Animal's People: A Novel

by Indra Sinha

  The kids ignore him, they are still saying “Aiwa,” but not with gusto like when a foreigner’s eye is on them, they’re saying it in bored voices, because it’s what they do but the heart has gone out of it. A big-arsed government-waali doctress is stood outside a house, talking to the foreigner. Coming close my heart gives a jolt, no jarnalis is this, it’s Elli Barber. Why is she here? Why is she with a government doctress? Well, jamisponding is my job so I’ve sneaked closer to ear-ogle their conversation.

  “Hardly surprising they are ill,” Elli is saying quietly, I guess so the Nutcracker folk don’t hear. “Look at this filth, litter and plastic all over, open drains stinking right outside the houses. Flies. Every bit of waste ground is used as a latrine, I’ve seen people defecating on the railway lines.”

  “Madam, it’s these people, they don’t know any better.”

  “But you do,” says Elli. “So teach them. Organise people into teams to pick up the litter. Bring in pipes, water taps, build proper latrines…”

  “Of course I agree, but from where is the money to come?”

  “Where did it come from for that new road near the lake, or for all the new buildings that are springing up around the city?”

  “Madam, this is not my department.”

  “Well it’s someone’s department,” says Elli doctress. “Just look at this place. These houses look like they’ve been built by termites.”

  At this government-waali gives an uneasy laugh.

  “Seriously,” Elli says, “this whole district looks like it was flung up by an earthquake.”

  On hearing Elli speak this one word, earthquake, something weird and painful happens in my head. Up to that moment this was Paradise Alley, the heart of the Nutcracker, a place I’d known all my life. When Elli says earthquake suddenly I’m seeing it as she does. Paradise Alley is a wreckage of baked earth mounds and piles of planks on which hang gunny sacks, plastic sheets, dried palm leaves. Like drunks with arms round each other’s necks, the houses of the Nutcracker lurch along this lane which, now that I look, isn’t really even a road, just a long gap left by chance between the dwellings. Everywhere’s covered in shit and plastic. Truly I see how poor and disgusting are our lives.

  “Hello Animal,” says Elli, who’s seen me staggering round on three legs with a hand over my eyes. “How are you today?”

  “Peas-potato samosa like a.”

  “That good, eh?”

  Government’s given me a flashing specs look of disgust.

  “Each one teach one,” says I to her. “That means you. Who’re you to give me the evil eye? Be off with you.”

  “Are you mad?” asks government-waali.

  “That I am, pudding sister,” says I, feeling seriously disturbed. Voices in my head are offering advice. Say this, do that. “You should try washing between your legs,” I tell her, plus’ve gone into a kind of tail-chasing dance which brings cheers from the children.

  Elli wags a finger at me, the two doctresses duck into a doorway, or what once I’d have called a doorway, now it’s a termite-gobbled frame in a mud wall. What are these two up to? Well fuck it I’ll follow.

  Inside I am momentarily blinded. It’s dark shadow, with light falling in stripes through planks of the farside wall. Elli and the other step through into a courtyard where are small papaya trees loaded with yellow fruit. I’ve stopped, because in the courtyard is a young woman sat on a stool in the sunlight. She has on a deep blue petticoat, but from waist up her body is bare. Her skin’s very dark, black almost, her breasts are round and swollen. With slow fingers, she’s pressing her breasts, sending jets of milk spurting onto the earth.

  Elli is standing still like she’s hoodwinked by the light. The mother, not looking up, continues to spill her milk to the dust. At last Elli says softly, “Poor thing. How did she lose her child?”

  Government-waali doctress does not reply, instead she flashes out at the woman, “How many times have I told you not to believe rumours?”

  That one says sullenly, “My breasts are killing me.”

  “Then it’s your own fault,” snaps the waali.

  The mother shrugs but doesn’t stop what she’s doing, squeezing pale milk from dark nipples. “Why bother to come?” she says. “You people never help.”

  “I’m here to help,” Elli tells her in Hindi. “What’s the problem?”

  “I won’t feed my kid poison.” She’s leant forward to cast the last dribbles of her milk onto the ground.

  “Madam, she is deluded,” says Government. To the woman she says, “I can cure bodies, not fairytales.”

  “Canst cure nothynge,” says a very old voice. Sitting in the shadows holding a plastic bottle to a baby who’s staring horrified, out of eyes heavily rimmed with kohl.

  “So here after all is your baby,” says Elli. “Why were you talking of poison?”

  Says this granny, “We have loked upon the milke and it semeth to muche thinne and watry. Plus it enclyneth to reddenesse, which is unnaturall and euill. Likewyse, it tasteth bitter, ye may well perceyue it is unwholesome.”

  “Burns his gut,” says the mother.

  “The infant yeaxeth incessantly,” says the granny holding up the baby. “Out of measure he yeaxeth.”

  “Yeaxeth? What’s that?” asks Elli.

  The laughter’s dancing about in me so much it makes me want to jig, these village types, their outlandish accents and rustic way of talking.

  “Hic,” says the kid, answering Elli’s question.

  Says the mother to Elli, “Our wells are full of poison. It’s in the soil, water, in our blood, it’s in our milk. Everything here is poisoned. If you stay here long enough, you will be too.”

  Of an instant, it’s like the ground under my feet has turned to water. The young woman seems to be floating on a glittering ocean, the papaya trees are tall green waterspouts or else tails of monstrous plunging fish.

  My brain returns from wherever it’s gone missing to discover Government advancing on me with a look of fury on her face. I’ve sharpish scarpered from that place and run to hide in I’m Alive’s shop, it’s the one place that the waali won’t care to follow, not if she knows anything about Nutcracker people.

  “Packet of milk I need, fifty grams of flour, two candles.”

  I’m Alive fastens his bulging eyes on me. Shiny they’re, huge glass marbles, they give him a permanent look of horror, like a man who is watching his testicles being devoured by rats. His real name is Uttamchand, but people call him Zindabhai, Zinda for short, it means “I’m Alive.”

  “Animal, you’re close to Zafar bhai,” he says, fetching out some milk. “This foreign doctress, is it the one they say, who’s opening a clinic in the Claw?”

  “Yes.” I’m crouched behind a sack of rice. “Is she coming, that Government-waali? If she heads this way I’ll go out the back.”

  “I don’t want to know what you’ve done,” says he. “I hear from Chunaram that Zafar bhai’s intending to boycott this clinic. I think this is a bad idea. Zafar brother has our support in everything of course, but this is a matter which concerns people’s health, it is not a question of politics.”

  “Can’t miss her,” I say. “Eyes like fucking horseflies she has, plus buttocks that grind like they’re cracking corn.”

  “I don’t see her,” says I’m Alive. “Listen, I know what Zafar’s position is. I am saying that this time, this is none of his business. He does not tell me what I should eat for my lunch, same way’s this, I should be free to go if I want to this clinic.”

  “You don’t need a clinic,” I say, coming out from behind the shelter of the sacks. “You’re the man who can’t die.”

  “Oh but I do need,” says he, fussing around to gather my small list of wants. “If the upstairs one hasn’t called me yet, does it mean I should live in pain? My eyes are failing, chest is bad, plus I don’t know how many times in the night I have to get up for the latrine, there is a numbness to the left leg, fingers also tingl
e, so many times I’ve thought, Uttam, your time is up, but always the one above has his eye on someone else. In that house opposite lived Sahara, one day blood came from her womb, it was cancer, forty-six years old she was, died right there across the road, ten years older I’m, yet I’m alive. Next door to her was Rafi, spent all he had on medicines, hardly did he spare ten rupees for food, but it did him no good. He too’s gone leaving me to remember him. My neighbour on this side, Nafisa, in her neck had swelling and pain. She could not lift her arm, she used to say that it felt like someone pulling her nerves from the inside. She is no more yet I’m still here. Her cousin Safiya lived two doors along. Women’s problems she had, pain like she was losing a baby, the doctor told her to drink milk and eat fruit. She came to me and said, ‘Zinda, you must help us. We can’t even afford rotis, how will we afford fruit?’ I gave her some guavas, I said, ‘Sister, pay me when you can.’ But before she could pay, she was gone, yet here I am still alive.”

  Eyes, you must have guessed by now how he got his name.

  “It’s your goodness that prolongs your life,” says I, heading out of there.

  “Wait,” he cries, “this is two rupees short.”

  “I’ll be back. Don’t worry, Zindabhai, you’ll never outlive me.”

  “Wretch!”

  Not two paces have I taken when I’m brought up short, staring into a blue crotch, right next to them is a pair of stout legs in shalwars.

  “So here he is,” says Elli.

  “This sisterfuck owes me two rupees,” cries I’m Alive, puffing up behind me and catching me by the ear.

  “Let go!” I’ve tried to twist free but surprisingly strong’s that fucker for one camped at death’s door. Next thing he’s thudded a foot on my backside.

  “Seems this boy is a real bad character,” says Government-waali, with a voice full of satisfaction.

  “And you’re a liar,” I shout. “Elli doctress, what the woman told you about the water, it’s true, everyone here knows it. Government types are lying. Zahreel Khan the minister himself came here to the Nutcracker and in front of a crowd of jarnaliss took a glass of well water and drank it to show it was safe. But Chhoté Ram, son of Mukund the tailor saw him a minute later go behind a house and stick two fingers down his throat.”

  “Give me my two rupees,” says I’m Alive, landing another heavy kick.

  “Stop!” says Elli. “Here’s two rupees. Let him go.”

  Namispond Jamispond, I’ve headed round the corner to Chunaram’s where I find Zafar sitting with Nisha, Farouq and all, there I’ve made my report, leaving out the bit about I’m Alive.

  “Some crap spy are you,” said Farouq, “this is old news.”

  “We were just discussing it,” Zafar says. “Cavorting with government.”

  “Not cavorting.” See Eyes, without meaning to I’m sticking up for Elli. “She was giving what-for to the government-waali doctress, plus you should have heard what she said when I told her about the water and Zahreel Khan.”

  “What did she say?” asks Nisha.

  “When government had gone Elli doctress said she’d always felt there was something not right about Zahreel Khan, seems the first time she met him he talked only to, Nisha excuse me, her lolos, which is to say her bloblos.”

  “So then why is Zahreel Khan opening her clinic?” asks Zafar quickly to protect Nisha from the question of lolos plus bloblos. Adds as an afterthought, “You and she seem to be quite friendly.”

  “I keep my eyes and ears open, like we agreed.”

  “Your job is to find useful information. Is this useful?”

  “Zafar bhai, please tell me what you count as useful? Is it what people are thinking and saying? Or is it only what you want to hear?”

  Says Farouq, “Just listen to this street-chaff.”

  “It’s a fair question. Let him speak,” Zafar says.

  No one will talk straight to Zafar, they daren’t cross him, but I am not afraid. “Zafar bhai, if you really want to know, people don’t want to boycott the clinic. They are all crying out for treatment.”

  “Nevertheless,” he replies, “if we ask them to stay away, they will. Sometimes it’s necessary to do a painful thing.”

  “Zafar brother, you are always saying that the Kampani has all the money and power and rich friends etc., on our side there’s nothing, you say that it is this very nothing that gives us the power to fight and maybe even win?”

  “Not maybe,” he says. “Definitely. The Kampani don’t know what they’re up against, people who have nothing have nothing to lose, we will never give up, out of having nothing comes a power that’s impossible to resist. It may take long, but we will win.”

  “So this power of nothing,” I’ve persisted, “what is it? Isn’t it desperation? If so won’t that very power drive crowds to Elli’s clinic?”

  “We’ll see,” says he with a frown.

  “Elli doctress, she is not from the Kampani. She’s on our side. I’ve read her thoughts, I have felt her feelings, you know I can do this.”

  “Animal,” says Zafar sadly, “you are special we all know it, but some things are just too important to trust to feelings.”

  Nisha says, “Well I think Zafar is right.” She’s clasped his arm to show that whatever nasty doubting Animal says, as long as she’s around he’ll have the cleanest arsehole in Khaufpur.

  “So what’s your plan?” asks Chunaram, who’s hovering on the edge of our group, where we’re sat with our glasses of chai.

  “Chuna brother, I guess we’ll hold a democracy. Whatever it decides we’ll do, but we must not allow the Kampani to gather false medical data. Anyone thinks they wouldn’t stoop so low, remember the thighs-of-fate.”

  Now the sighing’s of a different kind, as all recall.

  Thighs-of-fate, it’s an Inglis name, I do not know what the Hindi might be. On that night when poisons came from the Kampani’s factory, those who weren’t then and there killed found themselves in a bad way with fainting, fits, pain, blood’s coughed up, can’t see, hardly can breathe etc. This thighs-of-fate was a medicine which was helping people get relief. News quickly spread, from all over the city people came to wait in line for injections, but suddenly the treatment was stopped. Some bigwig let slip that the Kampani bosses from Amrika had rung up their best friend the Chief Minister and told him to stop the thighs-of-fate. There was a huge row. Some doctors moved into a shack near the factory and began giving the injections. The police came, wrecked the shack, beat up the doctors. Zafar says that by giving relief this thighs-of-fate somehow also proved that the illnesses could pass to future generations. The Kampani was afraid of this knowledge getting out because it might cost them in a court case, so they had the thighs-of-fate stopped and many were lost who could have been saved.

  “Why did that sisterfuck CM obey the Kampani? It had already fled.” This is what someone asks.

  “Khã, so naive you’re,” says a second. “Haven’t the politicians been in the Kampani’s pocket from the beginning? Have you forgotten the old days, how those pompous big shots would ride in Kampani limos, never looking to right or left. My missus says Zahreel and the CM are waiting for all us victims to die, only then will their embarrassment end.”

  Says Nisha, “The CM does what the Kampani wants.”

  “Zafar brother, why do they hate us people so much?” asks someone else.

  “Because,” says Zafar, “we raise our voices, we won’t just lie down and die.”

  “They’re rich, they have everything. Why do they deny us even health?”

  “You know the real reason they can’t forgive us?” chirps up Gaurilal Babu, who by the way, Eyes, is one of the ugliest men you will ever see. So awful is his expression that in the Nutcracker they say his glance can spoil milk.

  “Tell us, Gauri,” chorus the assembled chai drinkers.

  “It’s because the greatest and best pleasure of life is available freely to the poor as to the rich, it’s that famous thrill for
which all humans are crazy. Rich and powerful people risk everything for it, yet it can equally be enjoyed by the destitute.”

  Farouq who up till now hasn’t said anything decides this is the moment to chip in. “In such pleasures Animal is the expert, should see how he ogles the Amrikan doctress. Ask him yourself if it isn’t true.”

  Nisha picks up her bag and says, “Okay, I have to go.”

  Zafar squeezes her hand, a look passes between them, Eyes, it smashes me up inside. With a wave she’s gone out into the alley.

  “Shabaash Farouq,” I say, “you got rid of Nisha.”

  “Say, Zafar brother,” insists Gaurilal, “isn’t it true what I just said?”

  Says Zafar, “Not exactly, Gauri brother. For the rich sex is an indulgence, it’s in the homes of the poor that it becomes an art.” Always he’s trying to find new reasons to praise the poor.

  “What? Are you saying that for the poor sex is better?” It’s me.

  “Fuck do you know about it?” sneers Farouq.

  “My god, I love these philosophy discussions,” says Gaurilal, scratching his head. Other fools are grinning. They’ll wag their heads and say wah wah but haven’t a clue what’s going on.

  “Look,” says Zafar, “suppose you’re a young couple. It’s spring and desire is rushing through your veins. Lying side by side, you reach out and touch one another under the sheet. But you have to be careful, ma-in-law’s bundled up asleep just a few feet away. Your brother’s kids are sleeping in the same room. You must wait till everyone else is asleep, and after you’ve lain quietly awake trying to reckon their breathing, you’re obliged to proceed with minimum movement, no scrapes or rustles, uttering not the smallest sound. To be erotic in such circumstances, this is what makes it an art.”

  “Might even be,” says Gaurilal, “that these very restrictions on the poor, need for breath-control plus twisting about of the body to fit cramped and unlikely spaces, are what gave rise to yoga.”

  Zafar thinks about this for a while, he’s removed his glasses and polished them on his shirt-tail, then he replaces them and says, “No, I do not think so.”