A Fine Balance Part 15

They placed their thumbprints on the register to say they had voted, and departed.

Then the blank ballots were filled in by the landlords' men. The election officer returned at closing time to supervise the removal of ballot boxes to the counting station, and to testify that voting had proceeded in a fair and democratic manner.

Sometimes, there was more excitement if rival landlords in the district were unable to sort out their differences and ended up supporting opposing candidates. Then their gangs battled it out. Naturally, whoever captured the most polling booths and stuffed the most ballot boxes got their candidate elected.

This year, however, there were no fights or gun battles. All in all, it was a dreary day, and Omprakash was depressed as he returned home with his father and grandfather. Tomorrow he had to go back to Muzaffar Tailoring Company. The week had pa.s.sed much too quickly.

They sat on the charpoy outside the house to enjoy the evening air while Omprakash fetched water for them. The trees were loud with frantic birdsong. "Next time there is an election, I want to mark my own ballot," said Narayan.

"They won't let you," said Dukhi. "And why bother? You think it will change anything? Your gesture will be a bucket falling in a well deeper than centuries. The splash won't be seen or heard."

"It is still my right. And I will exercise it in the next election, I promise you."

"Lately you are brooding too much about rights. Give up this dangerous habit." Dukhi paused, brushing away a column of red ants marching towards the foot of the charpoy. The creatures scurried in all directions. "Suppose you do make the mark yourself. You think they cannot open the box and destroy the votes they don't like?"

"They cannot. The election officer must account for every piece of paper."

"Give up this idea. It is wasting your time and your time is your life."

"Life without dignity is worthless."

The red ants had regrouped, though it was too dark for Dukhi to see. Radha brought the lamp out to the dusk-devoured porch, instantly populating it with shadows. The fragrance of wood smoke clung to her clothes. She lingered for a moment in the silence, searching her husband's face.

"Government has no sense," the people complained about the state a.s.sembly elections. "No sense at all. It's the wrong month with the earth parched and the air on fire, who has time to think about voting? Two years ago they made the same mistake."

Narayan had not forgotten his promise to his father two years ago. He went off alone to vote that morning. The turnout was poor. A ragged queue meandered by the door of the schoolhouse set up as the polling station. Inside, the smell of chalk dust and stale food made him remember the day when he was a small boy, when he and Ishvar had been beaten by the teacher for touching the slates and books of upper-caste children.

He swallowed his fear and asked for his ballot. "No, that's okay," explained the men at the table. "Just make your thumbprint here, we will do the rest."

"Thumbprint? I will sign my full name. After you give me my ballot."

Two men in line behind Narayan were inspired by him. "Yes, give us our ballots," they said. "We also want to make our mark."

"We cannot do that, we don't have instructions."

"You don't need instructions. It is our right as voters."

The attendants whispered among themselves, then said, "Okay, please wait." One of them left the polling station.

He returned shortly with a dozen men. Thakur Dharamsi, who, sixteen years ago, had ordered the musicians not to play at Narayan's wedding, was with them. "What is it, what's the trouble?" he asked loudly from outside.

They pointed at Narayan through the door.

"So," muttered Thakur Dharamsi. "I should have known. And who are the other two?"

His a.s.sistant did not know their names.

"It doesn't matter," said Thakur Dharamsi. His men entered with him, and it became very crowded inside. He wiped his brow and held out the wet hand under Narayan's nose. "On such a hot day you make me leave my house to sweat. Are you trying to humiliate me? Don't you have some clothes to sew? Or a cow to poison and skin?"

"We'll go as soon as we mark our ballots," said Narayan. "It is our right."

Thakur Dharamsi laughed, and his men joined in approvingly. They stopped when he stopped. "Enough jokes. Make your thumbprint and go."

"After we vote."

This time he did not laugh, but raised his hand as though in farewell and left the booth. The men seized Narayan and the other two. They forced their thumbs to the ink pad and completed the registration. Thakur Dharamsi whispered to his a.s.sistant to take the three to his farm.

Throughout the day, at intervals, they were flogged as they hung naked by their ankles from the branches of a banyan tree. Drifting in and out of consciousness, their screams grew faint. Thakur Dharamsi's little grandchildren were kept indoors. "Do your lessons," he told them. "Read your books, or play with your toys. The nice new train set I bought you."

"But it's a holiday," they pleaded. "We want to play outside."

"Not today. Some bad men are outside." He shooed them away from the rear windows.

In the distance, in the far field, his men urinated on the three inverted faces. Semiconscious, the parched mouths were grateful for the moisture, licking the trickle with feeble urgency. Thakur Dharamsi warned his employees that for the time being the news should not spread, especially not in the downstream settlement. That might disrupt the voting and force the election commission to countermand the results, wasting weeks of work.

In the evening, after the ballot boxes were taken away, burning coals were held to the three men's genitals, then stuffed into their mouths. Their screams were heard through the village until their lips and tongues melted away. The still, silent bodies were taken down from the tree. When they began to stir, the ropes were transferred from their ankles to their necks, and the three were hanged. The bodies were displayed in the village square.

Thakur Dharamsi's goondas, freed now from their election duties, were turned loose upon the lower castes. "I want those achhoot jatis to learn a lesson," he said, distributing liquor to his men before their next a.s.signment. "I want it to be like the old days, when there was respect and discipline and order in our society. And keep an eye on that Chamaar-tailor's house, make sure no one gets away."

The goondas began working their way towards the untouchable quarter. They beat up individuals at random in the streets, stripped some women, raped others, burned a few huts. News of the rampage soon spread. People hid, waiting for the storm to blow over.

"Good," said Thakur Dharamsi, as night fell and reports reached him of his men's success. "I think they will remember this for a long time." He ordered that the bodies of the two nameless individuals should be left by the river bank, to be reclaimed by their relations. "My heart is soft towards those two families, whoever they are," he said. "They have suffered enough. Let them mourn their sons and cremate them."

That was the end of the punishment, but not for Narayan's family. "He does not deserve a proper cremation," said Thakur Dharamsi. "And the father is more to blame than the son. His arrogance went against everything we hold sacred." What the ages had put together, Dukhi had dared to break asunder; he had turned cobblers into tailors, distorting society's timeless balance. Crossing the line of caste had to be punished with the utmost severity, said the Thakur.

"Catch them all the parents, wife, children," he told his men. "See that no one escapes."

As the goondas broke into Narayan's house, Amba, Pyari, Savitri, and Padma screamed from the porch to leave their friends alone. "Why are you hara.s.sing them? They have done nothing wrong!"

The women's families pulled them back, terrified for them. Their neighbours did not dare to even look outside, cowering in their huts in shame and fear, praying that the night would pa.s.s quickly, without the violence swallowing any more innocents. When Chhotu and Dayaram tried to sneak away for help to the district thanedar, they were chased down and knifed.

Dukhi, Roopa, Radha, and the daughters were bound and dragged into the main room. "Two are missing," said Thakur Dharamsi. "Son and grandson." Someone checked around, and informed him that they were living in town. "Well, never mind, these five will do."

The mutilated body was brought in and set before the captives. The room was dark. Thakur Dharamsi sent for a lamp so the family could see.

The light tore away the benevolent cloak of darkness. The naked corpse's face was a burnt and broken blur. Only by the red birthmark on his chest could they recognize Narayan.

A long howl broke from Radha. But the sound of grief soon mingled with the family's death agony; the house was set alight. The first flames licked at the bound flesh. The dry winds, furiously fanning the fire, showed the only spark of mercy during this night. The blaze swiftly enfolded all six of them.

By the time Ishvar and Omprakash heard the news in town, the ashes had cooled, and the charred bodies were broken and dispersed into the river. Mumtaz Chachi held Omprakash close to her while Ashraf Chacha accompanied Ishvar to the police station to register a First Information Report.

The sub-inspector, suffering from an earache, kept poking around inside with his little finger. He found it hard to concentrate. "What name? Spell it again. Slowly."

To ingratiate themselves with the figure of authority, Ashraf advised him on a home remedy, although he was seething with anger and wanted to slap the fellow across his face to make him attend. "Warm olive oil will give you relief," he said. "My mother used to put it for me."

"Really? How much? Two or three drops?"

Then, with great reluctance, the police went to the house to verify the allegations in the First Information Report. They reported that nothing was found to support charges of arson and murder.

The sub-inspector was cross with Ishvar. "What kind of rascality is this? Trying to fill up the F.I.R. with lies? You filthy achhoot castes are always out to make trouble! Get out before we charge you with public mischief!"

Too stunned to speak, Ishvar looked at Ashraf, who tried to intervene. The sub-inspector cut him off rudely: "This matter doesn't concern your community. We don't interfere when you Muslims and your mullahs discuss problems in your community, do we?"

For the next two days, Ashraf kept the shop closed, crushed by the helplessness he felt. Mumtaz and he did not dare console Omprakash or Ishvar what words were there for such a loss, and for an injustice so immense? The best they could do was weep with them.

On the third day, Ishvar asked him to open up the shop, and they began sewing again.

"I will gather a small army of Chamaars, provide them with weapons, then march to the landlords' houses," said Omprakash, his sewing-machine racing. "It will be easy to find enough men. We'll do it like the Naxalites." Head bent over his work, he described for Ishvar and Ashraf Chacha the strategies employed by the peasant uprisings in the northeast. "At the end of it we'll cut off their heads and put them on spikes in the marketplace. Their kind will never dare to oppress our community again." will gather a small army of Chamaars, provide them with weapons, then march to the landlords' houses," said Omprakash, his sewing-machine racing. "It will be easy to find enough men. We'll do it like the Naxalites." Head bent over his work, he described for Ishvar and Ashraf Chacha the strategies employed by the peasant uprisings in the northeast. "At the end of it we'll cut off their heads and put them on spikes in the marketplace. Their kind will never dare to oppress our community again."

Ishvar let him entertain his thoughts of revenge. His own first impulse had been the same; how could he blame his nephew? The hands were easy to divert with sewing, but the tormented mind was difficult to free from turmoil. "Tell me, Om, how do you know so much of this?"

"I read about it in newspapers. But isn't it common sense? In every low-caste family there is someone mistreated by zamindars. They will be eager to take revenge, for sure. We'll slaughter the Thakurs and their goondas. And those police devils."

"And afterwards, what?" asked Ishvar gently, when he felt it was time for his nephew to turn his thoughts away from death, towards life. "They will take you to court and hang you."

"I don't care. I would be dead anyway if I was living with my parents, instead of safely in this shop."

"Om, my child," said Ashraf. "Vengeance should not be our concern. The murderers will be punished. Inshallah, in this world or the next. Maybe they already have, who knows?"

"Yes, Chachaji, who knows?" echoed Omprakash sarcastically and went to bed.

Since that terrible night six months ago, Ishvar had given up their lodging in the rooming house, at Ashraf's insistence. There was plenty of s.p.a.ce in the house, he claimed, now that his daughters had all married and left. He part.i.tioned the room over the shop one side for Mumtaz and himself, the other for Ishvar and his nephew.

They heard Omprakash moving around upstairs, getting ready for bed. Mumtaz sat at the back of the house, praying. "This revenge talk is okay if it remains talk," said Ishvar. "But what if he goes back to the village, does something foolish."

They fretted and agonized for hours over the boy's future, then ascended the stairs to retire for the night. Ashraf followed Ishvar around the part.i.tion where Omprakash lay sleeping, and they stood together for a while, watching him.

"Poor child," whispered Ashraf. "So much he has suffered. How can we help him?"

The answer, in time, was provided by the faltering fortunes of Muzaffar Tailoring Company.

A year had pa.s.sed since the murders when a ready-made clothing store opened in town. Before long, Ashraf's list of clients began to shrink.

Ishvar said the loss would be temporary. "A big new shop with stacks of shirts to choose from that attracts the customers. It makes them feel important, trying on different patterns. But the traitors will return when the novelty wears off and the clothes don't fit."

Ashraf was not so optimistic. "Those lower prices will defeat us. They make clothes by the hundreds in big factories, in the city. How can we compete?"

Soon the two tailors and apprentice were lucky to find themselves busy one day a week. "Strange, isn't it," said Ashraf. "Something I've never even seen is ruining the business I have owned for forty years."

"But you've seen the ready-made shop."

"No, I mean the factories in the city. How big are they? Who owns them? What do they pay? None of this I know, except that they are beggaring us. Maybe I'll have to go and work for them in my old age."

"Never," said Ishvar. "But perhaps I should go."

"n.o.body is going anywhere," Ashraf's fist banged the worktable. "We will share what there is here, I said it only as a joke. You think I would really send away my own children?"

"Don't be upset, Chachaji, I know you didn't mean it."

Before long, however, the joke turned into a serious consideration as customers continued to flee to the ready-made store. "If it goes on like this, the three of us will be sitting from morning till night, swatting flies," said Ashraf. "For me, it does not matter. I have lived my life tasted its fruit, both sweet and bitter. But it is so unfair to Om." He lowered his voice. "Maybe it would be best for him to try elsewhere."

"But wherever he goes, I would have to go," said Ishvar. "He is still too young, too many foolish ideas clogging his head."

"Not his fault, the devil encourages him. Of course you have to be with him, you are now his father. What you can both do is, go for a short time. Doesn't have to be permanent. A year or two. Work hard, earn money, and come back."

"That's true. They say you can make money very quickly in the city, there is so much work and opportunity."

"Exactly. And with that cash you can open some kind of business here when you return. A paan shop, or a fruit stall, or toys. You can even sell ready-made clothes, who knows." They laughed at this, but agreed that a couple of years away would be best for Omprakash.

"There is only one difficulty in the way," said Ishvar. "I don't know anyone in the city. How to get started?"

"Everything will fall into place. I have a very good friend who will help you find work. His name is Nawaz. He is also a tailor, has his own shop there."

They sat up past midnight, making plans, imagining the new future in the city by the sea, the city that was filled with big buildings, wide, wonderful roads, beautiful gardens, and millions and millions of people working hard and acc.u.mulating wealth.

"Look at me, getting excited as if I was leaving with you," said Ashraf. "And if I was younger I would, too. It will be lonely here. My dream was that you and Om would be with me till the end of my days."

"But we will be," said Ishvar. "Om and I will return soon. Isn't that the plan?"

Ashraf wrote to his friend requesting him to put up Ishvar and Omprakash when they arrived, help them settle in the city. Ishvar withdrew his savings from the post office and purchased train tickets.

The night before departure, Ashraf gifted them his treasured pair of dressmaking and pinking shears. Ishvar protested it was too much. "Our family has already received so many kindnesses from you, for more than thirty years."

"An eternity of kindness could not repay what you and Narayan did for my family," said Ashraf, swallowing. "Come on, put the shears in your trunk, make an old man happy." He dried his eyes but they grew moist again. "Remember, you are welcome here at any time if it does not work out."

Ishvar clasped his hand and held it to his chest. "Maybe you will visit the city before we come back."

"Inshallah. I have always wanted to go on haj once before I die. And the big boats all sail from the city. So who knows?"

Mumtaz woke early the next morning to make their tea and prepare a food package for their journey. Ashraf sat silent while they ate, overcome by the moment. He spoke only once, to ask, "You have Nawaz's address safe in your pocket?"

They drained their cups and Omprakash gathered them for washing. "Let it be," a tearful Mumtaz stopped him. "I'll do it afterwards."

It was time to leave. They hugged Ashraf and Mumtaz, kissing their cheeks three times. "Ah, these useless old sockets of mine," said Ashraf. "They keep leaking, it's a sickness."

"And we are catching it from you," said Ishvar, as he and Omprakash wiped their own eyes. The sun had not yet risen when they picked up the trunk and bedding and walked towards the railway line.

It was night when the tailors arrived in the city. Groaning and clanking, the train pulled into the station while an announcement blared like gibberish from the loudspeakers. Pa.s.sengers poured out into the sea of waiting friends and families. There were shrieks of recognition, tears of happiness. The platform became a roiling swirl of humanity. Coolies conducted aggressive forays to offer their muscular services.

Ishvar and Omprakash stood frozen on the edge of the commotion. The sense of adventure that had flowered reluctantly during the journey wilted. "Hai Ram," said Ishvar, wishing for a familiar face. "What a huge crowd."

"Come on," said Omprakash. He took the trunk, struggling urgently against the barrier of bodies and luggage, as though a.s.sured that once they were past it, everything would be all right the city of promise lay beyond this final obstacle.

They ploughed their way through the platform and emerged in the railway station's gigantic concourse, with its ceilings high as the sky and columns reaching up like impossible trees. They wandered around in a daze, making inquiries, asking for a.s.sistance. People fired back hurried answers to their questions, or pointed, and they nodded gratefully but learned nothing. It took them an hour to discover they needed a local train to reach Ashraf's friend. The journey took twenty minutes.

Someone they asked for directions pointed them down the right road. The shop-c.u.m-residence was a ten-minute walk from the station. The pavements were covered with sleeping people. A thin yellow light from the streetlamps fell like tainted rain on the rag-wrapped bodies, and Omprakash shivered. "They look like corpses," he whispered. He gazed hard at them, searching for a sign of life a rising chest, a quivering finger, a fluttering eyelid. But the lamplight was not sufficient for detecting minute movements.