by Anil Menon
‘Two years! I can’t do the same thing for a week without going mad.’
‘Well, Pranoy was mad so maybe that helped. When he began painting with shit, his parents came and took him away.
‘Yes, I remember you telling me that as well.’ Bilkis turned left into a short narrow corridor which ended in a flight of stairs. First she thought she’d taken a wrong turn but then noticed the plaque announcing Kannagi’s name. There were several heaps of frames, at least two dozen or so, set leaning against the wall. There were also a number of cardboard tubes, some large, some small, leaning against a corner. She knelt, idly leafed through the stacks.
There was, as Bilbo had explained, a certain similarity with rangolis, or as the Tamils called it, kolams. These drawings too consisted of a single line drawn in a smooth continuous motion around an array of near-invisible dots. But there the similarity ended. In some drawings the line varied in thickness and wove in exaggerated loops, so the drawing looked like something in Nastaliq, the writing she automatically associated with the Qu’ran.
‘I wonder if I should be offended.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Balbir. ‘That’s the specialty of your maddhab.’
‘Now I am really offended, bhenchod.’
She continued leafing through the items. In a few drawings, the lines streaked madly from one corner of the page to the other, almost like a child slashing its crayon back and forth in the sheer pleasure of motion. Some drawings were breathtakingly complex, and it was obvious no human hand could have drawn them. There were drawings in which symmetry was broken, drawings in which symmetry was preserved with Islamic zeal, drawings created with some kind of sparkly ink, and drawings that were mostly white space. She knew these were all created with a computer, but it still felt as if the drawings had been made by several people. Wah! One day everything would be computer. Computer-war, computer-soldier, computer-death and computer-ash.
‘Excuse me, are you Bilkis Ansari?’
Bilkis turned to see a beautiful woman. Fair, stylish. Salon-waali hair. High-class. The eye wanted to see her again and again.
‘You are Kannagi?’
‘Yes.’ A moment’s hesitation. ‘Am I in any trouble?’
People who asked such questions usually were. Kannagi was quite a bit older than Bilkis had expected and also much more beautiful. She had the kind of face that would never need make-up. She felt a sense of betrayal. Balbir had lied to her. He had said Kannagi was dark as night. All his bullshit about loving Kannagi’s mind, her character. Rubbish. Who would not fall for a beauty such as this? Bilkis wondered if she should ask for an ID, but this high-class female seemed just the type to get excited about such simple requests. Bilkis looked to Balbir for guidance, but her friend, her brother, was now beyond the reach of all questions.
Bilkis Ansari snapped to attention, saluted. She put down the suitcase containing the personal effects of Balbir Singh. His kit, uniform, clothes, gold chain, kirpan, wristwatch. Other knick-knacks, photographs. His ashes. She took a deep breath: Madam, the Indian Armed Forces regrets to inform you that Subedhar-Major Balbir Singh…
#
(Tanaz is driving her Hyundai Elite i20 on a dirt road towards Takrol basti, some forty-five kilometres north of Delhi. She is trying different facial expressions in the rear-view mirror.)
Yes, facial expressions are important for us field rabbits. During training, we had to practise a lot. See, the brain is like an unhappily married couple. When you’re talking, your left brain is in charge. So the right brain comments the only way it can: by making faces. That’s why you have to make sure both are on the same page. Social Weather even had an acting coach come in and give us lessons. It was a lot of fun. This is my Powerpoint expression. (Laughs.) Scary, isn’t it? This my respectful chhoti-bahu expression I use with anyone having a handlebar moochie. I have many others. The one for today is Daktarni-madam. Kind, but no-nonsense. Doctors get a lot of respect with rurals. It’s important to have the right expression.
Maybe that explains why pati-dev and I are having difficulty readjusting. We seem to have lost the art of reading each other’s expressions. Like the day he returned. I got stuck in traffic and he SMS’d me that he’d take a taxi, no big deal, and sweetie, please don’t feel bad. I felt terrible. I should have been there to greet my honey-bunny. When I reached my building, there was this strange guy sitting on the stairs leading to the entrance. I edged by him, all tense, and then the fellow says: Tanaz, it’s me! Vyas! Yes, of course! I wonder what pati-dev made of my expression. Not exactly aaja-mere-sapnon-ke-raja. (Laughs.) But it’s because he had a stubble and his hair had gone grey. That’s why.
God, I already hate these rural surveys. They’re so depressing. I miss working on real projects. Machine tools, sex toys, marriage practices, travel patterns, unemployment rates, discrimination in housing, I learned so much. It’s like free college! Did you know its illegal to sell sex toys in India? This NRI company, Kama Vibrations, wanted to introduce the desi rabbit and they were wondering if it was worth getting the laws changed. They didn’t put it that way of course. Boy, did I enjoy going up to unsuspecting ladies and springing my questions on them! You’d be amazed at what all goes on in Indian families. We learned that if a product is marketed as good for health, Indians will try it. So Kama Vibrations is now Healthy Vibrations and is all about aligning women’s pelvises before and after childbirth. (Laughs.)
Even industrial estates were a lot more fun. But best of all, in cities there are restrooms everywhere. I don’t have to get headaches from holding all that water in. The offices are generally air-conditioned. Plus there’s lots of cheap restaurants around.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve missed the boat. I’ve been a senior field agent for over two years now. I should’ve been promoted to project lead. I can do it; I’m good with people, obviously.
(She parks the car. The basti consists of some thirty or forty concrete, brick and mud huts with corrugated roofs. Tanaz heads for one of the larger huts.)
Just look at this place. These people need the basics, not computers. This is the bottom of the pyramid, definitely. When I heard Social Weather and Pillai Enterprises were going to bring the internet to the bottom of the pyramid I was, like, why? I’m not a negative person but I did not sign up to be a computer saleswoman or work for an NGO.
The bottom of the pyramid, the bottom of the pyramid—it’s the company’s new mantra. I’m sick of it. I don’t know what Social Weather is about anymore. I thought we only observed, never interfered. Now suddenly we are in the computer business. I know what’s really going on. If we give these tablets to the people then they can do their own reporting of what they think and feel. There will be no need to send people like me to gather data. Social Weather has sixty-eight thousand employees. We’re almost a quarter the size of LIC. Maybe the bigwigs think they can replace us with data mining software. But they’re wrong. We are the ‘social’ in Social Weather.
Okay, the antique there looks like she’s from the bottom of the pyramid.
‘Ma-ji, I am from Social Weather. Can we sit and talk to you for a few minutes? No ma-ji, sit-sit—’
‘Are you from the sarkar?’
‘No, we’re from Social—we are social workers. We just want to ask your opinion on a few things.’
‘And what will you do with it?’
‘We will make sure it is heard where you want it heard.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Just a few questions. We won’t waste your time, ma-ji. We know we are your guests.’
‘What do you want to ask, beti?’
‘Ma-ji, since you’re the most senior person here, can you tell us if this is Takrol.’
‘Yes. The actual name is Takshar Ror; so you see, this is a very old place. How old, you ask? Well, older than Lucknow, older than Firozabad, older than even Agra. Now—’
‘Thank you, Ma-ji. How many people would you say live in this basti?’
‘How many? Let�
�s see. Jats are about ten families. There are sixteen Yadav houses. No, fourteen. Gokul Yadav is a Kurmi. Kurmis number about—who can say, they are everywhere. Accha, let us say, fifty. Khatris are about twelve; they’re twelve everywhere because of the curse. Then we have the Barbers, Maliks and Abdullahs. Never mind about them. Put down there are ninety families—chalo, one-twenty. Put down one hundred and twenty families. That’s the total. Who can say really. It’s all mixed now.’
‘How many members in your family, ma-ji?’
‘In my jaat or in my home, beti?’
‘In your home.’
(The old lady spits, a precisely aimed red streak that landed exactly at the outer north-western corner of the compound.)
‘My man died but we will still count him!’ The old woman enumerated. ‘My son, one grandson, one wife, one whore—’
‘WHY DON’T YOU DIE, YOU OLD WITCH! I’M HIS SECOND WIFE.’
(The shriek comes from inside the hut.)
‘One whore, her bastard, my two widowed daughters. So seven. No, eight if you count my corpse.’
‘Do you go to Lahan market for purchasing food?’
‘No, Jhoota-seth goes there for us. It’s very far and he’s got a phut-phutee—’
‘Half-day’s journey on foot?’
‘Half-day? No, not half-day. If we go in the morning, we’ll be back at Keshav’s farm in two hours. If we get a ride, then sooner. But it’s very far.’
‘Yes, it is. So you buy groceries from Jhoota-seth. How much does he charge for a bar of soap?’
‘Ten rupees.’
‘A loaf of bread?’
‘Ten rupees.’
‘A packet of bidis?’
‘Ten rupees.’
‘Arre wah. Does he charge ten rupees for everything?’
The old woman spat. ‘He can charge anything he wants. We will pay maximum ten rupees. Why would he charge anything else?
Sometimes things cost more, sometimes things cost less, but we manage. If we want half of something, it’s five rupees. A quarter, it’s three rupees.’
‘Coming here, I saw lots of dhurries. Does your son work as a carpet weaver?’
‘Weaver, your grandchild! Do we look like carpet weavers? Or Muslims? We’re Sindh Rajputs, descendents of Raja Takshak. We’ve been living here since ancient times. My son works for Las Vegas glass factory in Firozabad. He comes on weekends. This is our home. We’ve always lived here. Where else would we live? We live where Takrol lives.’
‘Glass factory? He must earn a good living. At least three thousand to six thousand per month?’
‘Beti, we can only dream. Half he throws away drinking and gambling. And then we are saddled with his whore and her whelp.’
‘DRINK RAT POISON!’
‘Still ma-ji, he supports such a large family. That is something. So many sons don’t care.’
‘That is true, I should be thankful. How much do you earn, beti?’
‘Not enough. Accha ma-ji, just a few more questions. Do you have an electricity connection?’
‘Yes. It is not bad. We have two radios. Also one TV.’
‘What shows do you like to watch? Films?’
‘Yes, midnight films. How else can I get sex?’
(The old woman bursts into wheezing, helpless laughter at Tanaz’s face. There is also an explosion of laughter from inside the hut.)
Here, listen to my true story. My name is Gauri, but everyone calls me Ror-bibi, because I’m descended from Takshak Ror, son of Raja Dhaj. I was born one year after Pandit Nehruji died. My father was a farmer with two acres of land a few kilometres outside Shikohabad. He planted rice in the monsoon months, bajra and jowar in winter, and makka with haldi in spring. In those days, everybody in Shikohabad worked in the glass factories. My father was also put to work at sixteen, but he returned home when he realized he preferred dirt to glass.
Listen! My name is Malati Devi, but everybody calls me teacherdidi. I am the principal, teacher and everything else at this school here. The school has forty-eight students in total. I always knew I would be a teacher. Even at six years of age, I was already teaching my mother how to do fractions. I have a brain for numbers, everyone will tell you that. Do you know what Pi is? I know the value of Pi to nine-thousand places. The number has many interesting properties. The people here want to learn but life is killing them. I tell them to send their children to the school and they try but life is killing them. I don’t lose hope because I understand statistics. Please tell me, how can I get a Jadoo tablet?
Listen! My name is Shanta-bai and Shanta-bai is not dead yet. That is all.
Listen! My name is Lakshmi and I’m just an ordinary old woman. I don’t have any vices except one: I love reading story books. I’m lost to the world when I take up a book. My husband is just my opposite. The moment he takes a book in his hands, you can hear him snoring! Maybe because of too much reading, my eyes have gone weak. I can’t see and enjoy the words. If your Jadoo can help me continue reading, that would be real magic.
Listen! My name is Farida. My father was a cotton farmer and all our troubles started because he wanted to be something more. One day he went to the town and came back with this new cotton seed from America called BtCotton. It can turn dirt into gold, said my father. That is how we all became carpet-weavers, my sister.
Listen! My name is Jennifer. Before it was Urmila-bai. I can speak little English. Husband left me after wedding, then I suffer lot. But I got very good job sweeping floor at Sacred Hearts Church. Very big church, very good people. Now I can manage. My son Arthur works in famous Delhi singing bar. He is head waiter, sends me money, never forgets, my darling boy. If Jadoo play gospel songs, then I buy it for Arthur.
Listen, listen, listen. I am the woman who became a country who became a movie. You know me as Mother India. I was married to a decent man I loved very much and who gave me two beautiful baby boys. Then he lost his hands and lost his pride and walked away from home, leaving me to raise them all by myself. I endured floods and cruel men and desperate hunger until my boys grew tall and strong and became my two arms. The elder was gentle and cruel like his father, the younger was kind and unforgiving like his mother. For the good of the world, I had to kill my younger son, though I loved him more.
I will stop talking now my sister. I am tired of talking about my life. A little bit of everything, I’ve tasted. But my tongue has become tired. How far you have come to listen to an old woman. To hear me babble. You are so delicate, like a Kumudini blossom in the dust. Why are you straining to control your face? You care but you are afraid to show it. Why? What strange questions you ask. The number of electrical outlets. The number of sarees I have. The hours we watch TV. Why do you care? I am nothing. I am from the dust, of the dust, for the dust. I see the tiredness growing in you too, my sister. But you must carry on.
(Tanaz is taking a lunch break. She’s brought her own tiffin. She eats, ignoring the stares of the curious kids who’ve gathered.)
God, this heat. I thought it would be cooler outside the city, but it’s not. I have to pick up the pace or I’ll have to return. It’s really irritating how these rurals won’t give straight answers to simple questions. My survey form only has space for real data. I can’t fit in their sob stories… Okay, I know I failed here. I wasn’t in the right mood. I didn’t give the morning my one-hundred percent. I was too passive. These people need a firm hand or they’ll bury you in their stories. Seriously, I’m blown away by how many lonely people there are in this world. Arre bhai, I’m not here to chit-chat with you. I’m here to get facts, that’s my focus. Hard, solid data.
Actually I don’t know if all that’s really true. (Laughs.) It’s just what Anand-sir told us at the end of our training. He said our job is not to go round saving people, it’s not to be a hero or heroine, but to collect data. That made sense to me, it was so practical, but maybe the dude was just bullshitting. This bottom-of-the-pyramid business definitely sounds like hero-giri to me. With all these c
hanges at the company, my job no longer makes sense. Let’s see. Just a few more hours more. Then I can go home and align my pelvis.
8
SAYA STEPPED INTO THE BATHTUB. THE WATER, DRAWN TO JUST the right level and just the right temperature, received her with a silky embrace. She sighed with pleasure. First, a long cleansing soak. Then Bindu would arrive to get her mistress ready for the night’s festivities. There was no need to panic. She would survive this night just as surely as Scheherazade had survived her thousand and one nights. She wouldn’t even have to be there. She was an actress. She would act. Acting freed one from having to actually be around. Space and time were for commoners.
In a proprietary glance that had long passed into ritual, she gazed out at her watery domain. Not bad. Not bad at all for an orphan from Chandni Chowk’s slums. The water’s gentle lapping motion made her drowsy, easing her awareness into a twilight zone. It wouldn’t be a bad way to leave this world. When winter came and all things began to pall, that would be the sensible choice. She wouldn’t die from diabetes or broken bones or comas or kidney failure.
She had died many times. Would real dying feel like anything at all similar? Her death scenes all felt similar, yes, but that was only because writers like everyone else found it impossible to imagine death. One time she had died on a four-post bed with blue silk sheets, the golden floral design on the large square pillows complementing her raven hair, and her forthcoming end telegraphed by the overly energetic rise and fall of her breasts. A critic had called the scene melodramatic. Of course it was melodramatic. She had been dying, not catching flies. Sorry if it inconveniences you Mister Critic, but my passing upsets me greatly. Truly, there was no pleasuring the critic.
Why was it easier to remember failures and not successes? She had been made to drown in Patni, Mir’s adaptation of Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s Rajmohan’s Wife. The opening night had been a disaster. There she lay, supposedly as dead as a drowned water buffalo, except that her nipples were fully erect. First little pokies, then hello-what’s-up, and ultimately, an obscenity lawsuit in West Bengal. How humiliating. The movie had been a superflop. For months afterwards, one just had to Youtube ‘nipple song’ and her clip would pop up: wet, ready, and quite dead.
