Rohinton Mistry - A Fine Balance

An astonishing novel full of wisdom and laughter and the touches of the unexpectedly familiar through which literature illuminates life.

Wall Street Journal

A work of stature in scope, insight, and above all compassion for human beings.

Montreal Gazette

Those who continue to harp on the inevitable decline of the novel ought to consider Rohinton Mistry.

New York Times Book Review

The story unfolds with the grace and beauty of a butterflys wing extraordinary.

The Times (U.K.)

Mistry has demonstrated once again the enduring power of fiction to make sense of it all simply by telling a story. Read it.

Vancouver Sun

Every word of it seems like a fleck of brilliant light on a dancing ocean.A major achievement.

Scotland on Sunday

A compelling book that manages the rare feat of being both entertaining and compassionate.

India Today

Compulsively readable; also funny, intensely moving and, like Bombay, pullulating with humanity.

The Independent (U.K.)

Impossible to put down.

The Sydney Morning Herald, Australia

Tales from Firozsha Baag (1987)
Such a Long Journey (1991)
A Fine Balance (1995)
Family Matters (2002)

Copyright 1995 by Rohinton Mistry

Cloth edition published 1995
Trade paperback edition first published 1997

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency is an infringement of the copyright law.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Mistry, Rohinton, 1952
A fine balance

Emblem Editions Publication.
eISBN: 978-1-55199-138-2

I. Title.

PS8576.1853F5 00 C813.54 C2001-903332-X
PR9199.3.M494F56 2001

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporations Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

SERIES EDITOR: ELLEN SELIGMAN

EMBLEM EDITIONS
McClelland & Stewart Ltd.
75 Sherbourne Street
Toronto, Ontario
M5A 2P9
www.mcclelland.com/NCL

v3.1

For Freny

Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insensitivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true.

Honor de Balzac, Le Pre Goriot

T HE MORNING EXPRESS BLOATED with passengers slowed to a crawl, then lurched forward suddenly, as though to resume full speed. The trains brief deception jolted its riders. The bulge of humans hanging out of the doorway distended perilously, like a soap bubble at its limit.

Inside the compartment, Maneck Kohlah held on to the overhead railing, propped up securely within the crush. He felt someones elbow knock his textbooks from his hand. In the seats nearby, a thin young fellow was catapulted into the arms of the man opposite him. Manecks textbooks fell upon them.

Ow! said the young fellow, as volume one slammed into his back.

Laughing, he and his uncle untangled themselves. Ishvar Darji, who had a disfigured left cheek, helped his nephew out of his lap and back onto the seat. Everything all right, Om?

Apart from the dent in my back, everything is all right, said Omprakash Darji, picking up the two books covered in brown paper. He hefted them in his slender hands and looked around to find who had dropped them.

Maneck acknowledged ownership. The thought of his heavy textbooks thumping that frail spine made him shudder. He remembered the sparrow he had killed with a stone, years ago; afterwards, it had made him sick.

His apology was frantic. Very sorry, the books slipped and

Not to worry, said Ishvar. Wasnt your fault. To his nephew he added, Good thing it didnt happen in reverse, hahn? If I fell in your lap, my weight would crack your bones. They laughed again, Maneck too, to supplement his apology.

Ishvar Darji was not a stout man; it was the contrast with Omprakashs skinny limbs that gave rise to their little jokes about his size. The wisecracks originated sometimes with one and sometimes the other. When they had their evening meal, Ishvar would be sure to spoon out a larger portion onto his nephews enamel plate; at a roadside dhaba, he would wait till Omprakash went for water, or to the latrine, then swiftly scoop some of his own food onto the other leaf.

If Omprakash protested, Ishvar would say, What will they think in our village when we return? That I starved my nephew in the city and ate all the food myself? Eat, eat! Only way to save my honour is by fattening you!

Dont worry, Omprakash would tease back. If your honour weighs even half as much as you, that will be ample.

Omprakashs physique, however, defied his uncles efforts and stayed matchstick thin. Their fortunes, too, stubbornly retained a lean and hungry aspect, and a triumphal return to the village remained a distant dream.

The southbound express slowed again. With a pneumatic hiss, the bogies clanked to a halt. The train was between stations. Its air brakes continued to exhale wheezily for a few moments before dying out.

Omprakash looked through the window to determine where they had stopped. Rough shacks stood beyond the railroad fence, alongside a ditch running with raw sewage. Children were playing a game with sticks and stones. An excited puppy danced around them, trying to join in. Nearby, a shirtless man was milking a cow. They could have been anywhere.

The acrid smell of a dung-fire drifted towards the train. Just ahead, a crowd had gathered near the level-crossing. A few men jumped off the train and began walking down the tracks.

Hope we reach in time, said Omprakash. If someone gets there before us, were finished for sure.

Maneck Kohlah asked if they had far to go. Ishvar named the station. Oh, thats the same one I want, said Maneck, fingering his sparse moustache.

Hoping to spot a watch dial, Ishvar looked up into a thicket of wrists growing ceilingward. Time, please? he asked someone over his shoulder. The man shot his cuff stylishly and revealed his watch: a quarter to nine.

Come on, yaar, move! said Omprakash, slapping the seat between his thighs.

Not as obedient as the bullocks in our village, is it? said his uncle, and Maneck laughed. Ishvar added it was true ever since he was a child, their village had never lost a bullock-cart race when there were competitions on festival days.

Give the train a dose of opium and it will run like the bullocks, said Omprakash.