by Indra Sinha
At this the minister looks miserable and even as she asks, Elli realises it is pointless. No one will believe a word he says.
“The people behind this so-called boycott, who are they?”
Hearing Somraj’s name he scowls. “That bunch, they are troublemakers. Professional activists. Dear lady you should realise that they have an interest in promoting Khaufpur as a tragedy. Ask yourself, if the problems are solved, what will happen to their funding? It will dry up because there is no further need for it. For this reason, they are bound to oppose any and all efforts to improve the situation.”
“And my clinic is one of those efforts?”
“What else?” says he. “Why else are you here?”
Tea comes on a tray of silver, brought by a bearer in a fancy uniform. Elli who does not like tea with milk in, watches as Zahreel Khan sips his tea and eats cake. He has dainty fingers, for so large a man.
“Mr. Khan, why am I here?”
“My dear, who should know better than you?” Zahreel Khan’s eyes have by now zigzagged their way to her blos.
“How was it that I wrote so many letters, for months I had no reply, then suddenly it was all go?”
“Permission in such cases takes time to arrange, obviously,” says he sounding aggrieved. “After all, it’s a virtually unheard of thing, a foreign woman coming on her own, in a strange country.”
“What about Mother Teresa?”
“Idealism doesn’t work in Khaufpur,” he says. “I think you are beginning to find this out.”
Elli tells me she could see his mind calculating how long it would take before she’s worn down and broken by the heat, dirt and despair of Khaufpur.
“So are you saying there’s nothing you can do?”
“I’ve already done all I was asked,” says Zahreel Khan, looking at his watch.
“Animal, I just don’t know what he meant by this,” Elli says.
But listening to her words, I’ve felt a strong alarm, because again in her mind there’s that uneasy darkness.
Elli’s finished her tale of Zahreel Khan, now from across the road comes the sound of someone singing, it’s Dil Hi To Hai Na Sang-o-Khisht, a ghazal of Ghalib’s, I’m hoping Elli won’t start pounding her piano and spoil it.
“Animal, the piano. Would you like to play?”
Okay, Ghalib I can hear any time, when will I ever again get a chance to play a piano?
“Come and sit here, on this stool.”
So I’ve climbed and faced the piano. “Now spread out your hands like this and place them on the notes. Play, one at a time, like this, do re mi fa so la ti do. That’s what the notes are called.”
“This is the same as our sa re ga. So this one is sa,” I’ve pressed a key.
“Your sa is our do,” she says.
“And this is re.” Ding goes the next key.
“Your re is our re. Same name, same note, they’re exactly the same in both our musics.”
“Now listen.” Elli takes over and plays wonderful clusters of notes, different from anything I have heard before. Somraj will play one note after another, very fast and graceful, but these notes combine to chime, they sing together, sometimes three, four, even five of them, each with a different voice, the effect is very beautiful.
“Okay, now you know the notes, let’s make a tune.”
“How?”
“Just use one finger, like this.” She plays one or two notes, but then two together. So I’ve done the same.
“Think of some words we can fit to your tune.”
So I’ve thought of some words, and she’s helped me make a song of them.
I am an animal fierce and free
in all the world is none like me
crooked I’m, a nightmare child
fed on hunger, running wild
no love and cuddles for this boy
live without hope, laugh without joy
but if you dare to pity me
i’ll shit in your shoe and piss in your tea
“That is so sad,” says she, laughing.
“If it is sad, why are you laughing?”
“I don’t know,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “Maybe because otherwise I would cry. The idea of living without hope, it’s terrifying.”
“Elli, it’s just a song. This is how it is, in the kingdom of the poor.”
“I guess,” she says, “I was thinking of my mother too. In her bad times she didn’t know what was going on, but she had sane moments too. She must have known her case was hopeless.”
“You learned to play the piano for her.”
“That’s right. I learned all her favourite pieces, they’re still all I know, really. The other night I was sitting here, trying to think what my own favourites were, I couldn’t think of one.”
“Elli, I think you are very lonely.”
She says nothing, but nods.
“Pandit Somraj, it’s a pity you didn’t get on, he is a decent man, plus he is fascinated by music. You should try to get to know him.”
“How can I, when he is boycotting me?” Now she’s dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
I should have taken that moment to tell her that it is not Somraj who is doing the boycotting, that he has in fact all along spoken out against it, but for some reason my lying mouth stays shut.
“Now, how have you been?” she asks, and the chance has gone. Long I spent, that day, talking to Elli doctress. Down below her staff closed up the clinic and left. All kinds of things she told me, about her town, her family, her parents. Eyes, you shall hear this from her own mouth soon, so I’ll not spoil it. Plus she said that the very next day she would take an X-ray of my back. It’s dark by the time we finish talking.
As I step out of the clinic, ready to head home to Ma Franci, there arrives the moment I’ve been dreading. Pandit Somraj is standing outside his door. “Animal, please spare me a minute.”
No escape, now I am fucking for it.
“Yes, sir?”
“Were you there to hear her playing?” he asks.
“I was. Plus I played myself. I made a song.”
“Very good. How did you do it?”
“Elli doctress taught me. Sir, she showed me how to put my hands on the piano, and press the keys to make sa re ga etc. Also, in her music re is called re, which is the same as in ours, she was very pleased by this.”
“Was she now?” The way he says this, I’m thinking now he’ll get furious, but instead of shouting at me, catching my ear or landing a kick to the arse, he just puts his hand on my shoulder and says in a friendly tone, “Son, we have all missed you.”
“Me, sir?”
“You, sir. My daughter was worried.”
“Sir, no need for worry.” Oh happy, happy. Pandit Somraj has forgiven me, plus called me son plus Nisha cares about me.
“You had other business to attend, no doubt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nothing to do with frogs, I suppose?” His face is stern as ever, but his shoulders give a twitch, on this day of surprises not only have I seen Pandit Somraj smile, but now I realise that he is doing his best not to laugh.
“Fully not frogs, sir.”
“Goodnight, Animal.”
“Sir, goodnight.”
“The kingdom of the poor, I want you to take me there.”
It’s the day after the petition. Despite promises, not one of those who signed yesterday have turned up to the clinic. I’ve come for my X-ray, expecting to find quite a few others, but apart from me and Jara the place is empty.
Elli says she has decided to take matters into her own hands. “If the poor won’t come to me then I will go to them. I will confront them in their own houses, I’ll rouse out the sick and ask them straight, ‘Will you die listening to rubbish, or will you let me help you?’”
“Well, I don’t know,” says I, thrilled by this tirade. “Seems nothing’s changed. People still think they must avoid.”
“You’re here, aren’t
you?”
“I do as I please. Maybe I’m jamisponding on you.”
“Jamisponding?” When she realises what this means Elli starts laughing, after she has finished laughing she says, “Come on, let’s get these X-rays done, then can we go?”
“Of course, we can go.” Must be that I hesitated for she’s sensed something is wrong. “What’s up? Don’t care to be seen with me?”
“It’s not that.” I get on well with Elli doctress, plus because of my back I don’t want to upset her, but a principle is a principle.
“First there’s something we must agree.”
This principle, it’s one of Chunaram’s, in fact his only principle, since no others does he have. Elli seems not very sharp on the uptake so I’ve to explain.
“There’s a question of the fee.”
“What?!”
“For this type of work I always get a fee.”
“A fee?” she says again, as if she has not heard me right.
“Fifty rupees. Nothing it’s, to an auto-riding superstar like you.”
“Animal, you’re amazing, you really are.” Shaking her head, she’s. “Do you actually have a conscience?”
Well, conscience I don’t believe in, if I was given one I’d hand the fucking thing straight back. “Elli, this is my business. For showing foreigners round I always get a fee.”
“I thought we were friends,” she says, looking kind of hurt.
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Friends don’t charge each other for favours.”
“We are friends,” says I, “but not equal friends.”
“Crap. Of course we’re equal.”
“No, we’re not. You are rich and I am poor.”
“What has that to do with friendship?” She’s led me through to the room where’s the X-ray mashin. “Come on, you’re joking.”
“Elli, someone like you needs a lot of money. How could I go about with you? I can’t even afford to stand you a Coca-Cola. You know how much I spend in one day? Guess.”
She thinks then says, “Forty rupees.”
“Forty?” I’ve laughed till I’ve choked, held up some fingers.
“Four?”
“Yes, four.”
“That’s ten cents US. No one can live on that, not even in Khaufpur. Move a little to your left.” While talking she’s positioning me against the X-ray mashin. A little this way, a bit that.
“You’re right. No one can, but I do. Know how? I walk everywhere, four legs, leff-rye-leff-rye, no autos for me. All morning I’m roaming around doing my work. Two rupees I’ll spend on chai. Lunch I eat at Pandit Somraj’s place, no cost. Every afternoon I’ll show up at Chunaram’s. One rupee’s for a samosa, one more for a chai.”
“How about we make a deal? You do this for me just as I am doing this,” she waves at the X-ray mashin, “for you.”
“Elli, you may choose to work for nothing, but why does that also have to be my choice?”
She’s thought about this. “You said our friendship was not equal, well I am giving you something, you can give me something, each of us gives freely, not because we have to, but because we want to. This makes us equal.”
“Elli, this equality leaves me broke.” Got to stop her cheapskatery, so I jerk my chin at Jara, who’s lying near Elli’s feet, panting, with a dog smile on her face. “Why’s the dog allowed in, Elli? So desperate you’re for patients, you even took me.”
“Goddamn!” she shouts. “Hold still. Take a deep breath and shut the fuck up! One…two…three…”
When the X-ray is done she says to me, “Now you listen to me. I’ll do what I can for you because I want to. I’m a doctor, that’s what I do. But I’m damned if I’ll pay you to take me around. So make up your mind. Will you do it, or won’t you?”
So I’ve thought about this, then called to the dog. “Come on, let’s go.”
We get to the door of the room. Elli’s still standing by the X-ray mashin, looking really sad.
“Well, madam doctress? What are you waiting for?”
This big smile appears on her face. She runs up and gives me a hug, for which she’s got to get down on her knees, she kisses me on both cheeks, I’m thinking how I love being hugged by women, also I’m thinking stop, stop, stop, because I’ve got Monsieur Méchant living in my pants.
“Forget your doctress’s bag, forget you know Hindi, people will be shy to speak if they know you can understand. Make out you’re some dumb fucking jarnalis. Look around with big eyes. Sigh a lot, ask stupid questions in Inglis. Then you can see for yourself how things are.”
“Do we need an auto?” she asks, “your friend is probably outside.”
“No more autos for you, Elli. You cannot enter the Kingdom of the Poor except on foot. Come on, I’ll show you. Full tour. Everything. Follow me.”
I’ve run à quatre pattes into the Claw up past Nekchalan’s shop, where his spoony mates are gathered. She’s following some way behind. “Good morning,” she says, polite as a pot of ghee, hypocrite bastards, they don’t reply. The lane’s crowded, hard for her to keep me in sight so I lig on slowly, Jara the dog keeps stopping and looking round as if to say, come on Elli, hurry up. Once or twice I check back that she’s there. She’s not happy. Quite a few low-lifes there are in the Claw, their eyes glued to those bluesy melons, sweet-sweet noises they’re making like you’d tempt a dog. At last she’s followed me out of the Claw through a gulli to the main road. At the city end this same road is smarter, there’s more money, big shops there are, families with fat children licking ice creams, in our part it’s a filthy chute with truck exhaust for air.
Across the big road we come to the corner of Kali Parade and take the road that runs past the Kampani’s factory. On our left now is the wall, high as a man, covered with writing, some of it’s by Zafar and friends, who paint at night when the police are asleep. Zafar’s lot never write what they really feel which is FUCK YOU WICKED CUNTS I HOPE YOU DIE PAINFULLY FOR THE HORRIBLE THINGS YOU DID TO US AND THE ARROGANT FUCKING CRUELTY YOU’VE DISPLAYED EVER SINCE. They write high-sounding shit like JUSTICE FOR KHAUFPUR and KAMPANI MEET YOUR LIABILITIES but in a few places freer spirits have been at work. HANG PETERSON and DEATH TO AMRIKA. These are the bits the munsipal scrubs out which need repainting more often than any other.
“Aiwa! Aiwa! Aiwa!” No sooner do we enter the Nutcracker, that place assembled by an earthquake, than there’s a gang of kids on our trail.
“Animal, Animal,” comes a little voice I know well. Someone’s running along behind us. “Animal, who’s this? Where are you going?”
“Hi Aliya, this is a very important jarnalis. Don’t make her cross because she eats small children. It’s what they do in her country. They roast them with yogurt and mint leaves.”
“Don’t be silly,” says the child. “Can I come too?”
“Where do you think we’re going?”
“How should I know? But you always do interesting things.”
“What do you think we’re doing today?”
“Going fishing?” she asks hopefully.
“I’m taking her to meet your granny and grandpa.”
“Then I won’t come,” she says, making a face, and runs off.
Low are the doorways we come to now, perfect for a four-foot animal. I know a lot of people here, so I’m in and out, calling greetings to those inside. People come stooping to their thresholds. Some stare. Others beckon us in but I tell them we can’t stop.
It’s old Huriya’s house I’m heading for, an earthquake-erected room with a floor of bare earth. The air is made delicious by the smell of wood burning in the hearth. I love the scent, plus these people, Aliya’s grandparents, Hanif and Huriya, she’s squatting kneading dough on a board.
“Hello Dadi, what’s cooking?”
“Hello Animal, I’m making rotis for his lordship’s meal.”
Hanif’s bent in front of the cage in which are his two green and purple parakeets. His fingers
feel for gaps between the wires, when he finds one he feeds in a seed, one seed at a time. He’s looking not at the beautiful birds, but up into a corner. Hanif hasn’t seen a thing since that night.
“Who’s this you’ve brought with you?” the old lady asks.
“Oh no one, just a jarnalis.”
“Another one?”
“Well you know, Chunaram collects them.”
“Will she have tea?”
“She’s Amrikan, there’s no way to ask her.”
“Well, if she can’t talk, she can’t refuse,” says Huriya, reaching for the pot in which they store water.
“Don’t waste it, Dadi.” Huriya’s old, the pump’s a long way off. “We’re not stopping long. We’ve just come from the Chicken Claw.”
“A guest in the house and you talk of waste!” She starts unscrewing a paper containing some black tea leaves. “I’ll send the child for more later. So what’s the latest from the Claw?”
“Haven’t you heard? Yesterday the foreign-waali doctress was trying to entice people into her clinic. But still no one’s going.”
“Yes, we know about that,” comes the gruff voice of the old man, Hanif Ali. “I don’t agree with it.”
“As if that Kampani has not done enough wickedness,” Huriya says. “Make your friend comfortable. Ask her to sit.”
“She’s not my friend, she’s a jarnalis.” Elli pulls a face, useless jamispond she’d make. “So why don’t you agree with the clinic, baba?”
“You’re hearing me wrong,” says the old boy, giving a harsh cough. “I don’t agree with what’s going on. A clinic is a clinic. So what if it’s paid for by the sisterfuck Kampani? Don’t they owe us for the harm they’ve done? Isn’t our own granddaughter sick and needing good treatment?”
Elli says to me in Inglis, “Call the child. I’ll look at her.”
“Not a word of Hindi does this fool jarnalis speak,” I’m shaking my head sadly. “Aliya’s out there somewhere. Let me call her.”
“Leave the child be, we have a guest. Will she take something with her tea?” Huriya gives Elli an encouraging smile. “These rotis are nice and hot.”
Elli’s looking as if she wants to say something, but she mimes no thank you, and returns the smile.
