Animal's People: A Novel

by Indra Sinha

  Well, the big flaw in Zafar’s theory is that it’s wrong. No one else will point this out, so it’s up to me. “Zafar brother, kids from the Nutcracker get used to hearing their mothers and aunts sighing, ‘Oh baba,’ plus whispers of ‘do it more quietly,’ they have to learn to keep shut and not giggle.”

  So then Zafar claims his theory is not spoiled by such cynicism, on the contrary it proves that the poor have further virtues. As well as being modest, inventive and long-suffering, they are also discreet and keep a sense of humour in the face of their troubles. He speaks of how people whose lungs were ruined by the Kampani’s poisons, who have difficulty just breathing, still manage to laugh. But when Zafar talks like this it’s not the laughter of the poor I hear, it’s the laughter of the Kampani that slaughtered them.

  Later, lying alone in my bed in the ruined tower, listening to the scorpions making their tiny sounds in the walls, the question suddenly strikes me, how does Zafar know so much about tiny rustling of sheets, harsh breaths etc., plus the need to keep totally silent during sex. Then of course I remember Somraj’s ability to hear the smallest sounds.

  TAPE NINE

  Going up the mango put the idea into my head, I swear that’s where it came from, until then I had never seen the frangipani in Somraj’s garden as anything but a tree. Beautiful white flowers it had, with yellow hearts full of scent, and if angels had breath their breath would be like the deep joy of those flowers, but it was still just a tree. Only after the mango adventure did I notice that this frangipani had a smooth trunk, no thorns or prickly bits, that its branches began low and would be dead easy to climb, plus a large branch was swaying only a few feet from Nisha’s bedroom window.

  Now as I’m looking at this tree, it occurs to me that I could climb up and just check on what she and Zafar were getting up to in there. Is this so wrong? I need to be certain that brother Zafar isn’t taking advantage, I just want to be sure. If I climb this tree it’s not to spy on Nisha but to guard her honour. You could even say it’s a duty. I owe it to Nisha. Girl like her, from a good family, she should save her chastity for marriage. If it becomes known that she’s been playing around, who’d marry her?

  Who’d marry her? Well, I would. My situation has never bothered her. Nisha accepts me how I am, when she calls me four-footed it’s fact, nothing more. With others there’s malice, Farouq is always gibing at me, even Zafar once teased, “Shall we photograph your gallop?” We’d just watched a show on Chunaram’s tele about a chap who set up twenty-four cameras in a line and fired them so, so, so, so, as a horse raced by to see if all its feet were ever off the ground at once. I thought, even Saint Zafar forgets himself and stumbles, yet by doing so he proves himself human. “If I galloped past those cameras,” I asked, “what would they show, a miserable animal or a miserable boy?” So Zafar immediately said he was sorry and gave me a hug, Farouq carried on laughing. Now here’s a thing, if someone says to you, you’re lazy, well it’s something you can change. If you say to me, Animal you are greedy, rude, stubborn, your cock is hanging out of your pants, all of these things I can change, what I can’t change is being a four-foot. To be made to feel bad because of something that isn’t your fault and you can do fuck all about, that’s cruel. Nisha could never be cruel. I’m thinking how kind and good she is to me, I doubt if I’ll ever meet another woman like her. I’m then thinking that if I was a really nasty person, I’d let gossip spread, because then no one else would marry her, but I care too much about Nisha. Morally I have no choice but to climb the tree.

  First night in the frangipani, I’m terrified. The leaves of that tree don’t grow thick like mango leaves, they’re more in clusters at the end of each stem, but the tree is towards the back of Nisha’s garden plus there are no lights in the lane, so no one can see me slipping up onto the long branch that goes past her window. It’s late, after ten, the sound of a sitar is drifting up from Somraj’s music room. Full of sadness it’s, like Somraj’s memories. Nisha’s window is dark. She’ll be tidying up, probably making her father a cup of tea. I know Zafar is there because his motorbike is outside. Not long now before they come up. I am petrified by the thought of what I might see. Once when I was small I caught the parents of a boy I knew, I went to their house looking for him. The house was one room which they all shared. No one was there, but noises were coming from behind a curtain pulled across a corner, I took a peek and found two brown monkeys having a wrestling bout. It took some time to realise that these were the father and mother of the boy. I said, “Hello, where’s Raju?” They jumped apart, looking round.

  “What are you doing, uncle?” says I.

  “Oh it’s you!” says the dad crossly. “I’m just looking for auntie’s earring.”

  “What, was she sitting on it?”

  “Why don’t you bugger off?”

  Well, Eyes, I never got a proper look, that’s why I told you the first naked woman I’d seen was Elli.

  The light goes on. With no warning I’m staring into Nisha’s room, a huge face is staring back at me. It’s Shah Rukh Khan, the movie star. Bastard, what right have his paper eyes to see the things that go on in this place, where I’ve never been? Just beneath Shah Rukh’s face I can see about half the bed. Now Nisha moves past it towards a shape in the corner. It’s a cupboard. Of Zafar there’s no sign, a few minutes later I hear the bike starting up and catch the red glow of his tail light turning and heading for Nekchalan’s. I could leave. Tonight at least, her honour is safe. I should go, because she may start getting undressed, but it’s too late, already Nisha is pulling off her kameez. Okay, so I won’t look. I am not here for a cheap thrill. She’s loosening the string of her shalwar. I’ll put my hands over my eyes. Shalwar’s off, hands are behind her back, then brassiere’s down, what a ravishing sight. After a while I tell myself it does not really matter, because I am here to guard her honour, and the only way I can do it is this, if it means getting a view of this thing or that, well it’s a price I have to pay. She stoops to remove her underwear. The things I witness now are not for you or the thousand other eyes. Try to understand, never in my life have I been with a woman yet have so badly wanted it for how I don’t know long. Like a performing bear that thing of mine stands up to dance. Lights are going on all over my body, senses are drowned in the rushing of blood, a pulse is thudding in my ears, do it do it, what? what? that that, no no, yes yes, really? really? yes yes, how? how? so so, o o, oh yes, oh no, oh fuck, that pattering in the leaves, it isn’t rain.

  The madness is over, my body doesn’t want to know me, it gets into a sulk, there’s darkness now in the castle of lights. Shame comes plus terror. How will I show my face to Nisha after disgracing myself in a tree outside her window?

  Well, I am sorry to say it really is not that difficult. Next day Nisha’s the same as always, all I have to do is forget last night. Think it never happened. This works well. I decide I will never climb the tree again. Relief. Four full nights go by before I set foot in its branches. This time Nisha is not alone. Now, I learn three things. The first is that Nisha and Zafar are not doing anything. I can see only the tops of their two heads, they must be sitting on the floor talking to each other. The second thing is that guilt is just a feeling, you can choose not to feel it, how else do the Kampani bosses sleep? The third thing is that no matter what I might see, there is nothing can I do about it. Even if I were to see Zafar and Nisha glued together like dogs, there’d be no way to stop them except by going to Somraj, and thus proclaiming to the world that I’d been spying. I need a cleverer plan.

  The idea that strikes is a good one, but involves my friend Ali Faqri who is not always easy to find, so the first step is to locate Abdul Saliq, the Pir Gate beggar. Eyes, I have mentioned this fellow before, it’s said that women can’t resist him, look at him you’d never know why. If you took a skeleton, chopped off one of its legs, removed half its teeth, dressed the result in rags and pissed all over it, this is the type of impression that Mr. Saliq likes to give.
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  On a blue morning, white doves fluttering in and out the arches of the great Pir Gate, I find Abdul Saliq at his usual post, leaning on his crutch with his hand out, uttering his well-known cry, Keep away, you faithless gits!

  “Hello Animal,” says he. “Been a while.”

  “Truly, guru. How’s business?”

  “God provides.”

  “You’re looking awful.”

  “Thank you. Keep away, you faithless gits! I do my best.”

  Sometimes strangers to the city will give Abdul Saliq a coin just so they can ask what his cry means. Slowly, like a cricket umpire giving a batsman, he’ll raise his finger, which does not stop until it is pointing at the arch far above. There, cut in the stone is a line of Inglis PROCUL HINC ABESTE PROFANI.

  “It means,” says he, “that you are entering the city of the elect, whereof the mystery is shouted from the rooftop, but none may decipher it, yea, except within their own souls.” This is the type of stuff that Abdul Saliq likes to say and do. Bit of chit, bit of chat, I’ve talked him into buying me a chai from the RTI shop, best in Khaufpur, nicely spiced plus frothed up with a pinch of salt, nothing like it, if you ever come here, Eyes, you should definitely try it. Costs two rupees per glass but Abdul Saliq is not short of money, plus he’s always generous to an ex-pupil. We get talking of the old days, I ask if he knows where I can find Faqri.

  “Working,” says he, giving me a look.

  “Care to tell me where?”

  “Over by the bus station. What? Does he owe you money?”

  “No such luck. Today I’m buying.”

  “I won’t ask.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  At this he laughs. “So it’s a girl.”

  “What’s a girl?” It never fails to throw me, this genius of Abdul Saliq’s.

  “Your problem, Kuala Lumpur Police Department.”

  “What makes you think I have that kind of a problem?” But of course he is right. After wishing khuda hafez to Abdul Saliq, he likes blessings almost as much as coins, I take myself off to the bus stands, pretty soon I’ve found what I’m looking for.

  Noisy place, is Khaufpur bus station. Dirty old buses pulling in and out, smokes of diesel, crowds pushing to get on, new arrivals struggling to get off, shouting at the porters who are climbing like langurs on the roofs of the buses, tossing down bits of baggage. “Ho you, put it down!” “Sir, I have already carried it.” “I never told you to.” “You never told me not to.” “You’ve taken it only ten yards.” “Minimum fee applies.” Attach to this the coughing of rusty engines, the cries of hawkers, the blaring of filmi songs, every bus a different tune, and you will understand that it takes an expert to pinpoint within this hubbub a small upset coming from the direction of the deluxe coach stand.

  A chubby, prosperous-looking gent has got down from the just-arrived a/c coach from Nagpur, he’s being accosted by a beggar boy. The kid is well into his routine, he’s pawing at his victim and whining, and the stout musaafir is perspiring and getting annoyed. He snaps at the beggar to leave him alone, but the fellow’s whines just get louder. “Hey master-ji, hey worship, sahib, you are my father, my life, you are my god.” “Don’t touch!” cries the mark. He’s having his shirt tugged, doesn’t like it. “Take your hands off me!” Great performance by the number one, he’s picked an ideal target and knows exactly how to get him seething, all set up for the switch.

  So, here’s Faqri now, the number two, just one more of the hundreds of faceless guys passing through that place. He stands looking on as the fat man addresses harsh words to the beggar. “Get lost, hop it, sod off.”

  Number one’s backing away, gone is his whine, he is mouthing the foulest insults he can think of. The mark’s furious eyes are fixed on him. Timing’s perfect. Yes, here it comes, beautiful really, the loud chuckle of disgust, Faqri pointing at the man’s shirt, then at the sky, I’m mouthing the next line as he speaks it, “Oh dear, bombed by the Khaufpur air force!” A vile looking splodge has appeared on the man’s shirt. Heads swivel upwards, looking for the guilty bird. I never see the number three despite I’m looking for him. The mark’s still cursing the mess on his shirt, his wallet is already half a street away. Faqri stays a moment longer, then fades away into the spectators who are cracking unkind jokes at the fat man’s expense. I’d clap, if I wasn’t using my hands to stand on. “Bravo, well played sir, more, more.”

  There are plenty more scams, we knew them all, Faqri and me, lost coins, cigarette-stub, spilled channa, bloodstain, broken-bottle, Scotch whisky, hair-oil scam, but the most artistic was the one I’d just watched. Get some lime paste from a paan-maker, mix it up with dirt, cowdung, tobacco juice, chewed grass, anything really. The effect you’re after, what you’re looking for, is a big white or brown splotch with streaks of black and green that looks as if it has just exited a pigeon’s arse. The rest you know. This was the bird-shit scam, we’d play it with me as the number one and Faqri like today flicking the bird-shit. Usually Abdul Saliq would find us the number three, had to be a specialist. We earned well, until I got caught. See, if you are going to con people and get away with it you have to be able to vanish in a crowd, but not many Khaufpuris go on fours, and that’s how Fatlu Inspector got his hands on me. First time I was arrested I got slapped about a bit, then ushered into His Highness’s presence.

  “Who’s your partner?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “Who nicks the wallet?” They hadn’t twigged the bird-shit, which is funny. Mark complains he was pestered by a beggar, a boy on all fours, and next thing he knows his wallet’s missing. Never mentions bird-shit. Well, it’s demeaning to be shat on, quickly as possible wipe from shirt and mind.

  “Which wallet?”

  “Don’t mess with me you miserable sonofawhore.”

  His fist thuds down, it was the first of many beatings I took from Reserve Inspector Prithviraj, the street folk call him Fatlu because of his massive butt and the way his belly bulges like it’s being throttled by his belt. Fatlu has hated me for years, he’d lay into me whenever he saw me on the street, didn’t even have to be doing anything. Well I can take a thrashing. I’m used to sticks thudding on my back. Beat, fuckers, beat harder, maybe you’ll straighten me out! If there’s a god, which I personally don’t believe, but Ma Franci says there is, he must have recorded every blow. Ma says that very soon all the bad people in the world will get what’s coming to them. I am happily picturing Fatlu with his balls in a truss pulling a cart lashed by demons when here’s Faqri standing beside me. “Saw you from over there,” says he.

  I congratulate him on a fine performance.

  “A little rusty.” We’ve left the bus station, Faqri checks the mark’s wallet, extracts folded notes fresh from some Nagpur bank, tucks them in his pocket. “These days I am more in the pharmaceutical line.”

  “I know. It’s that I’ve come to talk to you about.”

  “Shop’s not open today, so let’s go to my place.”

  Just outside the galla mandi, the vegetable market, on certain days you will find Faqri sat on a stool with packages of herbs and powders spread out on newspapers by his feet. This is his shop. The packets are unwrapped to show their contents, leaves, seeds, petals, roots. He sends kids to gather these things from all over the city. Some even grow in corners of the Kampani’s factory. He employs women to grind them and mix up with molasses to make pills, one rupee per pill, buy half a dozen he’ll pop them in a matchbox for you. Faqri’s pills can cure whatever you want and in a city like Khaufpur there’s no shortage of illnesses. He has pills for coughs and breathlessness and aches and pains plus the type of problems people don’t like to talk about. He tells me of the patients he’s cured. Woman had white water discharge. Man couldn’t get it up. Chap was worried because he has feelings for men instead of women. Faqri’s now such a medical expert, he’s thinking of calling himself “doctor.”

  “So you’re a sex-specialist?”

  �
��Specialist in everything,” he says proudly. It should be his motto. Look at his razor-crease pants, shirt with hoisted collar, Faqri is twenty years old, already you can see the man that’s coming, prosperous, devious, can’t give a straight answer, would make a perfect politician.

  Subtlety is of no use, I’ll have to be blunt. “I’m after something that takes away the sex urge.”

  “Takes it away? What? Your famous lund is out of control?”

  “Not for me.”

  “Lady friend?”

  Having no choice, I tell him the story.

  “Are they already doing it?” he asks.

  “How would I know?”

  “Jealous,” sniggers Faqri. “Wish it was you?”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” I say. “She is like my sister.”

  “Some sister,” says he. “Kuala Lumpur Police Department.”

  “Fuck off.” Kuala Lumpur Police Department, it’s a way of saying KLPD, which in turn is a way to say Khade Lund Pe Dhoka, or deception of the standing cock, c’est à dire, a pricktease.

  When we reach his place, Faqri sets about grinding some black seeds into a powder. A little bit later he shows me a thing that looks like a goat dropping.

  “One of these, he’ll feel sick as a dog, in no mood even to speak to a girl let alone get sexy with her.”

  “How long do they work for?”

  “One pill per day,” he says. “If things look really bad you could give one and a half. Do not exceed prescribed dose. How many do you want?”

  “Discount for quantity?”

  I go away with a plastic jar containing thirty-six pills.

  The first pill I give Zafar on the day of the big democracy. The democracy is a meeting where everyone has their say, followed by a big fucking row, after which everyone does what Zafar wants. This one happens in Somraj’s music room which he keeps sacred to goddess Saraswati and blue-throated god Siva. It’s a beautiful room to my eyes, it has walls of white, hung all over with instruments that make many types of sounds. There are bolsters, cushions, plus rugs spread on the floor, one came from Afghanistan, it was brought by a Hazara who traded it for singing lessons, pictures of helicopters and guns are woven into it. Zafar despises possessions, but these carpets are the only things I’ve seen him take pleasure in. “In Khorasan,” he told us, “the weavers tie one knot of the wrong colour because only god can make something perfect.”