A Fine Balance

spent any more time with his relatives. He rose and held out his hand. “It was very good seeing you again.”

“Stay a little longer, spend the night with us,” they insisted. “It will be so nice. In the morning we will eat omelette, and make some fresh prawn patia.”

He refused firmly. “I have a business appointment for dinner. Also some early breakfast meetings. I must get back to the hotel.”

They were understanding about this, suitably awed by the idea of breakfast meetings. They saw him off with blessings and good wishes, and instructions to come soon for another visit. “Don’t make us starve again so many years,” they said.

On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at the airline office and checked his reservation. The agent confirmed the booking: “It’s for day after tomorrow, sir. And your flight departure time is eleven-thirty-five p.m. Please be at the airport before nine p.m.”

“Thank you,” said Maneck.

At the Grand Hotel, he ate a plate of mutton biryani in the dining room. Afterwards, he read the newspaper in the lobby for a few minutes, then collected his key and went to bed. He fell asleep thinking about Dina Aunty, and the time they had sat up late into the night, completing the dresses for Au Revoir when Ishvar and Om had gone missing. The time of trouble with a capital t.

Renovations had transformed the place beyond recognition, and for a moment Maneck thought he was at the wrong address. Marble stairways, a security guard, the foyer walls faced with gleaming granite, air-conditioning in every flat, a roof garden — the low-rent tenement had been converted into luxury apartments.

He checked the nameplates listed in the entrance. The bastard landlord had finally done it, got rid of Dina Aunty — it had ended badly for her. And what about the tailors, where were they working now?

Outside, he felt the returning grip of despair, the sun pounding his head. Perhaps Dina Aunty would know where Ishvar and Om were. There was only one place she could have gone: to her brother, Nusswan. But he didn’t have the address. And why bother — would she really be pleased to see him? He could look it up in the telephone directory. Under what surname?

He rattled his memory for Dina Aunty’s maiden name. She had mentioned it once. One night, all those years ago, when Ishvar and Om and he had sat listening to her tell them about her life. It was after dinner, and she had the quilt in her lap, connecting a new patch. Never look back at the past with regret, Dina Aunty had said. And something about her bright future lost… no, clouded… back when she was still a schoolgirl, and her name was — Dina Shroff.

He stopped at the chemist’s to consult the telephone directory. There were several Shroffs but only one Nusswan Shroff, and he noted the address. The clerk said it wasn’t far. He decided to walk.

After leaving behind the old neighbourhood, the road became unfamiliar. He asked directions of a carpenter sitting by the kerb with his tools in a sack. The carpenter’s thumb was heavily bandaged. He told Maneck to turn right at the next intersection, past the cricket maidaan.

There was a marquee set up at the edge of the field, although no cricket match was in progress. Inquiring crowds were milling around it, peering inside. Over the entrance a sign proclaimed: WELCOME TO ONE amp; ALL FROM HIS HOLINESS, BAL BABA — DARSHAN AVAILABLE FROM 10.00 A.M. TO 4.00 P.M. EVERY DAY INCLUDING SUNDAY amp; BANK HOLIDAY.

A hardworking godman for sure, thought Maneck, wondering what his specialty was — producing gold watches out of thin air, tears from the eyes of statues, rose petals from women’s cleavages?

But his name suggested a trick to do with hair. He asked someone at the entrance, “Who is Bal Baba?”

“Bal Baba is a very very holy man,” said the attendant. “He has returned to us after many many years of meditationing in a Himalayan cave.”

“What does he do?”

“He has a very especial, very saintly power. He tells you any sort of thing you will want to know. All he needs is to hold some of your hairs between his holy fingers for ten seconds only.”

“And what’s the charge for it?”

“Bal Baba has no charges,” said the man indignantly. Then he added, with an oily smile, “But all donations are mostly welcome by the Bal Baba Foundation, anymuch amount.”

Maneck grew curious, and went in. Just for a quick look, he decided — at the latest fakeologist in the city, as Om would say. It would be amusing to tell the tailors what he saw. Something to laugh about together, after eight years.

The crowds were bigger outside the marquee than inside. Only a few people were waiting near a screen behind which sat the very very saintly Bal Baba. Shouldn’t take long, thought Maneck, at the rate of ten seconds per meditation per customer. This was assembly-line darshan and consultation.

He joined the queue, and soon it was his turn. The man behind the screen, in a saffron robe, was bald and clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes had been plucked clean. Not a hair was visible on his face or on the skin left uncovered by the robe.

Despite the bizarrely smooth and shining countenance, however, Maneck recognized him. “You’re Rajaram the hair-collector!”

“Eh?” jumped Bal Baba, startled enough to let the unsaintly ejaculation escape him. Then he regained his composure, raised his head, and enunciated beatifically, embroidering his words with graceful hand and finger movements: “Rajaram the hair-collector renounced his life, his joys and sorrows, his vices and virtues. Why? So that Bal Baba could be incarnated, and could use his humble gift to assist humanity along the pathway to moksha.”

The fancy mannerisms were discontinued after this declaration. He inclined his head and asked in a normal voice, “But who are you?”

“Remember Ishvar and Om? The tailors who used to lend you money in your previous incarnation — your hairy days? I lived in that same flat with them.” While the hair-collector took this in, Maneck added, “I’ve grown a beard. Maybe that’s why you don’t recognize me.”

“Not at all. No hairstyle or beard on earth can deceive Bal Baba,” he said grandly. “So what is your question for me?”

“You’re joking.”

“No, just try me. Go ahead, ask. Ask about job, health, marriage prospects, wife, children, education, anything. I’ll give you the answer.”

“I already have the answer. I’m searching for the question.”

Bal Baba looked askance at him, annoyance shadowing the glabrous face — enigmatic utterances of this sort were his preserve. But he controlled his displeasure and reattached the requisite smile of enlightenment.

“On second thoughts, I do have a question,” said Maneck. “How would you help someone who has a bald head like yours?”

“That is only a small obstacle. The Bal Baba Foundation sells a special hair tonic at cost price — postage and handling charges extra. Made from rare Himalayan herbs, works like magic. In a few weeks, the bald head is covered with thick hair. Then the person comes here, I hold the newly grown hair for meditation, and answer the question.”

“Do you ever feel like chopping it off? For your collection?”

Bal Baba grew enraged. “That was another life, another person. That’s all finished, don’t you understand?”

“I see. And have you visited Ishvar and Om since you returned from your cave? They might have questions for you.”

“Bal Baba cannot afford the luxury of visiting anybody. He is bound to this place, to allow people the opportunity for darshan.”

“Right,” said Maneck. “In that case I better not waste your time. There are thousands waiting outside.”

“May you soon find the bliss of contentment,” said Bal Baba, raising one hand in a transcendent farewell. His eyes were still furious.

Maneck decided to come again next morning, bring Om and Ishvar with him — he didn’t have to leave for the airport till tomorrow night. It would be a great joke, and lots of fun to deflate Bal Babas pomposity. Take him down