A Fine Balance

by Rohinton Mistry

A lifetime had to be crafted, just like anything else, she thought, it had to be moulded and beaten and burnished in order to get the most out of it.

Flirting with madness was one thing; when madness started flirting back, it was time to call the whole thing off.

If he shut his eyes he could picture it: at this hour it would be swirling fancifully, encircling the snow-covered peaks. Just after dawn was the best time to observe the slow dance, before the sun was strong enough to snatch away the veil. And he would stand at the window, watch the pink and orange of sunrise, imagine the mist tickling the mountain’s ear or chucking it under the chin or weaving a cap for it.

Maneck liked his eyes, the way they looked directly into his.

In fact, the street never slumbered, explained the nightwatchman, only drowsed lightly between two a.m. and five a.m.—after the insomniac gambling and drinking ended, and before the newspapers, bread, and milk arrived.

“Noises are like people. Once you get to know them, they become friendly.”

Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

Splotches of pale moonlight revealed an endless stretch of patchwork shacks, the sordid quiltings of plastic and cardboard and paper and sackcloth, like scabs and blisters creeping in a dermatological nightmare across the rotting body of the metropolis.

And, in any case, the idea of independence was a fantasy. Everyone depended on someone.

He placed his hand over his heart. “In here, there is limitless room—happiness, kindness, sorrow, anger, friendship—everything fits in here.”

“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.”

Where humans were concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure; and sorrow, for the hopelessness of it all.