A Fine Balance Read online

  INTERNATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR

  A Fine Balance

  “An astonishing novel… full of wisdom and laughter and the touches of the unexpectedly familiar through which literature illuminates life.”

  —Wall Street Journal

  “A work of stature … in scope, insight, and above all compassion for human beings.”

  —Montreal Gazette

  “Those who continue to harp on the inevitable decline of the novel ought to … consider Rohinton Mistry.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “The story unfolds with the grace and beauty of a butterfly’s wing … extraordinary.”

  —The Times (U.K.)

  “Mistry has demonstrated once again the enduring power of fiction to make sense of it all simply by telling a story.… Read it.”

  —Vancouver Sun

  “Every word of it seems like a fleck of brilliant light on a dancing ocean.…A major achievement.”

  —Scotland on Sunday

  “A compelling book that manages the rare feat of being both entertaining and compassionate.”

  —India Today

  “Compulsively readable; also funny, intensely moving and, like Bombay, pullulating with humanity.”

  —The Independent (U.K.)

  “Impossible to put down.”

  —The Sydney Morning Herald, Australia

  BOOKS BY ROHINTON MISTRY

  Tales from Firozsha Baag (1987)

  Such a Long Journey (1991)

  A Fine Balance (1995)

  Family Matters (2002)

  Copyright © 1995 by Rohinton Mistry

  Cloth edition published 1995

  Trade paperback edition first published 1997

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mistry, Rohinton, 1952-

  A fine balance

  Emblem Editions Publication.

  eISBN: 978-1-55199-138-2

  I. Title.

  PS8576.1853F5 00 C813’.54 C2001-903332-X

  PR9199.3.M494F56 2001

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  SERIES EDITOR: ELLEN SELIGMAN

  EMBLEM EDITIONS

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  75 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5A 2P9

  www.mcclelland.com/NCL

  v3.1

  For Freny

  “Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insensitivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true.”

  Honoré de Balzac, Le Père Goriot

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue: 1975

  Chapter I City by the Sea

  Chapter II For Dreams to Grow

  Chapter III In a Village by a River

  Chapter IV Small Obstacles

  Chapter V Mountains

  Chapter VI Day at the Circus, Night in the Slum

  Chapter VII On the Move

  Chapter VIII Beautification

  Chapter IX What Law There Is

  Chapter X Sailing Under One Flag

  Chapter XI The Bright Future Clouded

  Chapter XII Trace of Destiny

  Chapter XIII Wedding, Worms, and Sanyas

  Chapter XIV Return of Solitude

  Chapter XV Family Planning

  Chapter XVI The Circle Is Completed

  Epilogue: 1984

  About the Author

  Prologue: 1975

  THE MORNING EXPRESS BLOATED with passengers slowed to a crawl, then lurched forward suddenly, as though to resume full speed. The train’s brief deception jolted its riders. The bulge of humans hanging out of the doorway distended perilously, like a soap bubble at its limit.

  Inside the compartment, Maneck Kohlah held on to the overhead railing, propped up securely within the crush. He felt someone’s elbow knock his textbooks from his hand. In the seats nearby, a thin young fellow was catapulted into the arms of the man opposite him. Maneck’s textbooks fell upon them.

  “Ow!” said the young fellow, as volume one slammed into his back.

  Laughing, he and his uncle untangled themselves. Ishvar Darji, who had a disfigured left cheek, helped his nephew out of his lap and back onto the seat. “Everything all right, Om?”

  “Apart from the dent in my back, everything is all right,” said Omprakash Darji, picking up the two books covered in brown paper. He hefted them in his slender hands and looked around to find who had dropped them.

  Maneck acknowledged ownership. The thought of his heavy textbooks thumping that frail spine made him shudder. He remembered the sparrow he had killed with a stone, years ago; afterwards, it had made him sick.

  His apology was frantic. “Very sorry, the books slipped and –”

  “Not to worry,” said Ishvar. “Wasn’t your fault.” To his nephew he added, “Good thing it didn’t happen in reverse, hahn? If I fell in your lap, my weight would crack your bones.” They laughed again, Maneck too, to supplement his apology.

  Ishvar Darji was not a stout man; it was the contrast with Omprakash’s skinny limbs that gave rise to their little jokes about his size. The wisecracks originated sometimes with one and sometimes the other. When they had their evening meal, Ishvar would be sure to spoon out a larger portion onto his nephew’s enamel plate; at a roadside dhaba, he would wait till Omprakash went for water, or to the latrine, then swiftly scoop some of his own food onto the other leaf.

  If Omprakash protested, Ishvar would say, “What will they think in our village when we return? That I starved my nephew in the city and ate all the food myself? Eat, eat! Only way to save my honour is by fattening you!”

  “Don’t worry,” Omprakash would tease back. “If your honour weighs even half as much as you, that will be ample.”

  Omprakash’s physique, however, defied his uncle’s efforts and stayed matchstick thin. Their fortunes, too, stubbornly retained a lean and hungry aspect, and a triumphal return to the village remained a distant dream.

  The southbound express slowed again. With a pneumatic hiss, the bogies clanked to a halt. The train was between stations. Its air brakes continued to exhale wheezily for a few moments before dying out.

  Omprakash looked through the window to determine where they had stopped. Rough shacks stood beyond the railroad fence, alongside a ditch running with raw sewage. Children were playing a game with sticks and stones. An excited puppy danced around them, trying to join in. Nearby, a shirtless man was milking a cow. They could have been anywhere.

  The acrid smell of a dung-fire drifted towards the train. Just ahead, a crowd had gathered near the level-crossing. A few men jumped off the train and began walking down the tracks.

  “Hope we reach in time,” said O
mprakash. “If someone gets there before us, we’re finished for sure.”

  Maneck Kohlah asked if they had far to go. Ishvar named the station. “Oh, that’s the same one I want,” said Maneck, fingering his sparse moustache.

  Hoping to spot a watch dial, Ishvar looked up into a thicket of wrists growing ceilingward. “Time, please?” he asked someone over his shoulder. The man shot his cuff stylishly and revealed his watch: a quarter to nine.

  “Come on, yaar, move!” said Omprakash, slapping the seat between his thighs.

  “Not as obedient as the bullocks in our village, is it?” said his uncle, and Maneck laughed. Ishvar added it was true – ever since he was a child, their village had never lost a bullock-cart race when there were competitions on festival days.

  “Give the train a dose of opium and it will run like the bullocks,” said Omprakash.

  A combseller, twanging the plastic teeth of a large comb, pushed his way through the crowded compartment. People grumbled and snarled at him, resenting the bothersome presence.

  “Oi!” said Omprakash to get his attention.

  “Plastic hairband, unbreakable, plastic hairclip, flower shape, butterfly shape, colourful comb, unbreakable.” The combseller recited in a halfhearted monotone, uncertain whether this was a real customer or just a joker passing the time. “Big comb and small comb, pink, orange, maroon, green, blue, yellow comb – unbreakable.”

  Omprakash gave them a test run through his hair before selecting a red specimen, pocket-sized. He dug into his trousers and extracted a coin. The combseller suffered hostile elbows and shoulders while searching for change. He used his shirtsleeve to wipe hair oil off the rejected combs, then returned them to his satchel, keeping in his hand the big dual-toothed one to resume his soft twanging through the compartment.

  “What happened to the yellow comb you had?” asked Ishvar.

  “Broke in two.”

  “How?”

  “It was in my back pocket. I sat on it.”

  “That’s the wrong place for a comb. It’s meant for your head, Om, not your bottom.” He always called his nephew Om, using Omprakash only when he was upset with him.

  “If it was your bottom, the comb would have smashed into a hundred pieces,” returned his nephew, and Ishvar laughed. His disfigured left cheek was no hindrance, standing firm like a mooring around which his smiles could safely ripple.

  He chucked Omprakash under the chin. Most of the time their ages – forty-six and seventeen – were a misleading indicator of their actual relationship. “Smile, Om. Your angry mouth does not suit your hero hairstyle.” He winked at Maneck to include him in the fun. “With a puff like that, lots of girls will be after you. But don’t worry, Om, I’ll select a nice wife for you. A woman big and strong, with flesh enough for two.”

  Omprakash grinned and administered a flourish to his hair with the new comb. The train still showed no sign of moving. The men who had wandered outside came back with news that yet another body had been found by the tracks, near the level-crossing. Maneck edged towards the door to listen. A nice, quick way to go, he thought, as long as the train had struck the person squarely.

  “Maybe it has to do with the Emergency,” said someone.

  “What emergency?”

  “Prime Minister made a speech on the radio early this morning. Something about country being threatened from inside.”

  “Sounds like one more government tamasha.”

  “Why does everybody have to choose the railway tracks only for dying?” grumbled another. “No consideration for people like us. Murder, suicide, Naxalite-terrorist killing, police-custody death – everything ends up delaying the trains. What is wrong with poison or tall buildings or knives?”

  The long-anticipated rumble at last rippled through the compartments, and the train shivered down its long steel spine. Relief lit the passengers’ faces. As the compartments trundled past the level-crossing, everyone craned to see the cause of their delay. Three uniformed policemen stood by the hastily covered corpse awaiting its journey to the morgue. Some passengers touched their foreheads or put their hands together and murmured, “Ram, Ram.”

  Maneck Kohlah descended behind the uncle and nephew, and they exited the platform together. “Excuse me,” he said, taking a letter from his pocket. “I am new in the city, can you tell me how to get to this address?”

  “You are asking the wrong people,” said Ishvar without reading it. “We are also new here.”

  But Omprakash glanced at the letter and said, “Look, it’s the same name!”

  Ishvar pulled a square of ragged paper out of his own pocket and compared it. His nephew was right, there it was: Dina Dalai, followed by the address.

  Omprakash regarded Maneck with sudden hostility. “Why are you going to Dina Dalai? Are you a tailor?”

  “Me, tailor? No, she is my mother’s friend.”

  Ishvar tapped his nephew’s shoulder. “See, simply you were panicking. Come on, let’s find the building.”

  Maneck did not understand what they meant, till Ishvar explained outside the station. “You see, Om and I are tailors. Dina Dalai has work for two tailors. We are going to apply.”

  “And you thought I was running there to steal your job.” Maneck smiled. “Don’t worry, I am just a student. Dina Dalai and my mother used to be in school together. She’s letting me stay with her for a few months, that’s all.”

  They asked a paanwalla for directions, and walked down the street that was pointed out. Omprakash was still a little suspicious. “If you are staying with her for a few months, where is your trunk, your belongings? Only two books you have?”

  “Today I’m just going to meet her. I will shift my things from the college hostel next month.”

  They passed a beggar slumped upon a small wooden platform fitted with castors, which raised him four inches off the ground. His fingers and thumbs were missing, and his legs were amputated almost to the buttocks. “O babu, ek paisa day-ray!” he sang, shaking a tin can between his bandaged palms. “O babu! Hai babu! Aray babu, ek paisa day-ray!”

  “That’s one of the worst I’ve seen since coming to the city,” said Ishvar, and the others agreed. Omprakash paused to drop a coin in the tin.

  They crossed the road, asking again for directions. “I’ve been living in this city for two months,” said Maneck, “but it’s so huge and confusing. I can recognize only some big streets. The little lanes all look the same.”

  “We have been here six months and still have the same problem. In the beginning we were completely lost. The first time, we couldn’t even get on a train – two or three went by before we learned how to push.”

  Maneck said he hated it here, and could not wait to return to his home in the mountains, next year, when he finished college.

  “We have also come for a short time only,” said Ishvar. “To earn some money, then go back to our village. What is the use of such a big city? Noise and crowds, no place to live, water scarce, garbage everywhere. Terrible.”

  “Our village is far from here,” said Omprakash. “Takes a whole day by train – morning till night – to reach it.”

  “And reach it, we will,” said Ishvar. “Nothing is as fine as one’s native place.”

  “My home is in the north,” said Maneck. “Takes a day and night, plus another day, to get there. From the window of our house you can see snow-covered mountain peaks.”

  “A river runs near our village,” said Ishvar. “You can see it shining, and hear it sing. It’s a beautiful place.”

  They walked quietly for a while, occupied with home thoughts. Omprakash broke the silence by pointing out a watermelon-sherbet stand. “Wouldn’t that be nice, on such a hot day.”

  The vendor stirred his ladle in the tub, tinkling chunks of ice afloat in a sea of dark red. “Let’s have some,” said Maneck. “It looks delicious.”

  “Not for us,” said Ishvar quickly. “We had a big breakfast this morning,” and Omprakash erased the longing from
his face.

  “Okay,” said Maneck doubtfully, ordering one large glass. He studied the tailors who stood with eyes averted, not looking at the tempting tub or his frosted glass. He saw their tired faces, how poor their clothes were, the worn-out chappals.

  He drank half and said, “I’m full. You want it?”

  They shook their heads.

  “It will go to waste.”

  “Okay, yaar, in that case,” said Omprakash, and took the sherbet. He gulped some, then passed it to his uncle.

  Ishvar drained the glass and returned it to the vendor. “That was so tasty,” he said, beaming with pleasure. “It was very kind of you to share it with us, we really enjoyed it, thank you.” His nephew gave him a disapproving look to tone it down.

  How much gratitude for a little sherbet, thought Maneck, how starved they seemed for ordinary kindness.

  The verandah door had a brass nameplate: Mr. & Mrs. Rustom K. Dalai, the letters enriched by years of verdigris. Dina Dalai answered their ring and accepted the scrap of crumpled paper, recognizing her own handwriting.

  “You are tailors?”

  “Hahnji,” said Ishvar, nodding vigorously. All three entered the verandah at her invitation and stood awkwardly.

  The verandah, which used to be an open gallery, had been converted into an extra room when Dina Dalai’s late husband was still a child – his parents had decided it would be a playroom to supplement the tiny flat. The portico was bricked and fitted with an iron-grilled window.

  “But I need only two tailors,” said Dina Dalai.

  “Excuse me, I’m not a tailor. My name is Maneck Kohlah.” He stepped forward from behind Ishvar and Omprakash.

  “Oh, you are Maneck! Welcome! Sorry, I couldn’t recognize you. It’s been years since I last saw your mummy, and you I have never, ever seen.”

  She left the tailors on the verandah and took him inside, into the front room. “Can you wait here for a few minutes while I deal with those two?”