by Anosh Irani
“I’m not sure.”
Surprised by my answer, a puff of smoke comes out of his mouth on its own. “Why are you here?”
I do not say a word. I look at him. There is a certain calmness about him. He is not afraid anymore.
“Who was that woman?” I ask.
“My wife.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“She’s okay.”
“What?”
“I won’t be able to enjoy her for too long.”
“Are you dying?” I promised I would not ask, but his remark leaves me no choice.
“I was dying, I’m okay now. But she’s leaving me anyway.”
So that is why she is happy. Perhaps she gets this house.
“Why is a reporter coming?” I ask.
“My novel won an award.”
“You wrote a novel? About what?”
“Shakespeare,” he says. “It’s about how Shakespeare never wrote the things he did. It was a woman, Helen, a prostitute, who wrote all his plays. He kept her in a cage for years until she died.”
His body is sick, but his brain has finally been cured. He has started to think like a normal person.
“You must go now,” he says. “The reporter will be here any minute.”
“But there’s something I want to say first.”
“Say it fast, then leave.”
The doorbell rings. I look at Viren and he looks right back at me. Words are useless. They are rotten vegetables that no one should use. Viren gets up and thumps me on the back. He coughs and takes one more drag from his cigarette. I put my hand on his back, too. As we walk to the door, Viren goes to the statue of the Buddha and picks up the oil lamp next to it. Perhaps it is a peace offering. With my left arm, I hold his right hand. All he has is one little finger. I shake it. He coughs again. Something in his eyes tells me he finds it funny. His behaviour is very strange. There is no malice in him at all, just a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
I open the door. The oil lamp is still in his left hand. The reporter walks in as I walk out. Viren takes a last hard look at me and blows the oil lamp out. I know I will never see Viren again. But I am happy. The boy I had harmed has become a man. I wish him well.
As I descend the stairs, instead of feeling light, my heart begins to burn. I do not understand this. Have I not been forgiven? But my steps grow heavier and heavier, until I am forced to stop walking. I try to lift my feet but I am unable to do so. It is as if someone does not want me to move forward. As I stay rooted to the tiles, Viren’s face floats before me. It glows in the light of the oil lamp. In ghost form, his smile does not seem friendly now. I see him blow out the oil lamp, and then I am plunged into darkness. A terrible thought hits me.
I think of what the lady of the rainbow told me.
A sworn enemy will try and end your journey before it is truly over.
That bastard Viren has not forgiven me at all. That is why he kept smiling. He wants me to fail. That is why he extinguished the oil lamp. But there is no way he could have known about the thousand oil lamps. Thoughts run through my head like angels in a slaughterhouse. Each time an idea flies, tries to make sense, its wings are chopped off.
I must flee this place or I will be defeated. It has the negative vibrations of a murderer. No wonder I am unable to move forward. Viren does not want me to complete my journey. If I cannot walk, I shall crawl.
I place one arm on the step before me and descend. Unable to bear the weight of my body, my hand trembles. My knees hurt and my bones ache. I must make it to the lift. I look at myself and realize that I am no longer human. In the end I am reduced to a trembling, crawling creature.
THE LOGICIAN
There are many things you still do not know about me.
For example, when I was little, Mother took me to see the Great Russian Circus. It was dull, very dull. There was nothing Russian about it. As we walked home, I asked Mother if she would take Father, climb to the top of a tall building and jump off. I would stand on the street and watch them fall. It would certainly be more daring than anything I had seen in the circus. She was disturbed by my question.
A few days later, we were at the dinner table. One of my cousins, a boy I had never met, had had an accident that very day. As Mother and Father ate their fish and vegetables, they discussed the boy’s condition in the grimmest manner. The poor boy ran from a mad dog, they said, straight into a bus. It flattened his face completely. Upon hearing this, I roared with laughter. It was much funnier than the clown act in the Great Russian Circus. I told my parents what I was thinking. They stopped eating.
My point is this. If Horasi the eunuch wants me to correct my past, is it possible to rectify thoughts of this nature? Also, do I need to? Horasi also said that I must do this before it is too late. How much I can correct depends on how much time I have left. The lady of the rainbow set the clock. If even one of the thousand oil lamps is still burning, I have time. But it is impossible to trace the oil lamps. Instead, I think, I must find out how much oil is left. It is wonderful how my thoughts have become so linear over the past two days.
I stand just outside Viren’s building. My knees are skinned from crawling, and my white clothes smell of sweat and defeat. But I can walk now because I am out of his building. I look at the building opposite me. And then I stare at its name.
Rainbow Apartments.
Surely I will find someone there who knows how much oil is left. It is an old building, but its feet are strong. I count three floors. A few clothes hang outside the windows and collect dust from the street. The road is being dug up. No children live in this building. Either they have all grown up and left, or they were killed in a tragic accident during building renovations. Perhaps a slab of grey stone fell from the terrace and crushed them all. I think this because there are no children’s clothes hanging outside. I also smell sadness — each slab of stone stores it like an old person stores the death of a loved one in his teeth.
I enter the building. The corridor is dark.
I have always heard people say that when you are in trouble, a door will open. I do not have that kind of time. So I must start knocking. A door will open only if it is meant to.
On the first door there is a sticker that says: “Where there is a will, there is no confusion about money.” I knock on the door and read the sticker again.
The door opens. The woman who stands there must be in her forties and has big hips.
I blurt out: “I’m depressed. Life is too hard to bear.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did my eruption surprise you?”
“Eruption?”
“This sudden display of emotion. I’m not accustomed to it.”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me. But I think the future is bleak.”
I can tell from the way her hand grips the door that she wants to shut it. I fall to one knee.
“It’s all over,” I proclaim.
“What is?”
“I cannot pinpoint. The issue lacks specificity.”
“Get out!”
She slams the door shut. This is fine. A door will open only if it is meant to.
The door next to hers is of a similar dark shade. There is no sticker on it. I knock three times. The opener is short and stocky. His right eye is smaller than the left one.
“Your right eye is definitely smaller,” I say.
“Who are you?”
“That’s a hard question.”
“Listen, what do you want?”
“I want to buy some time.”
“Then stop wasting mine!”
“I was right. It’s all over.”
I look down dejectedly.
“What’s all over?” he asks.
“Even the lady next door asked me that. It’s strange how people in the same building think alike.”
“You know the lady next door?”
“No. But I was telling her that it’s impossible to define what’s over
. I could say the oil is over. But that is being too specific. Do you see what I mean?”
“You better get out of here,” he threatens. “Before I make you.”
I turn around and climb the stairs that lead to the next floor. I can hear the door shut behind me. Yes, his right eye was smaller than the left.
There are two doors on this floor, one to the left of the other. I must choose carefully now, be extremely logical: I like to play cricket. I am a lefty (batting only) so I knock on the door to the left.
As I wait for the door to open, I notice that the wood around the keyhole has scratches. There is the shuffle of feet, a thump against the door, and silence. I assume I am being inspected through the eyehole.
“Who is it?” It is the voice of a woman. Her accent tells me that she is not from the city.
“It’s me,” I say. “Open the door, I have something to tell you.”
“Are you here for Madam?”
“Yes, I have a message for her.”
A chain unlocks. A dusky young girl stands before me.
“A chain unlocks,” I say. “And now a dusky young girl stands before me. But it is bleak, so bleak.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell Madam that human existence is pointless. I could tell you that the oil is over, but that would be too specific.”
I lie on the floor. The tiles are cold and dirty.
“Look here, I do not know why you are talking nonsense, but Madam is not at home.”
“Can you help me?” I stare up at her.
“With what?”
“I’m depressed. Life is too hard to bear.”
I hear the door being chained again.
I notice a crack in the ceiling. It forks like a serpent’s tongue. I recollect what most men recollect when they stand at a serpent’s tongue: two roads, A and B. A leads to a dark woman with one tooth. B leads to a dark woman with one tooth missing. Since A and B are at the ends of the fork, the two women do not know of each other’s existence. They live in isolation. Since they live in isolation, they do not know the norm for teeth. I surmise: if the serpent’s tongue was not forked, the two women would have known each other. If the two women had known each other, they would have known the norm for teeth. But would the dark woman with one tooth have given hers to the dark woman with one tooth missing? That is what makes everything so bleak. Added to that, the oil is over.
I hear the sound of a person climbing stairs. I assume it is a man because otherwise it would be a woman. It is impossible to decide whether I should get up.
“Hello.” It is a man.
“Same to you,” I reply.
“It’s good to see that you are aware of things, lying down like that. Not many people know the importance of lying down.”
“That’s the kindest thing anyone has said to me all day.”
“Naturally. I’m mankind.”
“Then you will understand the bleakness. The bleakness.”
“Get up and face mankind,” he orders.
It is an ordinary face, quite featureless, like an unimportant plain on a map. A white cloth shopping bag is strung around his wrist; he wears blue rubber slippers. Their straps fork like a serpent’s tongue.
He leads me to a third door. I am surprised to see it since I thought there were only two doors on each floor. There is no keyhole. He pushes the door open with two fingers, using the same hand to which the shopping bag is attached. The shape of a small bottle is evident through the bag. The room is completely bare, as though it does not exist.
“Your slipper straps fork like a serpent’s tongue,” I say.
“They are roads that lead to two women,” he replies.
“You know about the two women?”
“I do. It’s very sad.”
“Why?”
“The woman with one tooth did not give hers to the woman with one tooth missing.”
“I must lie on the floor again.”
“It’s what dejected people do.”
“Lie with me,” I plead.
“I must not.”
“Please. Lie with me.”
We both lie with our backs on the floor and stare at the ceiling. There is no ceiling — no concrete, no sky, nothing. Mankind does not say anything. He places the shopping bag on his stomach. It clearly contains a bottle. He removes it, leaving the bag dangling from the wrist. Inside the bottle is a thick yellow liquid. Very little remains.
“Is that oil?” I ask.
“It is.”
“So it’s not over, then.”
“This is all that’s left,” he says as he turns a little my way.
If there is little oil left, the lamp is still burning. I must act fast. I have found my logician. It is not a good thing. I once walked into a room full of people who were smiling. They sat on chairs, on sofas, on the floor, and there was a disturbing sense of group joy in the room. I stood there fixated. They were brilliant magicians all of them. I asked, why is everyone so happy? One man coughed, a young girl bit her nails, and the remaining dismissed my query as though it was an inopportune request for ice cream. But they did not know why they were happy. When the magician meets the logician, the first crack in the sidewalk is formed.
SWIM WITH THE WILD HYENA
If Viren cannot forgive me, at least Malaika can. For I know she loved me.
The last she will remember of me is the beating, almost a year ago, but probably still fresh on her body. I will tell her that it is only fitting that I do not have an arm. I will tell her it was not her beauty that I loved. It was the counting games we played, the way she insulted me and laughed, the way her hips moved toward me each time I kissed them, until I wanted to die between their flesh.
I take a taxi back to Sai’s mandir, near to where I last saw Malaika. There are many garlands around his idol today. At his feet there are rose petals, and someone has left a photograph of a little boy. I can tell from the picture that the boy is no longer on earth — he looks happy. When we die and go to the spirit world, our photographs on earth change; they acquire the peace of blue skies. It is still early for the evening aarti, so there is no music. The man who looks after the temple is in a corner, cleaning the pictures of Sai on the wall. I have come here to seek blessings so that I can win back my love.
It is not the right thing to do, visit a temple and then a brothel, but today I go to the brothel for unusual reasons. I go to save Malaika and myself. Even if she does not want to be with me, I shall convince her to leave the brothel. I will give her money to buy a small house somewhere and paint. Why do I keep thinking she can paint? It must be her love of colours.
I do not know what else to tell Sai. I never loved Mother because she did not love me. Father, the shaving expert, was too well-mannered to say anything to Mother. Each time Mother made love to the judge, Father became weaker. In the end he was afraid of his own voice, and he died without a sound. He called me the night he died. He did not say anything over the phone but I knew it was him. The lines were never that quiet.
Mother, on the other hand, went out in style, shouting and screaming, telling the judge that he had ruined her life, that he was fat and stupid. How could he judge people when he could not even judge his own weight? She died shortly after Father, alone and unhappy just like him, but loud. The neighbours used to tell me when I would visit that she spoke a lot to the walls and furniture during her illness. She spoke to Father a lot, and she knew he was listening because when it was his turn to speak, everything would go silent. Even the clocks.
I think Sai understands. From what I have heard, he never lets anyone down. This street has not changed at all. Same rusty roofs, ration shops, old taxis and people who walk slowly because they do not wish to reach wherever it is they are heading. Just like me. Even though I have walked slowly, I eventually stand at the bottom of the wooden stairs that lead to Malaika’s room.
I do not spot the rat today. Maybe it died, or found a permanent home in the walls. The stairs have not aged a bit;
how could they when they were already old and creaking? Perhaps this is a bad idea. What if she is with a man? The door will be closed then. But why did she leave it open the night I last saw her? Did she want me to see her being consumed by someone else? I hear a crunching sound. My thoughts are eating my brain.
The door is open, but a white curtain covers the entrance. It is new and spotless. It looks out of place. I stand before it and prepare myself for her. The heart lets you down when you need it most. It starts crying for help; it begs me to get out. I tell it to shut up. It is spoilt and rotten and has been pumping too much blood to all my body parts. It needs to calm down.
I part the curtain to one side.
That is not Malaika. It cannot be. This woman looks like her, but it cannot be. The woman looks at least ten years older. Malaika’s black hair was never this thin. The woman looks startled as I enter. Malaika, what has happened to you? You challenged men as they entered; you did not cower in the bedsheets like an old forgotten doll.
“Malaika?”
“I’m not Malaika,” the woman says.
“Thank God.” I should not have said it out loud.
“What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Malaika.”
“Who are you?”
“Her … friend.”
“Then you must be a real useless one.”
“Sorry?”
“She’s dead.”
“What?”
“Like I said, you are a useless friend.”
I look at this woman and want to pull out her hair, strand by strand, for lying.
“What are you staring at my face for? Either get your body on this bed, or get out.”
“Where’s Malaika?”
I run toward the kitchen to see if she is in there. Even if she is under another man, I do not care. I will watch her make love to a hundred men, but please do not let her be dead. Why is this woman lying to me? If she knew about our plans, about Goa, the house by the sea, the children, us painting the sea together, she would lead me to Malaika right now. But the kitchen is lying, too. It hides Malaika.
“Tell me where she is,” I say.
“I told you.”
