A Fine Balance (82 page)

“Let me know when you are hungry,” said Ashraf. “I have cooked some dal and rice. I also have your favourite mango achaar.”

Om licked his lips. “It’s such fun to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“Yes,” said Ishvar. “You know, Chachaji, Dinabai is very nice, and we get along very well now, but here it’s different. This is home. Here I can relax more. In the city, every time I go out anywhere, I feel a little scared.”

“What, yaar, you’re simply letting all those troubles haunt you. Forget them now, it was a long time ago.”

“Troubles?”

“Nothing much,” said Ishvar. “We’ll tell you later. Come, let’s eat before the rice and dal becomes dry.”

They sat in the shop, talking till late in the night, Ishvar and Om taking care to soften the details of their trials. They did this instinctively, wishing to spare Ashraf Chacha the pain, seeing how he winced in empathy with everything they described.

Around midnight Om began nodding off, and Ashraf suggested they go to bed. “My old head could stay up listening all night, it has not much need of sleep. But you two must rest.”

Ishvar moved aside the chairs to make space for bedding on the floor. Ashraf stopped him. “Why here? There is just me upstairs. Come on.” They climbed the steps from the shop to the room above. “What life there was in this place once. Mumtaz, my four daughters, my two apprentices. What fun we had together, nah?”

He got extra sheets and blankets from a trunk smelling of naphthalene. “My Mumtaz packed it all away after our daughters married and left. She was so careful – every year she would air it out, and put in new mothballs.”

Om was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. “Reminds me of you and Narayan,” whispered Ashraf. “When you first came here as little boys, remember? You would go down to the shop after dinner and spread your mats. You would fall asleep so peacefully, as though it was your own house. You could have paid me no greater compliment.”

“The way you and Mumtaz Chachi looked after us, it felt like our own house.” They reminisced a few minutes longer before switching off the light.

Ashraf wanted to present new shirts to Ishvar and Om. “We’ll go for them this afternoon,” he said.

“Hoi-hoi, Chachaji. That’s too much to take from you.”

“You want to cause me unhappiness, refusing my gift?” he protested. “For me, too, Om’s marriage is very important. Let me do what I want to do.” The shirts were to wear at the four bride-viewing visits. The wedding garments would be negotiated later, with the family of the girl they selected.

Ishvar relented, but on one condition – that he and Om would help him make the shirts. Chachaji toiling alone at the sewing-machine was out of the question.

“But nobody needs to sew,” said Ashraf. “There is the new ready-made shop in the bazaar. The one that stole our customers. How can you forget? That shop was the reason you had to leave.”

He told them about the faithful clients who, one by one, had abandoned Muzaffar Tailoring, including those whose families had been customers since his father’s time. “The loyalty of two generations has vanished like smoke on a windy day, by the promise of cheaper prices. Such a powerful devil is money. Good thing you left when you did, there is no future here.”

It was not long before Om brought up the other, always unspoken, reason for their flight to the city. “What about Thakur Dharamsi? You haven’t mentioned him. Is that daakoo still alive?”

“The district has put him in charge of Family Planning.”

“So what is his method? Does he murder babies, to control the population?”

His uncle and Ashraf Chacha exchanged uneasy glances.

“I think our people should get together and kill that dog.”

“Don’t start talking nonsense, Omprakash,” warned Ishvar. His nephew’s old unhappy rage seemed to be on the verge of returning, and it worried him.

Ashraf took Om’s hand. “My child, that demon is too powerful. Since the Emergency began, his reach has extended from his own village to all the way here. He is a big man now in the Congress Party, they say he will become a minister in the next elections – if the government ever decides to have elections. Nowadays, he wants to look respectable, avoids any goonda-giri. When he wants to threaten someone, he doesn’t send his own men, he just tells the police. They pick up the poor fellow, give him a beating, then release him.”

“Why are we wasting our time talking about that man?” said Ishvar angrily. “We are here for a joyous occasion, we have nothing to do with him, God will deal with Thakur Dharamsi.”

“Exactly,” said Ashraf. “Come on, let’s go buy the shirts.” He hung out a sign that the shop would reopen at six. “Not that it matters. Nobody comes.” He struggled with the steel collapsibles, and Om went to help. The grating stuck in its track, demanding to be reversed, shaken loose, coaxed forward.

“Needs oiling,” he panted. “Like my old bones.”

They took the dirt road to the bazaar, treading the hard, dry earth past grain sheds and labourers’ hovels. Their sandals crunched lightly and kicked up tiny tongues of dust.

“How was the rain in the city?”

“Too much,” said Ishvar. “Streets were flooded many times. And here?”

“Too little. The devil held his umbrella over us. Let’s hope he shuts it this year.”

The way to the clothes shop led past the new Family Planning Centre, and Om slowed down, peering inside. “You said Thakur Dharamsi is in charge here?”

“Yes, and he makes a lot of money out of it.”

“How? I thought government pays the patients to have the operation.”

“The rogue puts all that cash in his own pocket. The villagers are helpless. Complaining only brings more suffering upon their heads. When the Thakur’s gang goes looking for volunteers, the poor fellows quietly send their wives, or offer themselves for the operation.”

“Hai Ram. When a demon like this is allowed to prosper, the world must really be passing through the darkness of Kaliyug.”

“And you tell me I am talking nonsense,” said Om scornfully. “Killing that swine would be the most sensible way to end Kaliyug.”

“Calm down, my child,” said Ashraf. “He who spits paan at the ceiling only blinds himself. For the crimes in this world, the punishment occurs in the Next World.”

Om rolled his eyes. “Yes, definitely. But tell me, how much money can he make from that place? The operation bonus is not very big.”

“Ah, but it’s not his only source. When the patients are brought to the clinic, he auctions them.”

“What does that mean?”

“You see, government employees have to produce two or three cases for sterilization. If they don’t fill their quota, their salary is held back for that month by the government. So the Thakur invites all the schoolteachers, block development officers, tax collectors, food inspectors to the clinic. Anyone who wants to can bid on the villagers. Whoever offers the most gets the cases registered in his quota.”

Ishvar shook his head in despair. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, putting his hands over his ears. “Bas, I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Ashraf. “To listen to the things happening in our lifetime is like drinking venom – it poisons my peace. Every day I pray that this evil cloud over our country will lift, that justice will take care of these misguided people.”

As they were moving away from the building, someone from the Family Planning Centre came to the door. “Please step inside,” he said. “No waiting, doctor is on duty, we can do the operation right away.”

“Keep your hands off my manhood,” said Om.

The fellow started explaining wearily that it was a misconception people had about vasectomy, the manhood was not involved, the doctor did not even touch that part.

“It’s all right,” smiled Ashraf. “We know. The boy is only teasing you.” He waved genially, and they continued on their way.

Outside the ready-made shop, shirt-and-pant combinations flapped on wire hangers, suspended from the awning like headless scarecrows. The main stock was in cardboard boxes on shelves. Having assessed their sizes, the salesman proceeded to display some shirts. Om made a face.

“You don’t like?”

Om shook his head. The man pushed the boxes aside and showed a battery of alternate selections. He watched his customers anxiously.

“That’s a nice one,” said Ishvar, out of consideration for the man. He examined a short-sleeved shirt with checks. “Just like the one Maneck has.”

“Yes, but look how badly the buttons are sewn,” objected Om. “One wash and they will come off.”

“If you like the shirt, take it,” said Ashraf. “I will strengthen the buttons for you.”

“Let me show you more,” said the salesman. “This box has our special patterns, top quality, from Liberty Garment Company.” He fanned out half a dozen specimens along the counter. “Stripes are very popular nowadays.”

Om picked up a light-blue shirt with dark-blue lines and slid off the transparent plastic bag. “Look at that,” he said disgustedly, shaking it open. “The pocket is crooked, the stripes don’t even meet.”

“You are right,” the salesman admitted, uncovering more boxes. “I just sell the clothes, I don’t make them. What to do, no one takes pride in good workmanship anymore.”

“Very true,” said Ishvar. “It’s like that everywhere.”

Lamenting the changing times, it became easier to find acceptable shirts. The man folded their choices along the original creases and slipped them back in the transparent bags. The cellophane crackled opulently. The illusion of value and quality was restored, while string and brown paper secured it in place. He gnawed through the string to sever the required length from the large reel. “Please come back, I will be happy to serve you.”

“Thank you,” said Ashraf.

They stood in the street and debated what to do next. “We could roam in the bazaar,” said Om, “see if there is anyone we know.”

“I have a better plan,” said Ashraf. “Tomorrow is market day. Let’s come in the morning. Everyone from the villages will be here, you will get to meet lots of friends.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Ishvar. “And now let me treat you to paan, before we go home.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve picked up the paan habit,” said Ashraf disapprovingly.

“No no, it’s only because this is a special day, we are seeing you after so long.”

Their mouths bulging with the mixture of betel nut, chunam, and tobacco, they walked back towards Muzaffar Tailoring, passing the Family Planning Centre again, where Ashraf relieved his juice-laden mouth in the ditch and pointed to a parked car. “That’s Thakur Dharamsi’s new motor. He must be inside, counting his victims.”

Ishvar immediately began steering them across the road.

“What are you running for?” said Om. “We don’t have to be scared of that dog.”

“Better to avoid any trouble.”

“I agree,” said Ashraf. “Why see the demon’s face if you can help it?”

Just then, Thakur Dharamsi emerged from the building, and Om strode boldly towards him on a collision course. Ishvar tried to pull him back beside Ashraf Chacha. The smooth leather soles of Om’s sandals slipped on the pavement. He felt foolish. His uncle was winning the tug of war, and his defiance was turning into humiliation before the Thakur.

Om spat.

The arc of red ended several feet short; the sticky juice soaked the earth between them. The Thakur stopped. The two men with him awaited instructions. In their vicinity, people faded like the light, fearful of witnessing what might follow.

The Thakur said very softly, “I know who you are.” He got in the car, slammed the door, and drove off.

The rest of the way home, Ishvar was frantic with rage and anxiety. “You are mad! Bilkool paagal! If you want to die why don’t you swallow rat poison? Have you come for a wedding or a funeral?”

“My wedding, and the Thakur’s funeral.”

“Leave your clever talk! I should give your face one backhand slap!”

“If you hadn’t stopped me, I could have spat over him. Exactly in his face.”

Ishvar raised his hand to strike, but Ashraf made him desist. “What’s happened has happened. We have to stay out of that demon’s way from now on.”

“I’m not scared of him,” said Om.

“Of course you’re not. We just don’t want any trouble to spoil the wedding preparations, that’s all. Our joy doesn’t need to be darkened by that demon’s shadow.”

He had to keep applying his words like balm upon Ishvar’s anguish. But now and again the terror broke through, erupting in a bitter condemnation of his nephew’s stupidity. “Acting like a hero and thinking like a zero. My fault only, for buying paan for you. A bad-tempered owl, as Dinabai used to call you. What has become of your humour and your joking? Without Maneck you have forgotten how to laugh, how to enjoy life.”

“You should have brought him with you, if you think he’s so wonderful. I would have stayed back.”

“You are talking bilkool nonsense. We are here for just a few days. Soon we return to our jobs. You can’t behave sensibly even for this short time?”

“That’s what you said in the city – that we would be there for a short while only, and soon go back to our native place.”

“So? Is it my fault that it’s tougher than we expected, making money in the city?”

Then they abandoned the topic altogether. Quarrelling on would have meant Ashraf Chacha learning about the misery concealed in the details they had spared him.

Market day was noisier than usual because the Family Planning Centre was promoting its sterilization camp from a booth in the square, its loudspeakers at full blast. Banners were strung across the road, exhorting participation in the Nussbandhi Mela. The usual paraphernalia of the fairground – balloons, flowers, soap bubbles, coloured lights, snacks – were employed to lure the townsfolk and visiting villagers. The film songs were interrupted often with announcements about the nation’s need for birth control, the prosperity and happiness in store for those willing to be sterilized, the generous bonuses for vasectomies and tubectomies.

“Where will they perform the operations?” wondered Om. “Right here?”

“Why? You want to watch or what?” said Ishvar.