A Fine Balance (93 page)

The morning after the cremation, Maneck and his mother set off with the wooden box to scatter his father’s ashes on the mountainside where he had loved to walk. He had wanted to be strewn throughout these vistas, as far and wide within the panorama as human effort could accomplish.
Hire a Sherpa if you have to
, he had joked.
Dont dump me in one spot
.

“I think Daddy is forcing me to take at least one long walk with him,” said Mrs. Kohlah, brushing away her tears with the back of her hand, keeping her fingers dry for the ashes.

Maneck wished he had accompanied his father more often on his outings. He wished the delight, the eagerness he had shown as a child could have endured in later years, when his father needed him most. Instead, he had succumbed to embarrassment in the face of his father’s growing effusiveness about streams and birds and flowers, especially after the townspeople started talking about Mr. Kohlah’s strange behaviour, his patting of rocks and stroking of trees.

The air was calm this morning. There was no breeze to help disperse the ashes. Maneck and his mother took turns dipping into the box and sprinkling the grey powder.

When half the ashes were gone, Aban Kohlah felt a pang of guilt, felt they were not doing it as thoroughly as her husband would have liked. She ventured into more difficult places, trying to throw a fistful in a hesitant waterfall, mingle some in an inaccessible clump of wildflowers, spread a little around a tree that grew out of an overhang.

“This was Daddy’s favourite spot,” she said. “He often described this tree, how strangely it grew.”

“Be careful, Mummy,” warned Maneck. “Tell me where you want to scatter it, don’t lean so much over the edge.”

But that would not be the same thing, she thought, and persevered in her precarious clamberings down steep paths. Finally, what Maneck had feared came to pass. She lost her footing and slipped down a slope.

He ran to where she crouched, rubbing her knee. “Ohhh!” she said, rising and trying to walk.

“Don’t,” he said. “Just wait here, I’ll get help.”

“No, it’s okay, I can climb up.” She took two steps and sank to the ground again.

He tucked the box of ashes safely behind a boulder, then hurried to regain the road, shouting to someone going by that his mother was injured. Within thirty minutes, a group of friends and neighbours came to the rescue, headed by the formidable Mrs. Grewal.

The wife of Brigadier Grewal had become more and more leaderly in her demeanour since her husband’s death. Wherever she found herself, she automatically took control of things. Most of her friends welcomed this, for it meant less work for them, whether it was planning a dinner party or arranging an outing.

Sizing up Mrs. Kohlah’s predicament, Mrs. Grewal sent for two porters who now worked as waiters in a five-star hotel. In the old days, the duo would carry elderly or infirm tourists in a long-armed viewing chair along the mountain paths and trails to enjoy the scenery. When the new road was built, wide enough to accommodate sightseeing buses, it put the porters out of business.

But the two were happy to get the palkhi out of storage for Mrs. Kohlah. Maneck asked if they would be able to carry her safely, since they might have lost their surefootedness after years in their soft hotel jobs, padding between kitchen and dining room.

“Have no fear, sahab,” they said. “This work was our family tradition, it is in the blood.” They were visibly excited about the chance, however brief, to exercise their old skills.

“Maneck, will you stay and finish the box?” asked Mrs. Kohlah, as she was helped into the palkhi.

“Yes, he will stay,” said Mrs. Grewal, deciding for them. “Maneck, you finish the ashes and catch up with us later. Your mummy will be safe with me.”

She motioned to the porters; they hoisted the palkhi to their shoulders and trotted off in perfect unison, their legs and arms moving like well-oiled machinery, finding a smooth rhythm over the rugged paths to spare the passenger unnecessary jolts. Maneck was reminded of the steam engine his father had once shown him at close quarters … Daddy lifting him in his arms at the railway station, the engine-driver blowing the whistle … shafts and cranks and pistons, darting and thrusting in a powerful, clanking symmetry…

“Oh, if only Farokh could see this,” said Mrs. Kohlah, smiling and crying. “His wife going home in a palkhi after scattering his ashes. How he would laugh at my stylish clumsiness.”

Maneck watched the porters disappear around the next bend, then retrieved the box hidden by the boulder. He resumed scattering the ashes. By and by, a wind came up. The slow clouds, drifting lazily, now began a rowdy race across the sky, their shadows threatening the valley below. He let the ashes trickle from his fingers into the clutches of the wind. He scraped the inside of the box, turned it over, and tapped on the outside. The last traces flew away to explore the vastness.

From time to time, Mrs. Grewal, striding right behind the porters, called out instructions for them. “Careful, that branch is very low. You don’t want Mrs. Kohlah to bang her head.”

“Have no fear, memsahab,” they panted. “We haven’t forgotten our work.”

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Grewal, doubtful. “Watch out now, that’s a very big stone, don’t stumble.”

This time, Mrs. Kohlah did the reassuring on the porters’ behalf. “Don’t worry, they are experts. I am very comfortable.”

The friends and neighbours following after them gave the two palkhiwallas a round of applause as they emerged from the mountain path and continued along the road into town. It had been years since anyone had seen a palkhi float through the streets. The ghost from the past was greeted with delight by all who met it on its journey. Many decided to tag along, swelling the ranks of the spontaneous celebration.

Now and again, the chair party had to stop at the side to allow lorries and buses to pass. After the fifth such halt, Mrs. Grewal became indignant. “Enough of this nonsense,” she said. “Come on, everybody. Step out, all the way out – into the middle of the road. We shall not move for anybody. Not today. Mrs. Kohlah has the right of way, this is a special day for her. The traffic can wait.”

Everyone agreed with Mrs. Grewal, and for thirty-five glorious minutes they marched into town in a determined procession, trailed by lines of impatient vehicles, the drivers honking and shouting. For the most part Mrs. Grewal ignored them, determined not to dignify their cheap cacophony with a retort. Occasionally, though, her outrage made her pause and shout back, “Show some respect! The woman is a widow!”

About an hour after they had started, the rescue party reached home safely, and Mrs. Kohlah was made comfortable in an easy chair, with an ice pack round her knee. Mrs. Grewal sat opposite her in a straight-backed chair, erect as a sentry. She refused to leave with the others, declaring firmly, “You cannot remain all by yourself on the day after the funeral.”

Mrs. Kohlah was a little amused at her manner, and grateful for the company. They reminisced about the General Store, the prosperous old times, the tea parties and dinners, the cantonment days. How wonderful life used to be, how sweet and healthy the air – any time you felt sick or tired, all you had to do was step outdoors, breathe deeply, and you felt better immediately, no need to swallow any medicine or vitamin tablets. “Nowadays the whole atmosphere only has changed,” said Mrs. Grewal.

Just then Maneck walked in, and there was an awkward silence. He wondered what they had been discussing.

“You are back very fast,” observed Mrs. Grewal. “Young people, strong legs. And you managed all right with the ashes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You are sure you did it properly, Maneck?” inquired his mother.

“Yes.”

There was another little silence.

“And what have you been doing in Dubai?” asked Mrs. Grewal.

“Besides growing a beard?”

He smiled in reply.

“Very secretive. Making lots of money, I hope.”

He smiled again. She left a few minutes later, saying there was no need for her to stay any longer. “You can look after your mother now,” she added meaningfully.

Maneck checked the ice pack, then offered to make cheese sandwiches for lunch.

“My son visits after eight years and I can’t even prepare his food,” lamented his mother.

“What difference is it who makes the sandwiches?”

She took the warning in his voice and retreated, then tried again. “Maneck, please don’t get angry. Won’t you tell me the reason you are so unhappy?”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“We are both sad because of Daddy’s death. But that cannot be the only reason. We were expecting it ever since his colon cancer was diagnosed. There is something different about your sadness, I can sense it.”

She waited, watching him as he cut the bread, but his face remained impassive. “Is it because you did not visit while he was still alive? You shouldn’t feel bad. Daddy understood that it was difficult for you to come.”

He put down the bread knife and turned. “You really want to know why?”

“Yes.”

He picked up the knife again, slicing the loaf carefully while keeping his voice level. “You sent me away, you and Daddy. And then I couldn’t come back. You lost me, and I lost – everything.”

She limped to his side and took his arm. “Look at me, Maneck!” she said tearfully. “What you think is not true, you are everything to me and Daddy! Whatever we did, we did for you! Please, believe me!”

He withdrew his arm gently, and continued with the sandwiches.

“How can you say something so hurtful and then become silent? You always used to complain that Daddy was fond of dramatics. But now you are doing just that.”

He refused to discuss it further. She followed him around the kitchen, hobbling, pleading with him.

“What’s the point of me making the sandwiches if you are going to keep marching with that knee?” he said, exasperated.

She sat down compliantly till he finished and lunch was on the table. While they ate, she studied his face in snatches, when she was sure he wasn’t looking. The sky started to darken in earnest. He washed their plates and put them on the rack to dry. The rumble of thunder rolled over the valley.

“We were so lucky this morning,” she said as the drizzle commenced. “I’m going up to rest now. Will you shut the windows if the rain comes in?”

He nodded, and helped her climb the stairs. She smiled through the pain, leaning with pleasure on her son’s shoulder, taking pride in its strength and firmness.

After his mother was in bed, Maneck returned downstairs and stood at the window to watch the display of lightning, to revel in the thunderclaps. He had missed the rains in Dubai. The valley was disappearing under a blanket of fog. He strode restlessly about the house, then went into the shop.

He examined the shelves, savouring the brand names on the jars and boxes that he had not seen for years. But how small, how shabby the shop was, he thought. The shop that was once the centre of his universe. And now he had moved so far away from it. So far that it felt impossible to return. He wondered what was keeping him away. Not clean and gleaming Dubai, for sure.

He descended the steps into the cellar where the bottling machinery slept. Cobwebs had taken over, shrouding the defeated apparatus. Demand for Kohlah’s Cola had almost vanished in recent times, his parents had written – just half a dozen bottles a day, to loyal friends and neighbours.

He pottered around amid the empty bottles and wooden crates. In a corner of the cellar stood a stack of mouldering newspapers, partially hidden by a bundle of gunnys. He stroked the coarse jute sacking, feeling the bite of the fibre, breathing in its extravagant green smell of wood and vegetation. The newspaper dates went back ten years, and jumped haphazardly over the decade. Strange, he thought, because Daddy used them up regularly in the store, for wrapping parcels or padding packages. These must have been overlooked.

He decided to take them upstairs and browse through them. Reading old newspapers seemed a fitting way to spend the gloomy, rain-filled afternoon.

He settled in a chair by the window and opened the yellow, dusty sheets of the first issue in the pile. It was from the period after the post-Emergency elections that the Prime Minister lost to the opposition coalition. There were articles about abuses during the Emergency, testimony of torture victims, outrage over the countless deaths in police custody. Editorials that had been silenced during her regime called for a special commission to investigate the wrongdoings and punish the guilty.

He skipped to another paper, impatient with the repetitious reportage. The new government’s dithering over how to deal with the ex-Prime Minister did not make stimulating reading either, except for one article which quoted a cabinet minister as saying: “She must be punished, she is a terrible woman, wicked as Cleopatra.” And the only unanimous decision of the paralysed government was to expel Coca-Cola from the country, for refusing to relinquish its secret formula and its managing interest; with a little twisting and turning, the action suited all ideologies in the coalition brew.