A Fine Balance

by Rohinton Mistry

“No teeth. All crooked, and paining in the mouth. Bastard stupid dentist, useless fellow. My carpenter could make better teeth.”

Tailors she saw in plenty—perched in constricted lofts, crouched inside kholis that looked like subterranean burrows, bent over in smelly cubicles, or cross-legged on street corners—all engaged in a variety of tasks ranging from mattress covers to wedding outfits.

Many of the owners threw away the paper as soon as she left. Some rolled it into a tight cone to scratch inside their ears before discarding it.

Your gesture will be a bucket falling in a well deeper than centuries. The splash won’t be seen or heard.”

“Only one problem with squatting on the rail,” said their long-haired neighbour. “You have to get up when the train comes, whether you have finished or not. Railway has no respect for our open-air sundaas.”

“No need for that, my obedient disciple. In a few days your gut will learn the train timings better than the Stationmaster.”

These were to be modern roads, they promised, roads that would hum with the swift passage of modern traffic. Roads, wide and heavy-duty, to replace scenic mountain paths too narrow for the broad vision of nation-builders and World Bank officials.

Their talk was filled with words like democratization, constitution, alienation, degeneration, decentralization, collectivization, nationalism, capitalism, materialism, feudalism, imperialism, communalism, socialism, fascism, relativism, determinism, proletarianism—ism, ism, ism, ism, the words flying around him like buzzing insects.

“Should I make a complaint to the police?” asked Dina. He gave her a weary look. “If you like. But you might as well complain to that crow on your window.” The bird cawed and flew away; he felt vindicated.