A Fine Balance (70 page)

They went around room by room, checking the kitchen and wc as well. The malodour trailed them everywhere without revealing itself. “Maybe it’s from outside, from the gutter,” said Om. But when they stuck their heads out through the window, the smell seemed to diminish.

“Those stinking goondas must have left it behind,” she said, and Ishvar agreed. Then Om, who was kneeling on the floor, picking up the last bits of broken glass, discovered the smell was coming from her shoe. She had stepped in something on the pavement. She went outside, scraped off the brown mess from the sole, and washed it.

For most of the day Maneck stayed in bed with a thundering headache. Dina and the tailors attempted to restore some order to the shambles of the flat. They swept up the cotton fill, stuffed it back in, and sewed up the slashes, but the cushions still looked deflated. Plumping and patting could not take away their limpness. Next they tackled the paan stains, which were everywhere.

“God knows why we are wasting our energy,” she said. “Tomorrow night we could be thrown out, if your Beggarmaster is just big talk.”

“I think it will be all right,” said Ishvar. “Shankar always says Beggarmaster is very influential.”

When he had repeated this for the fourth time late in the day, Dina was irritated. “So now a poor legless beggar is your fountain of wisdom and advice, is he?”

“No,” said Ishvar, taken aback. “But he has known Beggarmaster a long time. I mean… in the work camp he helped us.”

“Then why isn’t he here yet? The evening is almost over.”

“Beggarmaster has betrayed us,” said Om. His uncle did not contradict him.

Their hopes of rescue faded with the twilight. As the night deepened, the four sat in silence, attempting to discern the face of tomorrow. So this was it, thought Dina, the end of the independence she had struggled so long to preserve. There was no use raising her hopes about Nusswan. Even his lawyer couldn’t do much if the landlord’s goondas put her furniture on the pavement. What was it that lawyers said – possession is nine-tenths of the law. And, in any case, the idea of independence was a fantasy. Everyone depended on someone. If not on Nusswan, she would have to continue relying on the tailors, and on Au Revoir Exports – which came to the same thing … and Nusswan could arrange for a lorry to remove her things, take them to her parents’ house – which he liked to call his house. Always saying it was his duty to look after his sister. Now he could, as long as he wanted.

A cat screeched outside the kitchen window, and they sat up, startled. More cats took up the cry. “Wonder what’s scaring them,” said Ishvar uneasily.

“They just like to scream sometimes,” said Maneck. But he went to look, and the others followed. There was no sign of anything unusual in the alley.

“You think the goondas will come back tonight?” said Om.

“Ibrahim gave us forty-eight hours’ notice,” said Dina. “So maybe tomorrow night. Listen, even though I am going to ask my brother’s help, our chances are not very good. The time is so short. And who knows what will happen? I don’t want more fighting here. Tomorrow morning, you must take your belongings and leave. Later, if everything is fine, you can return.”

“I was thinking the same,” said Ishvar. “We will go to the night-watchman. And Maneck can try at the hostel.”

“But we must keep in touch,” said Om. “Maybe we can sew in your brother’s house. Other companies will give you business, even if this one cancels.”

“Yes, we’ll do something,” she said, not having the heart to tell them Nusswan would forbid it. “But you shouldn’t depend only on me, you must also look for work elsewhere.”

Maneck was silent as they persevered to rescue the shreds of their livelihood. Not all their skills with needle and thread could sew it together again, he thought. Did life treat everyone so wantonly, ripping the good things to pieces while letting bad things fester and grow like fungus on unrefrigerated food? Vasantrao Valmik the proofreader would say it was all part of living, that the secret of survival was to balance hope and despair, to embrace change. But embrace misery and destruction? No. If there were a large enough refrigerator, he would be able to preserve the happy times in this flat, keep them from ever spoiling; and Avinash and chess, which soured so soon, he would save that too; and the mountains of snow, and the General Store, before it all went gloomy, before Daddy became unrecognizable, and Mummy his willing slave.

But it was an unrefrigerated world. And everything ended badly. What could he do now? The thought of the hostel was more nauseating than ever. And if he went home, the fighting would start with Daddy. There was no way out, it was checkmate for him.

“Listen, the cats have stopped screaming,” said Ishvar. “So quiet now.” They strained to hear. The silence was as perturbing as the screeching had been.

The tailors had a quick early-morning wash before the tap went dry. There was no telling when they would have again the luxury of a bathroom. In their immediate future they could only see alleyways and standpipes.

Maneck was not in a hurry. His lip was better today, the swelling reduced, and his headache was gone. He sat around listlessly, or moved from room to room as though searching for something.

“Come on, Maneck,” said Dina, “it’s getting late. Do something, pack your boxes. Or go to the hostel first, see if they have a place for you.”

He returned to his room, pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and opened it. When she looked in a few minutes later, he had the chessboard set up, and was staring at the pieces.

“Are you crazy?” she yelled at him. “Time is running out, you have still so much to do!”

“I’ll do it when I feel like it. I’m an independent person, even if you are giving up.” He deliberately picked the word she used when talking about herself.

It stung, but she ignored it. “Big talk is easy. We’ll see how independent you are when the goondas come back and break your head open. One beating wasn’t enough for you, it looks like.”

“Why should you care? You are packing up and leaving, not even showing a little regret.”

“Regret is a luxury I can’t afford. And why should you make such a long face? You would have gone anyway, when you finished your diploma. If not now, then six months later.” She left the room angrily.

Ishvar left the trunk he was packing on the verandah, and came in. He sat on the bed, putting his arm around him. “You know, Maneck, the human face has limited space. My mother used to say, if you fill your face with laughing, there will be no room for crying.”

“What a nice saying,” he answered bitterly.

“Right now, Dinabai’s face, and Om’s, and mine are all occupied. Worrying about work and money, and where to sleep tonight. But that does not mean we are not sad. It may not show on the face, but it’s sitting inside here.” He placed his hand over his heart. “In here, there is limitless room – happiness, kindness, sorrow, anger, friendship – everything fits in here.”

“I know, I know,” said Maneck, and began putting away the chess pieces. “Are you going to meet the nightwatchman now?”

“Yes, we’ll fix up with him and return. To help Dinabai pack her things.”

“Don’t forget to give us your hostel address before leaving,” said Om. “We’ll come see you there.”

Maneck emptied out the cupboard and folded his clothes into the suitcase. Dina looked in with a word of praise for his quickness. “Can you do me a favour, Maneck?”

He nodded.

“You know the nameplate on the door? Can you get the screwdriver from the kitchen shelf and remove it? I want to take it with me.”

He nodded again.

Ishvar and Om returned with bad news. The nightwatchman had been replaced, and the new man wanted to have nothing to do with the tailors’ old arrangement. In fact, he thought they were trying to take advantage of his inexperience.

“Now I don’t know what to do,” said Ishvar wearily. “We’ll have to go searching street by street.”

“And I’ll have to carry the trunk,” said Om.

“No, you mustn’t,” said Dina. “You’ll hurt your arm again.” She offered to take the trunk with her to Nusswan’s house, pretend it was part of her belongings. The tailors could come to the back door whenever they needed clothes. It was a big house, she said, Nusswan would see nothing, he never went to the kitchen unless he was on one of his inspection and economy rampages.

“Listen, I know where you two can sleep,” said Maneck.

“Where?”

“In my hostel room. You can sneak in at night, and sneak out early every morning. Your trunk can also stay there.”

While they were considering the feasibility of his idea, the doorbell rang. It was Beggarmaster.

“Thank God you’ve come!” Ishvar and Dina rushed to welcome him like a saviour.

It reminded Om of the way Shankar, whimpering on his rolling platform, had fawned over the man when he had appeared at the irrigation project. He squirmed at the memory. How proudly Ishvar and he had proclaimed then to Beggarmaster: We are tailors, not beggars.

“What happened?” asked Dina. “You said you would return yesterday evening.”

“Sorry, I was delayed by an emergency,” he replied, enjoying the attention. He was accustomed to being apotheosized by beggars, but the veneration of normal people was far sweeter.

“This wretched Emergency – creating trouble for everyone.”

“No, not that Emergency,” said Beggarmaster. “I mean a business problem. You see, after I left you yesterday morning, I got a message that two of my beggars, a husband-and-wife team, were found murdered. So I had to rush there.”

“Murdered!” said Dina. “What evil person would kill poor beggars?”

“Oh, it happens. They are killed for their beggings. But this case is very peculiar – money was not touched. Must be some kind of maniac. Only their hair was taken.”

Ishvar and Om started visibly, gulping.

“Hair?” said Dina. “You mean from their heads?”

“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “Cropped right off. Husband and wife both had lovely long hair. Which was very unusual. The lovely part, I mean – most beggars do have long hair, they cannot afford haircuts, but it’s always dirty. These two were different. They used to spend hours cleaning it for each other, picking out the nits, combing it, washing it every time it rained or a water pipe burst on their pavement.”

“How sweet,” said Dina, nodding in empathy with Beggarmaster’s tender description of the loving couple.

“You’d be surprised how much beggars are like ordinary human beings. The result of all their grooming was, of course, this beautiful hair. And it was not good for business. I often told them to mess it up, make it look pathetic. But they would say they had nothing in the world to be proud of except their hair, and was I going to deny them even that?”

He paused, considering the question afresh. “What could I do? I’m softhearted, I gave in. Now those beautiful tresses have cost them their lives. And deprived me of two good beggars.”

He turned to the tailors. “What’s the matter? You both look very upset.”

“No – not upset,” stammered Ishvar. “Just very surprised.”

“Yes,” said Beggarmaster. “That’s what the police were as well – surprised. They had been receiving a few complaints, that long plaits and ponytails were disappearing mysteriously. Women would go to the bazaar, do their shopping, go home, look in the mirror and find their hair missing. But never anything like this, no one was ever killed or injured. So the detectives are very interested in my beggars’ case. They love variety. They are calling it the Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide.”

He opened the briefcase secured to his wrist and took out a thick wad of rupees. The chain jangled as he counted the notes. “Getting back to business – here’s the money to cover your damage. You can start working again.”

Ishvar deferred the responsibility of accepting the cash to Dina; his hands were shaking violently.

Clasping two thousand rupees, she still found it hard to believe Beggarmaster had defeated the landlord. “You mean we can stay? It’s really safe?”

“Of course you can stay. I told you there would be no trouble. Those men made a mistake.”

The tailors nodded rapidly to transfer their conviction to Dina. “Only one problem,” said Ishvar. “What if the landlord sends new goondas?”

“While you pay me, the landlord won’t find a single man to come here. I have seen to that.”

“And when the instalments are paid up?”

“That’s up to you. Our contract can always be renewed. I’ll give you good rates, you’re Shankar’s friends. And – oh yes, Shankar sends you his greetings. Says he hasn’t seen you recently.”

“With all this landlord trouble, we haven’t gone to Vishram for a few days,” said Ishvar. “We’ll meet him tomorrow. And, I was wondering, how are Monkey-man and his two children?”

“Good, good – the children I mean. They’re learning fast. Monkey-man I haven’t seen again. I haven’t been back to the work camp. But he was beaten up too badly, probably dead by now.”

“The old woman’s prophecy has almost come true, then,” said Om.

“What prophecy?” asked Beggarmaster.

The tailors described the night in the hutment colony, when Monkey-man had discovered his little monkeys slain by his dog, when the old woman uttered her cryptic words. “I remember exactly what she told us,” said Om. “ ‘The loss of two monkeys is not the worst loss he will suffer; the murder of the dog is not the worst murder he will commit.’ And later, he did kill Tikka to avenge Laila and Majnoo.”

“What a horrible story,” said Dina.

“Pure coincidence,” said Beggarmaster, “I don’t believe in prophecies or superstitions.”

Ishvar nodded. “And are the two children happy without Monkey-man?”

Beggarmaster flipped his unchained hand in a who-knows gesture. “They will have to get used to it. Life does not guarantee happiness.” He raised the same hand in farewell and began walking out the door, then stopped.

“There is something you can do for me. I need two new beggars. If you see someone who qualifies, will you let me know?”

“Sure,” said Ishvar. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”

“But there has to be a unique feature about the candidates. Let me show you.” From the briefcase, he removed a large sketchbook containing his notes and diagrams relating to the dramaturgy of begging. The binding was well-worn, the corners of the pages curling.