A Fine Balance Part 69

"You remember the kittens?"

He nodded again.

She tried once more to breathe life into him. "What time is it?"

"Twelve-thirty."

"If you are not in a rush, you could meet Ishvar and Om. They will come here at one o'clock."

Emotion re-entered his voice, but not the sort she was hoping for. "I'm sorry I cannot stay." The refusal was tinged with terror, his words spilling out in a rush. "I have so many things to do ...before my plane leaves tomorrow. My mother's relatives, and some shopping, and then to the airport. Maybe when I come next time."

"Next time. Yes, okay. We'll all be waiting for you next time."

They rose and walked down the hallway. "Wait," she said when they reached the door. "I have something for you."

She returned with her small, careful steps. "You left this behind in my flat."

It was Avinash's chess set.

"Thank you." He swayed, but his voice remained calm. He put out a hand to accept the board and the maroon plywood box. Then he said, "I don't really need it, Aunty. You keep it."

"And what would I do with it?"

"Give it to someone...to your nephews?"

"Xerxes and Zarir don't play. They are very busy men."

Maneck nodded. "Thank you," he said again.

"You're welcome."

He hesitated, turning the box around and around in his hands, gently running his fingers along the edge. "Bye-bye, Aunty."

She nodded silently. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek lightly, quickly. She raised her hand as though to wave, stepped back, and began to close the door. He turned and hurried down the cobbled walkway.

He stopped when he heard the door shut. He was under a tree at the end of the path. A bird sang in the branches. He listened, staring at the board and box in his hands. Something fell on his head, and he jumped aside to avoid a second dropping. His fingers felt the sticky splotch. Using leaves from the tree, he wiped his hair and looked up. There was only a crow, the singing bird had flown. He wondered which one was in his hair. Daddy used to say a common crow's droppings brought uncommon good luck.

He glanced at his watch: twenty to one. Ishvar and Om would be arriving soon. If he spent a few minutes here, he could see them. And they would see him. But what would he say?

In the quiet street outside the house, he began strolling along the footpath. Up, towards the end of the street, then down again, to Dina Aunty's house. After several turns, he saw two beggars rounding the corner from the main road.

One sat slumped on a low platform that moved on castors. He had no legs. The other pulled the platform with a rope slung over his shoulder. His plumpness sat upon him strangely, like oversized, padded clothes. Under his arm he carried a torn umbrella.

What shall I say? he asked himself desperately.

They drew nearer, and the one on the platform jiggled the coins in his tin can. "O babu, ek paisa?" he pleaded, looking up shyly.

Ishvar, it's me, Maneck! Don't you recognize me! The words raced uselessly inside his head, unable to find an exit. Say something, he commanded himself, say anything!

The other beggar demanded, "Babu! Aray, paisa day!" His voice was high-pitched, challenging, his look direct and mocking. They stopped expectantly, hand held out, tin rattling.

Om! Sour-lime face, my friend! Have you forgotten me!

But his words of love and sorrow and hope remained muted like stones.

The legless beggar coughed and spat. Maneck glanced at the gob; it was tinged with blood. The platform started to roll past him, and he saw that Ishvar was sitting on a cushion. No, not a cushion. It was dirty and fraying, folded to the size of a cushion. The patchwork quilt.

Wait, he wanted to call out wait for me. He wanted to hurry after them, go back to Dina Aunty with them, tell her he had changed his mind.

He did nothing. The two turned into the cobbled walkway and disappeared from sight. He could hear the castors clattering briefly over the uneven stones. The sound died; he continued on his way.

Past the cricket maidaan, past Bal Baba's marquee, past the injured carpenter by the kerb, Maneck hurried till he was in familiar surroundings again. He saw the new neon sign of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel. The place seemed like a prosperous restaurant now, enlarged by having swallowed the shops on either side, its lights humming and flickering fatuously in the afternoon sun. EAT DRINK, ENJOY IN OUR AIR-CONDITIONED COMFORT EAT DRINK, ENJOY IN OUR AIR-CONDITIONED COMFORT, said the smaller board under the neon.

He entered, and was shown to a shiny gla.s.s-topped table. A neat, uniformed waiter appeared, bearing a large, glossy menu. Maneck placed the chess set on an empty chair beside him and ordered a coffee.

The eating house was busy; it was lunchtime. The waiter hurried back with a gla.s.s of water. "Making fresh coffee, sahab. Two more minutes."

Maneck nodded. On a high shelf behind the cash desk, a loudspeaker emitted vapid instrumental music, purposeless above the restaurant bustle. He gazed at the tables around him, at office workers in bush shirts, ties, jackets, eating energetically, their animated conversations supplementing the clatter of cutlery office talk, about management treachery and dearness allowances, budgets and promotions. This was a new cla.s.s of clientele, far removed from the peons and sweaty labourers who used to eat here in the old days.

The coffee arrived. Maneck added sugar, stirred at length, sipped a little. Immediately the waiter, lingering nearby, stepped forward. "Is it good, sahab?"

"Yes, thank you."

The man adjusted the salt and pepper containers and wiped the ashtray with vigour. "So, sahab, the Prime Minister's son has taken over. You think he will be a good ruler?"

"Who knows. We'll have to wait and see."

"That's true. They all say one thing, do something else." He left to attend another table, where the customers had finished eating. Maneck watched him stack the plates, then add to this stack at the next table, and the next, before staggering off to the kitchen with the lot.

He soon returned and inspected Maneck's half-empty cup. "Anything to eat, sahab?"

Maneck shook his head.

"We have nice tasty ice cream also."

"No, thank you." The over-attentiveness was getting on his nerves the polite smile like part of the new decor, he felt, in the new Vishram. Where he was alone. In the old Vishram, he had always come with Om and Ishvar. Afternoons, at that single, smelly table. And Shankar rolling outside, waving his incomplete hands, wiggling his truncated legs, smiling, rattling his tin. And then his funeral pyre. The priest's chanting, the burning sandalwood, the fragrant smoke. Completeness. In the crematorium with Daddy this was missing, an open pyre was definitely better. Better for the living...

A group of customers noisily pushed back their chairs to leave; a new batch took their place. They greeted the staff by name. Regulars, apparently. Maneck picked up the maroon plywood box and pushed open the sliding lid, fishing out a piece at random. A p.a.w.n. He rolled it between his thumb and fingers, observed that the green felt on its base was peeling.

The waiter saw it too. "You should use Camel Paste, sahab, it will stick it strong."

Maneck nodded. He drank what remained of the coffee and dropped the p.a.w.n back in the box.

"My son also plays this game," said the waiter proudly.

Maneck looked up. "Oh? Does he have his own set?"

"No, sahab, it is too expensive. He plays in school only." Noticing the empty cup, he offered the menu again. "Two o'clock, sahab, kitchen is closing soon. We have very nice karai chicken, also biryani. Or some small thing? Mutton roll, pakora with chutney, puri-bhaji?"

"No, just one more coffee." Maneck rose and went to the back, looking for the wc.

It was occupied. He waited in the pa.s.sage, where he could observe the brisk kitchen activity. The cook's perspiring helper was chopping, frying, stirring; a skinny little boy was sc.r.a.ping off dirty plates and soaking them in the sink.

Despite the chrome and gla.s.s and fluorescent lights, something of the old Vishram remained, thought Maneck kerosene and coal fuelled the stoves. Then the wc door creaked open, and he went in.

When he came out, the table nearest the kitchen had been vacated. He decided to take it. The waiter darted across to remind him his second coffee was waiting at the other table.

"I'll have it here," said Maneck.

"But it's not good, sahab. Kitchen noise, and smell and all, over here."

"That's okay."

The waiter complied, fetching the coffee and the chess set before retreating to discuss with a colleague the whims and idiosyncrasies of customers.

Someone called out an order of shish kebab to the kitchen. The cook's helper stoked the coals and, when they had caught, arranged a few on a brazier. Skewers loaded with chunks of lamb and liver were placed over it. The coals perked up as they were fanned.

How they glowed, thought Maneck live creatures breathing and pulsating. Starting small, with modest heat, then growing to powerful red incandescence, spitting and snapping, their tongues of flame crackling, all heat and pa.s.sion, transforming, threatening, devouring. And then the subsidence. Into mellow warmth, compliance, and, finally, a perfect stillness...

The Vishram's lunch hours had ended. Past three o'clock, the waiter began hinting apologetically, with a weak attempt at humour. "Everybody ran back to office long time ago, sahab," he smiled. "Scared of their bosses. But you must be a very big boss, only you are left behind here."

Yes, only I, thought Maneck. Only slow coaches get left behind Only slow coaches get left behind.

"You are on holiday?"

"Yes. Bill, please." He glanced inside the kitchen again. The stoves were off; the cook's helpers were cleaning the place to get ready for the dinner patrons. On the brazier, the coals had crumbled to ashes.

The total for two coffees was six rupees. Maneck placed ten in the saucer and walked to the door.

"Wait, sahab, wait!" called the waiter, running after him. "Sahab, you forgot your paakit on the chair! And also your game!"

"Thank you." Maneck slipped the wallet into his hip pocket, and took the chess set.

"All your things you are forgetting today," the waiter laughed a little. "Be careful, sahab."

Maneck smiled and nodded, then opened the door, stepping from the air-conditioned chill of the Vishram into the afternoon sun's harsh embrace.

Gradually, it became difficult for Maneck to make his way along the pavement. He realized he was walking against the flow. Evening had fallen while he had wandered the city streets; people were spilling urgently out of office buildings, heading for home. His watch showed a quarter after six. He turned towards the railway station, to let the human tide carry him forward.

The brunt of the rush hour had pa.s.sed, but the high-ceilinged concourse continued to reverberate with the thunder of trains. There was a line at the ticket-window. He remembered a story he had heard about ticketless travel, once upon a time.

Abandoning the queue, he jostled through the crowds to get to the platform. The display indicated that the next train was an express, not scheduled to stop here.

He looked around at the waiting pa.s.sengers lost inside newspapers, fidgeting with luggage, drinking tea. A mother was twisting her child's ear to drive home some lesson. A distant rumbling was heard, and Maneck moved to the front of the platform. He stared at the rails. How they glinted, like the promise of life itself, stretching endlessly in both directions, silver ribbons skimming over the gravel bed, knitting together the blackened, worn-out wood of the railway ties.

He noticed an elderly woman in dark gla.s.ses standing next to him. He wondered if she was blind. It could be dangerous for her so close to the edge perhaps he should help her move to safety.

She smiled and said, "Fast train, not stopping here. I checked the board." She took one step backwards, motioning with her hand to draw him back too.

Not blind then, just stylish. He returned her smile and remained where he was, hugging the chess set to himself. Now the express could be seen in the distance, having cleared the bend in the tracks. The rumble was louder, growing to a roar as it approached. When the first compartment had entered the station, he stepped off the platform and onto the gleaming silver tracks.

The elderly woman in dark gla.s.ses was the first to scream. Then the shriek of the pneumatic brakes drowned all other sounds. The fast train took several hundred yards to stop.

Maneck's last thought was that he still had Avinash's chessmen.

Under the tree where the cobbled walkway met the pavement, Om dropped Ishvar's towrope, and they settled down to wait. A bird startled in the dense foliage above them. They kept glancing at the wrist-watches of pa.s.sersby whom they pestered for alms.

At one o'clock they left the pavement and trundled over the cobbles. The shrubbery and the garden wall of the Shroff residence shielded them from the neighbours' view. They made straight for the back door, keeping close to the side of the house, and knocked softly.

Dina ushered them in. She filled water gla.s.ses for them and, while they drank, dished out masoor in plates from Ruby's everyday set on the sideboard. How many more years could she do this before Ruby or Nusswan found out, she wondered. "Anyone saw you come in?"

They shook their heads.

"Eat fast," she said. "My sister-in-law is coming back earlier than usual."

"It's very tasty," said Ishvar, carefully balancing the plate on his lap.

Om grunted his affirmation, adding, "Chapatis are a little dry, not as nice as yesterday. You didn't follow my method or what?"

"This fellow thinks he's too smart," she complained to Ishvar.

"What to do," said Ishvar, laughing. "He's the chapati champion of the world."

"They are from last night," said Dina. "I didn't make fresh ones. I had a visitor. You'll never guess who."

"Maneck," they said.

"We saw him pa.s.sing half an hour ago. We knew him in spite of his beard," said Ishvar.

"Didn't you talk to him?"

They shook their heads.

"He didn't recognize us," said Om. "Or he ignored us. We even said 'Babu, ek paisa' to get his attention."

"You have altered very much from when he knew you." She held out the platter of chapatis. "Have another." Ishvar took one and shared with Om, tearing it in half.

"I told him you would come at one o'clock," she continued. "I asked him to wait but he was getting late. Next time, he said."

"That will he nice," said Ishvar.

Om shrugged angrily. "The Maneck we knew would have waited today."

"Yes," said Ishvar, scooping up the last bit of masoor from his plate. "But he went so far away. When you go so far away, you change. Distance is a difficult thing. We shouldn't blame him."

Dina agreed. "Now remember, tomorrow is Sat.u.r.day, everyone will be home you mustn't come for the next two days." She put their plates in the sink and opened the door to let them out.

"Hoi-hoi," said Ishvar. "What's this?" A thread had unravelled from the quilt he was sitting on, and was tangled in one of the castors.