A Fine Balance

vegetables were drying up.” He disappeared inside to return with the frying pan and three plates. “Bhaji and chapati. And my special masala wada with mango chutney, to celebrate your first day at work.”

“How much trouble you’re taking for us,” said Ishvar.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Rajaram let the food heat for a minute, then handed out the plates with the four items neatly arranged around the circumference. A substantial amount still remained in the pan. “You cooked too much,” said Ishvar.

“I had a little extra money today, so I bought more vegetables. For them,” he pointed with his elbow at the other shack. “That drunken fellow’s little ones are always hungry.”

While they ate, the tailors described the police action against ticketless travel. The gift of dinner softened the accusing tone Om had planned to use; he told it like a traveller’s adventure instead.

Rajaram clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. “What foolishness on my part — I completely forgot to warn you. You see, it’s been months and months since a raid.” He slapped his forehead again. “Some people travel all their lives without buying a single ticket. And you two get caught on the first day. Even with tickets,” he chuckled.

Ishvar and Om, appreciating the irony, started laughing too. “Just bad luck. Must be a new policy because of Emergency.”

“But it was all a big show. Why did the inspector let everyone go, if they are really getting strict?”

Rajaram thought about it while chewing, and fetched glasses of water for everyone. “Maybe they had no choice. From what I hear, the jails are full with the Prime Minister’s enemies — union workers, newspaper people, teachers, students. So maybe there is no more room in the prisons.”

While they were mulling over the incident, cries of joy went up near the water tap. It had started gurgling! And so late in the night! People watched the spout, holding their breath. A few drops dribbled out. Then a little stream. They cheered it like a winning racehorse as it gathered strength, gushing full and strong. A miracle! The hutment dwellers clapped and shouted with excitement.

“It has happened once before,” said Rajaram. “I think someone made a mistake at the waterworks, opening the wrong valve.”

“They should make such mistakes more often,” said Ishvar.

Women ran to the tap to make the most of the fortuitous flow. Babies in their arms squealed with delight as cool water glided over their sticky skin. Older children skipped about gleefully, bursting into little involuntary dances, looking forward to the generous drenching instead of the meagre mugfuls at dawn.

“Maybe we should also fill up now,” said Om. “Save time in the morning.”

“No,” said Rajaram. “Let the little ones enjoy. Who knows when they’ll get a chance like this again.”

The festivities lasted less than an hour; the tap went dry as suddenly as it had started. Children soaped in anticipation had to be wiped off and sent to bed disappointed.

Over the next fortnight, the slumlord erected another fifty ramshackle huts in the field, which Navalkar rented out in a day, doubling the population. Now the fetid smell from the ditch hung permanently over the shacks, thicker than smoke. There was nothing to distinguish the small hutment colony from the huge slum across the road; it had been incorporated into the inferno. The rush at the water tap assumed riotous proportions. Accusations of queue- jumping were exchanged every morning, there was pushing and shoving, scuffles broke out, pots were overturned, mothers screamed, children wailed.

The monsoon season started, and on the first night of rain, the tailors were awakened by the roof leaking on their bedding. They sat huddled in the only dry corner. The rain poured down beside them in a steady stream and gradually lulled them into slumber. Then the rain slowed. The leak became an aggravating drip. Om began counting the splashes in his head. He reached a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, counting, adding, tallying, as though hoping to dry them out by attaining a high enough number.

They ended up sleeping very little. In the morning, Rajaram climbed onto the roof to examine the corrugated iron. He helped them spread a piece of plastic, not quite wide enough, over the leaking area.

Later that week, heartened by the remuneration from Dina Dalai, Ishvar was able to plan a little shopping excursion to buy a large plastic sheet and a few other items. “What do you say, Om? Now we can make our house more comfortable, hahn?”

His suggestion was greeted with a mournful silence. They stopped at a pavement stall selling polythene bowls, boxes, and assorted tableware. “So, what colour plates and glasses shall we get?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“A towel? That yellow one with flowers, maybe?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Would you like new sandals?”

“Doesn’t matter” came yet again, and Ishvar finally lost his patience. “What’s wrong with you these days? All the time with Dinabai you make mistakes and argue. You take no interest in tailoring. Anything I ask, you say doesn’t matter. Make an effort, Om, make an effort.” He cut the shopping expedition short, and they started back with two red plastic buckets, a Primus stove, five litres of kerosene, and a package of jasmine agarbatti.

Ahead they heard the familiar dhuk-dhuka dhuk-dhuka of Monkey-man’s little handheld drum. The string-tied rattle bounced upon the skin as he spun his wrist. He was not looking to collect a crowd, merely accompanying his charges home. One of his little brown monkeys had hitched a ride on his shoulder, the other ambled along listlessly. The emaciated dog followed at a distance, sniffing, chewing newspaper in which food had once been wrapped. Monkey-man whistled, and called “Tikka!” and the mongrel trotted up.

The monkeys started teasing Tikka, tweaking his ears, twisting his tail, pinching his penis. He bore his tormentors with a dignified calm. His reprieve came when the red plastic buckets swinging from Om’s hands attracted the monkeys’ attention. They decided to investigate, and hopped in.

“Laila! Majnoo! Stop it!” scolded their master, tugging the leashes. They bobbed their heads out over the bucket rims.

“It’s okay,” said Om, enjoying their pranks. “Let them have some fun. They must have worked hard all day.”

They walked together to the hutment colony, the tailors, Monkey-man, and his animals, moving to the drum’s hypnotic dhuk-dhuka. Laila and Majnoo soon tired of the buckets and began clambering over Om, sitting on his shoulders or his head, hanging from his arms, clinging to his legs. He laughed all the way home, and Ishvar smiled with pleasure.

Om’s playfulness vanished when he and the monkeys parted company. Once again he sank into his gloom, casting a nauseated look in Rajaram’s direction, who was sorting his bags of hair outside the shack. The little black mounds looked like a collection of shaggy human heads.

Seeing the two laden with purchases, Rajaram complimented them. “Makes me happy to see you started on the road to prosperity.”

“You need spectacles if you think this is the road to prosperity,” snapped Om. He went inside and unrolled the bedding.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Rajaram, hurt.

“I think he’s just tired. But listen, today you must eat with us. To celebrate our new stove.”

“How can I refuse such good friends?”

They prepared the food together, and called Om when it was ready. Halfway through the meal, Rajaram asked if he could borrow ten rupees. The request took Ishvar by surprise. He had assumed the hair-collector was doing well in his line of work, judging by his enthusiastic talk during the past fortnight.

The hesitation showed on his face, for Rajaram added, “I’ll return it in a week, don’t worry. Business is little slow right now. But a new style is coming into fashion for women. Everyone will start chopping off their plaits. Those long chotelas will fall straight into my lap.”

“Stop talking about hair,” said Om. “It makes my stomach sick.” After dinner, instead of sitting outside to chat and smoke with them, he said he had a headache and went to bed.

His uncle came in an hour later and stood watching the back of Om’s head for a minute. Poor child, what a burden of terrible memories he had to carry. He leaned across and saw his eyes were open. “Om? Headache gone?”

He groaned and answered no.