by Indra Sinha
“Silence is what makes sound into song.” This is what Nisha’s father Pandit Somraj told me one time, amazed I was that he talked to me. This was not long before Elli’s arrival, which I’ll come to soon. It was the rainy season and I was on the verandah peeling potatoes, admiring the large frangipani tree that grew in his garden. During the monsoon it would make flowers, white with golden hearts and such a scent, somewhat like jasmine. On this day the tree was full of flowers, rain was dripping through its leaves. Pandit Somraj came out and stood for a while beside me.
“Are you hearing it too?” he asked, solemn as ever.
“Hearing what sir?” As you know I was scared of Somraj, plus he’s the kind of man you can’t say a bad thing about, nothing’s scarier than that.
“In Inglis,” he says, “there is a word SILENT, which means khaamush, it has the exact same letters as the word LISTEN. So open your ears and tell me, what can you hear?”
I could hear nothing save a frog calling, crikkk-crikkk, crikkk-crikkk, happily looking for another frog to fuck.
“Just a frog.”
“Just a frog? Let me tell you, that frog contains more music than most pandits. This song of his is said to inspire the note of dha, which is the sixth note of our scale.”
“Sir,” I said, “I think you are making me a Cha Hussain.”
“Not a bit, I am quoting the opinion of a sage called Kohala, he was the son of Bharata, who wrote Natyashastram, it’s our earliest book on music.”
He looks so solemn, standing with his head cocked on one side listening to the randy frog, that I can’t help it I start laughing and he says to me be quiet and listen, music does not all have to be made with strings and bows and pipes, it can also be made by drops of rain or wind cut by a leaf.
“Sir, I don’t understand.”
“Do you like music?”
“Very much, sir,” says I whose deep voice can carry a film song, oh yes it’s chai chappa chai with full wiggling of upraised backside, wah wah darlings, where will you find better entertainment? Of course I could never speak of such things to the great Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur, these low performances are reserved for Chunaram’s chai shop.
“Would you like to learn singing?”
“I would be no good, sir.”
“Sing a note for me please.”
“Please no sir.” Who was I to sing to him?
“Go ahead without fear,” he says kindly, which I’ve dared not refuse so I’ve opened my mouth and sung, “Aaaaa!”
“Well, you make a pleasant sound. So then, if the frog is dha then you have just sung ga, the third note. So sing again, ga. Now if I sing pa, the fifth note, then between you, me and the frog we have a tune, we can even say it’s like raga Deshkar. Like this, listen, ga pa dha ga dha, dha pa ga, ga pa dha pa ga, ga dha, ga pa dha, pa dha ga pa.”
But these notes he does not sing, he speaks them. “Animal, if you know how to listen you can hear music in everything.”
Then he says that according to the old writers, peacocks, goats and even the grey herons which sometimes we’d find dead beside the Kampani’s lakes, these creatures too sing notes of the scale, and if you listen carefully you can hear the same notes in many other things which you wouldn’t expect such as the creaking of bicycle wheels and bhutt-bhutt-pigs because all things make their own kind of music. “Listen to how the rain is dripdrop dripping into the pond, plink PLONK plank, it’s raga Bilaval.”
Never had I heard him utter so much, nor had ever he addressed so many words to me, I sat thrilled as he spoke on, until at last he came to an end, gave me a friendly look and said, still without a smile, “Please don’t mention this conversation to anyone else, especially to Nisha, I know you are close to her, if I talk to her of such things she becomes afraid that I am losing my wits. But I understand that you too have a power of hearing, so you will understand.”
Actually what I understood was never mind bicycles, if the poor sod hears music in such things as bhutt-bhutt-pigs, he must be fully fishguts. If he had not been such a forbidding man with good reason to have lost his noddle I might have made a joke of it, but on every subject other than music he was totally sane, and the fact that he was Nisha’s dad, plus I had my lunch every day in his kitchen were good reasons to be civil.
On a morning of rain, cloud horses pissing in the eye of the world, Nisha says to me, “Animal, coming to the court?” Seems there’s yet another hearing in the case against the Kampani. I’ve no particular love of the court, who’ve seen more than enough of it in my scamming days, but “Why not?” I hear myself say. “I’ve nothing better to do.” Well, it’s Nisha.
Normally Nisha would have gone on Zafar’s motorbike, but today as there’s three of us, we take Bhoora’s auto. Eyes, you want to know what is an auto, it’s a scooter-rickshaw with three wheels, except the way Khaufpuris drive they spend more time on two. Bhoora hangs round the Chicken Claw, if you see a guy curled up asleep in the back of his auto, spirals of orange peel on the ground nearby, you can be sure it’s Bhoora. Wake him up his deep-set eyes will open and look at you as if you’re part of his dream, then slowly he’ll start to grin. “Kyoñ Khãn, aaj kahaañ chalogé?” So, brother, where to today?
The three of us are in the back of the auto, Zafar is looking at papers, Nisha’s just gazing at the passing city and I am pressed tight between them feeling the warmth of her thigh against my hip. Things start happening in my kakadu shorts, relief it’s when Bhoora from the driver’s seat turns to engage Zafar in conversation.
“So Zafar brother, will there be some progress in the case?”
“Who can tell?” says Zafar, flipping over pages. “One day something must surely happen, why not today?”
“That’s a fine philosophy,” says Bhoora. “Me, I’d have long ago given up.”
“Giving up is not Zafar’s style,” says Nisha from the danger side.
“Eighteen years, it’s the lifetime of my eldest,” says Bhoora. “Boy’s just got married, his wife has a liking for chicken, daily it’s Selim get me a chicken, and make sure it has no pink feathers.” Bhoora swerves to miss an onrushing bhutt-bhutt-pig. “How is the boy to afford any chicken let alone a non-pink one?” Eyes, I should explain that at Khaufpuri chicken centres they put a pink mark on yesterday’s birds, which are cheaper because they’ve been in the cages an extra day, it makes them taste not so good.
“Bhooré miyañ,” says Nisha, “you can’t blame the girl for being used to good things. This is your fault for finding him a wife with expensive tastes.” She leans past me and gives Zafar a smile which turns my stomach.
“So what’s he doing now, your son?” asks Zafar with a chuckle.
“Zafar bhai, he wants to be an engineer, but I told him, all such fancy ideas forget, learn to drive an auto, it’s not such a bad life.”
“Auto driving is honest work,” says Zafar, “but an engineer’s wife could eat chicken twice a day.” I can hear the bugger’s mind churning, he’s thinking how he can help Bhoora’s son find the money for training. No wonder people adore him.
“At least I now know what advice to give,” says Bhoora. “Zafar bhai says tell your wife that one day she will surely have chicken, just she may have to wait eighteen years.”
The case is supposed to start in court two, Naya Adalat, at ten o’clock. Quarter to ten we are outside, half past ten we’re still waiting. There’s just Nisha, Zafar and me. No sign of judge, lawyers. Defendants are a whole nother joke, eighteen years late, what’s a few more minutes?
“Such a faith in the law my dad has,” says Nisha, “he should see this.” She tosses her hair, which is a thing girls learn to do from the movies to show they’re annoyed, then gives a little glance at Zafar. I really hate seeing her look to him for approval, but Zafar just nods, again checks the clock.
I’ve tugged his trouser to get his attention. “Why don’t you wear a watch?”
“What, and handcuff myself to time?” He gives me a grin. He’s thinking, I gues
s, that I’ll ask him to explain, so I don’t ask.
Nisha leans against Zafar and closes her eyes, putain strokes her hair.
“In this very court,” I say to break the fucking spell, “I used to be a mystery defendant.” So then they want to know how, when, why etcetera, and I’ve done the voices.
—Case against boy known as Animal, section chaar sau bees.
—Where is the accused?
—Your honour he is here.
—Where? I don’t see him.
—Right here, your honour, in the dock.
—Don’t be silly. I am looking at the dock, there’s no one there.
—Your honour, accused is of unusual stature.
Zafar’s chuckling. Nisha pats my shoulder. “Such a fool.”
“Not such a fool,” says Zafar. “Empty dock’s our problem too.”
Ten to eleven the judge finally turned up, arrived too are some local lawyer types in black suits. “New judge,” sighs Nisha. “I was four years old when this case began, now it’s had thirteen judges.”
“Lucky for some.” I’ve climbed on the backs of the public seats, which is the only way I can catch a sight of the new milord, plus it brings my head close to Nisha’s. She turns and smiles at me. Every bad thought about her and Zafar, they are instantly forgotten.
The judge is sat wrapped in a black robe looking serious, the legal types are gathered in front of him, talking loudly.
“I just wish…” says Nisha, again turning her head to me, I can smell the sweetness of her breath. “Yes?” But she’s abruptly stopped because a familiar voice is speaking. It’s Zafar. He introduces himself, seems he’s an intervenor in the case. Zafar’s specs are flashing, beard’s jutting, he says he has a petition to put, at which a couple of the local lawyers start giggling.
“My lord,” says Zafar, “there are two sets of defendants in this case, first there are the local accused, employees of the Kampani, their personal defence lawyers are here before you. Then there are the Amrikan accused, ergo the Kampani itself plus the big bosses who took the crucial decisions. For the past eighteen years these Amrikan defendants have not shown up in this court. They have not even bothered to send lawyers. They sit in Amrika claiming this court has no jurisdiction over them, yet nothing can be achieved without them being here, thus these proceedings drag on and on, for the people of this city justice continues to be delayed and denied.”
“I have done my homework Mr. Zafar,” says the judge drily. “What is your point?”
“My point, sir, is that thousands in this city have died since that night, for them was no justice. The factory is abandoned full of chemicals which as we speak are poisoning the water of thousands more. Must all perish before these Amrikan defendants appear? Speaking plainly, with no disrespect to you, I think in no other country would the law be allowed to become such a farce, if the will existed to resolve this matter, it could have been done long ago.”
Sniggers come from the local lawyers, the judge is tapping a pencil on his desk, looking irritated. “So have you come to lecture us?” he says. “Or do you have something useful to say?”
“Sir,” says Zafar, “the Kampani chooses to ignore your court, but this same Kampani has many offshoots and subsidiaries trading in India. Our prayer is for you to issue a summons to the Kampani and its named bosses in Amrika, requiring them to submit themselves for trial before this court. If still they do not appear then in accordance with the due provisions of the law, let all the Kampani’s assets in India be attached.”
Well, at this, a couple of the local lawyers start giggling. “Your lordship,” says one, “we have lost count of how many times over the years this petition has been put by Mr. Zafar to your lordship’s learned predecessor in this case, before that to his learned predecessor, going further back, to his predecessor and his too, and so on beyond memory. Always it was deemed devoid of merit.”
Holy cunt, what a twisted nain rabougri is this from our own city to take the side of the Kampani? I’m glaring at this bugger with such hatred, he can surely feel me raal tapko’ing the back of his neck.
So then the judge is looking even grimmer, pencil’s tapping so hard I’m thinking it will make a hole in his desk. The lawyer who spoke is looking smug, now Zafar’ll get what for, here comes a right fucking coup de bec.
Says his lordship, “Are you appearing for the Kampani, Mr. Babulal?”
“No milord.”
“Mr. Babulal, are you familiar with the essays of Francis Bacon?”
“No milord.”
“‘Private opinion is more free, but opinion before others is more reverent.’ Try to remember this, Mr. Babulal.” The judge clears his throat. “Mr. Zafar, let a list of the Kampani’s assets in India be drawn up and entered to the court. This case is adjourned, I will reserve my decision.”
Well, no one can believe what they have just heard. The judge leans back in his chair, like he’s relishing the sensation he has created, then he turns to Babulal and says mischievously, “I will be happy to lend you my Bacon.”
After this, great rejoicing there’s on our side. On the steps of the court Zafar makes a speech. He says, “Friends, the Kampani sitting in Amrika has everything on its side, money, powerful friends in the government and military, expensive lawyers, political masseurs, public relations men. We people have nothing, many of us haven’t an untorn shirt to wear, many of us go hungry, we have no money for lawyer and PR, we have no influential friends.”
“Fuck all do we have,” shouts someone.
“Thank you,” says Zafar, all grinning, and for once does not rebuke the swearer. “Yes, we have nothing and this makes us strong. Not just strong, but invincible. Having nothing, we can never be defeated.”
Some puzzlement there’s, but Zafar rides over it. “The Kampani and its friends seek to wear us down with a long fight, but they don’t understand us, they’ve never come up against people like us before. However long it takes we will never give up. Whatever we had they have already taken, now we are left with nothing. Having nothing means we have nothing to lose. So you see, armed with the power of nothing we are invincible, we are bound to win.”
I’ve not heard this before, I guess it’s Zafar’s new theory, but give it ten days and it will be on everyone’s lips. How happy the bugger is, he wipes his specs. Rewears them. Declares, “Friends, today something new has happened, little enough it may be but we are going to celebrate. We’ll have a picnic. We will take our whole crowd to somewhere outside the city, some spot where there’s trees plus water, we’ll take with us bread and chicken and sweets, we’ll make tea on a fire of sticks.”
On the way home he makes Bhoora stop at a chicken centre and buys two of the biggest, juiciest fowls, not a speck of pink on their wings.
“Bhooré miyañ, here’s one for your daughter-in-law, one for your wife.”
The birds are trussed and thrown, flapping, into the auto behind us.
“Just think,” marvels Bhoora when he has finished thanking Zafar. “After eighteen long years, after all today was the day.”
“We have not won yet,” says Zafar. “But we have to start winning one day. Why not today?”
“Why not today? Why not today?” Nisha and I start chanting. Soon Bhoora and Zafar have joined in. “Why not today? Why not today?” To people in the street, to turbans and dhotis, shalwars and saris, to all the citizens of Khaufpur, we’re calling out, “Hey, hey, why not today?”
Soon after this I have a roundabout of madness. What happens when I go mad, the voices in my head start yelling, new voices come gupping all kinds of weird and fantastic things, words that make no sense, such as “give us a garooli” meaning a cigarette, which I don’t even smoke, or “arelok pesalok shine from your darling arse,” whether it may be some different language I don’t know. Some of these voices I’ve already mentioned. They started when I was small, after I had the fever that bent my back, at that time most were friendly, told me stories, gave advice that saved
me from quarrels etc., but they can also be nasty. They’ll tell me to do bad things, or else they will say some evil thing is about to happen which often it will, during these bouts I’ll be light, full of glee, I might do crazy things, I’ll shout out whatever the voices say.
In this particular madness, the voices are yelling and arguing, they make so much noise I can not hear what’s going on around me. It gets so bad I tell Ma. She’s taken me to the big hospital where they say, joking aside, you go in with one illness come out with three. In she marches, me walking on fours at her side like a dog and demands to see the head doctor. “Mon fils est malade, il entend des voix dans sa tête.” No one’s understanding a word except me who’s thinking it’s nice she’s called me her son. Because Ma’s a foreigner and’s making a grand incomprehensible fuss, they don’t kick us out, but take us to the chief doctor, a high professor is he, Khaufpur’s greatest expert on children born damaged by the poison.
This saala, old and fat he’s, a much-writer, a whole row of pens in his shirt pocket, his head is filled with knowledge about the crazy, demented kids of Khaufpur, but never before’s he met anyone like Ma, jabbering in her own tongue, pointing at me. The doctor gives me a brief look then turns to Ma and in a rough way asks, “So what is his problem?”
“What niaiserie is this?” snaps Ma, who’s no doubt thinking that such a big doctor type should make at least some effort to speak like a human being.
“Wants to know what’s wrong with me.”
“J’ai déjà dit!” complains Ma. “Il entend des voix. Il parle avec des gens qui n’existent pas.” Eyes, if you don’t know français, it means, I’ve already said! He hears voices. He talks to people who aren’t there.
“What is she saying?” asks the doctor. “Tell her I am the director of this hospital, she can’t come just like that into this office.”
