A Fine Balance (78 page)

“Are you listening?” asked Dina. “How strong is your memory? Can you remember everything about this one year without looking at my quilt?”

“Seems much longer than one year to me,” said Om.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Maneck. “It’s just the opposite.”

“Hoi-hoi,” said Ishvar. “How can time be long or short? Time is without length or breadth. The question is, what happened during its passing. And what happened is, our lives have been joined together.”

“Like these patches,” said Om.

Maneck said the quilt did not have to end when the corner was filled in. “You could keep adding, Aunty, let it grow bigger.”

“Here you go again, talking foolishly,” said Dina. “What would I do with a monster quilt like that? Don’t confuse me with your quiltmaker God.”

I
n the midst of the morning Dina was becalmed. The water chores were done, last night’s dishes were scrubbed, clothes were washed. Without the chatter and hammer of the Singers, the rest of the day stretched emptily. She sat and watched Maneck eat a late breakfast.

“You should have gone with Ishvar and Om,” he tried to cheer her up. “You could have helped to choose the wife.”

“Are you being smart again?”

“No, I’m sure they’d have been happy to take you. You could have joined the Bride Selection Committee.” He choked on his toast, retaining the morsel with difficulty.

She patted his back till the fit passed. “Weren’t you taught not to speak with your mouth full?”

“It’s Ishvar in my throat,” he grinned. “Taking revenge because I am making fun of his auspicious event.”

“Poor man. I just hope he knows what he is doing. And I hope that whoever they pick, she tries to fit in, get along with all of us.”

“I’m sure she will, Aunty. Om is not going to get a bad-tempered or unfriendly wife.”

“Oh, I know. But he may not have a choice. In these arranged marriages, astrologers and families decide everything. Then the woman becomes the property of the husband’s family, to be abused and bullied. It’s a terrible system, turns the nicest girls into witches. But one thing she will have to understand it’s my house, and follow my ways, like you and Ishvar and Om. Or it will be impossible to get along.”

She stopped, realizing she was sounding like a mother-in-law. “Come on, finish that egg,” she changed the subject. “Your final exams begin tomorrow?”

He nodded, chewing. She began to clear the breakfast things. “And five days later you leave. Have you made your reservation?”

“Yes, it’s all done,” he said, gathering his books for the library. “And I’ll be back soon, don’t give away my room to anyone, Aunty.”

The mail arrived, with an envelope from Maneck’s parents. He opened it, handed the rent cheque to Dina, then read the letter.

“Mummy-Daddy are all right, I hope?” she said, watching his face start to cloud.

“Oh yes, everything is normal. Same as always. Now their complaints are starting again. They say: ‘Why are you going to college for three more years? Your fees are not the problem, but we will miss you. And there is so much work in the shop, we cannot manage alone, you should take over.’“ He put the letter down. “If I do decide to go back, it will be fighting and shouting with Daddy every day.”

She saw his fist clench, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Parents are as confused by life as anyone else. But they try very hard.”

He gave her the letter, and she read the rest of it. “Maneck, I really think you should do what your mummy is requesting – visit the Sodawalla family. You haven’t seen them even once in this whole year.”

Shrugging, he made a face and went to his room. When he emerged, she noticed the box under his arm. “Are you taking your chess set to college?”

“It’s not mine. Belongs to a friend. I’m going to return it today.”

On the way to the bus stop he deliberated about the letter – Daddy’s turmoil, Mummy’s anguish, their doubts and fears writhing through the words. What if they really meant it? Maybe it would work out fine this time, maybe the year’s absence really had helped Daddy come to terms with the changes in his life.

He made a little detour past the Vishram in order to wave to Shankar. The beggar did not notice him, distracted, craning and staring down the pavement towards the corner. Maneck bent over, waving again, and Shankar acknowledged him by tapping his tin against the platform. “O babu, are you fine? My friends departed safely?”

“Yesterday,” said Maneck.

“How exciting for them. And today is an exciting day for me also. Beggarmaster’s barber is coming to shave me. But I wish Ishvar and Om were here. How they would enjoy seeing my face afterwards.”

“I’ll be here, don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Maneck, and continued to the bus stop.

Shankar’s eyes followed Maneck until he disappeared around the corner, then resumed their vigil for the barber. The platform stood motionless by the kerb. The begging tin remained empty, the begging song unheard. Shankar did nothing to attract the attention of alms-givers. All he could think of was the sumptuous grooming, the full luxury treatment that awaited him at the hands of Beggarmaster’s personal barber.

Shankar did not know that earlier in the morning the personal barber had declined the commission. Pavement work was something he did not do, he had told Beggarmaster. Instead, he had presented someone else for the job. “This is Rajaram. He is very good and very cheap, and does pavement work.”

“Namaskaar,” said Rajaram.

“Listen,” said Beggarmaster, “Shankar may be just a beggar but I love him dearly – I want the very best for him. No offence to you, but I cannot help questioning your skills. How much can a bald man know about hair?”

“That’s not a fair question,” said Rajaram. “Does a beggar possess a lot of money? No. Yet he knows how to handle it.”

Beggarmaster had liked the answer, and given his approval. So it was Rajaram who arrived outside the Vishram, armed with his barber’s kit.

Shankar thought he recognized the man from somewhere. “Babu, have I met you before?”

“Never seen you in my life,” said Rajaram, haunted by their hair connection, and anxious to disown it. Staying on in the city was risky, he knew, but he had decided it would be safer to commence his journey to the Himalayas in a sanyasi’s outfit. Saffron robes and beads and a hand-carved wooden bhiksha bowl didn’t come cheap, however; Beggarmaster’s bonus for this special job would certainly help.

He tied a white sheet round the beggar’s neck and whipped up a cup of lather with the shaving brush. Shankar bowed his head towards it to catch the fragrance, almost losing his balance. Rajaram pushed him back. “Sit still,” he said, his tone surly to discourage conversation.

Surliness was regular fare for Shankar, and could not diminish his good cheer. “Looks like a cream puff,” he said, when the froth rose in the cup.

“Why don’t you eat a bowlful?” Rajaram moistened the jowls and slapped on the soap. The careless brush strokes pushed some lather into Shankar’s open mouth. Rusty as Rajaram was, he also forgot to pinch the nostrils shut while lathering the upper lip. He opened the razor and began to strop the gleaming blade.

Shankar loved the swishing sound. “Do you ever make a mistake with your razor?” he asked.

“Lots of times. Some people’s throats are such weird shapes, they cut easily. And police cannot arrest barbers for occupational accidents, it’s the law.”

“You better not make a mistake on my throat, it’s the proper shape! And Beggarmaster would punish you!”

Despite the bravado Shankar kept very still, tense till the blade had finished its dangerous tour of his map. Rajaram mopped up bits of lather missed by the razor, then glided an alum block over the shaved areas. The callow skin had been badly nicked in places.

“Show me the mirror,” demanded Shankar, feeling the smart and worrying that the razor had erred after all.

Rajaram held up the glass. The beggar’s anxious face peered back, but the styptic had checked the bleeding and there were no drops of red.

“Okay, next is face massage. That’s what Beggarmaster instructed.” From a bottle in his box he scooped out a dab of cream and spread it over the jowls.

Shankar went stiff, not sure what those muscular hands were up to. Then he allowed his head to roll with the rubbing, stroking movements. He began oohing and aahing with pleasure as the fingers kneaded his cheeks, worked under the eyes, around and over the nose, forehead and temples, massaging away a lifetime of pain and suffering.

“A little more,” he pleaded when the barber stopped and wiped his hands. “One extra minute, I beg you, babu, it feels so wonderful.”

“It’s all done,” said Rajaram, wrinkling his nose. He had never enjoyed giving face massages, not even to middle-class faces in the heyday of his career. He flexed his fingers before taking up the scissors and comb. “Now your haircut,” he said.

“No, that I don’t want.”

“Beggarmaster has told me what to do.” He jerked the head down to trim around the nape, anxious to finish and get away.

“Aray babu, I don’t want it!” Shankar started screaming. “I said I don’t want it! I like long hair!” He shook his tin to make noise, but it had been a slow morning, the tin remained silent. He banged it on the pavement.

Passersby slowed to examine the duo curiously, and Rajaram ceased to press him, worried about attracting more attention. “Don’t be scared, I will cut your hair very carefully, very handsomely.”

“I don’t care how handsome! I don’t want a haircut!”

“Please don’t shout. Tell me what you want, I’ll do it for you. Scalp massage? Dandruff treatment?”

Shankar reached under his platform and took out a package. “You are the hair expert, right?”

He nodded.

“I want you to fix this to my hair.” He pushed the package towards him.

Rajaram opened it, and quailed as two lovely ponytails slid out. “You want me to tie these to your hair?”

“Not just tie. I want it permanent. It must grow from my own head.”

Rajaram was at a loss. He had, in his time as a barber, had his share of unusual assignments: grooming a circus’s bearded lady; shaping a gigolo’s private hair into little plaits; designing artistic pubic coiffures for a brothel moving upmarket to target ministers and corporate executives; shaving (blindfolded in the interest of modesty) the crotch of a caste-conscious man’s wife because the husband didn’t want her polluted by performing the lowly task herself. With these and other challenges, Rajaram had dealt with a barber’s professional aplomb. But Shankar’s request was beyond his skills.

“It’s not possible,” he said flatly.

“You must, you must, you must!” screamed Shankar. Of late, Beggarmaster’s attentions, sudden and excessive, had had a spoiling effect on the gentle, accepting beggar. He refused to listen to the barber’s explanation. “A rose can be grafted!” he yelled. “So graft my hair! You’re the expert! Or I’ll complain to Beggarmaster about you!”

Rajaram begged him to speak softly, to put away the ponytails for now, he would come back tomorrow with special equipment for the complicated job.

“I want it today!” shouted Shankar. “I want my long hair right now!

The cashier-waiter of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel watched from the doorway, and so did the cook. More passersby stopped, expecting something interesting to develop. Then a lottery-ticket vendor brought up the case of the beggars who had been killed many months ago for their hair. What a coincidence, he said, that two thick tails of hair should be in this beggar’s possession.

Speculation flourished. Perhaps there was a connection – a ritual of beggars that involved human sacrifice. Or maybe this beggar was a psychopath. Someone mentioned the gruesome Raman Raghav serial killings a few years ago; the beggars’ murders suggested a similar bloodthirsty pattern:

Trembling with fear, Rajaram tried to dissociate himself from Shankar. He packed up his kit and edged backwards till he became part of the crowd confronting the beggar. At the first opportunity he slipped away.

People moved in closer around Shankar. It frightened him. Now he was sorry he had made a fuss with the barber. He regretted forgetting the cardinal rule of all good almsmen: beggars could be seen, and also heard, but not too loudly – especially not on non-begging matters.

He felt claustrophobic as the crowd towering over him blotted out the sun. His pavement went dark. He tried to appease them by singing the begging song, “O babu ek paisa day-ray,” his bandaged palm repeatedly touching his forehead. It didn’t work. Opinion continued to churn menacingly.

“Where did you steal that hair, you crook?” shouted someone.

“My friends gave it to me,” whined Shankar, frightened yet indignant about the accusation.

“Saala murderer!”

“What a monster he is!” marvelled another, torn between repulsion and admiration. “Such dexterity! Even without fingers or legs, he can commit these violent crimes!”

“Maybe he is just hiding his fingers and legs. These people have ways to modify their body.”

Shankar wept that he had not committed any bad acts, he was a good beggar who did not harass anyone and stayed in his proper place. “May God watch over you forever! O babu, please listen, I always give a salaam to the people who pass by! Even when I am in pain I smile for you! Some beggars curse if the amount is insulting, but I always give a blessing, whether the coin is big or small! Ask anyone who walks by here!”

A policeman approached to see what the commotion was about. He bent down, and Shankar spied his face outside the forest of legs. The crowd parted to let the constable take a better look. Shankar decided it was now or never. He pushed off on his platform and shot through the opening.

The crowd laughed to see him crouch low, paddling with his arms for all he was worth.
“Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi!”
said someone, eliciting more laughter from those who remembered the old film.

“The beggars’ Grand Prix!” said another.

A hundred yards past the Vishram, Shankar found himself in unexplored territory. Here, the pavement sloped quite steeply, and the castors began to spin faster. Turning the corner at high speed was going to be impossible. But Shankar had not thought so far ahead. The terrifying crowd had to be escaped, that was all.