A Fine Balance Part 68

But his name suggested a trick to do with hair. He asked someone at the entrance, "Who is Bal Baba?"

"Bal Baba is a very very holy man," said the attendant. "He has returned to us after many many years of meditationing in a Himalayan cave."

"What does he do?"

"He has a very especial, very saintly power. He tells you any sort of thing you will want to know. All he needs is to hold some of your hairs between his holy fingers for ten seconds only."

"And what's the charge for it?"

"Bal Baba has no charges," said the man indignantly. Then he added, with an oily smile, "But all donations are mostly welcome by the Bal Baba Foundation, anymuch amount."

Maneck grew curious, and went in. Just for a quick look, he decided at the latest fakeologist in the city, as Om would say. It would be amusing to tell the tailors what he saw. Something to laugh about together, after eight years.

The crowds were bigger outside the marquee than inside. Only a few people were waiting near a screen behind which sat the very very saintly Bal Baba. Shouldn't take long, thought Maneck, at the rate of ten seconds per meditation per customer. This was a.s.sembly-line darshan and consultation.

He joined the queue, and soon it was his turn. The man behind the screen, in a saffron robe, was bald and clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes had been plucked clean. Not a hair was visible on his face or on the skin left uncovered by the robe.

Despite the bizarrely smooth and shining countenance, however, Maneck recognized him. "You're Rajaram the hair-collector!"

"Eh?" jumped Bal Baba, startled enough to let the unsaintly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n escape him. Then he regained his composure, raised his head, and enunciated beatifically, embroidering his words with graceful hand and finger movements: "Rajaram the hair-collector renounced his life, his joys and sorrows, his vices and virtues. Why? So that Bal Baba could be incarnated, and could use his humble gift to a.s.sist humanity along the pathway to moksha."

The fancy mannerisms were discontinued after this declaration. He inclined his head and asked in a normal voice, "But who are you?"

"Remember Ishvar and Om? The tailors who used to lend you money in your previous incarnation your hairy days? I lived in that same flat with them." While the hair-collector took this in, Maneck added, "I've grown a beard. Maybe that's why you don't recognize me."

"Not at all. No hairstyle or beard on earth can deceive Bal Baba," he said grandly. "So what is your question for me?"

"You're joking."

"No, just try me. Go ahead, ask. Ask about job, health, marriage prospects, wife, children, education, anything. I'll give you the answer."

"I already have the answer. I'm searching for the question."

Bal Baba looked askance at him, annoyance shadowing the glabrous face enigmatic utterances of this sort were his preserve. But he controlled his displeasure and reattached the requisite smile of enlightenment.

"On second thoughts, I do have a question," said Maneck. "How would you help someone who has a bald head like yours?"

"That is only a small obstacle. The Bal Baba Foundation sells a special hair tonic at cost price postage and handling charges extra. Made from rare Himalayan herbs, works like magic. In a few weeks, the bald head is covered with thick hair. Then the person comes here, I hold the newly grown hair for meditation, and answer the question."

"Do you ever feel like chopping it off? For your collection?"

Bal Baba grew enraged. "That was another life, another person. That's all finished, don't you understand?"

"I see. And have you visited Ishvar and Om since you returned from your cave? They might have questions for you."

"Bal Baba cannot afford the luxury of visiting anybody. He is bound to this place, to allow people the opportunity for darshan."

"Right," said Maneck. "In that case I better not waste your time. There are thousands waiting outside."

"May you soon find the bliss of contentment," said Bal Baba, raising one hand in a transcendent farewell. His eyes were still furious.

Maneck decided to come again next morning, bring Om and Ishvar with him he didn't have to leave for the airport till tomorrow night. It would be a great joke, and lots of fun to deflate Bal Babas pomposity. Take him down a notch or two, make him look back at his yesterdays.

The way out was through the rear of the marquee, past a man writing at a wobbly table stacked with letters and envelopes. Maneck stared, trying to remember where they had met. Then he spotted the plastic case in the maris shirt pocket, with its battery of pens and ballpoints. It came back to him the train, the pa.s.senger with the hoa.r.s.e voice.

"Excuse me, you're the proofreader, aren't you?"

"Erstwhile," he said. "Vasantrao Valmik, at your service."

"You don't recognize me because I've grown a beard, but I was the student on the train with you, many years ago, when you were travelling for specialist treatment for your throat problem."

"Say no more," said Mr. Valmik, smiling with delight. "I remember perfectly, I've never forgotten you. We talked a lot on that journey, didn't we." He chuckled, and screwed the cap on his pen. "You know, it's so very rare to find a good audience for one's story. Most people get restless when a stranger tells them about his life. But you were a perfect listener."

"Oh, I enjoyed listening. It shortened the journey. Besides, your life is so interesting."

"You are very kind. Let me tell you a secret: there is no such thing as an uninteresting life."

"Try mine."

"I would love to. One day you must tell me your full and complete story, unabridged and unexpurgated. You must. We will set aside some time for it, and meet. It's very important."

Maneck smiled. "Why is it important?"

Mr. Valmik's eyes grew wide. "You don't know? It's extremely important because it helps to remind yourself of who you are. Then you can go forward, without fear of losing yourself in this ever-changing world."

He paused, touching his pen pocket. "I must be truly blessed, for I have been able to tell my whole story twice. First to you on the train, then to a nice lady in the courthouse compound. But that was also many years ago. I'm thirsting to find a new audience. Ah, yes, to share the story redeems everything."

"How?"

"How, I don't know exactly. But I feel it here." He put his hand over his shirt pocket again.

He felt it in his pens? Then Maneck realized that the proofreader meant his heart. "And what are you doing nowadays, Mr. Valmik?"

"I am in charge of Bal Baba's mail-order business. He does prophecies by correspondence too. People send in clippings of hair. I open the envelopes, throw away the hair, cash the cheques, and write answers to their questions."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"Very much indeed. The scope is unlimited. I can use all kinds of devices in my replies essay form, prose poem, poetic prose, aphorism." He patted the pen pocket and added, "My little darlings are at full flow, creating fiction after fiction, which will become more real in the recipients' lives than all their sad realities."

"It's been good to see you," said Maneck.

"And when shall we meet again? You really must tell me all about yourself."

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm planning to bring two friends of Bal Baba."

"Good, good. See you soon."

At the exit, the attendant held out a bra.s.s bowl containing a little loose change. "Anymuch donation is welcome."

Maneck threw in some coins, feeling he had certainly got his money's worth.

The door took a while to open in answer to Maneck's ring. The stick-wristed figure looked nothing like the Dina Aunty he had left eight years ago. Eight years in pa.s.sing were ent.i.tled to take their toll; but this this was more than a toll, it was outright banditry.

"Yes?" she asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were pinpoints through lenses twice as thick as he remembered them. The grey in her hair had thoroughly subjugated the black.

"Aunty," his voice snagged on the obstacle course his throat had become. "It's Maneck."

"What?"

"Maneck Kohlah your paying guest."

"Maneck?"

"I've grown a beard. That's why you don't recognize me."

She came closer. "Yes. You've grown a beard."

He felt the coldness in her voice. Stupid of me to expect anything else, he thought. "I went to your flat...and...you were not there."

"How could I? It's not my flat."

"I wanted to see you again, and the tailors, and "

"There are no more tailors. Come inside." She shut the door, leading the way with small, careful steps, using the walls and furniture to guide herself in the dark hallway.

"Sit," she said, when they reached the drawing room. "You have appeared suddenly. Out of nowhere."

He heard the accusation, and nodded. He had no defence.

"That beard. You should shave it off. Makes you look like a toilet brush."

He laughed, and so did she, a little. He was relieved to hear the silver flash in hers, but it was not entirely enough to cancel the chill. The room they sat in was opulent. Rich old furniture, antique porcelain in showcases, an exquisite silk Persian carpet on one wall.

"Next time you see me, the beard will be gone for sure, Aunty, I promise."

"Maybe then I will recognize you sooner." She struggled with a hairpin and patted it down. "My eyes are terrible now. Those carrots you forced me to eat were wasted. Nothing can save these eyes."

He laughed tentatively, but this time she did not join in.

"You came after very long. A few more years, and I won't see you at all. Even now, you're a shadow in this room."

"I was away, working in the Gulf."

"And what was it like?"

"It was...it was empty."

"Empty?"

"Empty...like a desert."

"But it is a desert country." She paused. "You didn't write to me from there."

"I'm sorry. But I didn't write to anyone. It seemed so ...so pointless."

"Yes," she said. "Pointless. And my address changed, in any case."

"But what happened to the flat, Aunty?"

She told him.

He leaned forward to whisper, "And you are okay here? Nusswan treats you all right?" He lowered his voice still further. "Does he give you enough to eat?"

"You don't have to whisper, no one is home to hear you." She removed her spectacles, wiped them with the hem of her skirt, and put them on again. "There is more food than I have an appet.i.te for."

He shifted uncomfortably. "And what about Ishvar and Om? Where are they working now?"

"They are not working."

"Then how are they managing? Especially with Om's wife, and children?"

"There is no wife, no children. They have become beggars."

"Sorry what, Aunty?"

"They are both beggars now."

"That's impossible! Sounds crazy! I mean aren't they ashamed to beg? Couldn't they do some other work, if there's no tailoring? I mean "

"Without knowing everything you want to judge them?" she cut him off.

Her scathing tone made him curb his outburst. "Please tell me what happened."

While she spoke, cold like a knife sliced through his insides. He sat frozen, like one of the figurines in the gla.s.s-fronted cabinets around him.

When she reached the end, he had still not stirred. She leaned forward to shake his knee. "Are you listening?"

He gave a slight nod. Her eyes missed the small movement, and she asked again, irritated, "Are you listening or am I wasting my breath?"

This time he used words for his answer. "Yes, Aunty. I am listening." His voice was lifeless.

Empty as his face, she thought. "You wouldn't recognize them if you saw them. Ishvar has shrunk, not just because his legs are gone all of him. And Om has become very chubby. One of the effects of castration."

"Yes, Aunty."

"You remember how we used to cook together?"

He nodded.