A Fine Balance Part 7

Dina heard the familiar rattle and hum of a sewing-machine from someone's doorway. This would be the last tailor for today, she decided, gingerly crossing the plank, and then she would go straight home.

Halfway across, her foot went through a rotten spot. A brief cry escaped her; she kept her balance but lost a shoe. The children waded in, yelling, groping beneath the dark surface, competing to retrieve it.

She reached the shop entrance and took back her dripping shoe, giving the excited little boy who found it a twenty-five-paisa coin. The sound of the sewing-machine had ceased; its operator stood in the doorway, summoned by the commotion.

"What are you rascals up to again?" he shouted at the children.

"They were helping me," said Dina. "I was coming to your shop and my shoe fell in."

"Oh," he grunted, a little deflated. "The thing is, they are always playing bad mischief." Recognizing a potential customer, he changed his tone. "Please come in, please."

Her inquiry about tailors disappointed him. He dismissed it with an indifferent "Okay, I'll try," playing with his tape measure while she wrote down her name and address.

Then he brightened suddenly. "The thing is, you have come to the right place. I have two wonderful tailors for you. I will send them tomorrow."

"Really?" she asked, sceptical about the change of heart.

"Oh yes, two beautiful tailors, or my name is not Nawaz. The thing is, they don't have their own shop, they go out and work. But they are very skilled. You will be so happy with them."

"Okay, I'll see them tomorrow." She departed, nurturing no expectations. There had been several false promises in the past few weeks.

On reaching home, she washed her feet and cleaned her shoes, sickened again at the thought of that lane where the children played with their paper boats. Her hopes would not be raised neither by the tailor's pledge nor by Zen.o.bia's a.s.surance that a boarder was just round the corner, that their schoolfriend's son, Maneck Kohlah, would drop in any day now to inspect the room.

And so, next morning, when the doorbell rang, Dina welcomed her change of fortune with open arms. The paying guest stood at her door, along with the fruit of yesterday's square of paper: two tailors named Ishvar and Omprakash Darji.

As Zen.o.bia would have put it, the whole jing-bang trio arrived at her flat together.

II.

For Dreams to Grow

THE OFFICES OF AU REVOIR EXPORTS looked and smelled like a warehouse, the floors stacked high with bales of textiles swaddled in hessian. The chemical odour of new fabric was sharp in the air. Sc.r.a.ps of clear plastic, paper, twine, and packing material littered the dusty floor. Dina located the manager at a desk hidden behind metal shelving. looked and smelled like a warehouse, the floors stacked high with bales of textiles swaddled in hessian. The chemical odour of new fabric was sharp in the air. Sc.r.a.ps of clear plastic, paper, twine, and packing material littered the dusty floor. Dina located the manager at a desk hidden behind metal shelving.

"h.e.l.lo! Zen.o.bia's friend Mrs. Dalai! How are you?" said Mrs. Gupta.

They shook hands. Dina reported that she had found two skilled tailors and was ready to start.

"Wonderful, absolutely wonderful!" said Mrs. Gupta, but it was evident that her excellent humour did not flow merely from Dina's announcement. The real reason soon bubbled out: she had another appointment at the Venus Beauty Salon this afternoon. Unruly curls which had slipped the leash during the past week would be tamed and brought back into the fold.

This event alone would have been enough to ensure Mrs. Gupta's happiness, but there were more glad tidings; minor irritants in her life were also being eradicated the Prime Minister's declaration yesterday of the Internal Emergency had incarcerated most of the parliamentary opposition, along with thousands of trade unionists, students, and social workers. "Isn't that good news?" she sparkled with joy.

Dina nodded, doubtful. "I thought the court found her guilty of cheating in the election."

"No, no, no!" said Mrs. Gupta. "That is all rubbish, it will be appealed. Now all those troublemakers who accused her falsely have been put in jail. No more strikes and morchas and silly disturbances."

"Oh good," said Dina nervously.

The manager opened her order book and selected a pattern for the first a.s.signment. "Now these thirty-six dresses are a test for you. Test for neatness, accuracy, and consistency. If your two tailors prove themselves, I will keep giving you orders. Much bigger orders," she promised. "As I told you before, I prefer to deal with private contractors. Union loafers want to work less and get more money. That's the curse of this country laziness. And some idiot leaders encouraging them, telling police and army to disobey unlawful orders. Now you tell me, how can the law be unlawful? Ridiculous nonsense. Serves them right, being thrown in jail."

"Yes, serves them right," echoed Dina, absorbed in the dress design. She wished the manager would stick to the work and not keep rambling into politics. "Look, Mrs. Gupta, the hem on the sample dress is three inches wide, but according to the paper pattern it's only two inches."

The discrepancy was too trivial for Mrs. Gupta's consideration. She nodded and shrugged, which made the sari slip from her shoulder. A hand darted to halt the slide. "Thank G.o.d the Prime Minister has taken firm steps, as she said on the radio. We are lucky to have someone strong at a dangerous time like this."

She waved aside further queries. "I have faith in you, Mrs. Dalai, just follow my sample. But did you see the new posters today? They are put up everywhere."

Dina hadn't; she keenly wanted to measure the fabrics allocated for the thirty-six dresses, in case there was a shortfall. On second thoughts, no, she decided, it would offend the manager.

"'The Need of the Hour Is Discipline' that's the Prime Minister's message on the poster. And I think she is absolutely right." Mrs. Gupta leaned closer and confided softly, "It wouldn't be a bad idea to stick a few posters on the Au Revoir entrance. Look at those two rascals in the corner. Chatting away instead of stacking my shelves."

Dina clucked sympathetically and shook her head. "Shall I come back in one week?"

"Please do. And best of luck. Remember, be firm with your tailors or they will sit on your head."

Dina started to pick up the bundles of cloth but was stopped. The managerial fingers snapped twice to summon a man to load the material in the lift.

"I'll say h.e.l.lo from you to Zen.o.bia this afternoon. Wish me some luck also," Mrs. Gupta giggled. "My poor hair is going under the knife again."

"Yes, of course, good luck."

Dina brought home the bolts of cloth and made s.p.a.ce for the two tailors in the back room. The paying guest wasn't moving in till next month; that would give her time to get used to one thing. She studied the paper patterns and examined the packet of labels: Chantal Boutique, New York. Restless, she decided to start cutting the patterns, have them ready for Monday. She wondered about the Emergency. If there were riots, the tailors might not be able to come. She didn't even know where they lived. It would make a terrible impression if the delivery date were not met for this trial consignment.

The Darjis arrived promptly on Monday at eight a.m., by taxi, with their sewing-machines. "On hire purchase," said Ishvar, proudly patting the Singers. "In three years, when payments are complete, they will belong to us."

Everything the tailors could spare must have gone towards the first instalment, for she had to pay the taxi driver. "Please deduct from what we earn this week," said Ishvar.

The machines were carried into the back room. They fitted the drive belts, adjusted the various tensions, loaded the bobbins, and ran off seams on waste cloth to test the st.i.tches. Fifteen minutes later they were ready to sew.

And sew they did. Like angels, thought Dina. The treadles of the Singers rocked and the flywheels hummed as the needles danced in neat, narrow rows upon fabric, while the unfurling bolts of cloth were transformed into sleeves, collars, fronts, backs, pleats, and skirts.

I am the supervisor, she had to remind herself constantly, I must not join in the work. She hovered around, inspecting finished pieces, encouraging, advising. She scrutinized the tailors bent over the machines, their brows furrowed. The inch-long nails on their little fingers intrigued her; they used them for folding seams and making creases. Ishvar's disfigured cheek was grotesque, she decided: what might have caused it? He did not look like the type to get into a knife fight. His smile and his funny, undecided moustache tended to soften the damage. She shifted her glance to the silent Omprakash. The skeletal figure, sharp and angular, seemed a mechanical extension of the sewing-machine. Delicate as cut-gla.s.s crystal, she thought with a pang of concern. And his oily hair she hoped he wouldn't smudge the cloth.

Lunchtime came and went, and they continued to work, stopping only to ask for a drink of water. "Thank you," said Ishvar, gulping it down. "Very nice and cool."

"Don't you eat lunch at this time?"

He shook his head fervently as though the suggestion was preposterous. "One meal at night is sufficient. More than that is a waste of time and food." After a pause, he asked, "Dinabai, what is this Emergency we hear about?"

"Government problems games played by people in power. It doesn't affect ordinary people like us."

"That's what I said," murmured Omprakash. "My uncle was simply worrying."

They returned to their Singers, and Dina felt piecework was a brilliant idea. She rinsed the gla.s.s and put it in a separate place. From now on it would be the tailors' gla.s.s.

As the afternoon deepened, Ishvar seemed uncomfortable at his machine. She noticed him sitting hunched forward, legs tight together, as though he had stomach cramp. His feet began faltering on the treadle.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing, nothing," he smiled embarra.s.sedly.

His nephew came to the rescue, holding up his little finger. "He needs to go."

"Why didn't you say it earlier?"

"I was feeling bad to ask," said Ishvar shyly.

She showed him the wc. The door shut, and she heard the stream hit the toilet. It rose and fell haltingly with the reluctance of an overfull bladder.

Omprakash took his turn when Ishvar returned. "The flush is out of order," Dina called after him. "Throw some water from the bucket."

The smell in the wc bothered her. Living alone for so long, I've grown too fastidious, she thought. Different diets, different habits it was only natural their urine left a strange odour.

The pile of finished dresses grew without Dina having to do a thing except open the door every morning. Ishvar would have a greeting or a smile for her, but Omprakash's skinny form darted past wordlessly. Perching on his stool like a grouchy little owl, she thought.

The three dozen dresses were completed before the due date. Mrs. Gupta was delighted with the results. She authorized a new a.s.signment, for six dozen garments this time. And safely in Dina's purse was the payment for the first batch. Almost like money for nothing, she felt, experiencing a hint of guilt. How much easier than those tangled days when her fingers and eyes were forever snarled in sewing and embroidery.

The tailors' relief at being approved by the export company was enormous. "If the first lot is accepted, the rest will be no problem," brimmed Ishvar with sudden confidence, as she counted out their payment.

"Yes," cautioned Dina, "but they will always check the quality, so we cannot get careless. And we have to deliver on time."

"Hahnji, don't worry," said Ishvar. "Always top quality production, on time." And Dina dared to believe that her days of toil and trouble were ending.

The tailors began taking regular lunch breaks. Dina concluded that the one-meal-a-day formula Ishvar had proclaimed last week was dictated by their pocketbook rather than asceticism or a strict work ethic. But she was pleased because her enterprise was improving their nourishment.

Promptly at one, Omprakash announced, "I'm hungry, let's go." They put aside the dresses, returned their treasured pinking shears to the drawer, and departed.

They ate at the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel on the corner. There were no secrets at the Vishram everything was out in the open: the man chopping vegetables, another frying them in the huge black-bottomed pan, a boy washing up. With only one table in the little shop, Ishvar and Omprakash did not wait for a seat but ate standing with the crowd outside. Then they hurried back to work, past the legless beggar who was rolling back and forth on his platform to the squeal of his rusty castors.

Soon, Dina began to notice that the sewing no longer proceeded at the former breakneck speed. Their recesses became more numerous, during which they stood outside the front door and puffed on beedis. Typical, she thought, they get a little money and they start to slack off.

She remembered the advice that Zen.o.bia and Mrs. Gupta had given: to be a firm boss. She pointed out, in what she presumed was a stern voice, that work was falling behind.

"No no, don't worry," said Ishvar. "Everything will finish punctually. But if you like, to save time we can smoke while we sew."

Dina hated the smell; besides, a stray spark could burn a hole in the cloth. "You shouldn't smoke anywhere," she said. "Inside or outside. Cancer will eat your lungs."

"We don't have to worry about cancer," said Omprakash. "This expensive city will first eat us alive, for sure."

"What's that? At last I am hearing words from your mouth?"

Ishvar chuckled. "I told you he speaks only when he disagrees."

"But why worry about money," she said. "Work hard and you will earn lots of it."

"Not the way you pay us," muttered Omprakash under his breath.

"What's that?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Ishvar hastily. "He was talking to me. He has a headache."

She asked if he would like to take an Aspro for the pain. Omprakash refused, but from then on, his voice was heard increasingly.

"Do you have to go far to get the work?" he asked.

"Not far," said Dina. "Takes about one hour." She was pleased that he was settling in, making an effort to be agreeable.

"If you need help to carry the dresses there, let us know."

How nice of him, she thought.

"And what is the name of the company you go to?"

Glad about his grumpy silences having ended, she almost blurted out the name, then pretended not to have heard. He repeated the question.

"Why bother with the name," she said. "All that I am concerned with is the work."

"Very true," agreed Ishvar. "That's what interests us also."

His nephew scowled. After a while he tried again: Was there only one company or several different ones? Was she paid a commission, or a set price for the complete order?

Ishvar was embarra.s.sed. "Less talk, Omprakash, and more sewing."

Now Dina longed for the silent nephew. She saw what he was after, and from that day made sure the material from Au Revoir Exports bore no signs of its origin. Labels and tags were torn off the packages if the telltale name was featured. Invoices were kept locked away in the cupboard. Cracks began appearing in her optimism as it tried to keep up with the tailors. She knew the road had turned b.u.mpy.

The Darjis lived far, at the mercy of the railways. Still, Dina worried now if they were late, certain she had been deserted for better-paying jobs. And since she could not afford to let them suspect her fears, she always masked her relief upon their arrival with a show of displeasure.

A day before the due date, they did not come till ten o'clock. "There was an accident, train was delayed," explained Ishvar. "Some poor fellow dead on the tracks again."

"It's happening too often," said Omprakash.

The empty-stomach smell floating out their mouths, like a coc.o.o.n containing words, was unpleasant. She was not interested in their excuses. The sooner they were at their sewing-machines the better.

But silence on her part could be misconstrued as weakness, so she said, drily, "Under the Emergency, government says railway runs on time. Strange that your train keeps coming late."

"If government kept their promises, the G.o.ds would come down to garland them," said Ishvar, laughing with a placating circular nod.

His peace-offering amused her. She smiled, and he was relieved. As far as he was concerned, jeopardizing the steady income would be foolish Omprakash and he were very fortunate to be working for Dina Dalai.