A Fine Balance

by Rohinton Mistry

“Nothing is as fine as one’s native place.”

“How refreshing, this enthusiasm of the young,” they smiled, nodding sagely, confident that time would douse the fires of idealism with a healthy dose of cynicism and family responsibilities.

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.

There was no such thing as perfect privacy, life was a perpetual concert-hall recital with a captive audience.

“Make up your mind, yaar, choose one thing.” “How can I? I’m just a human being,” he replied, laughing again.

He asked himself what it was he had done to deserve a life so stale, so empty of hope. Or was this the way all humans were meant to feel?

It’s not good to go far from your native village. Then you forget who you are.”

Places can change people, you know. For better or worse.”

They are so rich in foreign countries, they can afford to fear all kinds of silly things.”

Very often there was a little sadness in their laughter, for these memories were of their youth.

Distance was a dangerous thing, she knew. Distance changed people.

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.”

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

But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

This was life? Or a cruel joke? He no longer believed that the scales would ever balance fairly.

Astonishing, how time and mind conspired in their tricks.

At the best of times, democracy is a seesaw between complete chaos and tolerable confusion.

“In those days,” continued Ishvar, “it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain.” “And later?” “Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.”

they watched, chatting, planning next day’s work, or what to cook for tomorrow’s dinner: the simple routines that gave a secure, meaningful shape to all their lives.

“These Emergency times are terrible, sister. Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.”

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

Vasantrao Valmik the proofreader would say it was all part of living, that the secret of survival was to balance hope and despair, to embrace change.

Ishvar shook his head sadly. “Why are business people so heartless? With all their money, they still look unhappy.” “It’s a disease without a cure,” said Dina. “Like cancer. And they don’t even know they have it.”

“Everything ends badly. It’s the law of the universe.”

“There can be no happiness without fairness,”

suicide is wrong, human beings are not meant to select their time of death. For then they would also be allowed to pick the moment of birth.”

“Worldly life has led me to disaster,” said Rajaram. “It always does, for all of us. Only, it’s not always obvious, as was in my case.

If she forgot how to live with loneliness, one day it would be hard for her.

“So that’s the rule to remember, the whole quilt is much more important than any single square.”

“Parents are as confused by life as anyone else. But they try very hard.”

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.

Still, how was it possible to feel lonely again after living alone most of her life? Didn’t the heart and mind learn anything? Could one year do so much damage to her resilience?

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.”

“The loyalty of two generations has vanished like smoke on a windy day, by the promise of cheaper prices. Such a powerful devil is money.

“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.”

“What to do, bhai, when educated people are behaving like savages. How do you talk to them? When the ones in power have lost their reason, there is no hope.”

“You really thought they would help?” said Om. “Don’t you understand? We are less than animals to them.”

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.

“From my seat here on the bench, there is much that I observe every day. And most of it makes me despair. But what else to expect, when judgement has fled to brutish beasts, and the country’s leaders have exchanged wisdom and good governance for cowardice and self-aggrandizement? Our society is decaying from the top downwards.”

Who would want to enter the soiled Temple of Justice, wherein lies the corpse of Justice, slain by her very guardians? And now her killers make mock of the sacred process, selling replicas of her blind virtue to the highest bidder.”

“There is always hope—hope enough to balance our despair. Or we would be lost.”

“After all, our lives are but a sequence of accidents—a clanking chain of chance events. A string of choices, casual or deliberate, which add up to that one big calamity we call life.”

In fact, that is the central theme of my life story—loss. But isn’t it the same with all life stories? Loss is essential. Loss is part and parcel of that necessary calamity called life.” She nodded, not quite convinced. “Mind you, I’m not complaining. Thanks to some inexplicable universal guiding force, it is always the worthless things we lose—slough off, like a moulting snake. Losing, and losing again, is the very basis of the life process, till all we are left with is the bare essence of human existence.”

The man was dead but his work lived on.

She shrugged. A verbal answer was not always necessary. That was one useful thing she had learned from Maneck.

Well, he sighed to himself, that was what life did to those who refused to learn its lessons: it beat them down and broke their spirit.

Everything was losing its moorings, slipping away, becoming irrecoverable.

If there was an abundance of misery in the world, there was also sufficient joy, yes—as long as one knew where to look for it.