Animal’s People

by Indra Sinha

  I was actually surprised that he agreed. I’d been thinking of my own case, plus I was trying to needle him. How could he carry on his long fight without hope? Wasn’t it he who’d said, “Why not today?”

  “That’s not hope.” He thought for a moment. “You can fight without hope, if the heart finds strength in something stronger.”

  “What’s that?” I knew I shouldn’t have asked.

  “Well,” says the fool, removing and wiping his specs as he always did when he was feeling emotional. “It is love.”

  randy Animal needs a wife

  how will Elli change his life?

  Eyes, did I just now say “Forget sex”? What fucking hypocrisy! Sex was the one thing I could never forget, my second impossible wish. My first wish was to stand upright, but why did I want that if not because it led to the second?

  talks of love, the little prick

  but anywhere would plunge his dick

  The thought of sex was in my head when I woke in the morning with my thing huge like a cricket bat, plus again when I lay down at night, thinking of what I couldn’t have. On nights when the urge was strong, let’s face it, almost every night, I’d pretend there was a woman lying beside me. She’d stroke me all over, when I was good and ready she’d show her secret place. The rest you may imagine, I certainly did, but of what use is a cunt of hay when it’s a real live creature you want in your arms?

  In what way would Elli change my life? Well, Eyes, you can call me seven suppurating kinds of fool, but if Elli wasn’t to mend my back, for me it left only one other possibility.

  Animal you stupid schmuck you

  really think she’s going to fuck you?

  One evening me, Zafar, Farouq and a couple of others from the group are in Nisha’s garden, looking at Elli Barber’s building. There’s a light on at a second floor window. A tree’s growing up right beside it.

  Zafar jokes, “Maybe we should climb up and see what’s going on in there.”

  “I’ll do it.” I don’t know why I say this. Not to impress Nisha because she isn’t there, maybe just to show I’m as good as them. Well, I’ve got strong arms, probably stronger than any of them. I can haul myself up with no need of legs.

  This tree, it’s a large mango, growing right by the building. We go over to it and Zafar says, “Do you need a leg up?” I tell him to fuck off, there’s enough knobbles sticking out I don’t need any help. After the first branch it’s easier but still not that easy. I’ve gone up the tree best I can arm over arm, the buggers below in the dark egg me on in loud whispers. “Higher, Animal, you bastard.” “Come on, show us what you’re made of.”

  Higher up the branches spread out and nearly touch the wall, but they’re starting to get bendier plus there’s still a long way to climb. I’ve to pull myself up, get an elbow over, haul my body across, then twist and roll my arse onto the branch. Tough work it’s, the legs being useless and all. I’m wearing nothing but my kakadu shorts, and getting scratched to fuck by thorns and twigs.

  “Fucker climbs like a monkey.” From the darkness there’s a laugh that sounds like that lout Farouq. I look down to give him a scowl, it’s a long drop to where they’re clustered at the foot of the tree.

  The building’s right across the road from Nisha’s house. From where I’m perched I can see Pandit Somraj sitting in his room listening to music. Listen, listen, listen, it’s all he does all day and night. If he isn’t listening to records he’s listening to the radio, if he isn’t listening to the radio, he’s listening to his students, or else to frogs and bicycle pumps and dripping taps. Nisha’s inside with her father. I can see her offering him a cup of something and my heart thuds like a dholak thrashed by a monkey. Taka dum takataka dum dhoiiing dhooom! Better she stays inside. Zafar said not to tell her what we were doing. Nisha wouldn’t approve. Spying on the Amrikan, she’d say it’s immoral.

  “Well done, keep going.” It’s Our Leader, always has an encouraging word. Mr. Perfect, fuck him.

  “Shut up!” I hiss. “She’ll hear you!”

  “Don’t worry she’ll think you’re a baboon,” says Farouq.

  I consider pulling down my kakadus and shitting on Farouq’s head, but I can’t see him well enough, just the glow of someone’s beedi.

  “Too big for a monkey,” someone else chips in.

  “What does she know?” says Farouq. “She’s Amrikan.”

  Eventually I get going again. I am still below the window but it is getting nearer. I can now see the ceiling, which is a bright pink, like the inside of a camel’s mouth. Here’s a woman’s hand, holding something red. It appears in the bit I can see, then vanishes again. This happens a few times. What is she doing? The buggers down below are silent now, they sense I’m on the brink. The hand comes up again, with the red thing in it. One more branch, it dips dangerously, I struggle to keep my grip. I can see her head. It’s glistening. The hand, holding a red plastic jug, appears and pours water over it. With her other hand she’s rinsing her hair. Now at last I’m higher than the window. Elli Barber’s in there, ten feet away. She’s taking a bath and she’s got nothing on.

  Her legs aren’t blue but as pale as milk. She reaches down and nothing is hidden from me. Next she’s soaping herself all over. Every part. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how a woman’s body is made, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen one naked.

  Yes, it’s the first time, except in sleep. Often I’d dream of making love with I won’t say her name. I never told anyone because if people got to know, what would they do, laugh at me, pity me? “Animal, don’t have those kind of hopes.” I’d see the warnings in the faces of old women who caught me looking at her. Animal mating with human female, it’s unnatural, but I’ve no choice but to be unnatural. Many times I would dream that she and I were in love, sometimes we were married and naked together like in the movies having sex. In such dreams was my back straight? Did I stand upright? No and no. I was exactly as I am now and it did not matter. Such dreams! I woke from them shaking with hope. This frightened me, I despise hope.

  “What’s going on?” comes the whisper from below.

  Elli turns away again. She bends, showing all she’s got.

  “Pssst, Animal?”

  I can’t answer. I can’t speak. She straightens up, pours more water and hai hai hai, what is she doing? She’s feeling her breasts. My heart’s thudding, I’m giddy, I grab at the branch above my head, there’s this great noise of leaves.

  Elli Barber comes to the window. She stands there drying herself with a towel looking this way and that. Any moment now she’ll look right at me.

  The light goes out.

  “Animal, what the fuck?”

  They want me to come down now, report what I’ve learned. I can’t move. There’s a furnace in my groin. No way will I go down and let them see me in this state. I am going to be up here for some time.

  Well, at least one part of me can stand upright.

  Eyes, I don’t know if you are a man or a woman. I’m thinking the things I am telling are not suited to a woman’s ears, but if a person leaves things unsaid so as to avoid looking bad, it’s a lie. I have sworn not to lie to you. If you feel embarrassed throw down the book in which these words are printed. Carry on reading it’s your lookout, there’s worse to come, don’t go crying later “Animal’s a horrible person, full of filth,” think I don’t know it already? Eyes, if you’re a woman I ask you not to leave me now, in this world my best people have always been women, such as Jara, Ma Franci, Nisha. If you’re a man it doesn’t matter, you’re a dirty fucker anyway.

  So I’m stuck up the mango.

  She comes to the window and looks out. There’s a bright bulb behind it’s outlining her shape, light is splashing the leaves in my tree. I am holding my breath hoping she can’t see in the dark. Man, this thing in my pants is hot and rigid, jutting that far it’s I’m thinking it’ll catch in the branches.

  The light goes out. A whisper comes from below. �
�What can you see?”

  What can I see? Are they mad? She’s still there. I’m sure of it, although my eyes are playing tricks. For the first few instants after the light’s doused all I can see is the ghost of the bulb, it’s burning violet with a green edge. Then a black square appears, which is the window, there’s a pale shape swimming about in it. She’s leaning out, taking a good look left and right.

  “Hey Animal, what’s there?”

  How come she doesn’t hear them? They’re not getting an answer, but what can I do? I’m stuck on the branch trying not to move. Breathing, what’s that? There’s a fishbone caught in my throat. I can’t drag my eyes away. I’m thinking any moment she’ll see two hot coals glowing in the tree. A whole dark age of the world passes before she leans back inside. Still I daren’t stir. What if she is still there in the darkness? Suppose she calls the cops? Spying on a naked woman, won’t the bastards be thrilled to see who they’ve caught? That Fatlu Inspector, at Habibganj police station, it’ll make his day to find me in this windy tree. He’ll drag me down and if this pole’s still sticking out the front he’ll break the fucking thing off and beat me round the head with it. But Fatlu Inspector does not come and after some time as the window stays dark I realise that she has gone. It takes me a full ten minutes to get down that tree, a dick-scraping slide every inch to the ground.

  They all want to know, “What did you find out? What did you see?”

  I said, “I’ll tell you later,” because at that moment Nisha came out onto the verandah. Nisha didn’t know what we’d been up to. Probably thought we were taking the night air. Enjoying the frangipani scent. It got me out of a difficult spot, didn’t want to tell Zafar & Co. what I’d seen.

  When we get into the light, on the verandah, Nisha says, “Animal, you’ve scratched yourself.”

  Sure enough, there are big scratches running down my chest where I’ve slid down that tree.

  “My god what has happened to you?”

  Well, there’s one thing I can’t do, which is lie to Nisha, so it’s, “Je suis monté dans cet arbre-là.”

  She gives me a look. “What does that mean?”

  I start mumbling some shit about mangos.

  “But it’s not mango season,” says Nisha. She turns to Zafar, who’s looking harassed. “What happened to Animal?”

  A frown appears on that high forehead of Zafar’s. He pushes back his specs like when he’s about to make a speech, but before he can say anything, Farouq chips in and says, “Oh he just slipped.”

  “Slipped?” She’s looking at me with concern, I swear. That girl is sweeter on me than she realises. It comes out in moments like this, you can’t hide it, if you really care for someone.

  “How did he slip?”

  “Tripped,” says Farouq.

  “How could you trip?” she asks me. “You’re four-footed.”

  Then she’s staring at my shorts. I nearly die. Let that damn thing not be showing. “You need proper clothes. You’re always wearing those filthy old things. I’ll buy you some new ones.”

  “Don’t want new ones,” I mumble. “These are my kakadu shorts came from the jarnalis, name’s Phuoc, from a crocodile place. Special hero shorts, two side pockets, two gusset back pockets, two front patch pockets, useful for stashing stuff like my Zippo,” this kind of thing I’m babbling.

  Zafar says, “Leave him, we have things to do.”

  But Nisha takes me aside and brings some neem ointment, yellow it’s plus smells bitter, to put on my scratches.

  “I can’t reach under there,” she says, meaning my belly, because I’m still on all fours. “You’ll have to sit. Or go on your side.”

  I roll over like a big dog, like Jara does to have her belly tickled, Nisha starts rubbing the ointment on my stomach. Her fingers touching me, I’m afraid my thing is going to come to life again, maybe she’s sensed, because she traces the scratches down to the belly button then gives me the tin and tells me to do the rest, plus to hurry up because they’re waiting for us inside. They are about to have another of their endless meetings. Then she says she’ll hang around to make sure I do it properly.

  “You go. It’s you they’re waiting for.”

  “Not just me,” says Nisha, watching me apply the stuff. Plain she might be but’s looking good. Once you’ve seen it in someone’s face it’s always there, I won’t say beauty, but whatever you might call the thing you love. It’s the way the hair hangs across her face. She was chewing her lip, which she does when she’s thinking and which is that thing of hers that gets me.

  “So sweet, you’re,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “Silly Animal,” says Nisha, now smiling, “your hair’s all jungli, it’s matted up full of dust, there are twigs in it. Come, I’ll brush it.”

  So I am sitting there while she runs her fingers through, teasing out the tangles, then she starts to brush it, aaa aa aiiiee, catches here, aiiieeaaaa, tugs there. Zafar comes out to look for us, I’m looking at him, I’m smiling.

  “Ça va, Animal?” he asks, who has learned it off me.

  “Si heureux je vais mourir.” But this he didn’t follow.

  Dying of happiness, was I? Not for much longer, for after the meeting they went to her room, leaving me grinding my teeth below. I was obsessed with what they were doing together. Imagining you-know-what led to my voices having a great argument. One said it had foreseen that things would come to this. Another held that Zafar would be mad to do ghuss-pussy stuff in the same house as Pandit Somraj, who has the hearing of a bat, can strain his ear to hear an ant fart. Bollocks, said a third, a man’s a man, with a thing between his legs and a man’s deep urge to plant it in something moist and willing.

  Of course this was no excuse for poisoning him.

  TAPE SEVEN

  Last night I dreamed of Zafar. He was heading up Paradise Alley into the heart of the Nutcracker. Nearly double he was bent, his long nose pointing sorrowfully at the ground. On his head was his favourite red turban, his beard was untrimmed, on his back he carried a shining world, blue as a flycatcher’s wing, criss-crossed by tiny lines. The sun’s heat was falling down on him. Heavy must the world have been, Zafar was staggering, his arms reaching up behind his back could hardly hold it, but he was taking one step at a time, like he did everything with careful patience. A small child walked ahead of him, going to school I suppose, he had a slate on which some abc and 123 were written. Nisha was in the dream too, tagging along behind Zafar, begging him to let her share his heavy burden of the world’s pain, but I don’t think he could hear.

  My battle with Zafar was hotting up. Grim animal living without hope, that’s how I saw myself. I asked nothing, expected less and was filled with anger at the world. Zafar was always giving me chances to prove what a good-hearted trustworthy guy I was. It had turned into a kind of contest. He deliberately placed more and more trust in me, I did the tasks he gave me with greater and greater contempt. Often I’d take on big tasks for which I was unsuited. One of these days, I thought, preferably when your life depends on it, I am going to let you down.

  One day Nisha brought to one of our meetings a woman called Pyaré Bai. Pyaré sat on the floor with her sari draped so it was covering her face, in a sad voice she told us her story. Eyes you should hear it, because the story of this one woman contains the tale of thousands.

  Pyaré Bai was married to Aftaab, he worked in the Kampani’s factory, and he told her how dangerous were the chemicals in there. If by chance you got any on your hand, Aftaab said, the skin would blister. On that night he was at home off duty, when the stinging in the eyes began, the burning chillies, unlike most people he knew what to do. He covered the faces of Pyaré and their two young daughters with wet cloths then led them, walking not running, out of the wind. In this way they escaped where most of their neighbours perished. All were nevertheless damaged by the poisons, Aftaab the worst, because he’d taken less care over himself, he was coughing foam tinged with blood, his eyes were nearly
shut. When they returned home all objects of metal, like cooking pots, had a green crust. Aftaab would not allow Pyaré and the children into the house. He cleaned everything, washed every corner before he let them in.

  At first Aftaab seemed to recover, but his old job was gone, he was too breathless to be able to do physical work. His condition grew worse. His eyes suffered, he got rashes all over, plus fevers and pains in his joints. Pyaré bought medicines. Aftaab told her not to waste money on him, for he would die. She said, “How can I not?” “Think of yourself and the children,” he said. “When I am gone, what will you live on?” She replied, “Har ek warak mein tum hi tum ho jaan-e-mehboobi, hum apné dil mein kuch aaisi kitaab rakhté hain.”

  “Wah wah,” says Zafar. He’s taken off his glasses and is wiping them. Blinking, he’s. What does he think, this is some fucking poetry recital? Eyes, what she said means this, “On every page there’s you and only you, oh love of my life, it’s this book I keep in my heart.”

  When her husband got really ill and could no longer work, they ran out of money and had to sell their small house. They moved to a rented place with half a roof. It was the only place Pyaré could find, right by the stinking naala, in the monsoon the rain came right in. The small girls were always hungry. At night they cried. She would bind cloths round their waists and give them water to fill their empty bellies. She found a job carrying cement on a building site.

  “When I started work,” said Pyaré Bai, “my husband apologised to me for putting me through all this. How often did he tell me not to spend money on him and his illness? Don’t waste your money, he said, I’m going to die anyway. And he did…he left me alone.”