A Fine Balance (64 page)

“Yes, it’s a prescription for improving vision.”

“You know, I’ve grown to like raw carrots. But I hope Om doesn’t get fond of his medicine. Or we’ll have to suffer the kerosene stink every day.”

“But how does it work? Does it poison the lice in my hair?”

“I can tell you,” said Maneck.

“You are a champion fakeologist,” said Om.

“No, listen. First, every little louse soaks itself in the kerosene. Then, in the middle of the night, after you are asleep, Dina Aunty gives each one a tiny matchstick. At the count of three they commit suicide in bursts of tiny flames without hurting you. There’ll be a beautiful halo round your head when it happens.”

“That’s not funny,” said Dina.

“Suicide isn’t supposed to be, Aunty.”

“I don’t want such a subject at dinnertime. Not even as a joke. You shouldn’t even say the word.”

She started eating, and Maneck picked up his fork, winking at Om. The tailors sat motionless, watching the food. When she looked up, they smiled nervously. Exchanging glances, they touched the cutlery, uncertain, hesitating to pick it up.

Dina understood.

How stupid of me, she thought, to set it out tonight. Abandoning her own knife and fork, she used fingers to convey a piece of potato to her mouth. Maneck caught on as well, and the tailors started their meal.

“Very tasty,” said Ishvar, and Om nodded agreement with his mouth full. “You eat bread every day?”

“Yes,” said Dina. “Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, it’s very good,” said Ishvar. “No, I was just thinking, must be expensive to buy ready-made bread every day. You don’t get wheat on your ration card?”

“It’s available. But taking it to the mill for grinding, mixing flour, making chapati – that’s too much for me to do. I used to when my husband was alive. Afterwards, I didn’t care. Nothing worse than cooking for just one.” She broke a piece of her loaf to soak up some gravy. “Must be expensive for you also, eating at Vishram.”

Ishvar said yes, it was difficult, especially with having to pay Beggarmaster weekly. “When we had our own place in the colony and a Primus stove, we spent much less, even without the benefit of a ration card. We made chapatis every day.”

“You can buy wheat on my card if you like. I only take rice and sugar.”

“Problem is, where to cook?”

The question was rhetorical, but Maneck had an answer. He let the silence linger over the table for a few moments, then spoke up brightly. “I have a great idea. Ishvar and Om are used to making chapatis, right? And Dina Aunty has all that grain quota on the ration card, right? So you can share the cost of food, and we can eat together. Both sides will save money.”

More than money, it would save trouble with the landlord, thought Dina, by defeating Ibrahim. He could wait twenty-four hours outside the flat and see no one. Nosey neighbours too, if they were planning to snitch to him, get into his good books to solve their own problems. And besides, fresh puris and chapatis were absolutely delicious.

But was this reason enough to get more familiar with the tailors? Was it wise to tamper with the line she had drawn so carefully? “I don’t know,” she said. “Ishvar and Om might not like to have my food every day.”

“Not like? It’s so tasty!” said Om.

She chewed slowly, giving herself time to think. “Well, we can try it for a week.”

“That will be very good,” said Ishvar.

“I’ll make the chapatis,” said Om. “I’m the chapati champion.”

The government truck was delivering fresh stock at the ration shop. Dina and the tailors joined the queue while two coolies unloaded fifty-kilo gunnies upon their backs. Sunlight flashed from the large steel hooks they swung to claw a grip into the burlap. Their dripping sweat, when it chanced to fall upon the beige jute sacking, created dark-brown dots. Inside the shop, the sacks of grain landed neatly in a row, like dead bodies in a morgue, beside the scales hanging from the ceiling by a heavy chain.

“These fellows are taking too long,” said Ishvar, “carrying one at a time. Go on, Om, show them how to carry two.”

“Don’t tease the poor boy,” said Dina, as he pretended to roll up his sleeves. “Why is he so thin anyway? Are you sure he does not have worms?”

“No no, Dinabai, no worms, trust me. Bas, I’ll soon get him married, and his wife’s cooking will put weight on him.”

“He’s too young for marriage.”

“Almost eighteen – that’s not young.”

“Dinabai is right, forget your crazy idea,” scowled Om. “Sour-lime face.”

The line was growing longer. Someone shouted from the back to hurry up, and the banya emerged belligerently, ready to take on the heckler. “Use your sense when you speak! If the truck is not allowed to unload, what am I going to give you? Rocks and sand?”

“That’s what you usually sell us!” the heckler yelled back, and people laughed. “Have you ever tasted your own stock?” He was a small man with a large goitre, which drew the stares of the people in line.

“Aray saala, go! Nobody is forcing you to buy!”

Those near the heckler tried to prevent the argument from overheating. They reminded him it wasn’t wise to fight at a ration shop, it was impossible to win when you depended on them for your food. Someone said the swelling on his neck might burst if he got too excited.

“This swelling is also caused by rascal banyas!” he raged. “They sell bad salt – salt without iodine! These fat, greedy banyas are responsible for all our suffering! Blackmarketeers, food-adulterers, poisoners!”

The grain truck rolled away. A sprinkle of wheat from leaking sacks marked the place where it had stood. A barefoot man in a vest and short pants quickly collected the spilled grain in an empty vanaspati tin, then ran after the truck to its next destination; tonight he would eat well.

The attendant engaged the scales, and the shop began serving again. The appropriate entries were made in Dina’s ration card. Besides the usual sugar and rice, she bought, under the tailors’ guidance, her full quota of red and white wheat as well as the allotment of jowar and bajri, which they said was very tasty, very nourishing, and, best of all, not expensive.

They watched the scales while each item was weighed, gazing up at the pointer till the beam came to rest. A cloud of dust rose when the man tipped the pan into Dina’s cloth bags. The grain cascaded with the sound of a soft waterfall. Afterwards, the tailors took the bags to the mill.

In the evening Om grew a little anxious about his chapati reputation. He mixed the flour and kneaded the dough more strenuously than he normally would have, concentrating hard while rolling out the chapatis, trying to make them perfectly round. A wayward arc meant that the dough was squished into a ball and rolled out again.

At dinner, everyone complimented his success. The praise was also delivered in the speed with which the eight he had made vanished. Pleased, he decided to make twelve from now on.

The cats came miaowing as soon as the window opened. Maneck told Ishvar and Om the names he had given to some: John Wayne, who liked to swagger about, implying he had the alley under control;

Vijayanthimala, his favourite, the brown and white tabby, prancing as though in a film-song dance sequence; Raquel Welch, sitting languidly, stretching, never deigning to rush to the food; and Shatrughan Sinha, bully and villain, from whom the scraps had to be thrown far, to give others a chance.

“Who is John Wayne?” asked Om.

“American actor. Hero type – sort of like Amitabh Bachchan. Walks as though he has piles, and onions under his arms. Always wins in the end.”

“And Raquel Welch?”

“American actress.” He leaned closer. “Big breasts,” he whispered, while the miaowing continued below the window.

Om grinned. “Good thing I made extra chapatis today. Looks like she’s enjoying them.”

“What’s going on?” said Dina. “Now you are teaching my tailors your bad habits. Please shut that window.” She wondered if something uncontrollable had been started here, with all this cooking together and eating together. Too much intimacy. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

Ishvar stood aside while the two boys carried on. “They say it’s a blessed deed, Dinabai, to feed dumb animals.”

“Won’t be so blessed if they come inside in search of food. They could kill us with filthy germs from the gutter.”

In the wc, the tailors’ urine smell that used to flutter like a flag in the air, and in Dina’s nose, grew unnoticeable. Strange, she thought, how one gets accustomed to things.

Then it struck her: the scent was unobtrusive now because it was the same for everyone. They were all eating the same food, drinking the same water. Sailing under one flag.

“Let’s have masala wada today,” proposed Ishvar. “Rajaram’s recipe.”

“I don’t know how to make that.”

“That’s okay, I can do it, Dinabai, you relax today.” He took charge, sending Om and Maneck to buy a fresh half-coconut, green chillies, mint leaves, and a small bunch of coriander. The remaining ingredients: dry red chillies, cumin seed, and tamarind were in the spice cabinet. “Now you two hurry back,” he said. “There’s more work for you.”

“Shall I do something?” asked Dina.

“We need one cup of gram dal.”

She measured out the pulse and immersed it in water, then put the pot on the stove. “If we had soaked it overnight it wouldn’t need boiling,” he said. “But this is fine too.”

When the boys returned, he assigned Om to grate the coconut and Maneck to slice two onions, while he chopped four green and six red chillies, the coriander, and the mint leaves.

“These onions are hot, yaar,” said Maneck, sniffing and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“It’s good practice for you,” said Ishvar. “Everyone has to cry at some time in life.” He glanced across the table and saw the fat white rings falling from the knife. “Hoi-hoi, slice it thinner.”

The dal was ready. He drained the water and emptied the pot into the mortar. He added half a teaspoon of cumin seed and the chopped chillies, then began mashing it all together. The drumming pestle prompted Maneck to add cymbals with his knife upon the pot.

“Aray bandmaster, are your onions ready?” said Ishvar. The medley in the mortar was turning into a rough paste, yellow with specks of green and red and brown. He mixed in the remaining ingredients and raised a bit to his nose, sampling the aroma. “Perfect. Now it’s time to make the frying pan sing. While I do the wadas, Om will make the chutney. Come on, grind the remaining copra and kothmeer-mirchi.”

The frying pan hissed and sizzled as Ishvar gently slid ping-pong sized balls into the glistening oil. He pushed them around with a spoon, keeping them swimming for an even colour. Meanwhile, Om dragged the round masala stone back and forth across the flat slab. Maneck took over after a while. Drop by precious drop, the green chutney emerged from their effort.

Dina stood savouring the fragrance of the wadas that were slowly turning mouth-watering brown in bubbling oil. She watched as the cleanup commenced with laughter and teasing, Ishvar warning the boys that if the grinding stone was not spotless he would make them lick it clean, like cats. What a change, she thought – from the saddest, dingiest room in the flat, the kitchen was transformed into a bright place of mirth and energy.

Thirty minutes later the treat was ready. “Let’s eat while it’s hot,” said Ishvar. “Come on, Om, get water for us.”

Everyone took a wada apiece and spread chutney over it. Ishvar waited for the verdict, beaming proudly.

“Superb!” said Maneck.

Dina pretended to be upset, saying he had never praised her meals with superlatives. He tried to wriggle out of it. “Your food is also superb, Aunty, but it’s similar to my mother’s Parsi cooking. That’s the only reason my tastebuds didn’t go crazy.”

Ishvar and Om were modest about their efforts. “It’s nothing. Very simple to make.”

“It’s delicious,” affirmed Dina. “Maneck’s idea of eating together was very good. If I knew from the beginning your food was so tasty, I would have hired you as cooks, not tailors.”

“Sorry,” Ishvar smiled at the compliment, “we don’t cook for money – only for ourselves and for friends.”

His words stirred her familiar residue of guilt. There was still a gulf between them; she did not see them as they saw her.

Over the weeks, the tailors expanded their contribution from chapatis, puris, and wadas to vegetarian dishes like paneer masala, shak-bhaji, aloo masala. There were always four people, or at least two, bustling about the kitchen in the evening. My bleakest hour, thought Dina, has now become the happiest.

On days that she made a rice dish, the tailors had a break from chapatis but went to the kitchen to help, if they were not out searching for a room to rent. “When I was a little boy in the village,” said Ishvar, cleaning the rice, picking out pebbles, “I used to do this for my mother. But in reverse. We used to go to the fields after the harvest and search for grain left from threshing and winnowing.”

They were trusting her with bits of their past, she realized, and nothing could be as precious. More pieces, to join to the growing story of the tailors.

“In those days,” continued Ishvar, “it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain.”

“And later?”

“Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.”

She liked his way of putting it. “You describe it well.”

He chuckled. “Must be my tailor training. Tailors are practised in examining patterns, reading the outlines.”

“And what about you, Om? Did you also help your mother to collect grain?”

“No.”

“He didn’t need to,” added Ishvar. “By the time he was born, his father – my brother – was doing well in tailoring.”

“But he still sent me to learn about the stinking leather,” said Om.

“You didn’t tell me that,” said Maneck.

“There are many things I haven’t told you. Have you told me everything?”

“Learning about leather was to build character,” explained Ishvar. “And to teach Om his history, remind him of his own community.”