A Fine Balance (13 page)

The pile of finished dresses grew without Dina having to do a thing except open the door every morning. Ishvar would have a greeting or a smile for her, but Omprakash’s skinny form darted past wordlessly. Perching on his stool like a grouchy little owl, she thought.

The three dozen dresses were completed before the due date. Mrs. Gupta was delighted with the results. She authorized a new assignment, for six dozen garments this time. And safely in Dina’s purse was the payment for the first batch. Almost like money for nothing, she felt, experiencing a hint of guilt. How much easier than those tangled days when her fingers and eyes were forever snarled in sewing and embroidery.

The tailors’ relief at being approved by the export company was enormous. “If the first lot is accepted, the rest will be no problem,” brimmed Ishvar with sudden confidence, as she counted out their payment.

“Yes,” cautioned Dina, “but they will always check the quality, so we cannot get careless. And we have to deliver on time.”

“Hahnji, don’t worry,” said Ishvar. “Always top quality production, on time.” And Dina dared to believe that her days of toil and trouble were ending.

The tailors began taking regular lunch breaks. Dina concluded that the one-meal-a-day formula Ishvar had proclaimed last week was dictated by their pocketbook rather than asceticism or a strict work ethic. But she was pleased because her enterprise was improving their nourishment.

Promptly at one, Omprakash announced, “I’m hungry, let’s go.” They put aside the dresses, returned their treasured pinking shears to the drawer, and departed.

They ate at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel on the corner. There were no secrets at the Vishram – everything was out in the open: the man chopping vegetables, another frying them in the huge black-bottomed pan, a boy washing up. With only one table in the little shop, Ishvar and Omprakash did not wait for a seat but ate standing with the crowd outside. Then they hurried back to work, past the legless beggar who was rolling back and forth on his platform to the squeal of his rusty castors.

Soon, Dina began to notice that the sewing no longer proceeded at the former breakneck speed. Their recesses became more numerous, during which they stood outside the front door and puffed on beedis. Typical, she thought, they get a little money and they start to slack off.

She remembered the advice that Zenobia and Mrs. Gupta had given: to be a firm boss. She pointed out, in what she presumed was a stern voice, that work was falling behind.

“No no, don’t worry,” said Ishvar. “Everything will finish punctually. But if you like, to save time we can smoke while we sew.”

Dina hated the smell; besides, a stray spark could burn a hole in the cloth. “You shouldn’t smoke anywhere,” she said. “Inside or outside. Cancer will eat your lungs.”

“We don’t have to worry about cancer,” said Omprakash. “This expensive city will first eat us alive, for sure.”

“What’s that? At last I am hearing words from your mouth?”

Ishvar chuckled. “I told you he speaks only when he disagrees.”

“But why worry about money,” she said. “Work hard and you will earn lots of it.”

“Not the way you pay us,” muttered Omprakash under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Ishvar hastily. “He was talking to me. He has a headache.”

She asked if he would like to take an Aspro for the pain. Omprakash refused, but from then on, his voice was heard increasingly.

“Do you have to go far to get the work?” he asked.

“Not far,” said Dina. “Takes about one hour.” She was pleased that he was settling in, making an effort to be agreeable.

“If you need help to carry the dresses there, let us know.”

How nice of him, she thought.

“And what is the name of the company you go to?”

Glad about his grumpy silences having ended, she almost blurted out the name, then pretended not to have heard. He repeated the question.

“Why bother with the name,” she said. “All that I am concerned with is the work.”

“Very true,” agreed Ishvar. “That’s what interests us also.”

His nephew scowled. After a while he tried again: Was there only one company or several different ones? Was she paid a commission, or a set price for the complete order?

Ishvar was embarrassed. “Less talk, Omprakash, and more sewing.”

Now Dina longed for the silent nephew. She saw what he was after, and from that day made sure the material from Au Revoir Exports bore no signs of its origin. Labels and tags were torn off the packages if the telltale name was featured. Invoices were kept locked away in the cupboard. Cracks began appearing in her optimism as it tried to keep up with the tailors. She knew the road had turned bumpy.

The Darjis lived far, at the mercy of the railways. Still, Dina worried now if they were late, certain she had been deserted for better-paying jobs. And since she could not afford to let them suspect her fears, she always masked her relief upon their arrival with a show of displeasure.

A day before the due date, they did not come till ten o’clock. “There was an accident, train was delayed,” explained Ishvar. “Some poor fellow dead on the tracks again.”

“It’s happening too often,” said Omprakash.

The empty-stomach smell floating out their mouths, like a cocoon containing words, was unpleasant. She was not interested in their excuses. The sooner they were at their sewing-machines the better.

But silence on her part could be misconstrued as weakness, so she said, drily, “Under the Emergency, government says railway runs on time. Strange that your train keeps coming late.”

“If government kept their promises, the gods would come down to garland them,” said Ishvar, laughing with a placating circular nod.

His peace-offering amused her. She smiled, and he was relieved. As far as he was concerned, jeopardizing the steady income would be foolish – Omprakash and he were very fortunate to be working for Dina Dalai.

They pulled out their wooden stools, loaded fresh bobbins, and started to sew while the sky prepared to rain. The gloom of grey clouds infiltrated the back room. Omprakash hinted that the forty-watt bulb was too dim.

“If I exceed the monthly quota, my meter will be disconnected,” she said. “Then we will be in total darkness.”

Ishvar suggested moving the Singers to the front room which was much brighter.

“Not possible. The machines will be seen from the street, and the landlord will make trouble. It is against the law to have a factory in the flat, even if it is only two sewing-machines. Already he harasses me for other reasons.”

This the tailors understood. They too knew about landlords and harassment. Through the morning they worked steadily, with rumbling bellies, anticipating the midday break. They had eaten nothing since waking.

“Double tea for me today,” said Omprakash. “And a butter-bun to dip.”

“Pay attention to your machine,” said Ishvar. “You will end up with double fingers instead of double tea.” They both kept checking the clock. At the hour of deliverance, their feet left the treadles and sought out their sandals.

“Don’t go now,” said Dina. “This job is urgent, and you were late this morning. The manager will be very angry if the dresses are delayed.” She was worried about the due date – what if they came late again tomorrow? Be firm, be strict, she reminded herself.

Ishvar hesitated; his nephew would not take the suggestion kindly. His inquiring glance confirmed it, colliding with an angry glare.

“Let’s go,” muttered Omprakash without looking at Dina. “I’m hungry.”

“Your nephew is always hungry,” she said to Ishvar. “Has he got worms?”

“No no, Om is all right.”

Dina was not convinced. The suspicion had crawled into her mind during the first week. Apart from Omprakash’s skinniness and his constant complaints about headaches and hunger, she frequently spied his fingers relieving an itch in his fundament; and that, she felt, was evidence as conclusive as any.

“You should take him to doctor for checkup. He is so thin – a walking advertisement for Wimco Matches.”

“No no, he is all right. And who has money for doctor?”

“Work hard and there will be plenty. Finish this job quickly,” she coaxed. “The sooner I deliver it, the sooner you have your money.”

“Five minutes for tea won’t make a difference,” snapped Omprakash.

“Your five always become thirty-five. Listen, I will make tea for you later. Special deluxe tea, not the overbrewed, bitter poison you get at the corner. But first finish the work. That way, everybody will be happy – you, me, the manager.”

“Okay,” Ishvar gave in, shaking off his sandals and resuming his place. The cast-iron treadle, warmed all morning by his feet, had not had time to cool.

With the two Singers racing again, Omprakash’s angry whispers darted their way through the hammering needles to his uncle’s ear. “You
always
let her bully us. I don’t know what the matter is with you. Let
me
do the talking from now on.”

Ishvar nodded mollifyingly. It embarrassed him to argue with Om or scold him within Dina’s earshot.

At two o’clock, when the noise of the machines was making her temples throb, Dina decided to deliver what had been completed. She was annoyed with herself. Pleading and bribing with tea was not a good example of a strict boss. It would take more practice, she concluded, to get used to bullying them.

From under the worktable she retrieved the transparent plastic sheet and brown paper in which the bolts of cloth had arrived from Au Revoir. Remembering Shirin Aunty’s advice, she wasted nothing. The little snippets of fabric continued to accumulate in great quantities. Enough, she thought, to make sanitary pads for a conventful of nuns. The larger scraps were collecting in a separate pile. She was not yet sure how to use these – for a quilt, perhaps.

She packaged the finished dresses and got her purse ready. To put in an appearance a day ahead of the deadline would impress Mrs. Gupta.

Then, keeping in mind Omprakash’s inquisitiveness, she padlocked the door from outside, just in case he decided to follow her.

Sore-bottomed and bleary-eyed, the tailors adjourned to the front room. After the morning-long hardness of wooden stools, the old sofa was sweet luxury despite its broken springs, and the pleasure keener because it was stolen. The stiff posture of their profession melted from their bones as they sank into the cushions. Raising their bare feet to the teapoy, they pulled out a packet of Ganesh Beedis and lit up, sucking greedily at the smoke. A torn-off segment of the beedi wrapper served as ashtray.

Omprakash scratched his head and examined the dandruff harvested by his fingertips. With the inch-long nails of his pinkies he cleaned under the others, flicking the oily accretions to the floor. He would not have admitted he was bored – by wasting time he was outsmarting Dina Dalai. If she thought she could drive them like a pair of dumb oxen harnessed to her plough, she was mistaken. He still had his manhood, he thought bitterly, though his uncle sometimes behaved otherwise.

Ishvar let his nephew idle away the hour. The rock of hunger lay heavy in both their hollow bellies. He watched amusedly as Omprakash squirmed and snuggled in the cushions, determined to pilfer maximum pleasure from Dina Dalai’s sofa. He meditatively fingered the cheek that kept half his smile imprisoned in frozen flesh.