A Fine Balance

by Rohinton Mistry

She rinsed the glass and put it in a separate place. From now on it would be the tailors’ glass.

Sometimes the carcass was given free, sometimes they had to pay, depending on whether or not the animal’s upper-caste owner had been able to extract enough free labour from the Chamaars during the year.

His moustache was shaved off even though its length and shape had conformed to caste rules, its tips humbly drooping downwards unlike proud upper-caste moustaches that flourished skywards.

the Hindu tailor did not sew for untouchables.

‘Yes, it’s strange that suddenly we have all become Hindu brothers.’ ‘The Muslims have behaved more like our brothers than the bastard Brahmins and Thakurs.’

‘They won’t let you,’ said Dukhi ‘And why bother? You think it will change anything? Your gesture will be a bucket falling in a well deeper than centuries. The splash won’t be seen or heard.’

For the next two days, Ashraf kept the shop closed, crushed by the helplessness he felt. Mumtaz and he did not dare console Omprakash or Ishvar – what words were there for such a loss, and for an injustice so immense? The best they could do was weep with them.