A Fine Balance

they talk to you but not to me?”

“Maybe they were afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me? What nonsense. If anything, I was afraid of them. That they would find the export company and cut me out. Or that they would get better jobs. Sometimes I was afraid even to point out their errors — I would correct the mistakes myself at night, after they left. For what reason could they be afraid of me?”

“They thought you’d find better tailors and get rid of them.”

She considered it in silence for a moment. “I wish you had told me before. I could have reassured them.”

He shrugged again. “That wouldn’t change anything, Aunty. You could have saved them only by giving them a place to sleep.”

She flung down the sewing. “You keep on saying that! Keep on, don’t worry about my feelings! Repeat it till I am blinded by guilt!”

Maneck pricked himself as the needle surfaced through the button. “Ouch,” he sucked the thumb.

“Go on, you callous boy! Tell me I am responsible, tell me I left them out on the street because I am heartless!”

He wished he could cancel the hurt of his words. She fumbled with the hem, beginning to cough as though something was stuck. It sounded like an attention-getting cough to him, and he brought her a glass of water.

She said, after drinking, “You were right about carrots. I can see much better.”

“It’s a miracle!” He raised his hands theatrically, bringing a smile to her face. “Now I am incarnated as Maharishi Carrot Baba, and all the opticians will lose their business!”

“Oh stop being silly,” she said, draining the glass. “Let me tell you what I can see better. When I was twelve my father decided to go and work in an area of epidemic. It worried my mother very much. She wanted me to change his mind — you see, I was his favourite. Then my father died while working there. And my mother said if I had followed her advice I might have saved him.”

“That wasn’t fair.”

“It was and it wasn’t. Just like what you said.”

He understood.

Dina rose, lifted the glass hen squatting on the worktable, and put away the thimble, scissors, and needle in its porcelain bowels.

“Where are you going, Aunty?”

“Where do you think — to a Lalya’s wedding? It’s ten o’clock, I’m going to bed.”

“But we only finished sixteen dresses. Today’s quota is twenty-two.”

“Listen to the senior manager.”

“My plan is to do twenty-two today, thirty tomorrow, and eight the day after, so everything can be delivered by noon.”

“Wait a minute, mister. What about college, tomorrow and the day after — what about studies? I don’t think they give a refrigeration diploma for sewing buttons.”

“Lectures are cancelled for the next two days.”

“Right. And I’m winning the State Lottery on the third day.”

“Forget it, Aunty. You’re always doubting me.” He continued to sew, exhaling injury and martyrdom in his sighs, dragging the needle as though its thread were an iron chain. “It’s okay, I’ll keep working, you go to bed.”

“And miss your Oscar-winning performance?”

He dropped a button, groaned, and bent to find it, feeling about with his fingers like an old man. “Go, Aunty, go and rest, don’t worry about me,” he waved a trembling hand.

“You said you were good at acting, but I didn’t think you were this good. Okay, let’s finish one more dress.”

The bidding was open; he sat up briskly. “We need six more for today’s quota.”

“Forget your quota. I said one.”

“At least three, then.”

“Two is my final offer. And no more argument. But first I need something from the kitchen.”

She returned shortly, a steaming mug hooked in the fingers of each hand, and set one down beside him. “Horlicks. To refresh us.” As proof, she took a swallow and sat tall in her chair, shoulders back, face beaming.

“You sound like an advertisement,” he said. “And it doesn’t even need a professional model, you look so pretty.”

“Don’t think flattery will get you a cup every day. I cannot afford that.”

Blowing and sipping, they joked their way through two more dresses. Near midnight, Dina’s was the only light left on in the building. The lateness of the hour, the streets fallen silent outside the window, the flat enveloped in darkness, all lent a conspiratorial air to their innocent activity.

“That makes eighteen,” she said, as they finished after midnight. “And not a single stitch left in these fingers. Now can we go to sleep, boss?”

“Soon as they are properly folded.”

“Yes, Mr. Mac Kohlah.”

“Please — I hate that name.”

While passing through to their rooms she hugged him, whispering, “Good night. And thank you for helping.”

“Good night, Aunty,” he said, and floated happily to bed.

An hour before sunrise the whistle blast ended the night, snatching back the labourers from its dark, comforting bosom. They spilled out from the tin huts in a trickle towards the food area. Two pariah dogs sniffed at dusty feet, lost interest and slunk away around the kitchen. Tea was served with last night’s chapatis. Then the whistle blew again to commence work.

The newcomers were assembled separately and assigned their chores by the foreman. There were jobs for everyone with the exception of the beggar on the rolling platform. “You stay here,” said the foreman. “I will decide later for you.”

Om was teamed with a group of six to start a new ditch. Ishvar’s task was to carry gravel where concrete was being mixed. The foreman came to the end of the list, and the scraggy army dispersed to their locations as directed by the overseers. The tailors waited till everyone had gone.

“There is a mistake, sahab,” said Ishvar, approaching the foreman with his palms together.

“Name?”

“Ishvar Darji and Omprakash Darji.”

The foreman read off their assignments again. “No mistake.”

“The mistake is that we should not be here, we — ”

“All you lazy rascals think you should not be here. The government will no longer tolerate it. You will work. In return you will get food and a place to sleep.”

“We have work, we are tailors, and the policeman said to speak to you -

“My duty is to give you jobs and shelter. You say no, and the security men will take you away.”

“But why are we being punished? What is our crime?”

“You are using the wrong word. It’s not a question of crime and punishment — it’s problem and solution.” He beckoned to two khaki-uniformed men patrolling with sticks. “We have no trouble here, all the people are happy to work. Now you decide.”

“Okay,” said Ishvar. “But we would like to talk to the top man.”

“The project manager will come later. He is busy with his morning prayers.”

The foreman personally escorted the tailors to the worksite. He handed them over to their respective supervisors with instructions to watch them carefully, to make sure they worked without slacking. The beggar rolled alongside them on his platform. Where the path ended, the rough terrain was impossible for his castors. He turned back, waving to the tailors, promising to wait by their hut in the evening.