by Indra Sinha
WHEN THE PEOPLE WAKE
Police are arriving, wearing metal helmets and carrying staves, they line up outside the gates of the CM’s house. Someone shouts “CM’s car is coming!” Under the trees people stir, the crowd’s getting to its feet, it surges forward under a forest of waving placards.
POLITICIANS QUIVER, KAMPANI TREMBLES
RIP-OFF LAWS BEGIN TO TOTTER
AND THE CM, DIRTY ROTTER, SHIVERS WHEN THE PEOPLE WAKE
A couple of cops standing near me, their lips are moving silently. Like the rest of us they are murmuring the familiar words, one’s even tapping time with his staff. “See these fuckers, how they’ve made their fucking bellies,” says a man in the crowd, but so amused am I that the police are singing, that I call, “Let them be, cunts that they are, they’re also sons of ordinary folk.”
A new shout tells that the CM’s car is arriving. As usual I can’t get a view, so I’ve climbed onto the roof of the loudspeaker van, song’s rumbling out from the speaker right by my head. As the CM’s car passes, its flag is the only thing waving, occupant is wearing a fuck-you look. I know that look, I used to know the CM quite well. Faqri and I took to going to his house after we heard that he gave free meals to people from his home town, Sitapur. We did not know where Sitapur was, but nobody questioned us when we said we were from there. Mutton curry we’d get and roast chicken hot from the tandoor. The CM would sometimes come and question us about life back home, so we would invent whatever it would please him to hear. This happy state of affairs lasted until the CM went back to Sitapur where some idiot accused him of breaking a promise to his brother. The CM took the speaker by the arm, dragged him to the village temple and called on the gods to witness that this allegation was untrue, plus on the spot he swore to give up alcohol and never again touch meat, so after that Faqri and me stopped going.
The pandus have formed two lines, a kind of tunnel through which the car moves. At the last minute the big gates swing open, CM’s in, cops reform in front of the rapidly closing gate. A second line of police forms in front of the first.
“Come out,” Zafar shouts, and the crowd chants, “Out! Out! Out!”
The CM has not the slightest intention of coming out. He’s in and that’s that. Lights go on all over. Master’s home. The servants will be running round, there’s dinner to be served. So what’s he be doing now? Accepting a cup of tea from his loving wife, patting his kids on the head, asking how the homework’s going, or if there’s anything worth watching on the tele tonight?
With a blip and a twang the loudhailer hurls Zafar’s voice across the crowd, the music from the loudspeaker van is meanwhile blaring, so Zafar’s comments are clashing with the song.
“COME OUT, CHIEF MINISTER. WE WANT A WORD.”
“COME OUT, DON’T SELL OUT!” yells the crowd.
Zafar walks forward, stands right in front of the line of police.
“COME OUT CHIEF MINISTER, TALK TO YOUR PEOPLE!”
The crowd’s mood has changed, no longer’s festive, full purple darkness is upon us, only a few lights glitter on the black waters of the lake. Abruptly the song cuts out and there’s only Zafar’s voice repeating his call over and over.
“COME OUT CHIEF MINISTER, WE ARE WAITING FOR YOU!”
Cries of fear go up from the crowd, great bats are swooping out of the dark and flitting in circles and complex figures above our heads, the ghosts of that night are with us, that’s what people are saying.
“WE WILL STAY HERE UNTIL YOU COME OUT!”
Dark vans are drawing up, police are jumping out, wicker shields they carry, and rifles. Among them, I swear, is my old enemy Fatlu Inspector. These new cops right away begin to force their way towards where Zafar stands. The crowd, sensing their intent, presses more closely about him.
At that moment a man comes from inside, speaks urgently through the gate to the senior cop who’s standing with arms stretched gripping the gates as if he alone is preventing the crowd ripping them down. The message is relayed to Zafar.
“CHIEF MINISTER, YOU CANNOT MEET JUST OUR LEADERS, YOU MUST FACE US ALL.”
The emissary goes back inside.
“CHIEF MINISTER, IF YOU WON’T COME TO MEET US, WE’LL COME IN TO MEET YOU.”
The cops begin a new push for Zafar & Co. They grab a man and drag him off struggling, the enraged crowd grabs him back. Now the mood is nasty. Stones and half bricks start flying through the air, the police are forced to lift their shields against this hard rain. The small victory is greeted by ironic cheers. Without warning the loudspeaker van begins to move. I have to scramble off as best as I can, the driver leans out to curse me as I slide down his front glass.
At that same moment I’ve spotted Fatlu Inspector with a group of cops trying to sneak round the back of the crowd. A devil of mischief enters me, badly I want revenge for all the blows and insults Fatlu has heaped on me. I grope on the ground for a good-sized stone. Here’s one the size of a guava, hard it’s, with sharp edges. Sitting to free my shoulders, I’ve hurled it with all my strength at Fatlu’s back, it catches the cunt square, spins him down, he’s on the ground yelling in pain. Shot sir! His men are looking to see whence the stone came, but I’ve dodged behind a tree. Three of them start towards me, dogmeat I’d have been for sure, but at that moment a new commotion kicks up. The CM has come out on a balcony with a loudhailer of his own. People now begin calling for quiet to hear what he has to say.
“I WILL NOT YIELD TO THREATS,” booms the CM, the loudhailer makes him sound like his mouth is full of razor blades. A huge shout of anger greets these words. “NO DECISION WILL BE TAKEN THAT IS NOT IN YOUR BEST INTERESTS.”
“WHO DECIDES WHAT ARE OUR BEST INTERESTS?” replies the metallic voice of Zafar.
“YOU HAVE NO CAUSE TO WORRY. THIS I PROMISE.”
“HAHAHA!” goes Zafar’s loudhailer. “PEOPLE, TELL THE CM WHAT WE THINK OF HIS PROMISE.”
“Yes, of what use are your promises?” people call. “Was it three or four years ago you promised us clean water?” “What do you make from the pollution board, 50 lakhs a month is it?” “Have fun shagging your friend’s wife?” “Your father was as bad who got his servant pregnant.” More join in, and more. “How much has the Kampani paid you?” “Won any lotteries recently?” “How’s the transport business?” which is a dig at a scam which involves Farouq’s gangster uncle. Thus do the enraged Khaufpuris dredge up twenty years of grievances and gossip and scandals to hurl in the face of the CM and the anger of the crowd is turned to mocking laughter. Truly in the scam game the politicians make us street performers seem like amateurs.
“THAT’S ALL I HAVE TO SAY. GO BACK TO YOUR HOMES.”
Taking his own advice, the CM vanishes. Immediately the police charge forward, there are screams from the crowd, the thud of heavy staves on thin backs, but people are in a bitter mood. They retreat to open a space and the cops are soon being pelted with stones. I see one clutch his eye and collapse.
BANG! FATAAK! BANG! It’s the sound of firing.
Amazing how quickly thousands of people just vanish. The grass beneath the tree is empty, but the fireflies are still twinkling, lamps left by the crowd have been kicked over in the confusion, they lie burning here and there on the grass. A breeze blowing up from the lake catches these flames and makes them dance. A small group of protesters surrounded by cops is moving away from the CM’s house. Among them I make out Zafar and Nisha. There’s a scuffle. The police have got hold of Zafar and are laying into him with their sticks.
“Nisha!” I’m shouting, galloping that way, because she’s in there, clawing at the cops, trying to pull them off Zafar. A motorbike roars into the melee. Our friends drag Zafar free of the cops, he’s mounting the bike, with Nisha behind him.
“Nisha!”
“Animal,” yells Zafar, “fuck off back to your job, stay there till I call you.”
No Bhoora at Jehannum gate, half an hour it’s before he chugs in with news that there’s big trouble in th
e city, rioting in Jyotinagar and the Nutcracker. I’m filled with fear for Ma. Often people bring her home and report that she had been found wandering. Who or what might she encounter in those dark alleys, if she gets lost with a head full of visions and cauchemars on such a night? I tell Bhoora, “Brother, go, make sure Ma is okay. See that she has the dog with her and ask the neighbours to watch. I have to stay here.”
With Bhoora gone there’s no auto to curl up in. I can’t stay at the gate, so I decide I will creep into the hotel garden and look for a spideyhole. Must be careful, things are quietening down but there are still people about, doormen stay on duty all night plus there’s sure to be a chowkidar prowling.
Rich and delicious scents rise up from Jehannum’s damp earth. What? Has it been raining? The monsoon is still some weeks away, it’s the dryest season of the year. Fool! In the haunts of the rich, rain falls daily via a hosepipe. Darkness, trees. What spirits haunt here, what emotions still charge the air, the rage of those dishonoured by the Chhoté Nawab? After creeping for some time through bushes, admiring the passing scents of roses, jasmines and other flowers whose names I do not know, I find myself in a shrubbery looking at the swimming pool which is lit from under the water, making a blue shining shape in the grass. Beyond are verandahs, which must belong to the suites of the Amrikan lawyers. It’s as good a place as any to hide, I can still see the hotel entrance and will be able to note cars coming and going. I lie in the bushes, thinking about the demo and what’s happening in the city.
Some yards away is a tree with coloured lights looped in its branches, very pretty it’s, underneath it are long tables covered with white cloths and on the cloths are dishes of food. These dishes have not yet been cleared away because further away are still one or two guests in basket chairs, with waiters coming and going bringing drinks. The aroma is very distracting. I swear I can smell kebabs. The demo and all of that fades into the background. So hungry I’m, my mouth is watering. Try to think of something else. From inside the hotel’s coming the sound of a piano like Elli’s. Oh baba, it’s kebabs, plus chicken from a tandoor. Well there are not that many people about, plus plenty of shadows, too the brightness of the pool makes everything around it look dark. I’ll have to make a dash for the food. Must be done. No other choice, there’s. I wait my moment then creep out, low to the ground. My dark bare skin is blended into the Jehannum night, my kakadu shorts are dark because filthy. No one sees. People see what they are looking for, no one is looking for me, but what I’m looking for is there in abundance, crisp samosas with spicy sauce, bhajias and kebabs of all kinds. I settle under the table, pull down a corner of the cloth till I am pretty well hidden. In no time at all I’m gobbling like a dog.
The piano has stopped. Of a sudden I hear voices near, crouch further under the table. Next moment the hairs on my neck are lifting.
One of those voices is familiar. Carefully, oh so carefully, I lift the corner of the cloth. I peer out and oh god, what I see fills me with fear. A few yards away is the youngest of the Amrikan lawyers, the handsome one. Walking beside him is Elli. They are deeply into a talk, like two people who know each other well. Not just well, very well. The lawyer guy reaches out and touches her arm, it’s a thing you can only do to someone you know intimately. She does not protest or prevent him. It’s horrible. Somraj you poor fucker. This man is a Kampani-wallah, he works for the Kampani, yet she lets him touch her. What does it mean? A sick feeling’s throughout my body. All her stuff about hating the Kampani is lies. She did come from the Kampani. Zafar was right.
I’m crouched under the table as they walk past. Elli’s taken this lawyer’s arm in her two hands and’s looking up at him. They’re talking in Inglis but I recognise the familiar tone of her voice. In reply he’s leant and kissed her cheek. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and says, “You have done a great job Elli, you can come home now.”
O you foolish people, with your karnails and jarnails and paltaniyas, you naive trusting ignorant twats, deaf you are and blind to your fate, the earth is trembling all right, yes, it’s the abyss opening under your feet. You’ve been betrayed. I have been betrayed. When I hear the lawyer say that thing and see him kiss Elli whom I’d trusted, I start shaking, I’m trembling so hard that I think the cloth must surely slide off the table. It’s not anger I am feeling but terror. I knew the world was evil but never did I realise how fucking evil. Now it shows its true face of horror. I want to howl. She never meant any of it. All that talk of me walking again, all just lies.
I beg a ride from an auto and head for Somraj’s house. No money have I, but the auto-wallah doesn’t argue, without me saying anything he can tell it’s important. My news is so big, I should go there right away, if they’re asleep I should bang on the door and throw stones at the windows. With what grief do I enter the garden gate and the frangipani scent? The house has lights on, so they are awake. But now something weird happens, I find that I cannot go in, I don’t want to and I can’t exactly work out why. There’s a rowing of voices in my head, which seems to have split into two heads, each shouting at the other. Fool! yells the first. If you tell what you’ve seen it’s the end of Elli, she’ll have to leave Khaufpur, what then of two-legged walking? Stop your bakwaas, says the other head, you have lost nothing, she never meant it so it was never there. You can’t keep quiet about this, you cannot side with her. She is a stranger, she’ll soon be gone and your life is here in Khaufpur with the people you know. Wait, screams the first voice, you too have sordid secrets, you should keep hers. Your secrets can no way be compared to hers, retorts the other, spying on naked women is one thing, betraying a whole city is another. Look, says the first head, just say nothing and no one’s hurt. Everyone is happy. Show me the problem with that. The problem, says the second voice, is that you have to live with yourself. Exactly, cries the first, it’s a question of self-interest. Don’t you have troubles enough? If life’s taught you one lesson, it’s look after number one.
Endless the way home is, there’s moonlight on the ground, splashed all over, making familiar ways strange, it’s glittering in the gutters, washing over small unlovely things, transforming them into precious objects. At the corner of the Chicken Claw where the gulli goes to the main road a piece of shiny foil from a tobacco sachet has been lying for at least five days, on the main road itself, as you cross to Kali Parade, that heap of bottles is diamonds, on the wall the letters HELL WILL REIGN look black in the light of the moon, close by is a blown-apart rubber ring, a dead truck tyre in which weeds have rooted. How well I know this city’s zameen, its ground, from an altitude of two feet, this is my home earth, discarded things are my city’s treasures, this wall is its history plus also where its history finished without warning when no one was expecting it, on a night of moon alchemy just like this. Past the rusty gates I go, past KILLER KAMPANI and skull, the moon is shining on my arms and hands as they pace forward before my face, I am a silvery beast casting a four-footed shadow on the factory wall.
I’m heading home and normally I would go across the railway into the nearer end of the Nutcracker and thus to Paradise Alley but there is a shorter way. On this night perhaps because I am thinking of Elli I turn north by the tracks and make my way along the wall to the hole where I took her into the factory. Looking through I see leaves caught by the moon. In, then, the smell of chemicals rises to meet me, softly I move through the long dry grasses, thumping my fist on the ground every few paces to warn the snakes that I am about. Of snakes there’s no sign, but after ploughing a hundred yards through thick grass I come to one of the dead zones. Suddenly there’s rough growling, one of the guardians it’s, maddened by the moon and glaring, but I know how to deal with dogs, I take a step towards it and say “Brother dog or bitch sister I can’t make out which, quit your tamaasha I am in shit just like you are, so fuck off and find someone else to annoy.” The creature turns and disappears into the bushes. Nearby is the poison-khana with its pile of poison rocks and its stairs to nowhere. Seize
d by an impulse, I don’t know why, I find a ladder and start climbing. Instantly the whole structure vanishes, it takes a second to realise that a cloud has blotted out the moon.
Up on the highest platform, where the death pipe starts its solo climb into the sky, I’m sitting with my arm round its blackened stack, the city is mapped out below in a million pricks of light. Join the brightest dots, you get the lines of the main roads. High above the lake is a cluster of lights, it’s Jehannum, a little way below some lesser lights where a few hours ago the demo was held. Around me the factory is a region of darkness, a black shape outlined by the low glimmer of slums. Now a strange thing happens. In one instant all the lights of the city go out, between them appear pale shining shapes, triangles, squares, oblongs, in Chowk the minars and dome of the mosque are shining, it’s like my eyes are playing tricks, then I realise that the moon is out again.
There’s a battle going on between earth and sky, war is being waged between the light of human beings and the light of the moon, I am thinking of Somraj, because his name means lord of soma and soma is the moon and also the golden sun. Somraj, what will become of you? This animal, with his inner eye, sees you crushed beneath heavy blows. My news will wreck you. I think you will die, Somraj, because death has been in your mind a long time. That dream of yours, the one which keeps coming back, which won’t leave you, Nisha told me, it’s your memories of that night, but in the dream all the things of then are happening over and over again. You are in a street where lights are reduced to pinpricks by a thick cloud of gas. In this dim kerosene light dying figures are stumbling past. Nafisubi Ali’s child is standing at the corner, crying for his mother. The boy’s crying grows louder until in your mind it becomes a raga, one so awful that no instrument except the human throat can sing it. This raga fills you with fear and despair. Your mouth opens and emits no sound. The dead in their hundreds are sprawled in the roads, they are leaning half upright in doorways, their mouths are open and they are singing, out of their throats the death raga pours in green gusts, it swirls round them and flies in your face, in that green burning fog your world is lost.
