by Anosh Irani
“If you want money, I will give it to you.”
“Malaika is dead.”
“It can’t be.”
“I’m her sister. I should know.”
No wonder she looks like Malaika. An older, defeated Malaika.
“How did she die?”
My heart starts thumping again, beating its head against the walls of my chest. She was alive a year ago. A year ago, her flesh was in my mouth. How can she be reduced to ashes so soon? All those nights of lovemaking scattered over the sea.
“She was beaten.”
The woman’s lips tremble when she says this. I understand now. My heart was shouting and crying outside because it did not want me to come in here and find out the truth. I turn around to leave.
“It happened a year ago. We suspect it was a regular client, a rich young fellow. She used to tell me about him. But we have no proof. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Are you sure?” The words come out cracked.
“He was drunk and hit her too hard. She died a day later. She used to love the bastard because he called her name all the time. It was a game they played.”
By now, the only hand I have shakes so furiously I have to hide it behind my back. The heart is pounding as if it wants to tear out of my chest and throw itself on the bed, next to this woman, so she can see how black it is. She continues to talk, but I am not listening anymore. I do not even know if I am crying. It is hard to tell. I do not see anything, except my hand coming down on Malaika again and again like a hammer that just will not stop. I must have hit her a lot. I must have beaten her till she stopped fighting. I do not even remember if she fought. All I know is that she was breathing when I left her.
I spend the next few hours floating from one corner of this city to another. Even though it is night now, the sun beats down on me. People take off their clothes and burn their skin on purpose. God says it is my fault. I must apologize to all burn victims. I can hear his voice so clearly, it is that of an old, battered woman. I talk to the first person I set eyes upon. He does not respond, just looks to the sun as it eats up his skin. No one cares. In minutes we will all be reduced to smouldering ashes.
Little boys and girls sit in a row on the street and pluck out their teeth one by one. They strongly believe in the tooth demon. They have not eaten for days and he has told them he will exchange teeth for bread. The children seem quite happy with this barter. But then a girl, no more than two years old, breaks out of the line and tells the others that they must not trust the tooth demon. His plan is to buy all their teeth. Without teeth, they will not be able to eat. They will die. That is the tooth demon’s plan. They all point to me and tell me my plan has failed. They collect the teeth they have plucked out and fit them back into their mouths.
I see Mother and Father sipping tea at the tea stall. They look like they are in love. Mother holds a razor blade in her hand and cuts Father’s face again and again. Father stays very calm and reads the newspaper. His blood stains the paper, but Father says it is all right, the headlines are always bloody. After every cut, Mother dips the blade into the tea. Don’t look so disturbed my son, she says. We’re having your favourite — cutting. Father laughs. For the first time in his life, Father laughs.
I am now inside Mother’s womb. My sister is with me. This is how I know Mother was meant to have twins. What happened? I do not want to find out. My sister says she loves me a lot. I love her, too. She talks about angels and I tell her how I killed twenty-seven giants in a past life. She laughs at me. She says I could never hurt anyone because I am too gentle. So to prove her wrong, I kill her right in the womb. Then I feel sick. So I take my brain out of my head and rub this incident from my memory.
Tonight I would like to tell everyone I have ever known that I am sorry. But they have all turned deaf.
MORNING SQUATTERS
I crouch at the bottom of a huge mound of grass and mud. It has the width and length of a tabletop and is close to the railway tracks. I am back at the fried éclair factory. I want to be like those dead policemen.
In this city, one minute you are in a garden and the next you are in a slum. It is most natural. Ask me to retrace my steps and I will be unable to do so. A person travels in this city like a bad smell — over here now, strong and pungent; then gone suddenly, only to reappear in another part of the city a few moments later.
It is early morning. I can tell you what I did for most of last night. I spent it right here, staring at the night sky, begging the darkness to stay forever. When light comes, it forces you to see things that are true. But the night never passes judgement.
Beyond the tracks is the underbelly of the poor, houses hand-built by husbands and wives, with stolen roofs, under whose heat run five or six children. Some are custom-made gambling dens where the little ones serve liquor and boiled potatoes to the card players. It is said that if a person who is not from these parts can drink the tap water and remain standing, he is strong, an iron stomach amongst gutless men.
Dawn is a funny time to be here. Dawn is the stand-up comedian whose only trick is falling down. When it comes, people do not laugh at its routine, but at what awaits them during the rest of the day: no cooking oil, a plastic sheet for a roof and the last medicine for the month. It is their false laughter that fools the comedian and keeps dawn coming every day.
“It’s no use. It’s impossible until the train comes.”
The words come from the top of the mound. I crouch lower and hide behind the mud hill. I cannot show my face to anyone.
“What does the train have to do with it?”
The voices belong to two men who seem to be quite close to each other.
“It’s hard to explain,” says the first man. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe I will,” says the second.
“Okay,” says the first man. “Some people need a newspaper. Others need a cigarette. My uncle would make his wife stand outside the bathroom to talk to him while he went. If she left midway to do a chore or answer the door, he would feel lost and constipated for the rest of the week. But I don’t have a wife like my uncle. He is ninety-three, but rich. Not like us, living hand to mouth.”
“Andha, I wish you wouldn’t say that.”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” says the other.
“I mean stop using that expression, considering what function we are about to perform. But I still think your theory is rubbish.”
“Has the train come yet? I’m dying over here.”
“Then why the hell don’t you just let it happen? It is destiny. It is meant to happen each morning. What if the train does not show up? Will you squat all day?”
“Daru, please don’t say that. Last week when the mill workers went on strike and lay on the tracks, the train did not pass for hours. Neither did I.”
“Then get over this ridiculous habit.”
I hear one of the men drink from a bottle. It is a desperate suck, a dying man’s draw for air.
“Has it come yet?” asks Andha.
His voice is a drawl. It is slow: the words fall out of his mouth, crawl along the ground and climb up to the ears of the listener.
“Why are you craning your neck?”
I think I have been discovered. I get off my haunches and stand up. The two men are squatted on the mound, facing the other way. They are completely naked but are wearing slippers. A Dalda tin can is between them. Instead of cooking oil, it must contain water. There is a walking cane placed on the ground. I return to a semi-crouched position and peek like I used to when I was little and inquisitive. Even my palms are red, just like they used to be with paints and crayons. But I have blood on my hands now.
“What in the name of country liquor are you doing?” It is Daru.
“I’m trying to see if the train is coming,” replies Andha.
“But Andha, you are blind!”
“I’m desperate.”
“Maybe you need some liquor,” says Daru.
�
��Is that your answer to everything?”
“The problem with the world is that there is not enough alcohol in people. That is why their health is bad. That is why our country is not the superpower it should be. Why do you think our country was technologically, spiritually, every-cally advanced in ancient times?”
“People were always drunk?”
“Kings, courtiers, maidens, wise men, even the gods.”
“And then you ask me why you are poor. I’m blind. I have an excuse. You are a moron.”
I hear a loud expulsion of gas. I cover my nose with my arm.
“There! I hear it,” says Andha. “Is that the train?”
Daru looks down sheepishly. “I made that sound.”
“You are a vile person. You have been brought up badly.”
I see a kite in the sky. In the morning sun, it looks sad. One of the children must be flying it. There is a reason the poor fly kites. Years ago, when the first hut was built, a mother looked at her little son. He was glum, and so she made a kite for the boy. But he would not fly it until she explained the kite’s purpose to him. She said he could attach his problems to the kite and send it to the sky. The Kite Master upstairs, if he so wished, could reclaim the kite and with it, the boy’s troubles. That is why, contrary to belief, when a kite’s string breaks, it is a good sign.
“Look,” Daru says as he points to the slums. “I was born here. If I’m about to pass gas, what do you expect, a memo?”
“Pass me my cane,” says Andha.
“Do you wish to move? Do you not like this spot?”
“Perhaps it’s not the train. If we change our spot, I could go.”
“That logic I’m willing to accept.”
Daru maintains his squat, reaches out and hands Andha the cane. It is old, held together by duct tape. Before Daru can vacate his spot, Andha whacks him hard. The blind swing hits Daru on the shin.
“O! You could cause severe harm to my uncoveries!” he shouts.
“Then take the train matter seriously.”
The kite is making me ill because someone else is flying it. Each time it goes higher, the Kite Master is plucking off someone else’s problems. I will need to fly many kites before someone hears me. I must relinquish my other arm as well, for the Kite Master to notice. I will tie my arm to a kite and send it to the heavens. I will feel lighter with no arms at all. If I have used my hands wrongly, who am I to keep them?
I stand up behind Andha and Daru. I walk around the mound and appear on the tracks before them. Andha may be blind but he is rich in other parts. The alcohol has taken its toll on Daru. He is smaller than life.
“O hero, what are you doing?” shouts Daru. “The train will be here any minute.”
“Who are you talking to?” Andha asks him.
“A young cripple with too much energy is walking along like it is his father’s garden.”
“Have some sympathy. Don’t call him a cripple,” reprimands Andha.
“He’s walking on the tracks. When the train comes, the driver might stop if he spots this cripple. Sorry. youth.”
“You bastard! Get off the tracks, you cripple! You one-legged biscuit,” he shouts. “Daru, what is missing — arms, legs?”
“Left arm. But be sensitive.”
“He must leave the tracks alone. Where’s my cane? You one-armed bandit, I have to shit!”
I look behind me and the kite is still high. It is steady, the result of an expert hand. I cannot make out the colour. It is dark blue or black. Sad kite, sad kite. I turn around and look straight at the squatters.
“He’s looking at you,” Daru tells Andha. “He’s the rich type. They come to these poor locations when they are depressed. They feel like they are really suffering then.”
“Is he staring at my …”
“Yes, we are a novelty for him.”
Daru is right. Open air scares me, makes me conscious of how worthless I am.
I lie down on the tracks like a sniper, with my stomach to the ground. I extend my arm across the tracks in the direction of the two men.
“What are you doing?” Daru asks me.
“Waiting for the train,” I reply. I adjust myself so that my arm is across the tracks.
“Good, even I am waiting for the train. What a fine young man you are.”
“There’s something wrong with him,” I hear Daru tell Andha. They whisper.
“You’re right about that,” I confirm. “There has been murder.”
“What does he mean by that?” Andha asks Daru. “Is he being literal? Or is it rich-talk for something? Like when they say they are really suffering, they mean their air conditioner is not working.”
“Or when they say they are feeling lonely, it means they want to hire more servants,” replies Daru.
Andha looks skyward. “May the train driver get syphilis! May his wife get syphilis! May his mother get syphilis!”
“I have a suggestion,” Daru says. “If I make the sound of a train approaching, you might be able to go. What if it is not the physicality of the train but its sound that coaxes your bowels?”
“Daru, you may be right. I’m blind. I’ve never seen the train.”
Daru does not wait for the go-ahead. He makes the sound of a train, softly at first, as if it is behind a mountain and is turning sweetly around the corner.
Now Daru’s chook-chook sound gets louder.
“The train has straightened out and is aiming for us,” he says. “The driver has seen us and knows we await him. His teeth gleam and his grip tightens on whatever he is holding.”
Andha strains to pass something. “O … O … help me.”
“Push, Andha. Push. Be a man!”
The sound is deafening; the train is only feet away from us. The train will take away my arm, tear it from me, and I will be happy at last. I will be able to look at the kite and feel nothing. I might even cut off my legs. Then ask someone to place me on the edge of a well and tip me over. I will make a tidy splash.
“Has the train passed?” asks Andha.
“By now the train has reached Pakistan,” says Daru.
“I’m doomed. Even an imaginary train is not helping.”
“Tell me, cripple, why are you trying to kill yourself?” asks Daru.
“I want to kill my arm,” I say. “I don’t deserve to keep it. I will donate it to the train.”
“Why don’t you donate it to Baba Rakhu instead?”
“What?” I ask. “You know Baba Rakhu?”
“Never met the man. But we’ve heard of him,” says Andha.
“Isn’t it wrong, what he does?”
“His selection is very fair. He will never take a limb without reason. He’s a great man, a helper of the poor.”
“How is he a helper of the poor if he charges twenty thousand?”
“You’ve already been to him?”
“Yes,” I say. It is as though we are talking about a common dentist.
“You must be able to afford it. Are you rich?”
I nod. I look into Andha’s blind eyes. It is as though glass has been shattered and blue ink poured into his pupils.
“If you are rich, can you buy me a train? Then I won’t have to wait for one,” says Andha.
Daru gets up from his seat and walks to me. He takes my hand. “Join us,” he says. “There will always be time to lose the arm.”
“I must lose the other arm,” I say. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Never refuse a poor man’s invitation to the bathroom,” he says. “You might find the open air refreshing.”
There is the sound of a real train.
“Joy to the world,” says Andha. “I will be able to go at last.”
“Join us,” says Daru. “We like company.”
Even though I resist, Daru pulls me up and guides me to my spot, between the two of them. I take my pants off but leave the shirt on. A naked man with no arm is perhaps in bad taste. Also, like Daru, I am smaller than life. But I have had my mome
nts.
As I crouch, I begin to feel fortunate to have found these two men. They are gentlemen of the river, hats tipped neatly as the fish swim past. It is a privilege to sit here and watch morning come.
“You know,” Andha says, “it’s rude to face people on the train like this and expose our private parts. Let us be cordial for once.”
“Let us turn around and save face,” states Daru.
The three of us change direction on the mound. I will not have to see the faces of passengers, and children pointing out our ladyfingers to their mothers.
“You can start,” says Daru. “You don’t have to wait for the train.”
“I would like to wait for the train,” I say.
As the train passes, so do we. It is a glorious feeling to be in synch with other men. I can no longer see the kite. I hope the string breaks. I hope the kite floats away, and gets stuck in a tree.
MOSQUITO NET
Andha’s and Daru’s home is a tiny cubicle of a place with a low roof. We have to bend when we stand. At least we do not have to squat. It would be too soon to squat again. It is very hot and the same stale air keeps moving from corner to corner. There is a row of empty whiskey bottles on the floor. I am very careful not to touch them.
There are so many mosquitoes here that it looks as if the mosquitoes have formed a net to trap humans. They move toward me in some sort of army formation. Not a single one flies out of line or attacks me. They wait for the command.
“The key is not to resist them,” says Daru. “The more you resist them, the more they will target you.”
“Yes, if you ignore them, they will feel insulted and leave you alone,” agrees Andha.
So I turn my back on the mosquitoes. It is a big mistake. They come for me. I slap my cheek several times. They also like the back of my neck. I can feel the blood being sucked out. A few big ones bite through my white shirt and gain entry to my stomach. I swat and keep moving about the room. But they have their teeth clenched into my flesh with determination.
“Stop moving,” says Daru. “I’m getting motion sickness. Look at us. Are the mosquitoes biting either Andha or me?”
I look at the photographs of deities on the wall instead. They are framed in wood without glass. If I had to assign tasks to each of them, the man with the mace in his strong hands would be in charge of killing mosquitoes. I would also request him to club me to death.
