A Fine Balance (55 page)

So what was the point of possessing memory? It didn’t help anything. In the end it was all hopeless. Look at Mummy and Daddy, and the General Store; or Dina Aunty’s life; or the hostel and Avinash; and now poor Ishvar and Om. No amount of remembering happy days, no amount of yearning or nostalgia could change a thing about the misery and suffering – love and concern and caring and sharing come to nothing, nothing.

Maneck began to weep, his chest heaving as he laboured to keep silent. Everything ended badly. And memory only made it worse, tormenting and taunting. Unless. Unless you lost your mind. Or committed suicide. The slate wiped clean. No more remembering, no more suffering.

Poor Dina Aunty, how much of the past she was still carrying around with her, although she deceived herself that these were happy memories she was dwelling upon. And now the problems with the sewing, the rent, the rations…

He felt ashamed of his earlier tantrum. He got out of bed, tucked in his shirt, dried his eyes, and went to the back room where she was pacing the prison of her incomplete dresses.

“When do you have to deliver them?” he asked gruffly.

“Oh, you’re back? Day after tomorrow. By twelve o’clock.” She smiled to herself, having expected him to sulk for an hour; he had emerged in thirty minutes. “Your eyes look watery. Have you got a cold?”

He shook his head. “Just tired. Day after tomorrow – that’s two whole days. Lots of time.”

“For two expert tailors, yes. Not for me alone.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You, sewing? And me with my eyes. I can’t see to put my finger through a wedding ring, let alone thread the eye of a needle.”

“I’m serious, Aunty.”

“But there are sixty dresses, six-zero. Only the hems and buttons are left, true, but it’s still a lot of work.” She picked one up. “See the waist, all puckered? That’s called ‘gather.’ Now it measures” – she stretched the tape – “just twenty-six inches. But because of the gather, the hemline of the skirt is, let’s see, sixty-five inches, to be done by hand. That takes a lot of –”

“How will they know if you do it by machine?”

“The difference is like night and day. And then eight buttons on each dress. Six in the front, one on each sleeve. An hour’s work per dress for someone like me. Sixty hours altogether.”

“We have forty-eight till delivery time.”

“If we don’t eat or sleep or go to the bathroom, yes.”

“We can at least try. You can deliver what we finish, and make an excuse that the tailors fell sick or something.”

“If you’re really willing to help …”

I am.

She started to get things ready. “You’re a good boy, you know? Your parents are very fortunate to have a son like you.” Then she turned abruptly. “Wait a minute – what about college?”

“No lectures today.”

“Hmm,” she said dubiously, selecting the thread. They took the dresses into the front room where the light was better. “I’ll teach you buttons. Easier than hems.”

“Anything. I learn quickly.”

“Yes, we’ll see. First you measure and mark the places with chalk, in a straight line. It’s the most important step, or the front will look crooked. Thank goodness these are plain poplin dresses, not slippery chiffon like last month.” She took him through the paces, emphasizing that the stitches in the four-holed button should be parallel and not crisscross.

He tried the next one. “Oh, to have young eyes again,” she sighed, as he moistened the thread between his lips and passed it through the needle. Finding the holes in the button from the blind side took a bit of poking around with the needle. But he managed to finish in fair time, and snipped the threads, triumphant.

Two hours later, between them they had finished sixteen buttons and three hemlines. “See how long it takes?” she said. “And now I must stop to make lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry today, no lectures today. Very strange.”

“But it’s true, Aunty. Forget lunch, I’m really not hungry.”

“And what about me? Worrying all yesterday, I didn’t eat a single bite. Today at least may I have the pleasure?”

“Work before pleasure,” he smiled down at the button, looking up from the corner of his eye.

“Planning to be my boss, are you?” she said with mock sternness. “If I don’t eat, there will be no work and no pleasure. Only me fainting over needle and thread.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of lunch. You keep on hemming.”

“Proper housewife you are becoming. What will it be? Bread and butter? Tea and toast?”

“A surprise. I’ll be back soon.”

Before leaving the flat he readied six needles with thread, to spare her pitting her eyes in contest with the little silvery ones.

“Wasting money like that,” scolded Dina. “Your parents already pay me for your food.”

Maneck emptied the alayti-palayti from A-l Restaurant into a bowl and brought it to the table. “It’s out of my pocket money. I can spend it any way I like.”

Chunks of chicken liver and gizzard floated tantalizingly in the thick, spicy sauce. Bending over the bowl, she sniffed. “Mmm, the same wonderful fragrance that made it a favourite of Rustom’s. Only A-1 makes it in rich gravy – other places cook it too dry.” She dipped a spoon, raised it to her lips, and nodded. “Delicious. We could easily add a little water without harming the taste. Then it will be enough for lunch and dinner.”

“Okay. And this is specially for you,” he handed her a bag.

She felt inside and withdrew a bunch of carrots. “You want me to cook these for us?

“Not for us, Aunty – for you, to eat raw. Good for your eyes. Especially since they’ll be very busy now.”

“Thank you, but I prefer not to.”

“No alayti-palayti without carrot. You must have at least one with your lunch.”

“You’re crazy if you think I will eat raw carrots. Even my mother could not make me.” While she got the table ready, he scraped a medium-sized specimen, lopped off the ends, and placed it next to her plate.

“I hope that’s yours,” she said.

“No carrot, no alayti-palayti.” He refused to pass her the bowl. “I make the rules. For your own good.”

She laughed but her mouth started to water while he ate. She picked up the vegetable by the thin end as though to hit him over the head with it, and bit into it with a vengeance. Grinning, he passed her the bowl. “My father says his one eye is equal to most people’s two because he eats carrots regularly. A carrot a day keeps blindness away, he claims.”

Throughout the meal, she grimaced each time she crunched into it. “Thank goodness for the delicious alayti-palayti. Without the gravy this raw roughage would stick in my throat.”

“Now tell me, Aunty,” he said when they finished eating. “Are your eyes any better?”

“Good enough to see you for the devil that you are.”

The sewing picked up speed after lunch, but late in the afternoon Dina’s eyelids grew heavy. “I have to stop now for tea. Okay, boss?”

“Fifteen minutes only, remember. And one cup for me too, please.”

She went to the kitchen, smiling and shaking her head.

Seven o’clock, and her mind turned to dinner duties. “That alayti-palayti sitting in the kitchen is making me hungry earlier than usual. What about you? Now, or wait till eight?”

“Whenever you like,” he mumbled through lips clutching an empty needle. He unrolled a length of thread from the spool.

“Look at that! First time sewing, and already acting like a crazy tailor! Take it out of your mouth! At once! Before you swallow it!”

He removed the needle, a little sheepish. She had hit the mark – he was trying to copy Om’s jaunty way of sticking things between his lips: pins, needles, blades, scissors, the daredevilry of juxtaposing sharp, dangerous objects with soft, defenceless flesh.

“How will I explain to your mother if I return her son with a needle stuck in his craw?”

“You never shouted at Om for doing it.”

“That’s different. He’s trained, he grew up with tailors.”

“No, he didn’t. His family used to be cobblers.”

“Same thing – they know how to use tools, to cut and sew. And besides, I should have stopped him. His mouth can bleed just like yours.” She went to the kitchen, and he kept working till dinner was on the table.

Halfway through the meal, she remembered what he had said about the tailors. “They were cobblers? Why did they change?”

“They requested me not to tell anyone. It’s to do with their caste, they are afraid of being treated badly.”

“You can tell me. I don’t believe in all those stupid customs.”

So he briefly related the story Ishvar and Om had shared with him in bits and pieces, over weeks, over cups of tea in the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel, about their village, about the landlords who had mistreated the Chamaars all their lives, the whippings, the beatings, the rules that the untouchable castes were forced to observe.

She stopped eating, toying with her fork. She rested an elbow on the table and balanced her chin on the fist. As he continued, the fork slipped from her fingers, clattering outside the plate. He concluded quickly when he came to the murders of the parents and children and grandparents.

Dina retrieved her fork. “I never knew … I never thought… all those newspaper stories about upper- and lower-caste madness, suddenly so close to me. In my own flat. It’s the first time I actually know the people. My God – such horrible, horrible suffering.” She shook her head as though in disbelief.

She tried to resume eating, then gave up. “Compared to theirs, my life is nothing but comfort and happiness. And now they are in more trouble. I hope they come back all right. People keep saying God is great, God is just, but I’m not sure.”

“God is dead,” said Maneck. “That’s what a German philosopher wrote.”

She was shocked. “Trust the Germans to say such things,” she frowned. “And do you believe it?”

“I used to. But now I prefer to think that God is a giant quiltmaker. With an infinite variety of designs. And the quilt is grown so big and confusing, the pattern is impossible to see, the squares and diamonds and triangles don’t fit well together anymore, it’s all become meaningless. So He has abandoned it.”

“What nonsense you talk sometimes, Maneck.”

While she cleared the table he opened the kitchen window and miaowed. Out went bits of bread and alayti-palayti. Hoping it was not too pungent for the cats, he returned to the sewing room and picked up another dress, reminding Dina Aunty to hurry.

“This boy is going crazy. Not letting me rest even five minutes after dinner. I’m an old woman, not a young puppy like you.”

“You’re not old at all, Aunty. In fact, you’re quite young. And beautiful,” he added daringly.

“And you, Mr. Mac, are getting too smart,” she said, unable to hide her pleasure.

“There’s only one thing that puzzles me.”

“What?”

“Why someone who looks so young should sound so elderly, grumpy all the time.”

“You rascal. First you flatter me, then you insult me.” She laughed as she folded and pinned the hem, holding up the dress to check if the border was even. Adjusting the edges, she said, “Now I can appreciate the long nails on the tailors’ fingers. You really became friends with them, didn’t you? And them telling you all about their life in the village.”

He looked up briefly, and shrugged.

“Day after day they sat here working, and wouldn’t say anything to me. Why?”

He shrugged again.

“Stop speaking with your shoulders. Your quiltmaking God has sewn a tongue inside your mouth. Why did they talk to you but not to me?”

“Maybe they were afraid of you.”

“Afraid
of me? What nonsense. If anything, I was afraid of them. That they would find the export company and cut me out. Or that they would get better jobs. Sometimes I was afraid even to point out their errors – I would correct the mistakes myself at night, after they left. For what reason could they be afraid of me?”

“They thought you’d find better tailors and get rid of them.”

She considered it in silence for a moment. “I wish you had told me before. I could have reassured them.”

He shrugged again. “That wouldn’t change anything, Aunty. You could have saved them only by giving them a place to sleep.”

She flung down the sewing. “You keep on saying that! Keep on, don’t worry about my feelings! Repeat it till I am blinded by guilt!”

Maneck pricked himself as the needle surfaced through the button. “Ouch,” he sucked the thumb.

“Go on, you callous boy! Tell me I am responsible, tell me I left them out on the street because I am heartless!”

He wished he could cancel the hurt of his words. She fumbled with the hem, beginning to cough as though something was stuck. It sounded like an attention-getting cough to him, and he brought her a glass of water.

She said, after drinking, “You were right about carrots. I can see much better.”

“It’s a miracle!” He raised his hands theatrically, bringing a smile to her face. “Now I am incarnated as Maharishi Carrot Baba, and all the opticians will lose their business!”

“Oh stop being silly,” she said, draining the glass. “Let me tell you what I can see better. When I was twelve my father decided to go and work in an area of epidemic. It worried my mother very much. She wanted me to change his mind – you see, I was his favourite. Then my father died while working there. And my mother said if I had followed her advice I might have saved him.”

“That wasn’t fair.”

“It was and it wasn’t. Just like what you said.”

He understood.

Dina rose, lifted the glass hen squatting on the worktable, and put away the thimble, scissors, and needle in its porcelain bowels.

“Where are you going, Aunty?”

“Where do you think – to a Lalya’s wedding? It’s ten o’clock, I’m going to bed.”

“But we only finished sixteen dresses. Today’s quota is twenty-two.”

“Listen to the senior manager.”

“My plan is to do twenty-two today, thirty tomorrow, and eight the day after, so everything can be delivered by noon.”

“Wait a minute, mister. What about college, tomorrow and the day after – what about studies? I don’t think they give a refrigeration diploma for sewing buttons.”