A Fine Balance (9 page)

That night, when she showed the letter to Nusswan, he was livid. “Look at the shameless rascal of a landlord. Not even three months since poor Rustom passed away, and the snake is ready to strike. Nothing doing. You
must
keep the flat.”

“Yes, I think I’ll go back there from next week,” she agreed.

“That’s not what I meant. Stay here for a year, two years – as long as you like. But don’t give up your right. Mark my words, the time is not far-off when accommodation will be impossible to find in the city. An old flat like yours will be a gold mine.”

“It’s true,” said Ruby. “I heard that Putli Maasi’s son had to pay a pugree of twenty thousand rupees just to get his foot in the door. And the rent is five hundred a month. His flat is even smaller than yours.”

“Yes,” said Dina, “but my rent –”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay it,” said Nusswan. “And my lawyer will reply to this letter.”

He was thinking ahead: sooner or later Dina would remarry. At that juncture, it would be very unfortunate if the lack of a flat were to pose an impediment. He definitely would not want the couple living with him. That would be a blueprint for friction and strife.

O
n Rustom’s first death anniversary, Nusswan took the morning off from work. The previous day, he had written notes to Xerxes’ school and Zarir’s kindergarten that they would be “absent in order to attend their late uncle’s prayers at the fire-temple.” Dina was grateful for the entire family’s presence.

“Hard to imagine,” said Nusswan when they got back home, “a whole year has gone by. How time flies.”

A few days later he formally signalled an end to the mourning period by inviting some friends to tea.

Among them were Porus and Solly, two of the many eligible bachelors whom he had strenuously recommended to Dina a few years ago. The two were still single, and still quite eligible, according to Nusswan, if one were willing to forgive minor flaws like incipient potbellies and greying hair.

Priding himself on his subtlety, he said to Dina in private, “You know, either Porus or Solly would jump at the chance to become your husband. Porus’s law practice is flourishing beyond belief. And Solly is now a full partner in the accounting firm. They would have no problem that you are a widow.”

“How kind of them.”

He did not like the sarcasm. It was a reminder of the old Dina – the stubborn, insolent, defiant sister, who he assumed had been transformed into a better person. But he swallowed and continued calmly.

“You know, Dina, I am very impressed with you. No one can accuse you of being frivolous in mourning. You have acted so correctly, so perfectly, this whole year.”

“I was not acting. And it was not difficult.”

“I know, I know,” he said hastily, regretting his choice of words. “What I meant was, I admire your dignity. But the point is, you are still so young. It has been over a year, and you must think of your future.”

“Don’t worry, I understand your concern.”

“Good, that’s all I wanted to say. Come on, time for cards. Ruby!” he called to the kitchen. “Time for rummy!” Now there would be progress, Nusswan was certain.

Over the next few weeks he continued to invite the old assortment of bachelors. “Come, Dina,” he would say, “let me introduce you.” Then, pretending a memory lapse, he would exclaim, “Wait, wait, what am I saying, where is my head? You already know Temton. So let it be a reintroduction.”

All this was enacted in a manner suggesting that a relationship of deep significance was being resumed, a passion rekindled. It irritated Dina intensely, but she tried to keep from frowning while pouring the tea and passing the sandwiches. When the visitors departed, Nusswan resumed with his sledgehammer hints, praising one’s looks, commending the merits of another’s career, pointing out the inheritance awaiting a third.

After four months of bachelor-entertaining and no sign of cooperation from Dina, Nusswan lost his patience. “I have been tactful, I have been kind, I have been reasonable. But which raja’s son are you waiting for? Every chap I introduce, you turn your face away from him and go to the other side of the room. What is it that you want?”

“Nothing.”

“How can you want nothing? Your whole life will be nothing. Be sensible.”

“I know you are doing it for my own good, but I am just not interested.”

The answer reminded Nusswan once again of the old Dina, the ungrateful little sister. He suspected that she looked down upon his friends. And they were such good fellows, all of them. Never mind, he would not let her anger him.

“Fine. As I said, I am a reasonable person. If you don’t like these men, no one is forcing you. Find one yourself. Or we can hire a matchmaker. I hear that Mrs. Ginwalla has the best track record for successful kaaj. Let me know what you prefer.”

“I don’t want to get married so soon.”

“Soon? You call this soon? You are twenty-six years old. What are you hoping for? For Rustom to return miraculously? Be careful, or you’ll go crazy like Bapsy Aunty – she at least had an excuse, her husband’s body was never found after the dock explosion.”

“What a horrible thing to say!” Dina turned away in disgust and left the room.

She had been very young when it happened, but remembered the day clearly, during wartime, when two British ammunition ships had blown up after docking, killing thousands within a large radius of the harbour. Rumours about Nazi spies had begun to spread while the detonations were still in progress. The authorities said that many of those unaccounted for were vaporized during the deadly blasts, but Bapsy Aunty refused to accept this theory. She felt her husband was alive, wandering amnesiac somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before he was located. Alternately, Bapsy Aunty allowed that he might have been hypnotized or fed something by an unscrupulous sadhu and led away into slavery. In either case, she believed her husband would be found. That seventeen years had passed since the calamity did not diminish her faith. She spent her time chatting busily with his photograph, which sat in a heavy silver frame at her bedside, narrating for his benefit each day’s news and gossip in detail.

“It’s your depressing behaviour which reminds me of Bapsy Aunty,” said Nusswan, following Dina into the next room. “What excuse do you have? You were at the funeral, you saw Rustom’s body, you heard the prayers. He has been dead and digested for more than a year now.” As soon as he said it, he rolled his eyes heavenward to ask forgiveness for this bit of irreverence.

“Do you know how fortunate you are in our community? Among the unenlightened, widows are thrown away like garbage. If you were a Hindu, in the old days you would have had to be a good little sati and leap onto your husband’s funeral pyre, be roasted with him.”

“I can always go to the Towers of Silence and let the vultures eat me up, if that will make you happy.”

“Shameless woman! What a loose mouth! Such blasphemy! All I am saying is, appreciate your position. For you it is possible to live a full life, get married again, have children. Or do you prefer to live forever on my charity?”

Dina did not answer. But the next day, while Nusswan was at work, she began moving her belongings back to Rustom’s flat.

Ruby tried to stop her, following her from room to room, pleading with her. “You know how hotheaded your brother is. He does not mean everything he says.”

“Neither does he say everything he means,” she replied, and continued packing.

In the evening Ruby told Nusswan about it. “Hah!” he scoffed, loud enough for Dina to hear. “Let her go if she wants. I would just love to see how she supports herself.”

After dinner, while still at the table, he cleared his throat. “As the head of the family, it’s my duty to tell you I don’t approve of what you are doing You are making a big mistake, which you will regret. It’s a hard world out there, but I’m not going to beg you to stay. You are welcome here if you will be reasonable.”

“Thank you for the speech,” said Dina.

“Yes, make fun of me. You have done it all your life, why stop now. Remember, this is your decision, no one is kicking you out. None of our relatives will blame me, I have done all I can to help you. And will continue to do so.”

It was not long before the children understood that Dina Aunty was leaving. First they were bewildered, and then angry. Xerxes hid her handbag, screaming, “No, Aunty! You cannot go!” When she threatened to leave without it, Zarir brought it tearfully from the hiding place.

“You can always visit me,” she tried to pacify the two, hugging them and drying their eyes. “On Saturday and Sunday. And maybe during the vacation. It will be such fun.” They were excited at the prospect but would have much preferred that she stay with them forever.

The morning after she was back in her flat, Dina went to visit Rustom’s Darab Uncle and Shirin Aunty. “Darab! Look who’s here!” Shirin Aunty shouted excitedly. “Our dearDina! Come in, my child, come in!”

Darab Uncle emerged, still in his pyjamas, and hugged Dina, saying they had waited a long time for this. “Excuse my appearance,” he said, sitting down opposite her and smiling broadly.

As always, Dina was touched by their happiness at seeing her. She felt their love pour over her like something palpable. It reminded her of the milk bath she was given as a child on her birthday, by her mother, when half a cup of warm milk, with rose petals afloat, came trickling down her face and neck and chest in tiny white runnels over her light-brown skin.

“The hardest part,” she said, “is leaving the two little boys. I have become so attached to them.”

“Yes, that’s how it is with children,” said Shirin Aunty. “But you know, Rustom had told us how shabbily your brother treated you in the years before you were married.”

“He is not a bad person,” Dina objected feebly. “He just has his own ideas about things.”

“Yes, of course,” said Shirin Aunty, sensing the weight of family loyalty. “Anyway, you can stay with us. We are so happy you came.”

“Oh,” said Dina, anxious to keep the misunderstanding from going further. “Actually, I have decided to live in Rustom’s flat from now on. I came only to ask if you could find me some work.”

Her words made Darab Uncle’s mouth begin to move. He laboured to swallow the disappointment suddenly filling it, his soft slurping sounds teasing the quiet while Shirin Aunty played desperately with the hem of her dustercoat. “Work,” she said, blank, unable to think. “My dear child … yes, work, you must work. What work, Darab? What work for her, do you think?”

Dina waited in guilty silence for his answer. But he was still struggling with his mouthful. “Go change your clothes,” Shirin Aunty scolded him. “Almost afternoon, and still loitering in your sleeping suit.”

He rose obediently and went inside. Shirin Aunty relinquished her hem, rubbed her hands over her face and sat up. By the time Darab Uncle returned, having exchanged his blue-striped pyjamas for khaki pants and bush shirt, she had the beginnings of a solution for Dina.

“Tell me, my child, can you sew?”

“Yes, a little. Ruby taught me how to use a sewing-machine.”

“Good. Then there will be work for you. I have an extra Singer you can take. It is quite old, but runs well.”

For years, Shirin Aunty had supplemented her husband’s salary from the State Transport Corporation by sewing for a few families. She made simple things like pyjamas, nightgowns, baby blouses, bed-sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths. “You can be my partner,” she said. “There is lots of work, more than I can manage now with my weak old eyes. We will start tomorrow.”

Dina picked up her handbag and hugged Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle. They accompanied her to the front door. Then a commotion in the street drew them to the balcony. A huge protest march was surging down the road.

“It’s another silly morcha about language,” said Darab Uncle, spotting the banners. “The fools want to divide the state on linguistic lines.”

“Everyone wants to change things,” said Shirin Aunty. “Why can’t people learn to be happy with things as they are? Anyway, let’s go back inside. Dina cannot leave now. All the traffic is stopped.” She sounded quite pleased about it, and enjoyed Dina’s company for two more hours, till the streets had returned to normal.

Over the next few days, Dina was taken around and introduced to the customers. At each stop she waited nervously by Shirin Aunty’s side, smiling timidly, trying to grasp the barrage of names and the tailoring instructions. Shirin Aunty kept handing over most of the new jobs to her.

At the end of the week, Dina finally protested: “I cannot accept so much, I cannot deprive you of your income.”

“My dear child, you are not depriving me of anything. Darab’s pension is enough for us. I was going to give up the sewing anyway, it was becoming too hard for me. Here, don’t forget this new pattern.”

Along with the assignments, Shirin Aunty passed along background material on the customers, information that would help Dina in her dealings with them. “The Munshi family is the best – always pays promptly. The Parekhs too, except that they like to haggle. You just be firm, tell them I have set the rates. Who else? Oh yes, Mr. Savukshaw. He has a big problem with the bottle. By the end of the month his poor missis has hardly any money left. Make sure you take advance payment.”

With the Surtees, the situation was rather unique. Whenever Mr. and Mrs. Surtee fought, she did not cook any dinner. Instead, she pulled out all his pyjamas from the cupboard and set fire to them, saving the ashes and charred wisps in a dinner plate to set before him when he came home from work.

“The result,” said Shirin Aunty, “is more business for you. Every two or three months, after they make up, Mrs. Surtee will give you a large order for pyjamas. But you must pretend it’s normal, or she will get rid of you.”

Dina’s collection of domestic portraits continued to grow as Shirin Aunty rendered descriptions of the Davars and Kotwals, the Mehtas and Pavris, the Vatchas and Seervais, and added them to the portfolio. “You must be getting fed up with all these details,” she said. “Just one last thing, and the most important: never measure the misters for their inseam. Ask for a sample to sew from. And if that is not possible, make sure there is someone present when you measure, a wife or mother or sister. Otherwise, before you know it, they move thisway-thatway and thrust something in your hand which you don’t want. Believe me, I had a nasty experience when I was young and innocent.”