A Fine Balance

to her, just look at her from far. She’s very shy, and meets me secretly, as I said.”

They gulped their tea and ran all the way back, for they had exceeded the time.

Batata wada, bhel puri, pakora, bhajia, sherbet — Maneck paid for all the snacks and drinks at the Vishram because Om got just enough from Ishvar for one cup of tea. The allowance from Maneck’s parents was sufficient for the treats, since he no longer needed to supplement canteen food. The following week he kept his word and took Om to see Revolver Rani after the day’s sewing was done. He offered to pay for Ishvar too, who refused, saying his time would be better spent finishing one more dress.

“How about you, Aunty? Want to come?”

“I wouldn’t see such rubbish if you paid me,” said Dina. “And if your money weighs too much in your pocket, let me know. I can tell your mummy to stop sending it.”

“Bilkool correct,” said Ishvar. “You young people don’t understand the value of money.”

Undeterred by the reproaches, they set off for the cinema. She reminded Maneck to come straight home after the film, his dinner would be waiting. He agreed, grumbling to himself that Dina Aunty was taking her self-appointed role of guardian too seriously.

“The old woman’s prophecy came true,” said Om, as they started towards the train station. “Half of it, anyway — Monkey-man finally took his revenge.”

“What did he do?”

“A terrible thing. It happened last night.” Tikka had been back living with Monkey-man, and his neighbours assumed the two were friends again. But after the hutment dwellers had gone to sleep, Monkey-man put a wooden crate outside his shack and adorned it with flowers and an oil lamp. A photograph of Laila and Majnoo riding on Tikka’s back was propped up in the centre. It was a Polaroid shot taken long ago by an American tourist charmed by the act. The altar was ready. Monkey-man led Tikka before it, made the dog lie down, and slit his throat. Then he went around letting people know he had fulfilled his duty.

“It was horrible,” said Om. “We got there and saw poor Tikka floating in his blood. He was still twitching a little. I almost vomited.”

“If my father was there, he would have killed Monkey-man,” said Maneck.

“Are you boasting or complaining?”

“Both, I guess.” He kicked a stone from the footpath into the road. “My father cares more about stray dogs than his own son.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, yaar.”

“Why rubbish? Look, he feeds the dogs every day on the porch. But me he sent away. All the time I was there, he kept fighting with me, didn’t want me around.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, your father sent you here to study because he cares for your future.”

“You’re an expert on fathers or what?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you?”

“Because my father is dead. That quickly makes you an expert. You better believe me — stop talking rubbish about your father.”

“Okay, my father is a saint. But what happened to Monkey-man?”

“People in the colony were angry, they said we should tell the police, because ever since the monkeys died, Monkey-man has two small children living with him, three-four years old. They are his sister’s son and daughter, training for his new act. And if he went mad, it would be dangerous for the children. But then others in the colony said there was no point putting crooks in charge of the insane. Anyway, Monkey-man loves the children. He has been taking very good care of them.”

They alighted from the train, pushing their way through the crowd waiting to climb on. Outside the platform, a woman sat in the sun with a small basket of vegetables beside her. She was drying her laundered sari, one half at a time. One end was wound wet round her waist and over her shrunken breasts, as far as it would go. The drying half was stretched along the railway fence, flowing from her body like a prayer in the evening sun. She waved to Om as the two passed by.

“She lives in our colony,” he said, weaving through the traffic to cross the lane towards the cinema. “She sells vegetables. She has only one sari.”

Revolver Rani ended later than they had expected. While the credits rolled, they began inching down the aisles, lingering, not wanting to miss the reprise of the soundtrack. Then the fluttering national flag appeared on the screen, “Jana Gana Mana” started to play, and there was a rush for the exits.

But the outward-bound audience ran into an obstacle. A squad of Shiv Sena volunteers guarding the doors blocked their way. People at the back, unaware of the reason for the bottleneck, began shouting. “Side please! Aray bhai, side please! Move on, mister! Filmshow finished!”

The crowd in the front couldn’t go forward, however, threatened by the Shiv Sena’s waving sticks and an assortment of signs: RESPECT THE NATIONAL ANTHEM! YOUR MOTHERLAND NEEDS YOU DURING THE EMERGENCY! PATRIOTISM is A SCARED DUTY! No one was allowed to leave till the flag faded on the screen and the lights came on.

“Why is patriotism a scared duty?” laughed Om. “They need to frighten people to be patriotic?”

“These idiots can’t even spell sacred, and they are telling us what to do,” said Maneck.

Om observed that the protesters were about fifty in all, whereas the audience was over eight hundred strong. “We could have easily overpowered them. Dhishoom! Dhishoom! Like that fellow in the film,” he said, clenching his fists before his chest.

In high spirits, they began repeating some of the more dramatic lines they remembered from Revolver Rani. “Blood can only be avenged by blood!” growled Maneck, with a swordfighting flourish.

“Standing on this consecrated earth, I swear with the sky as my witness that you will not see another dawn!” proclaimed Om.

“That’s because I wake up late every day, yaar,” said Maneck. The sudden departure from the script made Om lose his pose with laughing.

Outside the railway station, the woman was still sitting with her vegetable basket. The dry half of the sari was now wrapped around her, with the wet stretch taking its turn along the fence. The basket was almost empty. “Amma, time to go home,” said Om, and she smiled.

On the station platform, they decided to try the machine that said Weight amp; Fortune 25p. Maneck went first. The red and white wheel spun, lightbulbs flashed, there was a chime, and a little cardboard rectangle slid out into the curved receptacle.

“Sixty-one kilos,” said Maneck, and read the fortune on the reverse. “ ‘A happy reunion awaits you in the near future.’ That sounds right — I’ll be going home when this college year is finished.”

“Or it means you will meet that woman on the train again. You can finish her breast massage. Come on, my turn.” He climbed on, and Maneck fished in his pocket for another twenty-five-paise coin.

“Forty-six kilos,” said Om, and turned it over. “ ‘You will soon be visiting many new and exciting places.’ That doesn’t make sense. Going back to our village — that’s not a new place.”

“I think it means the places in Shanti’s blouse and skirt.”

Om struck a stance and raised his hand, reverting to the film dialogue. “Until these fingers are wrapped around your neck, squeezing out your wretched life, there shall be no rest for me!”

“Not when you weigh only forty-six kilos,” said Maneck. “You will have to first practise on a chicken’s neck.”

The train arrived, and they ran from the ticket window to get on. “These train tickets look exactly like the weight cards,” said Om.

“I could have saved the fare,” said Maneck.

“No, it’s too risky. They’ve become very strict because of Emergency.” He described the time when Ishvar and he had been trapped in a raid on ticketless travellers.

The rush hour was over, and the compartment was sparsely occupied. They put up their feet on the empty seat. Maneck unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, flexing his toes. “We walked a lot today.”

“You shouldn’t wear those tight shoes, yaar. My chappals are much more comfortable.”