A Fine Balance (47 page)

Om was silent for the rest of the way, gazing pensively out the window. Maneck tried to distract him by imitating the characters in
Revolver Rani
, but a weak smile was all he could get out of him, so he lapsed into silence as well.

“You should have come with us,” said Maneck. “It was fun. What thrilling fights.”

“No, thank you, I’ve seen enough fighting in my life,” said Ishvar. “But when are you visiting our house?” Maneck’s spending regularly on Om was creating too much obligation, he felt, it was time to reciprocate in some small way. “You must have dinner with us soon.”

“Sure, any time,” answered Maneck, reluctant to make a commitment. It would upset Dina Aunty – the cinema trip had been bad enough.

Fortunately, Ishvar did not press for a firm date right then. He put the cover over his Singer and left with Om.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself,” said Dina. “Going against my wishes, mixing more and more with him in spite of what I told you.”

“It was just one filmshow, Aunty. For the first time Om went to a big theatre. He was so thrilled.”

“I hope he is able to sew tomorrow, and you can concentrate on your studies. These films about fighting and killing can only have a bad effect on the brain. In the old days the cinema was so sweet. A little dancing and singing, some comedy, or a romance. Now it’s all just guns and knives.”

Next day, as though to vindicate Dina’s theory, Om joined the bodice of a size-seven dress to the skirt of a size eleven, squeezing the excess into the gather at the waist. The mistakes were repeated in three garments and not discovered till the afternoon.

“Leave everything else, fix this first,” said Dina, but he ignored her.

“It’s all right, Dinabai,” said Ishvar. “I will separate the seams and stitch them again.”

“No, he made the mistakes and he should correct them.”

“You do them,” scowled Om, scratching his scalp. “I have a headache. You gave me the wrong pieces so it’s your mistake.”

“Listen to him! Lying shamelessly! And take your fingers out of your hair before you get oil on the cloth! Scratch-scratch-scratch the whole day!”

The argument was still going when Maneck returned from college. The tailors did not break for tea. He went to his room and shut himself in, wishing they would stop. For the rest of the afternoon the squabble kept dribbling under his door, creating a pool of distress around him.

At six, Dina knocked and asked him to come out. “Those two have left. I need the company of a sane person.”

“Why were you fighting, Aunty?”

“I was fighting? How dare you! Do you know the whole story, to say who was fighting?”

“I’m sorry, Aunty. I meant, what was the fight about?”

“Same reason as always. Mistakes and shoddy work. But thank God for Ishvar. I don’t know what I would do without him. One angel and one devil. Trouble is, when the angel keeps company with the devil, neither can be trusted.”

“Maybe Om behaves this way because something is upsetting him – maybe it’s because you lock them in when you go out.”

“Ah! So he’s told you that, has he? And did he say why I do it?”

“The landlord. But he thinks it’s just an excuse. He says you make them feel like criminals.”

“His guilty conscience makes him feel that way. The landlord’s threat is real, you remember it too. Don’t let the rent-collector’s sweet smile fool you into admitting anything. Always pretend you are my nephew.” She began tidying the room, picking up the scraps, stuffing the fragments in the bottom shelf. “That Ibrahim’s eyeballs can see the whole flat right from the front door, the way they wander, round and round. Faster than Buster Keaton’s. But you are too young to know Buster Keaton.”

“I’ve heard Mummy mention the name. She said he was funnier than Laurel and Hardy.”

“Never mind that – there is also a second reason. The tailors will put me out of business if I don’t lock them in. Do you know Om tried to follow me to the export company? Did he tell you that? No, of course not. My tiny commission sticks in their throats. As it is, I can barely manage.”

“Shall I tell Mummy to send more money? For my rent and food?”

“Absolutely not! I am charging a fair price and she is paying it. You think I am telling you all this because I want charity?”

“No, I just thought –”

“My problems are not a beggar’s wounds! Only a beggar removes his cloth to shock you with his mutilation. No, Mr. Mac Kohlah, I’m telling you all this so you understand your beloved Omprakash Darji a little better.”

The next time she went to Au Revoir Exports, Dina decided to take Maneck further into her confidence. “Listen, I’m not padlocking the door today. Since you are home, I’ll leave you in charge.” The responsibility would draw him over to her side, she was sure; besides, Om wouldn’t attempt the bicycle caper twice.

After Dina had departed, Ishvar continued sewing, uncomfortable about taking his customary rest on her sofa with Maneck present. But Om stopped immediately, and escaped to the front room. “Two hours of freedom,” he announced, stretching and letting himself drop on the sofa next to Maneck.

While he smoked, they browsed through Dina’s old knitting books. Models wearing various styles of sweaters adorned the inside pages. Luscious red lips, creamy skin, and luxuriant hairdos dazzled them from the dog-eared glossy paper. “Look at those two,” said Om, indicating a blonde and a redhead. “You think the hair between their legs is the same colour?”

“Why don’t you write a letter to the magazine and ask? ‘Dear Sir, We wish to make an inquiry regarding the colour of your models’ choot hair – specifically, if it matches the hair on their heads. The models in question appear on page forty-seven of your issue dated’“ – he flipped to the cover – “ ‘July 1961.’ Forget it, yaar, that’s fourteen years ago. Whatever colour it was then, it must be grey or white by now.”

“I should ask Rajaram the hair-collector,” said Om. “He’s an expert on hair.”

The boys restored the knitting books to their corner and went into Maneck’s room. The pagoda parasol amused them for a while, then they explored the kitchen, calling to the cats, who refused to approach the window since it was not dinnertime. Om wanted to throw water at them, make them yowl, but Maneck wouldn’t let him.

In the back room they examined the collection of cloth pieces, the beginnings of the quilt. “You boys don’t meddle with Dinabai’s things,” warned Ishvar, glancing up from the machine.

“Just look at all this cloth,” said Om. “She steals from us, not paying us properly, and also from the company.”

“You are talking nonsense, Omprakash,” his uncle said. “Those are little garbage pieces that she puts to good use. Come on, get back to your machine, stop wasting time.”

Om replaced the makings of the quilt and pointed to the trunk on the trestle in the corner. Maneck raised his eyebrows at the daring suggestion. They opened it, and discovered her supply of homemade sanitary pads.

“You know what those are for?” whispered Om.

“Little pillows,” said Maneck, grinning, picking up a couple of the lumpy pads. “Little pillows for little people.”

“My little man can rest his head on it.” Om slung one between his legs.

“Stop fooling with the trunk there,” said Ishvar.

“Okay, okay.” They took a handful of pads into the front room and continued clowning.

“What’s this?” said Maneck, holding two above his head.

“Horns?”

“No,” he waggled them. “Donkey’s ears.”

Om held one behind him. “Rabbit’s tail.”

They held them at their crotches like phalluses and pranced around the room, making large masturbatory gestures. The knot at the end of Maneck’s pad came undone. The stuffing fell out, leaving the casing flopping in his hand.

“Look at that!” laughed Om. “Your lund has already gone to sleep, yaar!”

Maneck took a firm new pad and struck Om’s with it. A duel ensued but the weapons collapsed quickly, scattering fabric snippets around the room. They picked up two more and began rushing at each other in a gallop, like jousters on horseback, their sanitary lances sticking out at their flies.

“Tan-tanna tan-tanna tan-tanna!” they trumpeted and attacked. Backing up to their corners, they adjusted the pads at their crotches while Om reared and neighed like a charger champing at the bit.

Just as they were ready to tilt again, Dina opened the front door and entered through the verandah. The fanfare died in mid-flourish. She got as far as the sofa, then froze. The scene left her speechless: the floor littered with the scraps of her carefully prepared sanitary pads, the two boys standing guiltily, clutching their embarrassing toys.

They dropped their hands and started to hide the pads behind their backs, then realized the gesture was as futile as it was silly. They lowered their heads.

“You shameless boys!” she managed to utter. “You shameless boys!”

She ran to the back room where Ishvar was still ploughing away at his machine, blissfully unaware of the goings-on in the front room. “Stop!” she said, her voice trembling. “Come and see what those two have been doing!”

Om and Maneck had put aside the pads, but Dina thrust one each into their hands. “Go on!” she said. “Do it for him, let him see your shameless behaviour!”

Ishvar did not need to see. He gathered that something filthy had been going on, especially if she was so upset. He went to Om and slapped him across the face. “You I cannot slap,” he said to Maneck. “But someone should. For your own good.”

He led Om into the back room and flung him upon his stool. “I don’t want another word from you, now or ever. Just do your work quietly till it’s time to leave.”

Dinner was a silent meal; only the knives and forks spoke. Dina cleared up quickly, then went into the sewing room and bolted her door.

As if I was a sex maniac or something, thought Maneck, feeling miserable. He waited for a while in the front room, hoping she would come out, give him a chance to apologize. His ears picked up the opening and closing of a drawer. The creaking of her bed. A clatter that could be her hairbrush. The thud of the tailors’ stools being pushed aside. He heard the sound of the trunk lid, and his face burned with shame. Then the bright line under her door went dark, and his wretchedness engulfed him.

Would she write to his parents and complain? Surely he deserved it. For almost two months now, she had treated him so well in her flat, and he had behaved disgustingly. For the first time since leaving home, he had felt at peace, unthreatened, thanks to Dina Aunty. Rescued from the hostel that had made him ill, with that tightness in the chest, that nauseated feeling every morning.

Now he had brought it all back, through his own doing. He switched off the light beside the sofa and dragged himself to his room.

Morning could not alleviate Maneck’s shame from last night. To help keep it burning, Dina slammed the plate of two fried eggs before him at breakfast. When it was time to leave for college and he called out “Bye, Aunty,” she would not come to wave. Woefully, he shut the door upon the empty, accusing verandah.

The first hint of forgiveness quivered in the air after dinner. Like the night before, she retreated to the back room instead of bringing the quilt to the sofa; however, she kept her door ajar.

Waiting hopefully in the front room, he passed the time listening to the neighbours. Someone screamed retributive warnings – at a daughter, he presumed. “Mui bitch!” came a man’s voice. “Behaving like a slut, staying out so late at night! You think eighteen years is too old to get a thrashing? I’ll show you! When we say back by ten o’clock, we mean ten o’clock!”

Maneck glanced at his watch: ten-twenty. Still Dina Aunty did not emerge. Neither did the light go off. At their usual bedtime of ten-thirty, he decided to peek in and say good night.

She was in her nightgown, her back to the door. He changed his mind and tried to retreat, but she saw him through the crack. Oh God, he thought, panicking – now she would assume he was spying.

“Yes?” she said sharply.

“Excuse me, Aunty, I was just coming to say good night.”

“Yes. Good night.” Her stiffness persisted.

He re-echoed the words and began edging away, then stopped. He cleared his throat. “Also…”

“Also what?”

“Also, I wanted to say sorry… for yesterday…”

“Don’t mumble from outside the room. Come in and say what you have to say.”

He entered shyly. Her bare arms in the nightgown looked so lovely, and through the light cotton, the shape of… but he dared not let his eyes linger. Mummy’s friend was the unsummoned thought that terrified him as he finished his apology.

“I want you to understand,” she said. “I was not angry with your shameful act because of any harm to me. I was ashamed for you, to see you behaving like a loafer. Like a roadside mavali. From Omprakash I cannot expect better. But you, from a good Parsi family. And I left you to watch after them, I trusted you.”

“I’m sorry,” he hung his head. She raised her hands to her hair, reinserting a clip that had become ineffective. He found the fuzz in her armpits extremely erotic.

“Go to bed now,” she said. “Next time, use better judgement.”