A Fine Balance (69 page)

The bald man entered the room quietly. Standing behind them, he pulled out a flick-knife and held it open, pointing to the ceiling. Like a film actor, thought Maneck, starting to tremble.

“Okay, batcha,” said the bald man in his soft voice. “Your little fun is over.”

The others turned to look. Dina screamed when she saw the knife, and Ibrahim was furious now. “Put that away! And get out, both of you! Your work is done, I am in charge!”

“Shut up,” said the bald man. “We know our job.” His partner snatched away the umbrella and drove his fist into Maneck’s face. Maneck fell against the wall. Blood trickled from his mouth in a painful reflection of the paan juice oozing from the other’s lips.

“Stop it! I was present when you got your orders! There was nothing about beatings and knives!” The rent-collector stamped his foot and shook his fist.

The impotent rage entertained the bald man. “Are you killing cockroaches with your shoe?” he laughed, feeling the blade with his finger before retracting it. Then he snapped it open again and slashed Dina’s pillows and mattress. He threw them about, watching the stuffing scatter. The sofa cushions in the front room were treated similarly.

“There,” he said. “Now the rest is in your hands, madam. You don’t want us to return with a second notice, do you?”

The other fellow kicked Maneck’s shins in passing. Giving his paan a final workout, he spat on the bed and around it, emptying his mouth over as much of the room as possible. “Are you coming or not?” he asked Ibrahim.

“Later,” he said, frowning angrily at them. “I have not finished.”

The front door closed. Dina regarded the rent-collector with loathing and went to Maneck, where Ishvar was cradling him, holding his head, asking if he was all right. Ibrahim followed close behind, whispering repeatedly, “Forgive me, sister,” like a secret prayer.

Maneck’s nose was bleeding and the upper lip was cut. He checked with his tongue – no teeth were broken. They wiped the blood with scraps lying around the sewing-machines. He tried to mumble something and rose groggily.

“Don’t talk,” said Om, who had got back his wind, “it will bleed more.”

“Thank God the knife wasn’t used,” said Dina.

The sound of shattering glass came from the front room. Ibrahim ran to the verandah. “Stop it, you fools!” he yelled. “What’s the idea? That will only cost the landlord!” A few more stones broke the remaining windowpanes, then there was silence.

They helped Maneck to the basin to wash his face. “I can walk by myself,” he muttered. After cleaning him up a bit, they led him to the sofa with a cloth pressed to his nose.

“What that lip needs is ice,” said Dina.

“I’ll buy some from Vishram,” volunteered Om.

“Not necessary,” said Maneck, but was overruled by the others. A ten-paisa lump would be enough, they decided. Ibrahim quickly fished a coin out of his sherwani and offered it to Om.

“Don’t touch his money!” ordered Dina, fetching her purse. The rent-collector pleaded for its acceptance before dropping the coin back in his pocket.

Waiting for Om to return, they contemplated the damage. Fluff from the shredded cushions floated around, settling slowly to the floor. Dina picked up the slashed casings; she felt dirty, as though the goondas’ hands had molested her own being. The ripped dresses and paan-soiled bolts began bearing down heavily on her. How would she explain to Au Revoir? What could she possibly tell Mrs. Gupta?

“I am finished,” she said, on the verge of tears.

“Maybe the frocks can be repaired, Dinabai,” said Ishvar, making an effort to console her. “And we can wash off the red stuff.”

But his words sounded so hopeless, even to himself, that instead he turned on Ibrahim. “You have no shame? Why are you trying to destroy this poor lady? What kind of monster are you?”

Ibrahim stood contritely, ready to listen. He welcomed the revilement, desired an excess of it, to salve his guilt.

“Your beard is pure white but your heart is rotten,” said Ishvar.

“You wicked, sinful man!” hissed Dina. “A disgrace to old age!”

“Please, sister! I did not know they –”

“You did this! You brought those goondas!” She shook with fear and rage.

Ibrahim could control himself no longer. Putting his hands over his face, he made a peculiar sound. It was not immediately apparent that he was trying to cry noiselessly. “It’s no use,” his voice broke. “I cannot do this job, I hate it! Oh, what has my life become!” He felt under the sherwani and pulled out his kerchief to blow his nose.

“Forgive me, sister,” he sobbed. “I did not know, when I brought them, that they would do such damage. For years I have followed the landlord’s orders. Like a helpless child. He tells me to threaten somebody, I threaten. He tells me to plead, I plead. If he raves that a tenant must be evicted, I have to repeat the raving at the tenant’s door. I am his creature. Everybody thinks I am an evil person, but I am not, I want to see justice done, for myself, for yourself, for everyone. But the world is controlled by wicked people, we have no chance, we have nothing but trouble and sorrow…”

He dissolved completely. Ishvar took his arm and led him to a chair, his resentment softening. “Here, sit down and don’t cry. Doesn’t look nice.”

“What else can I do but cry? These tears are all I have to offer. Forgive me, sister. I have harmed you. Now the goondas will return after forty-eight hours. They will throw your furniture and belongings on the pavement. Poor sister, where will you go?”

“I won’t open the door for them, that’s all.”

Her childish assertion touched Ibrahim, and he began weeping again. “It won’t stop them. They will bring policemen to break the lock.”

“As if the police will help them.”

“These Emergency times are terrible, sister. Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.”

“But what is it to the landlord if my tailors and I sew here?” Her voice rose uncontrollably. “Who am I harming with my work?”

“The landlord needs an excuse, sister. These flats are worth a fortune, the Rent Act lets him charge only the old worthless rent, so he –”

Ibrahim broke off and wiped his eyes. “But you know all that, sister. It’s not you alone, he is doing the same with other tenants, the ones who are weak and without influence.”

Om returned with a lump of ice that was too big to hold comfortably against the lip. He covered it in cloth and struck the floor with it. “You came like a real hero to save me,” he grinned, trying to cheer up Maneck, who looked very pale. “You jumped in just like Amitabh Bachchan.”

He unwrapped the fragments of ice and turned to the others. “Did you see it? For a minute that fucker was really scared by Maneck’s umbrella.”

“Language,” said Dina.

Maneck smiled, which stretched the cut lip. He restrained himself and took a piece of ice.

“That’s it – that’s your new name,” said Om. “Umbrella Bachchan.”

“What are you waiting for?” Dina turned angrily to the rent-collector again. “You tell your landlord, I am not leaving, I won’t give up this flat.”

“I don’t think it will help, sister,” said Ibrahim sorrowfully, “but I wish you best of luck,” and he left.

Maneck said he did not want to create trouble for Dina Aunty with his presence. “Don’t worry about me,” he uttered with minimum lip movement. “I can always return home.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “After all these months, more than halfway to your diploma, how can you disappoint your parents?”

“No no, he is right,” said Ishvar. “It’s not fair, all this suffering for you because of us. We will go back to the nightwatchman.”

“Stop talking nonsense, all of you,” snapped Dina. “Let me think for a minute.” She said they were missing the point. “You heard Ibrahim’s words – the landlord just wants an excuse. Your going away will not save my flat.”

The only thing she could count on, in her opinion, was her brother’s ability to straighten out the dispute – with money, smooth words, or whatever it was that he was so good at using in his business dealings. “Once again, I’ll have to swallow my pride and ask for his help, that’s all.”

T
HEY MOVED MECHANICALLY THROUGH
their morning acts of washing and cleaning and tea-making. Om’s stomach was sore where he had been punched, but he did not tell his uncle. They crept into Maneck’s room to check on him. He was still asleep. There were stains on his pillow; his lip and nose had bled again during the night. They called Dina to see it.

She was mentally rehearsing her meeting with Nusswan, imagining his smug face, the expression proclaiming his indispensability. She bent over Maneck – how innocent is his sleep, she thought, and felt like stroking his forehead. The lip was black where the blood had clotted. The final trickle from the nose had also congealed. They backed softly out of the room. “He’s all right,” she whispered. “The cut is dry, let him sleep.”

As she was readying to leave for her brother’s office, Beggarmaster arrived at the door, briefcase chained to his left wrist. It was his scheduled collection day. Ishvar had the money put aside from the previous week’s earnings, safe in Dina’s cupboard.

She urged him to level with the man that the next instalment would be difficult. “Better to tell him now than to have him come looking for you with a stick.”

Beggarmaster listened sceptically. Measured against his own experiences, the account of the goondas’ nocturnal assault sounded too theatrical to be true. He suspected his clients were concocting the story, preparing to renege on their contract.

Then they took him inside, showed him the shattered windows, battered sewing-machines, torn dresses and soiled fabrics, and he was convinced. “This is bad,” he said. “Very bad. Such amateurs they must be, to behave like this.”

“I’m ruined,” said Dina. “And it’s not the tailors’ fault that they won’t be able to pay you next week.”

“Believe me, they will,” he said grimly.

“But how?” implored Ishvar. “If we are thrown out and cannot work? Have mercy on us!”

Taking no notice of him, Beggarmaster walked around the room, inspecting, rapping his knuckles on the table, jotting in his little notepad. “Tell me how much it will cost to fix all the damage.”

“What good is that going to do?” cried Dina. “Those goondas will return tomorrow if we don’t vacate! And you want to waste time on an account? I have more urgent things on my mind, making sure I have shelter!”

Beggarmaster looked up from his notepad, slightly surprised. “You already have shelter. Right here. This
is
your flat, isn’t it?”

She nodded impatiently at the silly question.

“Those goondas committed a big mistake,” he continued, “and I am going to correct it for them.”

“And when they come back?”

“They won’t. You tailors have made your payments regularly, so you don’t have to worry – you are under my protection. Everything will be taken care of. But unless I know the amount of damage, how will I reimburse you? You want to start your sewing business again or not?”

Now it was Dina’s turn to look sceptical. “What are you, an insurance company?”

He smiled modestly in reply.

There was nothing to lose, she decided, and started multiplying the mutilated length of Au Revoir fabric by the price per yard. The loss totalled nine hundred and fifty rupees plus tax. Ishvar estimated the charge for repairing the sewing-machines to be approximately six hundred. The belts and needles were broken; and the flywheels and treadles would have to be realigned or replaced, besides a general overhaul.

Beggarmaster wrote it down, totting up the cost of the slashed mattress, pillows, wooden stools, sofa, cushions, and windows. “Anything else?”

“The umbrella,” said Maneck, awakened by their voices. “They broke some ribs.”

Beggarmaster added it to the list, then recorded the landlord’s office address and descriptions of the two men. “Good,” he said. “That’s all I need. If your landlord doesn’t know you’re my clients, he’ll soon find out. He’ll settle the damages, once I pay him a little visit. Now don’t worry, just wait for me, I’ll be back this evening.”

“Should I make a complaint to the police?” asked Dina.

He gave her a weary look. “If you like. But you might as well complain to that crow on your window.” The bird cawed and flew away; he felt vindicated.

Beggarmaster’s assurances could not fully assuage Dina’s doubts. She went to Nusswan’s office in order to inform him of the situation. In case his help was required later, she decided, or he would say: Digging a well when the house is on fire.

The peon informed her sadly that Nusswan sahab was out of town for a meeting; he always felt sad about sahab’s sister. “He won’t be back till tomorrow night.”

Dina left the office, tempted to stop at the Venus Beauty Salon and talk with Zenobia. But to what purpose? Empty consolation would solve nothing; besides, it would be accompanied by Zenobia’s infuriating “I warned you but you wouldn’t listen.”

She returned to the flat, praying that Beggarmaster would come through. A stench followed her inside the door, and she puzzled about it. “Can you smell it?” she asked Ishvar.