A Fine Balance

by Rohinton Mistry

Ishvar laughed. His disfigured left cheek was no hindrance, standing firm like a mooring around which his smiles could safely ripple.

On the verandah, Dina Dalal ran a hand over her black hair, as yet uninvaded by grey, and turned her attention to the tailors. At forty-two, her forehead was still smooth, and sixteen years spent fending for herself had not hardened the looks which, a long time ago, used to make her brother’s friends vie to impress her.

Inside, Dina rubbed her hair with the handkerchief. It had a nice smell to it, she thought. Not perfume, but a clean human smell. His smell. The same one she perceived sometimes while sitting next to him. She put it against her nose and breathed deeply, then folded it away, embarrassed.

“It’s another silly morcha about language,” said Darab Uncle, spotting the banners. “The fools want to divide the state on linguistic lines.”

the past could only be imperfectly distanced. It was a slippery thing, he discovered, slithering into the present at the least excuse, dodging the strongest defences.

The only other time he had forsaken this fixture of daily wear was during Partition, back in 1947, when communal slaughter at the brand-new border had ignited riots everywhere, and sporting a fez in a Hindu neighbourhood was as fatal as possessing a foreskin in a Muslim one. In certain areas it was wisest to go bareheaded, for choosing incorrectly from among fez, white cap, and turban could mean losing one’s head.

Eating in silence for a while, he listened to the frogs bellowing in the humid night, then asked his wife, “You are not having anything?” “It’s my fasting day.” In her code, it meant there wasn’t enough food.

The news of a second son created envy in upper-caste homes where marriages had also taken place around the time Dukhi and Roopa were wed, but where the women were still childless or awaiting a male issue. It was hard for them not to be resentful—the birth of daughters often brought them beatings from their husbands and their husbands’ families. Sometimes they were ordered to discreetly get rid of the newborn. Then they had no choice but to strangle the infant with her swaddling clothes, poison her, or let her starve to death.

the childless women were also reassured: the universe was returning to normal; the untouchable boy was no longer fair of face but disfigured, which was as it should be.

only the genuinely strong can employ the power of truth and non-violence.

“Now let’s see the measurements,” said Ashraf. Smiling proudly, Ishvar handed him the book. The page was covered with black scratches and squiggles. “Ah, yes, I see.” Ashraf controlled his dismay, patting the boy’s back. “Yes, very good.” He quickly jotted down what he could remember of the figures. After dinner, he began teaching them the alphabet and numbers.

Disturbing things were happening around them. Strangers belonging to a Hindu organization that wore white shirts and khaki pants, and trained their members to march about like soldiers, had been visiting the district.