A Fine Balance

by Rohinton Mistry

“I hope it’s not an unhealthy swelling,” said Dukhi. “Like the swollen bellies that babies get in famine time.” “What-all rubbish are you talking? With my mother’s instinct I would know at once if my children were not well.” But she understood his doubt was prompted by resentment that their children should grow healthier in a stranger’s house than when they were living at home; she shared his shame. They went to bed feeling a mixture of gladness and sorrow.

The girl, Radha, sixteen years old, entered with a platter of laddoos.

when neighbours gathered in the evening and the talk shifted gently to times gone by, to the stories of their lives; and when Mr. Kohlah’s turn came he told of his family’s glory days, not from self-pity or notions of false grandeur, nor to sing his own achievement in the present, but as a lesson in living life on the borderline—modern maps could ruin him, but they could not displace his dreams for his family.

The floorboards felt cold to his bare feet. He padded down the dark passage and, rounding the corner, saw her standing before the suitcase. He retreated a step. She stood motionless, her head bent, her hands immersed in Maneck’s clothes. When the cloud-hidden moon emerged, the silver light illuminated her face. An owl hooted, and he was glad that he had stayed silent, had followed her secretly like this, to see her so beautiful, so absorbed, as she stood there, embodying their years together, their three lives fused in her being, vivid in her face and in her eyes.

A beautiful and descriptive paragraph.

Please always remember, the secret of survival is to embrace change, and to adapt. To quote: ‘All things fall and are built again, and those that build them again are gay.’ ” “Yeats?” guessed Maneck. The proofreader nodded, “You see, you cannot draw lines and compartments, and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping-stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair.” He paused, considering what he had just said. “Yes,” he repeated. “In the end, it’s all a question of balance.”

woebegone

But pretending only worked in the world of childhood, things would never be the same again. Life seemed so hopeless, with nothing but misery for everyone …

“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.”

“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.

Sighing, he leaned against the wall. Midday, and he was exhausted. Even if he finished his rounds early, there was nowhere to go—from nine a.m. to nine p.m. he had rented his room to a mill-worker on night shift. Doomed to roam the streets, Ibrahim occupied park benches, sat on bus-shelter stiles, sipped a glass of tea at a corner stall till it was time to return home and sleep in the mill-worker’s smell. This was life? Or a cruel joke? He no longer believed that the scales would ever balance fairly. If his pan was not empty, if mere was some little sustenance in it for his days and nights, it was enough for him. Now he expected nothing better from the Maker of the Universe.

“That’s it—that’s your new name,” said Om. “Umbrella Bachchan.”

“You know, Maneck, the human face has limited space. My mother used to say, if you fill your face with laughing, there will be no room for crying.”

“Such an awesome, frightening power. Do I dare? For once that line is erased, it can never be redrawn.” He shivered. “What a legacy my stepmother left me.”

“The bent stick may straighten, but not the government.”

Maneck was nonplussed; he thought he saw tears starting in Ishvar’s eyes. But before he could come up with something to reassure him, Om intervened, “You’ve gone crazy for sure, you can’t even take a joke anymore. All you do is drama and naatak every chance you get.” His uncle nodded meekly. “What to do, I am so worried about this. Bas, I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on and think quietly.”

With his response in the mail, the old calm returned to him, slipping like a shirt upon his person.

Dina found it baffling: a sensible man like Ishvar, suddenly turned irrational. Could he be conducting a form of blackmail? Could he be hoping that her need for their skills would force her to take in Om’s wife?

“I will go with bare feet, my soles and heels cracked, torn, bleeding from a dozen lesions and lacerations to which shall be applied no salve or ointment. Snakes wandering across my path in dark jungles will not frighten me. Stray dogs will nip at my ankles as I roam through strange towns and remote villages. I will beg for my food. Children, and sometimes even adults, will mock me and throw stones at me, scared of my strange countenance and my frenzied inward-gazing eyes. I will go hungry and naked when necessary. I will stumble across rocky plains and down steep hills. I will never complain.”

Now Dina regarded the approaching emptiness of time with curiosity. Like a refresher course in solitude, she thought. It would be good practice. Without tailors, without a paying guest, alone with her memories, to go through them one by one, examine like a coin collection, their shines and tarnishes and embossments. If she forgot how to live with loneliness, one day it would be hard for her.

Maneck studied Beggarmaster’s excessive chatter, his attempt to hide his heartache. Why did humans do that to their feelings? Whether it was anger or love or sadness, they always tried to put something else forward in its place. And then there were those who pretended their emotions were bigger and grander than anyone else’s. A little annoyance they acted out like a gigantic rage; where a smile or chuckle would do, they laughed hysterically. Either way, it was dishonest.

time the great tormentor.

“It’s a strange thing. When my Mumtaz was alive, I would sit alone all day, sewing or reading. And she would be by herself in the back, busy cooking and cleaning and praying. But there was no loneliness, the days passed easily. Just knowing she was there was enough. And now I miss her so much. What an unreliable thing is time—when I want it to fly, the hours stick to me like glue. And what a changeable thing, too. Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl’s hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.” He sighed and smiled sadly. “But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Ashraf. “To listen to the things happening in our lifetime is like drinking venom—it poisons my peace. Every day I pray that this evil cloud over our country will lift, that justice will take care of these misguided people.”

“I would love to. One day you must tell me your full and complete story, unabridged and unexpurgated. You must. We will set aside some time for it, and meet. It’s very important.” Maneck smiled. “Why is it important?” Mr. Valmik’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t know? It’s extremely important because it helps to remind yourself of who you are. Then you can go forward, without fear of losing yourself in this ever-changing world.”