A Fine Balance Part 8

They pulled out their wooden stools, loaded fresh bobbins, and started to sew while the sky prepared to rain. The gloom of grey clouds infiltrated the back room. Omprakash hinted that the forty-watt bulb was too dim.

"If I exceed the monthly quota, my meter will be disconnected," she said. "Then we will be in total darkness."

Ishvar suggested moving the Singers to the front room which was much brighter.

"Not possible. The machines will be seen from the street, and the landlord will make trouble. It is against the law to have a factory in the flat, even if it is only two sewing-machines. Already he hara.s.ses me for other reasons."

This the tailors understood. They too knew about landlords and hara.s.sment. Through the morning they worked steadily, with rumbling bellies, antic.i.p.ating the midday break. They had eaten nothing since waking.

"Double tea for me today," said Omprakash. "And a b.u.t.ter-bun to dip."

"Pay attention to your machine," said Ishvar. "You will end up with double fingers instead of double tea." They both kept checking the clock. At the hour of deliverance, their feet left the treadles and sought out their sandals.

"Don't go now," said Dina. "This job is urgent, and you were late this morning. The manager will be very angry if the dresses are delayed." She was worried about the due date what if they came late again tomorrow? Be firm, be strict, she reminded herself.

Ishvar hesitated; his nephew would not take the suggestion kindly. His inquiring glance confirmed it, colliding with an angry glare.

"Let's go," muttered Omprakash without looking at Dina. "I'm hungry."

"Your nephew is always hungry," she said to Ishvar. "Has he got worms?"

"No no, Om is all right."

Dina was not convinced. The suspicion had crawled into her mind during the first week. Apart from Omprakash's skinniness and his constant complaints about headaches and hunger, she frequently spied his fingers relieving an itch in his fundament; and that, she felt, was evidence as conclusive as any.

"You should take him to doctor for checkup. He is so thin a walking advertis.e.m.e.nt for Wimco Matches."

"No no, he is all right. And who has money for doctor?"

"Work hard and there will be plenty. Finish this job quickly," she coaxed. "The sooner I deliver it, the sooner you have your money."

"Five minutes for tea won't make a difference," snapped Omprakash.

"Your five always become thirty-five. Listen, I will make tea for you later. Special deluxe tea, not the overbrewed, bitter poison you get at the corner. But first finish the work. That way, everybody will be happy you, me, the manager."

"Okay," Ishvar gave in, shaking off his sandals and resuming his place. The cast-iron treadle, warmed all morning by his feet, had not had time to cool.

With the two Singers racing again, Omprakash's angry whispers darted their way through the hammering needles to his uncle's ear. "You always always let her bully us. I don't know what the matter is with you. Let let her bully us. I don't know what the matter is with you. Let me me do the talking from now on." do the talking from now on."

Ishvar nodded mollifyingly. It embarra.s.sed him to argue with Om or scold him within Dina's earshot.

At two o'clock, when the noise of the machines was making her temples throb, Dina decided to deliver what had been completed. She was annoyed with herself. Pleading and bribing with tea was not a good example of a strict boss. It would take more practice, she concluded, to get used to bullying them.

From under the worktable she retrieved the transparent plastic sheet and brown paper in which the bolts of cloth had arrived from Au Revoir. Remembering Shirin Aunty's advice, she wasted nothing. The little snippets of fabric continued to acc.u.mulate in great quant.i.ties. Enough, she thought, to make sanitary pads for a conventful of nuns. The larger sc.r.a.ps were collecting in a separate pile. She was not yet sure how to use these for a quilt, perhaps.

She packaged the finished dresses and got her purse ready. To put in an appearance a day ahead of the deadline would impress Mrs. Gupta.

Then, keeping in mind Omprakash's inquisitiveness, she padlocked the door from outside, just in case he decided to follow her.

Sore-bottomed and bleary-eyed, the tailors adjourned to the front room. After the morning-long hardness of wooden stools, the old sofa was sweet luxury despite its broken springs, and the pleasure keener because it was stolen. The stiff posture of their profession melted from their bones as they sank into the cushions. Raising their bare feet to the teapoy, they pulled out a packet of Ganesh Beedis and lit up, sucking greedily at the smoke. A torn-off segment of the beedi wrapper served as ashtray.

Omprakash scratched his head and examined the dandruff harvested by his fingertips. With the inch-long nails of his pinkies he cleaned under the others, flicking the oily accretions to the floor. He would not have admitted he was bored by wasting time he was outsmarting Dina Dalai. If she thought she could drive them like a pair of dumb oxen harnessed to her plough, she was mistaken. He still had his manhood, he thought bitterly, though his uncle sometimes behaved otherwise.

Ishvar let his nephew idle away the hour. The rock of hunger lay heavy in both their hollow bellies. He watched amusedly as Omprakash squirmed and snuggled in the cushions, determined to pilfer maximum pleasure from Dina Dalai's sofa. He meditatively fingered the cheek that kept half his smile imprisoned in frozen flesh.

Laughing, yawning, stretching, they smoked away the time, temporary kings of the broken sofa, masters of the tiny flat, when their illicit leisure was invaded by a battering at the front door.

"I know you are in there!" shouted the visitor. "This padlock on the door does not fool me!"

The tailors froze. The pounding continued. "Paying the rent means nothing! We know what goes on behind the padlock! You and your illegal business will be thrown out on the street!"

The tailors understood it had to do with the landlord. But what was this about a padlock? The banging at the door ceased. "Quick, on the floor!" whispered Ishvar, in case the door-banger decided to look through the window.

Something fell through the mail slot, then there was silence. They waited a few moments before venturing to the door. A large envelope addressed to Mrs. Rustom Dalai lay on the floor. Ishvar turned the latch. The door moved half an inch and hit the outside hasp, confirming the padlock's presence.

"She locked us in," fumed Omprakash. "That woman. What does she think?"

"Must be a reason for it. Don't get upset."

"Let's open her letter."

Ishvar s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his hand and put it aside. They tried to get comfortable again on the cushions, lighting up new beedis, but the intrusion had soured the pleasure. The sofa's sagging comforts hardened into lumps of discontent. Stray threads clinging to their clothes reminded them of the work waiting in the back room. The clock displayed its baleful warning: she would soon be home. Soon, all of this prohibited behaviour would have to cease.

"She cheats us," grumbled Omprakash. "We should sew directly for the export company. Why does she have to be in the middle?" His lips made small, careful movements that became words, his smouldering beedi hanging in uneasy equilibrium at one corner of his mouth.

Ishvar smiled indulgently. The insolence of the dangling beedi was aimed, lethal as a toy gun, at Dina Dalai. "Soon as it's time for her to come, your face looks like you ate a sour lime."

He continued, his tone more serious, "She is in the middle because we have no shop. She lets us sew here, she brings the clothes, she gets the orders from the company. And besides, with piecework we have more independence "

"Leave it, yaar. She treats us like slaves, and you talk of independence. Making money from our sweat without a single st.i.tch from her fingers. Look at her house. With electricity, water, everything. And what do we have? A stinking shack in the slum. We'll never collect enough to go back to our village."

"Giving up already? That's no way to win in life. Fight and struggle, Om, even if life knocks you around." He held his beedi between ring and little finger and made a loose fist, raising it to his lips.

"I'll find out where she goes, you watch," said Omprakash with a defiant toss of his head.

"Your puff moves beautifully when you do that."

"Just wait, I'll get the address of the company."

"How? You think she will tell you?"

Omprakash went to the back room and returned with a pair of large pointed scissors. He clutched it with both hands and thrust theatrically into thin air. "Hold this at her throat and she will tell us whatever we want to know."

His uncle whacked him on the head. "What would your father say if he heard you? Stupid words pour from your mouth like st.i.tches from your machine. And just as carelessly."

Omprakash sheepishly put back the scissors. "One of these days I'm going to cut her out of the middle I'll follow her to the company."

"I didn't know you could walk through padlocked doors like the Great Goghia Pasha. Or is it Omprakash Pasha?" He paused to draw, then whiffed smoke through his nostrils and smiled at the scowling face. "Listen, my nephew, this is the way the world works. Some people are in the middle, some are on the border. Patience is needed for dreams to grow and give fruit."

"Patience is good when you want to grow a beard. For what she pays, we couldn't afford the ghee and wood for our funeral pyre." He gave his hair a ferocious scratching. "And why do you always talk to her in that silly tone, as though you were an ignorant fellow from the countryside?"

"Isn't that what I am?" said Ishvar. "People like to feel superior. If my tone helps Dinabai to feel good, what's wrong in that?" Savouring the final delights of his shrinking beedi, he repeated, "Patience, Om. Some things cannot be changed, you just have to accept them."

"You want it both ways? First you said struggle, don't give up. Now you are saying just accept it. Swaying from side to side, like a pot without an a.r.s.e."

"Your grandmother Roopa used to say that," laughed Ishvar.

"Make up your mind, yaar, choose one thing."

"How can I? I'm just a human being," he replied, laughing again. Halfway, it changed to coughing, shaking him harshly in its racking embrace. He went to the window, moved the curtain aside and spat. Were he close enough to examine it, he would have seen the usual spot of blood.

A taxi approached as he was withdrawing his head from the window. "Quick, she's back!" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

They began eliminating the traces of their bad behaviour: plumping the cushions, repositioning the teapoy, pocketing the matchsticks and ashes. A spark flew from the beedi in Omprakash's mouth, as though to mock his earlier fire-breathing rage. He fanned it away from the upholstery. Drawing one last time at the beedis while running to the back room, they extinguished the stubs and chucked them out the rear window.

Dina paid the taxi and felt inside her handbag for the key ring. The bra.s.s padlock, tarnished, hung grim and ponderous. She turned the key with a twinge of guilt, no jailer at heart.

Omprakash stretched out his arms and relieved her of the package. "I heard you arrive."

"There are lots more," she said, indicating the bundles of fabric piled outside the door. He looked them over, trying to spot the company name or address.

When everything had been brought inside, Ishvar gave her the envelope. "Someone came banging on the door, saying the padlock did not fool him. He left this for you."

"Must be the rent-collector." She put the letter aside without opening it. "Did he see you?"

"No, we stayed hidden."

"Good." She went to put away her purse and exchange her shoes for slippers.

"Did you lock us in when you left?" asked Ishvar.

"Didn't you know? Yes, I had to."

"Why?" pounced Omprakash. "You think we are thieves or something? We are going to take your possessions and run away?"

"Don't be silly. What big possessions do I have to worry about? The landlord is the reason. He could barge in while I am gone and throw you out on the street. But if there is a lock, he won't dare. To break a padlock is to break the law."

"Very true," said Ishvar. He was eager to see the design for the new dresses. While his nephew glowered, the tablecloth was whipped off the dining table to make way for the paper patterns.

"How much per dress this time?" interrupted Omprakash, fingering the new poplin.

She ignored him while Ishvar moved the sections around. Like a child with a jigsaw puzzle, he was soon absorbed in its complexities. Omprakash tried again, "Very difficult pattern. Look at all the G.o.dets to be inserted for flaring the skirt. We will have to charge more this time, for sure."

"Stop doing your kutt-kutt," she scolded. "Let your elders work. Respect your uncle at least if you cannot respect me."

Ishvar matched the sections against the sample dress, talking to himself. "The sleeve, yes. And the back, with a seam in the middle yes, it's easy." His nephew frowned at him for that admission.

"Yes, extremely easy," said Dina. "Simpler than the ones you just finished. And the good news is, they are still paying five rupees each."

"Not possible for five rupees," said Omprakash. "You said you would bring expensive dresses. This is not worth our time."

"I have to bring what the company gives. Or they will cancel us from their list."

"We will do it," said Ishvar. "To kick at wages is sinful."

"You do it, then I cannot do it for five rupees," said Omprakash, but Ishvar nodded rea.s.suringly at Dina.

She went to the kitchen to make the tea she had promised. The dissension in their midst was good; the uncle would curb the nephew's rebellion. She squinted at the cups and saucers, at their rose borders. Pink or red? Pink ones for the tailors, she decided, to be set aside with the segregated water gla.s.s. Red for myself.

While waiting for the kettle, she checked the chicken wire over the broken windowpanes and found a breach. Those nuisance cats again, she fumed. Sneaking in, prowling for food, or to get out of the rain. And who knew what germs they brought with them from the gutters.

She reinforced the piece, twisting the corners around a nail. The kettle blurted its readiness with a healthy spout of steam. She held back for a vigorous boil, enjoying the thickening haze and the water's steady babble: the illusions of chatter, friendship, bustling life.

Reluctantly she turned down the flame, and the white cloud dissipated in desultory wisps. She filled three cups and carried in the two with pink roses.

"Ah," sighed Ishvar, taking the tea gratefully. Omprakash continued to sew without looking up, still sulking. She put it down beside him.

"I don't want any," he muttered. Dina returned wordlessly to the kitchen for her own cup.

"Delicious," said Ishvar when she was back. He slurped noisily, making sounds to tempt his nephew. "Much better than Vishram Vegetarian Hotel."

"They must be letting it boil-all day," said Dina. "That spoils it. Nothing like fresh tea when you are tired."

"Very true." He took another sip and sighed invitingly again. Omprakash reached for his cup. The other two pretended not to notice. He gulped down the tea thirstily without displacing his angry pout.

Two hours of sewing were left in the day, and he filled them with crooked seams and grumbling. Ishvar was grateful to the clock when it indicated six. Keeping the peace between his nephew and Dinabai was becoming difficult.

Morning was striding towards noon as Ibrahim, the rent-collector, plodding slowly down the pavement, prepared to visit Dina Dalai and demand a reply to the letter he had delivered yesterday. Dignified in his maroon fez and black sherwani, he smiled at tenants he met along the way, saying "Salaam" and "How are you?" He was blessed with an automatic smile; it formed whenever he opened his mouth to speak. This felicitous buccal trick was a liability, though, if the occasion of his message warranted something more in the line of a solemn visage a touch of frowning, perhaps, for overdue rents.

Ibrahim was an elderly man but looked old beyond his years. In his left hand, still sore from pounding the door yesterday, he carried a plastic folder secured by two large rubber bands. It contained rent receipts, bills, orders for repairs, records of disputes and court cases pertaining to the six buildings he looked after. Some of those disputes dated back to when he was a young man of nineteen, just starting in service with the father of the present landlord. Other cases were more ancient, inherited from Ibrahim's predecessor.

So thoroughly was everything doc.u.mented, Ibrahim sometimes felt he was lugging the very buildings around with him. The folder handed down almost half a century ago by the retiring rent-collector had not been of plastic, but rudely fashioned out of two wooden boards bound by a strip of morocco. It had carried with it the previous owner's smell. A fraying cotton tape, sewn to the leather, went around to secure the contents. The dark, cracked boards had warped badly; when opened, they creaked and released a sweaty tobacco odour.

Young and ambitious as Ibrahim then was, he was ashamed of being seen with this relic. Though it contained nothing but respectable rent receipts, he knew that people would judge it by its cover, which resembled the filthy binders carried by disreputable marketplace jyotshis and fortune-tellers to shelter their quack charts and fake diagrams. That he might be mistaken for one of those odious mountebanks mortified him. He began to harbour grave doubts about this job which forced him to carry around a questionable folder he felt shortchanged, as though a bazaar vendor had fiddled the weights and tipped the scales unfairly.

Then, on one lucky day, the morocco spine broke. He displayed the wreck at the landlord's office. The clerk examined it, confirmed its demise from natural causes, and filled out the appropriate requisition form. Ibrahim was given a length of string to make do while the paperwork was processed.

After a fortnight's delay, the new folder arrived. It was built of buckramed cardboard, very smart and modern-looking, in colour a dignified umber. Ibrahim was delighted. He began to feel optimistic about his prospects in this job.

With the new folder under his arm, he could hold his head high and strut as importantly as a solicitor while making his rounds. It was far more sophisticated than the old one, with generous pouches and compartments. Briefs, complaints, correspondences could now be organized methodically. Which was just as well, because around this time Ibrahim's duties increased, both at work and domestically.

Ibrahim, the son of ageing parents, became a husband, then a father. And the role of rent-collector began to sprout branches too. He was appointed the landlord's spy, blackmailer, deliverer of threats, and all-round hara.s.ser of tenants. His job now included the uncovering of hidden dirt in his six buildings, secrets like extramarital affairs, and he was taught by his employer how to convert adultery into rent increases the guilty parties would never protest or dare to mention the Rent Act. When the situation demanded, Ibrahim could also play the pleader and cajoler, if the landlord went too far and there was legalistic retaliation. The rent-collector's tears would convince the tenant to back down, to have mercy on the poor beleaguered landlord, a martyr to modern-day housing, who had never meant any harm in the first place.

To sort out the multiple roles in Ibrahim's repertoire, the folder's pouches and compartments were indispensable. At this stage in his career, however, he began to feel the increasing hindrance of his sweet automatic smile. Delivering threats and dire warnings while smiling pleasantly, he discovered, was not a good strategy. If he could have modified it to a menacing smile, that would have been perfect. But the muscles in question were beyond his control. The occasions when he had to express regrets over repairs delayed, or convey condolences for a death in a tenant's family, were equally difficult. Before long, the burdensome dental display earned him an undeserved reputation for being callous, crude, incompetent, r.e.t.a.r.ded, even demonic.