A Fine Balance

grumbling that the buses seem to have disappeared from the road.”

“People are always grumbling.”

“The tailors — they finished work already?”

“They didn’t come at all.”

“What happened?”

“If I knew, would I look so worried? Coming late is like a religion for them, but it’s the first time they’ve been absent for the whole day.”

Maneck bolted the tea and went to his room. Kicking off his shoes, he sniffed the socks — a slight smell — and put on his slippers. There were some boxes left to unpack. Might as well do it now. Clothes, towels, toothpaste, soap went into the cupboard. A nice odour came from the shelf. He breathed deeply: reminded of Dina Aunty, she was lovely — beautiful hair, kind face.

The unpacking finished, he was at a loss for things to do. The umbrella hanging from the cupboard caught his eye. He opened it, admired the pagoda shape, and pictured Dina Aunty walking down the street with it. Like the women at the racecourse in My Fair Lady. She looked much younger than Mummy, though Mummy had written they were the same age, forty-two this year. And that she had had a hard life, many misfortunes, her husband dying young, so Maneck was to be kind to her even if she was difficult to get along with.

That would explain Dina Aunty’s tone, he thought, the hard life. The way she talked, her voice sounding old, having endured a vast range of weather. Her words always sharp — the words of a tired, cynical person. He wished he could cheer her up, make her laugh once in a while.

The little room was getting on his nerves. What a bore this was, and the rest of the academic year was going to just drag on and on. He picked up a book, flipped through it, tossed it back on the desk. The chessmen. He arranged the board and made a few mechanical moves. For him, the joy had seeped out of the plastic shapes. He tumbled them back into the maroon box with its sliding top — from the prison of their squares into the prison of the coffin.

But he, at least, had escaped his prison, he thought, had seen the last of that bloody hostel. His only regret was not being able to say goodbye to Avinash, whose room remained locked and silent. Probably still hiding at his parents’ — it would be foolhardy to return while the Emergency regime governed the campus and people continued to disappear.

Maneck remembered the early days with him, when their friendship was new. Everything I do is chess, Avinash had once said. Now he was under a serious check. Had he castled in time, protected by three pawns and a rook? And Dina Aunty, playing against her tailors, making her moves between front room and back room. And Daddy, attempting to take on the soft-drink opponents who did not observe the rules of the game, who played draughts using chess pieces.

Evening deepened the shadows in the room, but Maneck did not bother with the light. His whimsical thoughts about chess suddenly acquired a dark, depressing hue in the dusk. Everything was under threat, and so complicated. The game was pitiless. The carnage upon the chessboard of life left wounded human beings in its wake. Avinash’s father with tuberculosis, his three sisters waiting for their dowries, Dina Aunty struggling to survive her misfortunes, Daddy crushed and brokenhearted while Mummy pretended he was going to be his strong, smiling self again, and their son would return after a year of college, start bottling Kohlah’s Cola in the cellar, and their lives would be full of hope and happiness once more, like the time before he was sent away to boarding school. But pretending only worked in the world of childhood, things would never be the same again. Life seemed so hopeless, with nothing but misery for everyone…

He slapped shut the folding chessboard: a puff of air kissed his face. Where his cheeks were wet with tears, the kiss felt cold. He dried his eyes and slapped the two sides together again, like bellows, then fanned himself with the board.

Dina Aunty’s call of “Dinnertime,” when it finally came, was like a release from jail. He was at the table instantly, hovering about, not sitting till his place was indicated.

“Have you got a cold?” she asked. “Your eyes look watery.”

“No, I was resting.” She didn’t miss much, he thought.

“I forgot to ask yesterday — do you prefer knife and fork, or fingers?”

“Anything, it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you do at home?”

“We use cutlery.”

She set a knife, fork, and spoon around his plate, leaving hers unadorned, and brought the food to the table.

“I can also eat with fingers,” he protested. “You don’t have to give me special treatment.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, cheap stainless steel is not special.” She filled his plate and sat opposite him. “When I was young, we always had proper place settings. Sterling silver. My father was very particular about such matters. After he died our habits changed. Especially when my brother Nusswan married Ruby. She got rid of it. She said we didn’t need to ape foreigners while God had given us perfectly good fingers. Which is true in a way. But I think she was just lazy about cleaning all the cutlery.”

Halfway through the meal Dina washed her hands and fetched a knife and fork for herself. “You’ve inspired me,” she smiled. “It’s been twenty-five years since I used these things.”

He looked away, trying not to make her fingers nervous. “Will the tailors come tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” she said, dismissing the topic briefly.

Then her anxiety drew her back to it. “Unless they’ve found better jobs, and disappeared. But what else can I expect from such people? Ever since I started this tailoring business, they’ve made my life a misery. Day after day, they drive me mad with worry about finishing the dresses on time.”

“Maybe they are sick or something.”

“Both together? Maybe it’s the sickness that comes out of a booze bottle — I did pay them yesterday. No discipline at all, no sense of responsibility. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m bothering you with my problems.”

“That’s okay.” He helped her carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen. The stray cats were mewing outside. He had heard them last night while falling asleep, and dreamt of the pariah dogs congregating on the front porch of the General Store, and Daddy feeding them, making his usual joke, that he would soon have to open a new branch for his canine customers.

“Not through the window, Maneck — in the garbage pail,” said Dina, as he tossed out the scraps.

“But I want to feed the cats, Aunty.”

“No, don’t encourage them.”

“They’re hungry — see how they’re waiting.”

“Nonsense. Nuisances outside my window, that’s what they are. And they break in to make a mess in the kitchen. Only good thing about them is their intestines. To make violin strings, my husband used to say.”

Maneck was sure she would see it his way if he talked about the cats every day as though they were human; that was the trick Daddy used. When her back was turned he threw out the remainder. Already he knew which was his favourite: the brown and white tabby with a misshapen ear who was saying, Hurry with the food, I haven’t got all day.

After clearing up, Dina invited him to sit with her in the front room, read or study, do whatever he liked. “You don’t have to lock yourself away in there. Treat this as your home. And if you need something, don’t be shy to ask.”

“Thank you, Aunty.” He had been dreading the return to his jail cell before bedtime. He took the armchair across from her and riffled a magazine.

“Have you been to see your mummy’s family yet?”

He shook his head. “I hardly know them. And we have never got along with them. Daddy always says they are so dull, they are in danger of boring themselves to death.”

“Tch-tch-tch,” she frowned and smiled simultaneously, sorting her fabric remnants and patches. The half- dozen squares she was shaping to fit together were spread out on the sofa.

Maneck came closer. “What are these?”

“My cloth collection.”

“Really? What for?”