by Indra Sinha
“Just his hopes?” asks some other wag.
So then they’re all laughing at me and Farouq says in a loud voice, “Oy baba, must hurt going up the crack like that.”
Zafar was livid. “Shut your filth!” None of them can stand up to Zafar, they hold him in some kind of awe because of how he’s given up everything in his life for us Khaufpuris. Farouq starts mumbling that the woman won’t understand, being a firangi, Zafar says, “I was thinking of Nisha.”
The woman begins gupping with the kids, the moment she opens her mouth it’s obvious she can speak Hindi. Farouq starts blushing but if she’s heard what he said she’s giving no sign. As soon as she and the man go into that building we’re all over to the driver, it’s who is she, what’s going on, but he doesn’t know fuck all except she is Amrikan. When she comes out we’re still roaming around in the street. She stares a long time at me, I am hoping she doesn’t think it was me that said that thing about her crack, although I can’t deny I was thinking along the same lines.
Later Nisha’s dad comes home from one of his meetings and tells us that she’s bought the place.
All our lives we’d known the building across the road. It was dirty, in need of attention, none of us could think why an Amrikan woman would want it. It had once been a bicycle-repair shop, kept by a surly fucker called Ganesh. After that it became a sweet shop, rasgullas and gulab jamuns were fried there in big pans and we kids hung around hoping for treats. Next it was a carpenter’s, turning out chairs and items like massage rollers. Then it was a tailor’s place, where women from the bastis ruined their eyes doing gold and silver zari embroidery. I think one reel of gold thread was worth more than those women earned in a month. The tailors moved to a better part of town, a smart arcade where their saris could hang outside filling with wind like coloured sails and the arses waddling past took twice as much cloth to cover. After that the place stayed empty, until the blue-legged Amrikan.
What would bring an Amrikan woman to Khaufpur of all places? None of Zafar’s contacts could tell us a thing about her. Labourers came, gutted the building, threw out its rotting wooden frames, burned them right there in the street. Next, carpenters arrived and Somraj came out of his house to listen to the music of their saws and drills, the drumming of their hammers. They were bossed by an old bugger in a lungi who chain-smoked two bundles of beedis a day.
“Health laboratory,” he told us, in a croaking voice.
Right off Zafar’s suspicious. “Why does an Amrikan come to do medical experiments in this town?”
“Son, why jump to conclusions?” says Somraj. How I hate to hear Nisha’s dad calling Zafar son. “What better place for a health laboratory than a town full of sickness?”
Zafar shakes his head. “It’s the timing that’s strange.”
His frown deepens when a few days later a van arrives bringing mashins various and plural, such as are found in hospitals. “I can just smell the Kampani,” says Zafar.
“Some keen nostrils you’ve,” says I because he irritates me.
“Okay so figure it yourself. Since Bhoora’s chicken day barely six weeks have passed, we’re awaiting the judge’s decision. Let’s say he finds in our favour. Then if the Kampani bosses still won’t come to court, their other businesses could be seized. That they can’t risk, so right now they are planning how they’ll fight if they are forced to come to the court.”
“Sorry boss, still don’t get it.”
“Think like the Kampani. Thousands of people say that for twenty years their health’s been ruined by your poisons. How do you refute this? We say that the situation is not as bad as alleged, that not so many people are ill, that those who are ill are not so seriously ill, plus of whatever illnesses there are, most are caused by hunger and lack of hygiene, none can be traced back to that night or to your factory.”
“Zafar brother,” says Farouq. “These ‘yous’ and ‘yours’ make me feel sick in the gut. Let the Kampani say what it likes, who’ll believe? People here know the truth.”
“You are the Kampani,” says Zafar, showing no sympathy for Farouq’s gut. “Thousands more claim that your factory has poisoned their water and made them sick. To refute them you’ll say that whatever may be in the wells, it does not come from the factory, that the chemicals in the factory don’t cause those kinds of illnesses. To make such arguments you need facts and figures. You need case histories, a health survey. Now do you see? Abracadabra-funtootallamish! Out of the blue appears an Amrikan to start a health laboratory.”
Everyone’s nodding, but my instinct says Zafar is wrong. Blue-legs does not fit my idea of a Kampani person and I’m not the only one who thinks this.
Says Somraj, “There may be other explanations. We know nothing yet about this person. She may have no connection with the Kampani.”
“You are right, abba.” Zafar’s polite as ever, but so deeply does he hate the very shadow of the Kampani that until the mystery’s explained, for him it will remain a conspiracy. “You are right, but before we can discover the truth the damage could be done. There’s too much at stake. We need to plan.”
One morning a cycle rickshaw struggles up with a sign balanced across the back, so big that it’s sticking out on both sides like an aeroplane’s wings. On the sign is written KHAUFPUR FREE CLINIC, plus below in smaller letters, DOCTOR ELLI BARBER.
It isn’t a health laboratory but a clinic, and not just any clinic, we soon learn, but a well-equipped modern clinic such as scumbags like us have never known. The Khaufpur Gazette runs an article. DOCTOR OFFERS NEW HOPE TO POISON VICTIMS. According to the paper, the Chief Minister has given his blessing, says the clinic is a great and wonderful act of charity by a good-hearted doctor, this Amrikan, Elli Barber.
“Sounds like Ali Baba,” says Nisha, Zafar laughs but not very happily.
The clinic is to be opened by Zahreel Khan, Minister for Poison Relief. That motherfucker’s involvement plus the CM’s blessing confirms all Zafar’s worst suspicions.
“Praise from that quarter does not come free. What’s happening?”
One morning there’s a snarl-up in the street. A truck carrying bales of cotton has got itself jammed beneath a tree branch. Coming the opposite way is a bullock cart carrying four men and a strange curved case of polished wood, very large, that sticks out behind. Cart can’t move forward, motorbikes and autos are jamming the road behind, terrific jackass-braying of horns there’s.
The doors of the clinic fly open. Out steps Elli Barber, stands with hands on hips taking in the confusion. The truck driver’s got down from his cab and is looking at the tree, auto-wallahs are mingling abuse and advice. Next thing this Elli’s walked right into the middle of the mess.
“Okay, okay! everyone calm down! You sir, if you could jump up there, loosen the bale, driver-ji you move the truck back twenty feet.”
To the master of the bullock cart she says, “If you just back up a few feet the autos will be able to squeeze through.”
“Madam,” says he, marvelling at this Hindi-speaking foreigner, “hardly is this some fancy car-shaar, a bullock cart it’s.” He gives a roar of laughter and winks at the men behind him. “It has no reverse gear.”
“So,” says she, “it needs some help. Come on.” She’s caught the bullocks by their nosebands and begun shoving. The men on the cart jump down to lend their shoulders. Bystanders are laughing, bullocks look amazed, they roll their eyes and toss their heads, slowly, slowly the wheels begin creaking backwards. This is not to the liking of the carter, who’s now looking foolish. “Just how am I supposed to steer?” So this Elli’s jumped up on the cart. “Move over,” she says and takes the ropes. Standing on the cart, gliding slowly backwards, she sees me chuckling and gives me a grin. But I can read feelings and it comes to me, my god, she’s terrified.
“Bravo,” I call out. “Brave you’re.”
“Can’t have them damaging my piano.” Next thing she’s jumped down and’s fussing round the men lifting the wooden
case off the cart. It looks like a strange shaped coffin. The dammed up traffic begins pouring past. I’ve dodged my way across the lane through a frenzy of horns.
“Excuse me. What is a piano?”
Closer up she doesn’t seem so glamorous. Her two eyes are set a little bit close to her nose, but wah! those legs! right now’s their V just in front of my face. Voices in my head start making filthy comments.
“It’s a musical instrument,” says Elli Barber. Seeing I’m none the wiser she explains, “It has keys. You press them to get the notes.”
“Black and white keys?” Pandit Somraj in his house has a harmonium with such keys.
“That’s right.” She steps back and’s staring at me like she did the first time. “Your back. How long’s it been this way?”
“Long as I can remember.”
“Do you know what caused it?”
“Fuck should I know?” The rough words just jump out. After the grand children’s doctor, I’ve vowed never again to talk of my back.
“Has no doctor ever explained?” she asks, unfazed by my rudeness.
“What’s the point?”
“You see, if we knew why—”
I’ve turned and walked away on my hands and feet. Fuck and bugger why, such unanswerable questions just lead to discussions about the nature of god.
After some time I look back. The men are trying to squeeze the piano box through her doors, but she isn’t watching them, she’s looking at me. It’s that stare, we call it ghurr ghurr. Of a sudden her eyes from across the street seem to grow larger, a voice inside my head says, She will change your life!
When I regain my senses, I’m in Somraj’s house, with Nisha bent over me. “What happened, darling, we were so worried about you?”
What happened? At the moment I heard the voice speak those words I turned and dived in pursuit of it. The universe with all its stars and galaxies is a pinhead compared to the space inside the mind. Into that deep abyss I went diving, chasing the voice which fled away downwards squeaking like a bat. I flew through clouds of voices, must have been millions of them, only one comment do I remember. You got angry because when you looked at her you thought sex, when she looked at you she thought cripple.
“Some men brought you here,” Nisha says. “Along with that foreign woman from across the road. She said sorry for not taking you inside her place, it is not ready. She thinks you had a fit, but you don’t have fits, do you darling?” Nisha’s long hair as she bends over me, touches my face. Forget legs, forget sex, sweeter by far is love.
Doesn’t bear a grudge, Elli doctress. Next time I see her she gives a big smile. “Hello Animal, how’s tricks?” How did she find out my name? Elli always seems to be laughing. She’s a loud voice, isn’t shy to call out greetings in the street. Soon the entire basti knows her to say hello. Next she’s hired some staff for her clinic, we get to know them as well. There’s Dayanand the manager, Suresh compounder plus an Anglo-Indian lady called Miriam Joseph, wears dresses with large flowers.
When Miriam Joseph sees me she says, “Animal, isn’t it? Y’all remember me? I’d see all of y’all when I came to mass in the convent, my, how the world’s changed.” She scratches her armpit, looking sad, so I guess the convent is just not the same without Ma and me. Miriam must have told Elli my name so that small mystery is solved. Just leaves the big one.
Everyone is buzzing about the clinic. Why should such a thing be started in Khaufpur by an Amrikan woman? On whose behalf has she come? Seems Zafar’s suspicions have spread for there’s murmuring that Elli doctress, it’s what the Khaufpuris call her, has been sent by the Kampani.
“So what if she has?” reply some to this rumour. “The Kampani made us ill, why shouldn’t it make us well again?”
“More than this,” say others. “Why should anyone else have to pay for our treatment? It’s the Kampani alone who should pay.”
“Better it’s the Kampani’s clinic,” yet others argue. “Only the Kampani knows what deadly things flew from the factory on that night, who else will know the antidotes?”
People settle like mosquitoes on Elli doctress’s staff and probe with sharp questions to suck out the truth.
“Elli madam is a good person,” Suresh the compounder tells a small crowd in the Chicken Claw. “With her own money she’s making this clinic. She left a big job in Amrika out of pity for the people of Khaufpur.”
Well this sounds pretty unlikely. Plenty of Amrikans are here in Khaufpur these days doing all kinds of work from teaching to planting herb gardens, all are here because they don’t agree with what the Kampani did, but not one has ever opened a clinic. Not with their own money. Not by themselves.
Manager Dayanand buys his chaws in Ram Nekchalan’s grocery store, it’s where the people of the Claw gather to chat and get their news. We soon learn that he’s partial to laal imli ka gataagat which is tamarind bits, two rupees per small piece, nicely sour, with some salt and spices, good for the digestion, but when we ask about his new boss, apart from confirming that Elli’s spending her own money, he’s as clueless as everyone else. Dayanand was introduced to her by an elderly doctor for whom he once worked. This doctor is retired, lives in a posh house up by the lake. Elli doctress stayed with him when she first came from Amrika, he helped her find staff for the clinic. More than this Dayanand does not know or else is not willing to say.
From where does one woman get money enough to open a clinic? This is what everyone’s asking. “Must be rich.” But Elli doesn’t seem the rich type, she doesn’t ride round in big cars, okay, she turned up here in a government car but since then’s only used three-wheeler autos. A few times she’s travelled with my mate Bhoora Khan and’s haggled over each journey.
“Elli doctress, she’s a real tight-fist, bloody,” says he ruefully, who like all auto-wallahs thinks foreigners should pay more than locals. This isn’t only fair it’s mathematical. Amrikan one dollar’s forty rupees, therefore one Khaufpuri kilometer should equal forty Amrikan ones. But when Bhoora tells her this Elli doctress just laughs and asks him to calculate instead by the mathematics of free medicine.
Elli doesn’t dress rich, never is she to be seen in anything but her blue jeans, plus the rich don’t mix with the likes of us, but Elli likes joking with the street urchins, does not mind them shouting “Aiwa” and “I love you” at her, pretty soon every kid in the Chicken Claw knows her name, plus that she has come from Amrika and does not give sweets or baksheesh.
One day Elli herself goes into Nekchalan’s shop. What she says to him I don’t know but from that moment he’s her greatest fan.
“When this clinic opens,” Nekchalan tells all who’ll listen, “any of us can walk right in off the street, we’ll be examined, we’ll get treatment, medicines, and how much will we pay?” He pauses for effect, fucking bada batola, so important and knowledgeable, bigshot in the street, it’s a long long pause, full of Nekchalan.
“Come on then, tell us how much?”
“Nothing.” Nekchalan’s smiling like he’s Elli’s best friend, like he’d helped her plan the clinic.
“What?” people gasp. “Really free?” Don’t forget, the government hospitals too are supposed to be free, but their kind of free no one can afford.
“Fully free,” says Nekchalan, trousering the money for their tea, matches, salt, flour, oil, whatever.
Word’s soon spread from the Chicken Claw to Jyotinagar, Phuta Maqbara, the Nutcracker where Ma and I live, plus to other areas near the factory where lots of people are still ill. Free of charge? Treatment from a foreign doctor? Sounds too good to believe, but if Ram Nekchalan says it’s true. Nekchalan doesn’t cheat people, never gives short measure, usually will tip in a little extra of whatever it is they are buying, rice, sugar, daal, kerosene.
Wonderful guy? I don’t think so. A little generosity keeps them crowding into his shop, and friend Ram is getting fat on his own goodness.
“Now we’ll get some good treatment,” this is what
everyone’s saying. Kampani or no Kampani, the Khaufpuris are all for the clinic.
How would Elli Barber change my life? Of unknotting the rope of my spine there was no hope, and from the day of meeting the Khã-in-the-Jar the very idea of hope had become bitter and repulsive to me. One day I said to Zafar, “Hope is a crutch for weaklings. The strong carry on without.”
He nodded and beamed at me. “Brother, you’re right. Let go of hope and keep fighting, it’s the lesson of Khaufpur.”
I was actually surprised that he agreed. I’d been thinking of my own case, plus I was trying to needle him. How could he carry on his long fight without hope? Wasn’t it he who’d said, “Why not today?”
“That’s not hope.” He thought for a moment. “You can fight without hope, if the heart finds strength in something stronger.”
“What’s that?” I knew I shouldn’t have asked.
“Well,” says the fool, removing and wiping his specs as he always did when he was feeling emotional. “It is love.”
randy Animal needs a wife
how will Elli change his life?
Eyes, did I just now say “Forget sex”? What fucking hypocrisy! Sex was the one thing I could never forget, my second impossible wish. My first wish was to stand upright, but why did I want that if not because it led to the second?
talks of love, the little prick
but anywhere would plunge his dick
The thought of sex was in my head when I woke in the morning with my thing huge like a cricket bat, plus again when I lay down at night, thinking of what I couldn’t have. On nights when the urge was strong, let’s face it, almost every night, I’d pretend there was a woman lying beside me. She’d stroke me all over, when I was good and ready she’d show her secret place. The rest you may imagine, I certainly did, but of what use is a cunt of hay when it’s a real live creature you want in your arms?
