A Fine Balance (73 page)

Nosey assumed he must have enjoyed her body, for he kept returning on other nights, even when he was not drunk. Now she hated it less. When he lay on top of her and looked at her face without the armour of alcohol, she started to like it. She let her flesh come alive, and enjoyed melting with him. Her hands explored his body then, discovering the large knob at the nape. She giggled, and asked him about it. He joked that he had grown it for her pleasure – so she would have not one but two big bones to play with.

And thus it was that the man who could look upon her hideous face and still love her found a place in her heart. He explained what the doctor had told him about his special bone. He had been born with thirty-four vertebrae instead of the normal thirty-three, the extra one having fused at the top of the column, and responsible for his chronic pain.

Is it not your father I am describing, said Nosey, is there any doubt remaining now?

Beggarmaster agreed that all this was true. But it was only evidence of his father’s drunken fornications, and nothing else.

Not only drunken, she corrected him with pride, but sober as well. This distinction was the dearest thing in her life, and of the utmost importance to her even at death’s door.

Grudgingly he admitted it. But it was still not proof, he maintained, that Shankar was his father’s son and his own half-brother. Yes, it was, said Nosey, because Shankar had the identical protuberance at the nape of his neck, and it would take only a moment to verify it. Beggarmaster could, of course, pretend it was a coincidence, she said, but he would know the truth in his heart.

“And she was right, the truth was in my heart. Also in my heart was a great, hopeless mixture of feelings. I was angry and frightened and confused. But also happy. For I realized that I, an only child, left in the world without parents, without any relatives, was suddenly blessed with a brother. And a stepmother, even if she was close to my own age, and close to death.”

So, having accepted the truth, all his rage and resentment towards the dying woman was replaced by gratitude. He asked why she had not told him earlier. She said out of fear of what he might have done if the secret angered or shamed him – maybe killed her and Shankar, or sold them to a less pleasant owner in a far-off place where they would have been strangers. Her greatest terror was to lose the familiar pavements of her youth.

But now it did not matter, she would be dead in a short while, and he would be the sole keeper of the knowledge, to do with it as he wished. It would be up to him to tell or not tell Shankar.

He reassured her that her confidences had brought him nothing but happiness. The urgent matter was to get her to a good hospital. He wanted to make her comfortable for whatever time was left to her, and went to hail a taxi.

The first few to stop refused the fare when they saw the sick beggar-woman, concerned about the car’s interior. Finally, he flagged one down by waving a thick wad of rupees at the driver. The taxi had a broken headlight and a clanking bumper. In the back seat, with Nosey cradled in his arms through the journey, Beggarmaster heard the driver’s hard-luck story about a policeman who had maliciously damaged the vehicle because the driver had been late that week in slipping him the envelope with his parking hafta.

At the hospital there was a long delay. Nosey was left on the floor in a corridor crowded with destitutes awaiting treatment. The antiseptic odour of phenol from the stone tiles penetrated faintly through the human fetor. Beggarmaster did his best to motivate the people in charge, and spoke to a kind-looking doctor. His white coat was torn at the large lower pocket into which he had squeezed his stethoscope. Beggarmaster asked him to please hurry and attend his mother, he would make it worth his while. The doctor said in a gentle voice not to worry, everyone would be looked after. Then he rushed away with his hand in the torn pocket.

Beggarmaster assumed that medical people, dedicated to their noble calling, were not impressed by his sweat-soaked roll of rupees like most of society. But he was unable to sample more doctors and nurses to arrive at an actuarially valid conclusion. Before his stepmother could be treated, her life had ended. He consoled himself by paying for a good funeral instead of a hospital bill.

“And when all this was dealt with, I went to see Shankar,” sighed Beggarmaster. “Of course, I did not mention the main news right away, because I first wanted to think in peace and quiet about what Nosey had told me.”

He asked Shankar how the begging was going, if the platform was working well, if the castors needed oiling – the usual chitchat of inspection rounds. Shankar complained that almsgiving was drying up in this neighbourhood of misers, people were so bad-tempered. Beggarmaster knelt by his side and put a hand on his shoulder. He said it was the same trouble everywhere – it was a real crisis of human nature, a revolution was needed in people’s hearts. But he would look into it, maybe assign him a new location. He patted Shankar’s back and said not to worry, then let his fingers slip under the collar to feel the nape of his neck.

“And there, beneath my fingertips, was my father’s backbone. The same large bump. My hand was trembling with emotion. My whole body shook with excitement, I could barely keep my balance as I knelt. There was my brother before me, and there, also, my father, living in that spinal column. It was all I could do to keep from embracing Shankar, pressing him to my chest, and confessing everything.”

With a superhuman effort he had restrained himself. Premature divulgence could have caused untold anguish. First, he had to decide on the best course for Shankar. It was all very well to imagine he could take his brother home, keep him in comfort for the rest of his life, and live happily together. Such dreams were cheap, people had them all the time.

But what if Shankar could not adjust to the new life? Suppose it seemed purposeless, or worse than purposeless? A prison, where his inadequacies were highlighted instead of being put to use as they were in begging on the pavement? And more important, what if the horrific story of the early years became an ulcer on Shankar’s spirit, eating him from within, turning the remainder of his life into one bitter and ravaging accusation of Beggarmaster and his father? After such knowledge, could there be forgiveness?

“I felt it was better for me to wrestle with my own soul, contain within its bounds the truth imparted by Nosey. To involve my poor unfortunate brother in the misery, just for my own comfort – that would have been too selfish.” He reasoned that Shankar’s life had already been wrecked once, in infancy. But Shankar had learned to inhabit that wreckage. To wreak a second destruction upon him would be unforgivable.

“So I have decided to wait. To wait, and talk to him about his childhood. Perhaps I will share little things, and watch his reaction. By and by, I will know which is the best course for us. And here is where I need your help.”

“What can we do?” asked Ishvar.

“Ask Shankar questions, make him speak about his past. See what kind of memories he has. He is still a little scared of me, he probably tells you more. Will you keep me informed?”

“Sure, we can do that.”

“Thank you. Meanwhile, I want to make his life on the pavement as pleasant as possible. I have begun to buy him his favourite sweetmeats every day – laddoo and jalebi. And on Sundays, rasmalai. I have also improved his platform with cushioning, and got him a better place to sleep at night.”

“Now it makes sense,” said Ishvar. “He keeps telling us how nice you have been to him.”

“It’s the least I can do. I am also planning to send him my personal barber, to provide the full deluxe treatment – hair trim, shave, facial massage, manicure, everything. And if people give fewer alms because of good grooming, then fuck them.”

Again Dina curbed the urge to say: Language. But this time it wasn’t as great a shock to her ears. “The news you have brought is wonderful,” she said. “How happy Shankar will be when you finally tell him.”

“Not when, but if. Will I ever have the courage? Do I have the wisdom to make the right decision?”

The weight of these questions suddenly plunged him into despair. The news which was to have cheered everyone became cloud across the sun.

“I’m sure it will be clear to you in time,” said Ishvar.

“What has become clear is a fine line between Shankar and me. Finer than the silken hair of my poor murdered beggars. I did not draw it – it is the trace of destiny. But now I have the power to rub it out.” He sighed. “Such an awesome, frightening power. Do I dare? For once that line is erased, it can never be redrawn.” He shivered. “What a legacy my stepmother left me.”

He opened his briefcase, took out his sketchbook and showed them his latest drawing. “I did it last night, when I was very depressed and could not sleep.”

The picture consisted of three figures. The first was seated on a platform with tiny wheels. He had no legs or fingers, and the thigh stumps jutted like hollow bamboo. The second was an emaciated woman without a nose, the face with a gaping hole at its centre. But the third figure was the most grotesque. A man with a briefcase chained to his wrist was standing on four spidery legs. His four feet were splayed towards the four points of the compass, as though in a permanent dispute about which was the right direction. His two hands each had ten fingers, useless bananas sprouting from the palms. And on his face were two noses, adjacent yet bizarrely turned away, as though neither could bear the smell of the other.

They stared at the drawing, uncertain how to respond to Beggarmaster’s creation. He saved them the embarrassment by offering his own interpretation. “Freaks, that’s what we are – all of us.”

Ishvar was about to say he was being too hard on himself, that he should not take Shankar’s and Nosey’s fates entirely upon his own person, when Beggarmaster clarified himself. “I mean, every single human being. And who can blame us? What chance do we have, when our beginnings and endings are so freakish? Birth and death – what could be more monstrous than that? We like to deceive ourselves and call it wondrous and beautiful and majestic, but it’s freakish, let’s face it.”

He shut his sketchbook and returned it to the briefcase with a certain snappiness, indicating that his saga of happiness and misery and doubt and discovery was over, the human emotions were being packed away, and now it was back to business. “Your year will be up in another four months. I need to know in advance – are you planning to renew the contract with me?”

“Oh yes,” said Ishvar. “Most definitely. Or the landlord will again start his harassment.”

They followed Beggarmaster to the verandah to see him off. Outside, the night remained unbroken by streetlights. There appeared to be a power outage, for the entire line of lamps was unlit.

“I hope Shankar’s lamppost is working,” said Beggarmaster. “I better hurry and check on him, he gets frightened if the pavement is dark.”

He strode across the black asphalt in his white shirt and trousers, like chalk across a blank slate. He turned once to wave, then gradually became invisible.

“What a weird story,” said Om. “Our friends at Vishram would really enjoy this one. It’s got everything – tragedy, romance, violence, and a suspenseful unresolved ending.”

“But you heard what Beggarmaster told us,” said Ishvar. “It must be kept secret, for Shankar’s sake. It’s one more story that cannot be included in the cook’s
Mahabharat.”

T
HE KITTENS’ REAPPEARANCE OUTSIDE
the kitchen window a month later was not an occasion for rejoicing. The creatures treated it as no more than a scrounging stop. Om and Maneck would have been happy with some sign of recognition – a loud miaow, perhaps, or a look, a purr, an arching of the back. Instead, the kittens grabbed a fish head and ran off to enjoy it in seclusion.

“Why are you surprised by that?” said Dina. “Ingratitude is not uncommon in the world. One day, you too will forget me – all of you. When you go your own way and settle down, you will not know me.” She pointed at Maneck. “In two months you’ll sit for your final exam, pack your things, then disappear.”

“Not me, Aunty,” he protested. “I will always remember you, and visit you, and write to you wherever I am.”

“Yes, we’ll see,” she said. “And you tailors will some day start on your own and leave as well. Not that I won’t be happy for you when it happens.”

“Dinabai, I’ll bless your mouth with sugar if that ever happens,” said Ishvar. “But before there can be homes or shops for people like us, politicians will have to become honest.” He held up his index finger, crooked it, then extended it. “The bent stick may straighten, but not the government.” In fact, he said, this was his biggest worry – how would Om take a wife if they couldn’t find a place to live?

“Surely something will turn up by the time he’s ready to marry,” said Dina.

“I think he is ready now,” said Ishvar.

“I think he is not,” snapped Om. “Why do you keep talking about marriage? Look at Maneck, same age as me, and no one’s hurrying to fix his wedding. Are your parents in a rush, Maneck? Come on, speak, yaar, teach my uncle some sense.”