A Fine Balance

A stray dog lapped at the thick pink puddle near the bicycle. Strawberry ice cream was in stock, thought Dina numbly. A policeman kicked the sand-coloured mongrel. It yelped and retreated, then returned for more. When he kicked it again, she screamed.

“Stop that! What harm is it doing to you? Let it eat!”

Startled, the policeman said “Yes madam” and stepped back. The dog slurped hungrily, whimpering with pleasure while keeping a wary eye on the man’s foot.

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.

“We’ll go as soon as we mark our ballots,” said Narayan. “It is our right.”

“Hang on for a minute. What’s the point of thrashing these guys? The crooked caterer is the one to blame.”

“He played with them like brother and sister,” he wept. “All three were like my children. And now this. I’ll kill him.”

The bulldozers finished flattening the rows of flimsy shacks and tackled the high-rental ones, reversing and crunching into the brick walls. Om felt nothing—the shack had meant nothing to him, he decided. Maybe now his uncle would agree to go back to Ashraf Chacha. He remembered Maneck, coming to visit tomorrow. He laughed mirthlessly about telling him the dinner was off—cancelled due to the unexpected disappearance of their house.

Sergeant Kesar’s megaphone blared in the dusk: “Work will be stopping for thirty minutes. Actually speaking, this is simply to give you a chance to collect your personal belongings. Then the machines will start again.”

“These Emergency times are terrible, sister. Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.”

“But what is it to the landlord if my tailors and I sew here?” Her voice rose uncontrollably. “Who am I harming with my work?”

“The landlord needs an excuse, sister. These flats are worth a fortune, the Rent Act lets him charge only the old worthless rent, so he—”

Ibrahim broke off and wiped his eyes. “But you know all that, sister.”

At some point, Rajaram’s fanciful notions took on a serious aspect. Now he began to believe there was no ethical connection between picking pockets and administering unwelcome haircuts. One was a crime, which deprived the victims of their money. The other was a good deed, the alleviation of an encumbrance, the eradication of a lice-breeding pasture, which would save the victims time and effort and itchy scalps, not to mention the frivolous expenses of shampoo and hair lotions. And “victim” was hardly the correct word in this case, he felt. Surely “beneficiary” would be more accurate. Surely it was vanity that kept people from realizing their own good, and a helping hand was necessary. In any case, the loss would be temporary, the hair would grow back.

“Terrible accident. He lost control of his gaadi. Flew off the pavement … straight into a double-decker bus.” He swallowed and said he hadn’t witnessed it himself but had identified the remains. “With all my years in this profession, my eyes have seen much that is gruesome. But never anything this horrible. Both Shankar and the gaadi were crushed completely—not possible to separate the two. Removing the wood and castors embedded in his flesh would have meant mutilating his poor body still more. It will have to be cremated with him.”

“Testicular tumour,” he felt obliged to explain to them. “Thakurji has authorized removal, as a special favour to the boy.” The quaver in his voice betrayed the lie.

What was with him, explained Ibrahim, was the large bag full of coins, chained to his wrist, which he had been out gathering from his beggars. Anchored to the ground by this deadweight, one hand immobilized, he was trapped. He thrashed and flailed with the free arm, kicking his legs about, while the frail murderer laboured on, sitting astride his victim’s back, trying to make the blade pass through the clothes, break the skin, enter the flesh and pierce the heart.