey, tempted by the sight of the lone woman behind the counter, not reckoning on her husband bottling soft drinks in the cellar – like sacks of rice Mr. Kohlah had tossed them around, said his friends.

And now his father was disintegrating all because of the construction of a silly road. Maneck, too, had lately seen the world being remade around him. But with optimism surging through youthful veins, he was certain that things would sort themselves out. He was fifteen: he was immortal, the hills were eternal. And the General Store? It had been there for generations and would be there for generations more, there was no doubt in his mind.

Secretly, Mr. Kohlah also hoped it would be thus – that a miracle would restore the past. But he had read the signs, and the message was unfavourable. Snuggled amid the goods that the loathsome lorries transported up the mountains was a deadly foe: soft drinks, to stock the new shops and hotels.

In the beginning they dribbled into town in small quantities – a few crates that were easily outnumbered by the ever-popular Kaycee. Out of curiosity, people would occasionally sample the newcomers, then shrug and turn their backs; Kohlah’s Cola was still number one.

But the giant corporations had targeted the hills; they had Kaycee in their sights. They infiltrated Mr. Kohlah’s territory with their boardroom arrogance and advertising campaigns and cut-throat techniques. Representatives approached him with a proposition: “Pack up your machines, sign over all rights to Kohlah’s Cola, and be an agent for our brand. Come grow with us, and prosper.”

Of course Mr. Kohlah refused the offer. For him it was not merely a business decision but a question of family name and honour. Besides, he was certain his good neighbours and the people of these settlements were not fickle, they would stay loyal to Kohlah’s Cola. He was prepared to put up a fair fight against the competition.

But, like bow ties and watch-chains, fair fights had gone out of style while Mr. Kohlah wasn’t looking. The corporations handed out free samples, engaged in price wars, and erected giant billboards showing happy children with smiling parents, or a man and woman tenderly touching foreheads over a bottle out of which two straws penetrated the lovers’ lips. The dribble of new soft drinks turned into a deluge. Brands which had been selling for years in the big cities arrived to saturate the town.

“We must strike back,” said Maneck. “We should also advertise – give out free samples like them. If they want to use hard sell, we do the same.

“Hard sell?” said Mr. Kohlah disdainfully. “What kind of language is that? Sounds absolutely undignified. Like begging. These big companies from the city can behave like barbarians if they want to. Here we are civilized people.” He gave Maneck his mournful gaze, disappointed with him for even suggesting it.

“Look at him,” Maneck appealed to his mother. “He’s making his long face again. Anything I say, he makes that face at me. He doesn’t give my ideas any consideration.”

So Kohlah’s Cola never stood a chance. The General Store’s backbone was broken, and the secret formula’s journey down the generations was nearing its end.

Mr. Kohlah went ahead with the alternate plan for his son, who would soon be obtaining his Secondary School Certificate. He began making inquiries and sending away to various colleges for their prospectuses.

“Are you sure this is necessary, Farokh?” asked Mrs. Kohlah.

“The slow coach gets left behind,” he answered. “And I don’t want the same thing to happen to Maneck.”

“Oh Farokh, how can you say that? Just look at your success – you lost everything during Partition, yet you made such a good life for all of us. How can you call yourself a slow coach?”

“Maybe I’m not – maybe the world is moving too fast. But the end result is the same.”

He would not be distracted from his purpose, and career possibilities were discussed with the faithful family friends. They agreed it was an excellent idea to keep the options open.

“Not that your business is going to fail,” said Brigadier Grewal. “But it’s good to be prepared on all fronts. Nice to have a big gun in reserve.”

“Exactly my thinking,” said Mr. Kohlah.

“Would be so nice if he could be a doctor or lawyer,” said Mrs. Kohlah, plunging straight into the glamour areas.

“Or an engineer.”

“Chartered accountant is also very prestigious,” said Mrs. Grewal.

It was up to the army chaps to steer the discussion into the practical realm. “We have to deal with the reality on the ground. The choice is limited by Maneck’s marks.”

“Which is not to say that he isn’t talented.”

“Not at all. Sharp as a bayonet, like his father.”

“And he is good with his hands,” agreed Mr. Kohlah, taking the compliment in stride.

Something technical for Maneck, that much was certain, they all agreed. Preferably in an industry that would grow with the nation’s prosperity. The answer, in a country where most of the population lived in tropical or subtropical climates, was obvious and unanimous: “Refrigeration and air-conditioning.” And the best college granting diplomas in this field, they discovered, was in Mrs. Kohlah’s native city by the sea, the one she had forsaken to marry Mr. Kohlah.

When the final term ended, Maneck came home to discover what had been decided for him and protested vehemently. The second betrayal was not received with a slow ache, as the first one had been. It exploded inside him.

“You promised that when I got my S.S.C. I could work with you! You said you wanted me to take over the family business!”

“Calm down – you will, you will,” said Mr. Kohlah, mustering more conviction than he felt. “This is just in case. You see, in the past it was easier to plan for the future. Nowadays, things are more complicated, too much uncertainty.”

“It’s a waste of time,” said Maneck. He was sure that his father was doing this to be rid of him – to be rid of his interference in the General Store, as though he were a rival. “If you want me to learn a trade or something, I can become a mechanic at Madanlal’s Garage. In the valley. Why do I have to go so far away?”

Mr. Kohlah made his mournful face. Brigadier Grewal laughed good-humouredly. “Young man, if you are planning a second line of defence, make sure it’s a strong one. Or don’t bother.”

The family friends said Maneck was a very lucky fellow, and should be grateful for the opportunity. “At your age, we would have been thrilled to spend a year in the most modern, most cosmopolitan city in the whole country.”

So Maneck was enrolled in the college, and preparations were made for his departure. A new suitcase was purchased. His clothes were sorted through, and tickets booked for the various legs of the journey.

“Don’t worry,” said his mother. “Everything will be all right when you come back after a year. Daddy is just concerned about your future. All these changes – they have happened too fast for him. He should be calmer in a year’s time.”

She began to assemble the items he would take with him in boxes. Fearful of forgetting something, she frequently consulted the suggested checklist in the college handbook. She kept opening and shutting the suitcase, taking things out and putting them back in, counting and rearranging. The woman who effortlessly managed the General Store’s merchandise began going to pieces over her son’s packing.

Time and again, she asked for her husband’s advice. “Farokh, how many towels shall I include? Do you think Maneck will need his good trousers, the grey gabardine ones? How much soap and toothpaste, Farokh? And which medicines shall I pack?”

His answer was always the same: “Don’t bother me with silly things. You decide.” He refused even to come near the growing pile of clothes and personal effects, as though denying its existence. If he had to pass by the open suitcase on the table in the upstairs passage, he would avert his eye.

Mrs. Kohlah understood perfectly well the meaning of her husband’s behaviour. She had assumed that inviting him to share in the planning and packing might help him, make it easier for him to get through the days that were causing so much pain to all of them.

After his brusque responses, she preferred to leave him alone. In any case, she was the stronger of the two when it came to coping with such matters, though neither of them had experienced this long a separation from Maneck. Distance was a dangerous thing, she knew. Distance changed people. Look at her own case – she could never return now to live with her family in the city. And just going to boarding school had made Maneck shun the good-morning hug that he had never missed, ever, not even on days when he was sick, when he came down so lovingly, put his arms around her, then went back to bed. What else would he shun after this separation? Already he was getting more solitary, harder to talk to and share things with, always looking so depressed. How much more would he change? What things would the city do to her son? Was she losing him now forever?