Narcopolis

by Jeet Thayil

  ‘So that’s why you’re here, to remind me.’

  ‘And meanwhile.’

  ‘Meanwhile, we have a temporary shop and we keep going.’

  ‘Sounds like this meanwhile will be a long meanwhile. And you’ll do what?’

  ‘Something, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Bhai, the khana won’t reopen by itself.’

  Rashid lit his cigarette and blew a ring and then he blew another through the first.

  ‘I know who’s behind it: the bhadwa. He came to see me, made an offer to buy my khana, such a low price I knew he was the one who put the C & E lock on the door.’

  ‘Khalid. He fixed it to put you out of business.’

  ‘Or take it over.’

  They paid the bill and went to the new shop Rashid was renting in Arab Gully. It was in a side street off a side street. They’d settled in and set up a pipe (the place was so small there was room for only one) and Rashid was already comfortable, too comfortable, according to Dimple. She complained to Bengali that he had accepted the unacceptable. He was doing what he’d always done. He smoked the pipes she made. He drank his Black Label and chased garad. He got his meals delivered from Delhi Darbar. He didn’t seem worried by the loss of the khana, or by the fact that he’d been put out of business by a man like Khalid. Get it back, she told Rashid. Whatever it takes. Maro him if you have to, just get it back.

  *

  Bengali noticed that her hair had started to thin, and her body had lost its roundness. There were new lines around her mouth and her skin was darker. He wondered if this was why she’d taken to wearing a burkha. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that, dark or fair, she was a striking woman. Then, one night, on his way to get dinner for Rashid, he saw something that frightened him. He saw her standing under the street lamp outside Mr Lee’s, though the Chinaman’s khana was long gone by then. It was early, around eleven, but the street was dark and there were few pedestrians and he didn’t see Dimple until he was a few feet away. She was dressed all in black and in the darkness the only thing visible was her face. She stood frozen, her eyes turned up to the white light of the lamp, very still, except for her lips, which seemed to be moving, though he could not hear what she was saying. Her eyes were wide, as if she was begging for something, imploring someone implacable or merciless, someone who would never forgive or let her forget her errors. His first instinct was to apologize, for what he didn’t know. In the fluorescent light she seemed to be raw bone and skin wrapped in black fabric and she billowed like the sails of a ship. What kind of ship? An Arab ship, thought Bengali, a dhow, a ghost ship whose inhabitants rarely came on deck because they had to toil twice as hard as the living. Her skin had a bluish tint and her features were set in stone. She stared upwards without blinking and the thing he would remember later was the look in her eyes, there was no light in them, not even the reflected light of the street. He thought: This is a woman who understands death. She has tasted the meat of it and it pleases her. The thought frightened him and he walked past her without stopping.

  *

  Dimple fixed the Khalid problem herself, without meaning to or knowing she had. Salim found her in the room on Arab Gully, a space so tiny it could not be called a khana. It was a cupboard, smaller than the rooms at 007, and there was barely enough space to stretch out for a smoke. There was only one pipe, which Rashid was using. Salim had to wait with two other men, wait on the street with his O sickness building. Inside, he couldn’t speak freely to Dimple, because everything was overheard and there was only one topic of conversation that day. Salim listened without seeming to and he asked how they knew that it was Khalid who had shut down the khana. Was there a chance the customs people had done it for their own reasons? Rashid put his pipe down and took a deep breath, as if he was about to address a public gathering. Salim, I’m a businessman, it’s my skill. Yours is lifting wallets in such a way that a man will never know he has been robbed. Khalid has always wanted my business. I know this. I know it as surely as you know how much to charge for the Lala’s cocaine. Then Dimple said, Of course it’s Khalid. I’ve seen him with that bhadwa, the Customs and Excise, going bhai-bhai. He won’t be happy until he owns your business and he’ll charge twice the price and dilute the opium so it won’t do shit.

  *

  Later, they put together the details from sources on the street, reliable and not. Salim was seen arriving at Khalid’s with two friends, Kaanya the informer and Pasina the genius pocket-maar. They waited until Khalid was alone, then put him on the floor and tied his hands with twine. They force-fed him two pyalis of opium mixed with hot water. Khalid was not a smoker and the drink worked very quickly.

  ‘What we do, someone like you, we take a walk,’ Salim said.

  ‘Take a long walk, to Pydhonie or Dongri or even a make-it-fast walk to Grant Road Junction,’ said Kaanya.

  ‘We leave you on the pavement,’ said Pasina, laughing with his mouth open, his gums and lips bright red against the dark grain of his skin.

  ‘This is late at night, right, nobody around,’ Salim said.

  ‘Late at night, yes. We let you lie there for a while, look up, enjoy the stars, examine the cloud formations, see if it’s going to rain. Isn’t that right?’ said Pasina.

  ‘Bilkul. Cent per cent correct,’ said Kaanya.

  ‘Then, when you’re nice and comfortable, we pick up a stone, lots of them under the Grant Road Bridge, and put it on your head,’ Salim said.

  ‘Don’t worry, miya, it’s halal,’ said Pasina.

  ‘More merciful than halal, my yaar, this is quicker,’ said Kaanya.

  ‘And the patrakars will make some smart headlines about the Pathar Maar, stone killer this and stone killer that,’ said Salim.

  ‘Everybody’s happy, even the patharwallah,’ said Pasina.

  Then, laughing redly, he added, ‘I think this fellow is nice and relaxed now. You should get high more often, miya, it suits you.’

  *

  They left him tied up, retching dry when there was nothing left to vomit. They left him on the floor with the door open and they went to Shuklaji Street, stopping for jalebis, which they wolfed from newspapers, the jalebis unusually yellow today, egg-yellow and very sweet, hot from the deep fry. They stood in the crowd, three happy men working their jaws, saying nothing while they ate. Salim ate his from the outside in, saving for the end the knotted bits at the centre, where the sugar syrup was thickest. After the jalebis, they had a glass each of masala tea, and they were ready. They borrowed a cab from Kaanya’s brother and drove to Khalid’s house. They waited until his son came home in his blue shorts and shirt, his big school bag full of books. They picked him up and put him in the car and – this was Pasina’s idea – they left the school bag on the sidewalk in front of the house.

  Salim’s friends drove the boy, nine years old, asthmatic, too well behaved to be frightened, to Pune, about six or seven hours away on the national highway. They checked into a guest house on MG Road and for the next few days they went to the movies, two, sometimes three screenings a day. They saw Star with Kumar Gaurav, music by Biddu. No good, Pasina told Salim on the phone. Budhu should stick to what he knows, Tina Charles and disco. He’s useless when it comes to Hindi. The songs are pure dinchak, no heart, yaar. Even the bachcha was bored.

  ‘Biddu.’

  ‘Arre, yaar, Sallu, I know his name. Budhu, Biddu, he’s still a fool.’

  They saw Desh Premee, with Kaanya’s favourite actor, and Salim’s: Amitabh Bachchan. Amitji with a meesha and what a meesha, said Pasina, like a skinny dead caterpillar on his upper lip, even Kaanya was disappointed. Pasina’s one-line review was categorical: Believe it, total flop it will be because of the choothiya moustache. They saw Namak Halal and Shakti, both starring Amitabh with Smita Patil, whom Pasina called a ‘dusky up-and-comer’, a phrase he’d found in a film magazine. The two movies received good reviews from the kidnappers. Even the bachcha liked, Pasina said. Still a kid, can’t stand up straight and piss, but
you should have seen him looking at Smitaji: his eyes were like headlights.

  Salim called Khalid a day or two after his son had been taken, called him a few times a day, at strange hours, with updates about the boy. ‘Bachcha has asthma, poor fellow, he needs constant care.’ ‘Looks like your boy takes after you, stubborn as hell.’ ‘Eats a lot, too much, you ask me.’ Khalid said in reply: ‘Please.’ It was all he had time for before Salim ended the call. So when, five days after the boy was taken, the kidnappers gave him a chance to talk, Khalid had a lot to say, and it took a little less than a week for Rashid to reopen his shop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Chemical Understanding

  At first she continued to smoke opium, using garad only occasionally, but very soon – she was surprised how soon – she was smoking only garad. She made the pipe for customers and she lost interest in smoking it herself. Suddenly it seemed as if everybody had switched to powder, the customers, the pipemen, even Rashid, who hated it but smoked all the same. Then Salim brought her maal from a new source. It had a new name, Chemical. The first time she tried it, she felt something shut down, her nervous system, maybe, or her brain, some motor somewhere. She felt herself slipping through the mat into the floor. Below was a thick layer of cotton wool and below that were the blue pools of her nightmares. She was awake but removed from her body and she could no more have lifted her hand than fly. The deeper she sank into the water, the easier it was to sink; it was very easy, it took no effort at all. She settled heavily to the bottom of the pool, where she lay inert and comfortable, like the creatures that stirred around her. The nearest had an old man’s head, Mr Lee’s head, which turned or swivelled to her and said, I’ve been waiting for you. Do you know why I’m at the bottom of this pool? She knew, of course she did, but she couldn’t speak. Because you broke your promise, Mr Lee said. Because you lied to me. You said you were my daughter but you didn’t act as a daughter should. You abandoned me. You know that, don’t you? Dimple nodded her head. You said you would take my ashes to China but you didn’t. Do you even know where they are? No, Father Lee, I don’t, she said at last. She noticed that his face was not wet exactly but covered in tiny bubbles and she noticed that the water was getting colder. Do you know why I’m here? To remind me, she said. To make sure I never forget. You’re right about that. Oh yes, this time you’ve got it. Which was when she realized that he was speaking perfect English and she wondered if he had always had the ability to do so and had simply chosen not to. I’m here because my spirit has not been able to travel to its rightful place, he said. I’ve left my body or my body has left me, which is the first death. The second death occurs when those who love us and are loved by us also die, or forget, and our names are no longer spoken. Spirits such as mine must wait – it could be we have unfinished business, or we died violently, or were not given a proper burial, or our clothes were not burned with us – for whatever reason, we must wait, and the only way we can exist is in water. Otherwise we would disappear. I don’t like it. I smoke Chinese opium, the best opium in the world: of course I hate water. But I must live here if I am to live. Can you imagine what a trial it is? Can you imagine how infuriating? Of course you can’t, you’re one of the living, said Mr Lee with such contempt that Dimple flinched. Okay, enough for now, I’ll stop talking.Good, said Dimple, because you’ve said a lot, you really have. She noticed that the water was icy and she could no longer feel her limbs. But Mr Lee hadn’t finished. One last thing: you have to carry me, take me on your back because my leg’s still broken. Nothing changes when you die, except you can’t do half the things you used to and the other half you no longer have any interest in. Oh, and you have to live in this cold, cold water. She put him on her back, he weighed nothing, and they floated to the surface, where he bobbed and breathed but refused to let her go. He grabbed her face and whispered into her ear. Come back to see me and I’ll give you a chance to unbreak your promise. And then he swam agilely away. It was at this moment, as she felt herself sinking again, that her lungs began to fill with water and she knew she must wake up or die.

  *

  It was difficult to buy fruits and vegetables, but garad was available in plenty. Someone told her not to go out. A mob had set fire to the police station and there were armed gangs hunting for people to burn and rape. The man told her how the riots started, because of a rumour that a Hindu family of six had been burned alive, and the killers were Muslim, and the children’s screams could be heard far away. It was only a rumour but now there were real fires all over the city, though Shuklaji Street was so far untouched. When Dimple went out, she noticed that the only people walking around in numbers were the garadulis, as if they’d been touched by the hands of a god more powerful than the gods who were on fire, and because they’d been touched by a great god they were untouchable by the hands of men. At Salim’s she smoked Chemical, very little, because she knew how to use it now, she knew to respect it. She asked Salim, Why is it so strong? They put rat poison in it, he told her, and the strychnine gives the maal its kick. He said, Don’t worry, it won’t kill us, we’re not rats. But looking at him, she was not sure this was true. He had lost weight. His teeth protruded and his whiskers were short and bristly, like fresh stitches on his face. She thought: How quickly he’s aged. And: I have too. The window was open and she caught the smell of petrol and burning rubber. Who are they killing, she asked him, Muslims or Hindus?

  He said, ‘They’re killing themselves, the fuckers, let’s hope they do it right this time.’

  She put the vials in her purse and left the shop. It was a short walk to the khana, but today the route seemed unfamiliar. Nothing moved on the street except for a man pushing a long cart. He was far away and at that distance all she could see was his dirty white kurta and bare feet. In the cart were long objects, sticks or swords, she couldn’t tell. She took a detour through Kamathipura IIIrd Lane. The lane was usually difficult to walk in: people put their cots on the road and spent all day lounging in the narrow shade. But the cots were gone, the randi’s cages shuttered, the shops closed. Nothing was open except a raddiwallah’s, where an old man sat behind a pair of scales and small mountains of used books and magazines. She reached out and took the first thing that came to hand, because she was reading now and had not gotten over the habit of reading at random.

  SOME USES OF REINCARNATION

  By S. T. Pande

  Head of Department, Theology & Symmetry, Haryana University.

  She recognized the author’s name and took another look at the book. It was slim and in good condition, a school textbook with illustrations. The raddiwallah gave it to her for one rupee. She walked quickly to the khana and banged on the door a few times and shouted Bengali’s name. She banged some more. She said, Come on, open, I know you’re there, the door’s locked from the inside. Go home, Bengali told her. Go home and don’t come out. She went up. As she dug in her purse for the key she had the sudden feeling that she was being watched, but when she turned around there was no one there.

  *

  It wasn’t vanity as much as its opposite. Why show her face if she didn’t want to be seen? She was grateful for the refuge of the burkha. It simplified things, made her day-to-day life manageable, which, she knew, was no easy thing. She put kaajal on her eyes and painted her nails and put on a pair of sandals and she was ready to go. Under the veil she could have been anyone. She took the veil off at the khana, but she worked in the burkha and Rashid made no objection. At home she spot smoked: a little powder on the foil, a match under it, a quick drag at the straw and she was done. Because they were tiny drags, she took a hit as often as she could.

  One afternoon Rashid came by with a bag of fresh vegetables and a dabba of mutton masala and rotis still warm from his kitchen. There was no food in the markets. Don’t go out, the mobs have taken over, he told her. They’ve appointed themselves our executioners. Then he saw her spot smoking Chemical and he wanted to try it too. Dimple told him what had happened the first time
she smoked. She told him the entire sequence of her nightmares, starting with the house of blue pools and ending with her last conversation with Mr Lee. She had a fear of water now, she said, even a puddle made her fearful. This is strong maal, it does something to your head. But the warning only made Rashid impatient. He said, If it’s as strong as you say I’ll have to pace myself. First sex, then smoke. Dimple bent over her foil and he got on his knees behind her. He saw how bony her ass had become. He used spit to wet her and he thought about the beggar woman with the haircut whose body had been found on the street, the Pathar Maar’s latest victim, according to the newspapers. Or was she a victim of the Hindu–Muslim wars? What community had she belonged to? Did she know? No one did, he thought, not even the man who killed her for sport; and he fucked Dimple as the Chemical pulled her into a nod. Rashid saw her head go down and he closed his own eyes to concentrate on his orgasm but a disembodied head floated past him on a tide of ink. When the old Chinaman swivelled around to smile, Rashid cried out a name. He pulled out of Dimple and sat on the floor, taking big gulps of air. What was the name he cried? He didn’t know. What he did remember, what he’d never forget, was the revelation that followed immediately afterwards: dreams leak.

  *

  They do, thought Rashid, sitting on the floor of Dimple’s living room, as the crows went quiet and the street turned red from the glow of a timber warehouse that was burning nearby. Dreams leak from head to head; they travel between those who face in the same direction, that is to say lovers, and those who share the bonds of intoxication and death. That’s why the old Chini’s head is in mine. I’m dreaming Dimple’s dream and I want to stop but I don’t know how. The beggar woman is dead and Dimple too is dead and I deserve to die for fucking the dead. He smelled the smoke from the burning warehouse as the sweat broke on his face and the room turned red. I deserve to be here in hell, he thought, as he reached down and squeezed his dick with his hand, squeezed as hard as he could, squeezed until he was shouting and he saw a vision of himself in the future, sitting in a room while the evening gathered, still dreaming her dream, except the dream was not of Mr Lee but of himself, years after Dimple’s death, when he was old and pious and waiting for her ghost, and he heard her future words, the lovely words with which she would greet him: dreams leak and the dead return, but only if you love us. Of the dozen words she would speak in the future, he’d be struck by the word love, because it had never before been uttered between them, not in all their time together. By then, Rashid would know the truth of the words, though he’d be glad to hear them from her; and by then he’d be grateful, bewildered but grateful that she’d come back to pay him this compliment.