by Indra Sinha
She began to cry, Nisha sat next to her and hugged her. After this Pyaré Bai showed us pictures of her daughters. The younger one was beautiful and wild, looked much like her ma. She passed round a picture taken when she was a new bride, it showed a young smiling Aftaab miyañ, next to him was a girl dressed in short kurta with two plaits and curls plastered round her cheeks. Nisha said, “I saw this at your house. One of your girls said, ‘Ammi looks like Mala Sinha.’ ‘No,’ said the other one, ‘like Sadhna.’”
Again both were in tears. I couldn’t understand why Nisha was so moved by this particular story, all of us worked every day with people with awful tales to tell. The wedding picture gave the answer, the happiest moment in the love affair of a Hindu woman and a Muslim man. Like Nisha and Zafar.
After Aftaab’s death the moneylender sent his goons after her. These were guys whose eyes were red from drinking, mean miserable mother-fuckers, they carried Rampuri flick-knives and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. They stood in the gulli outside her house and called in loud voices. “Ohé bitch, are you in there?” “Whore, have you forgotten the money you owe?” “Have some pity,” she told them. “My husband has just died.” They walked into her house and took things. They took her cooking pots. They wheeled away her husband’s bicycle. “Well, he won’t be needing it any more.”
At the end of this narrative all are in tears, except me who never cries and for each story as tragic as this can narrate ten that are worse.
When Pyaré has gone, Nisha says, “We have to do something for her. We’ve got to get those goons off her back.”
“There is a problem,” says Zafar. “How can we help one and not others? If we help Pyaré, where does it end? How can we say to her neighbours who also have suffered terribly, we’ve helped her but we can’t help you?”
“Zafar,” says Nisha, “I don’t know the answer, but I know that if I do not help that poor woman and her daughters, I myself will die.”
“You shall not die,” he said. “This is what we’ll do. We will ask twenty friends to start a fund, I’ll here and now put in a thousand rupees.”
“And me,” said Nisha.
“I too will give a thousand,” said Somraj.
“And I,” said Farouq. They looked at me but I looked the other way.
“Animal?” asks Zafar. See? He’s determined I should have the opportunity to show the generosity of my spirit.
“Twenty,” I mumble.
“When we’ve paid Pyaré’s debt,” said Zafar, “we’ll begin a new work, a trust to give low interest loans so people are not driven to these scum.” Thus spoke Zafar bravely, but I caught his groaning thoughts and knew that another heavy burden had just been added to the world he carried on his shoulders.
The money when it was collected was a lot more than twenty thousand rupees. It could not be given to Pyaré Bai because the moneylender might trick her. It needed to be given direct plus a receipt obtained.
“I’ll take it.” This is me.
Says Zafar, “I think better not this time.”
“What, don’t you trust me?” This time I’ve got him.
“You’re right, I don’t. Not your honesty, your big mouth it’s I don’t trust. These are bad guys.”
“I’ll take it,” I repeat. “Trust can’t be cut. You either trust or you don’t.”
Zafar fiddles with his beard, ponders. “Okay then, you take it, but Farouq will go with you.”
It was the most money I had ever carried, enough to buy a house.
The moneylender was P. N. Jeweller, shop’s in Iltutmish Street, in the Chowk. Farouq and me, we’ve wandered up there slowly through the noise and smells, pakoras frying, crowds, money’s in the bag round my neck.
“Her arse man,” says Farouq, “it’s like two sweet juicy melons, wouldn’t I love to sink my teeth into that?” Guess who he’s talking about.
“You have a disgusting mind,” I tell him. “Even a gutter born person like me doesn’t talk that way.”
“Doesn’t talk, but thinks,” says he, laughing. “I’ve seen you looking at her, plus at Nisha too. You four-footed bastard wander the city with dick dangling, in secret you wear out your fist.”
Well, there’s truth in this, Eyes, I won’t deny, but don’t tell me he doesn’t do the same, or you for that matter, can you honestly say you’ve never touched yourself, so what’s the big deal?
“Trouble with you, Animal,” continues Farouq, we’re passing the Hanuman temple where the milkmen gather each morning, “is you think because you’ve a crooked back and walk with your arse in the air no one should dare to criticise you. I’m an animal, always you’re bleating, I’m an animal, I don’t have to do like the rest of you, laws of society don’t apply to me because I’m such a fucking animal.”
It really irritates him that I choose to be an animal not human, it’s like grit in his eye. “Wasn’t me who gave myself the name of Animal,” I reply. “Plus who was it just now called me four-foot? Oh, I do believe it was you.”
“Don’t whinge,” says he. “This is Khaufpur. In this city if a man is lame he’s called Langda. If he’s cross-eyed he’s Look-London-Talk-Tokyo. These are just fucking words, call him Raju or Razaq, doesn’t change what he is.”
Not very bright, is our Farouq. Really, he should have been a mechanic, or a goonda in a criminal gang like his two brothers. First he does not realise that everything’s just fucking words, second this edge he misses, that when I say I’m an animal it’s not just what I look like but what I feel. “Your name should be Hypocrite,” I tell him, “because in front of people like Somraj Pandit you act respectable, at Muharram you’ll walk across hot coals to show how pious you are, three-sixty-four other days you do not set one foot in the masjid, nor do you say daily namaaz, behind the backs of the mullahs you are up to all kinds of dirty adventures.”
I say this because of him visiting the houses near Laxmi Talkies.
Eyes, till now I’ve not told you much about Farouq, except that he’s Zafar’s number two. You must be wondering, what’s a roughneck like him doing mixed up with Zafar and Nisha, how come he does a caring kind of work in return for next to no pay? Hardly the type he’s, his uncle is Afroze Khan Yar-yilaqi, a big gangster in Khaufpur, mixed up with transport scams, smuggling, liquor, all kinds of stuff. Farouq’s dad is the younger brother of this godfather but the two of them had quarrelled. Two years ago Farouq’s father fell seriously ill, he could not get proper treatment, it was Zafar who fixed it, since that time Farouq worships Zafar, he came to work with him, for Zafar and Nisha he’ll do anything, but me he treats like shit, he says it’s what I deserve.
Farouq’s people are Yar-yilaqis. They came to Khaufpur from Yar-yilaq, it’s a region near Samarkand. This happened a long time ago, maybe three hundred years, Farouq told me about it once, guess I wasn’t listening. There’s a whole Yar-yilaqi quarter of Khaufpur, the women in that district wear high heels under their burqas and lipstick under their veils, but if you upset one of them with some Eve-teasing type of remark she’s liable to out with a knife and stick you, this too Farouq told me, in which case it’s a shameful miracle that he has lived so long. Always though there’s hope that one day he will burn to death. Each year at Muharram, it’s tradition for Yar-yilaqi men to show their purity of heart by walking with bare feet over a bed of hot coals. Farouq does this every year, he’s proud of it.
Any mention of the firewalk is bound to cause trouble between Farouq and me, in past years like others I’ve gone to see it, to get any kind of view I’ve had to shin up something, last time it was scaffolding where they had put a TV camera, my jumping about was making it shake. Farouq yelled at me, “Animal, get down, what are you doing here anyway, little shit, don’t even believe in god?”
“Since when do jungli creatures have to believe?” I yelled back.
“Get a religion and learn some respect.”
So I’ve informed Farouq that with us animals, our religion’s eating, drinking, shit
ting, fucking, the basic stuff you do to survive.
“You dirty fucker,” he said, “all this animal crap, it’s just an excuse for behaving badly.”
Now, when I mention Muharram, which is drawing near, he gets hot under the collar and says that this year I had better not try any such tricks or he will personally throw me in the fire.
“Think I’m afraid of the fire? Go across fast enough it doesn’t have time to burn, otherwise a filthy-souled person like you would burst into flames.”
“If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it?” he challenges.
“Well, maybe I will.”
“Big fucking mouth you have, you won’t dare.”
“Want to bet?”
“Bet,” says he, so he bends down, we shake hands, cut, and it’s done.
The jeweller’s sat on a cushion, talking with a friend. We say why we’ve come, I remove the money from the bag and count it out before him.
“It’s the debt of Pyaré Bai. Zafar brother says to tell you this is a complete end to the matter, you should now return her belongings.”
The guy’s checked the money with a look on his face like he never really wanted to see it again, this is the way these moneylenders work, lend a small amount, interest of ten percent per month, who’d want the money back?
“Zafar bhai said to give a receipt.”
“Zafar bhai this, Zafar bhai that,” the man sneers. “I know your Zafar bhai, he’s a troublemaker, always sticking in his nose where it’s not wanted.”
“His nose is fully wanted. Zafar bhai also says that you are to leave Pyaré Bai alone, there must be no more harassment.”
“Listen to this sadak chhaap giving orders to his elders and betters. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Just give me the receipt,” says I, “names we can swap later.”
The moneylender by now is angry, he’s called out behind and a couple of his goons come into the shop. “What’s up, boss?”
“This kid,” he says. “Needs a fucking lesson in manners. Needs to learn how to show respect.”
“Give me the receipt for the money,” I repeat, beginning to feel alarmed, for if I don’t get it, this guy could deny he ever received the cash.
“Sisterfuck, let me tell you, you don’t talk to me that way, understood, or I’ll kick your crooked arse out all the way down the street to Hazrat Mahal and from there maybe also to Ram Mandir.”
At this, Farouq who is leaning in the doorway picking his nails starts laughing. “That I’d like to see, uncle, it’s all this bugger deserves. Many’s the time I’ve been tempted to plant a foot on his unlovely butt. I’ve known him since he was a snotty kid of fifteen, never had he anything but abuse for his betters, so I fully understand your problem with him. His attitude is bad, his manners are uncouth, the stupid fuck actually thinks he’s an animal. This kid needs straightening out, your shoe up his backside would probably do wonders. Trouble is,” says he, “if you kick his arse down the road, I’ll be forced to kick yours right after him.”
The moneylender looks at him in wonder. “What’s this? Another insolent time-pass man, you and he are together?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” says Farouq, still looking at his nails. “I would not take pleasure, well not a lot of pleasure, in breaking your legs, but if you talk to me that way, don’t blame me if that’s what happens.”
“Saalé,” grunts one of the heavies, “just who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I think I’m Farouq Khan Yar-yilaqi. If you ever want to find me, ask for me at my uncle’s house. His name is Afroze Khan. I guess you’ve heard of him, if not just head down to Ajmeri gate, anyone will tell you the way.”
We got our receipt, hurriedly signed by the cringing moneylender who also promised to deliver Pyaré Bai’s pots and bicycle back to her without delay.
“You fucking hoodlum,” I said to Farouq, we were outside again, heading for Chunaram’s, “from where did you learn those B-movie dialogues?”
“Animal darling, don’t tempt me.”
“Well,” says I, “looks like we’ll be doing quite a bit of this type of work. I too should practise dark speeches, like Shatrugan, BATTAMEEZ KUTTÉ, MAIN TUMHÉ NASHT KAR DOONGA!!!” Shameless dog, I’ll destroy you!
Several passersby jump and start looking round to see where this terrible threat has come from. Farouq’s killing himself laughing. “Animal,” he says, “you might be an okay guy, if you weren’t such a cunt.”
TAPE EIGHT
A mystery is Elli. Zafar’s tried all his sources to find out who she is and where she has come from, come up with a big fucking nul. All we know is she had a big job in Amrika, she gave it up to come to Khaufpur. Then one day Dayanand lets slip that she had worked in a hospital for veterans.
“What’s the name of the hospital?” asks Zafar when I tell him this.
“Medical Centre.”
“Which medical centre?”
“Just the name’s Medical Centre. Dayanand said it was a huge building that stands on a hill. Veterans are soldiers.”
“I know what veterans are,” says Zafar. “Surely now we can trace her. Did he say which city?”
Nisha says, “I will go tomorrow and search on the internest.”
“What? You think Elli doctress’s picture will be on the internest?” I’ve given a loud snort of amusement.
“Why is it funny?” asks Nisha.
“I know what all kind of pictures are on the internest.”
They’re staring at me like I’ve said something wrong so I’ve nodded my head at Farouq. “He told me.”
“What did he tell you, darling?” It’s Nisha. Now they’re all laughing, except Farouq who looks like he’s wishing he wasn’t there. So here’s a chance to screw that fucker.
“He said it was part of my education. What he’d show me I’d never forget.”
Farouq too’s pretending to laugh. “Fool can’t take a joke,” he says, but I can hear his thoughts gritting, little bastard, my boot, your arse, so I’ve winked at him which makes him even madder.
“Animal, there are all kinds of things on the internest,” says Zafar, “not just the, er, what Farouq may have mentioned.”
“Can I come with you?” I ask Nisha. “The internest I would like to see.”
“Of course you shall,” says she, giving me a sweet smile. “After all, it is part of your education.”
Some time after this, I’m hanging round in the Claw when Elli appears and calls out, “Hey Animal, want to come in and hear the piano?”
“Definitely yes.” Where’s the harm? I’ll report to Zafar what I’ve seen.
Totally different is the building from when Ganesh and the others had it. More light’s coming through the windows, which in the gone era used to be brown. Everything’s clean. In the first room there are benches all round the walls, in the middle is a table covered with newspapers etc., in a corner’s Miriam Joseph sitting behind a desk, she gives me a smile. “Hello Animal, is madam going to look at your back?”
“She is showing me the piano.”
I’ll show you something else and all, says a voice in my head, it’s the rough one that sounds like pig-chunder.
What’s inside those pants, go for a closer look.
Elli ahead of me, calls, “It’s upstairs, are you okay to climb up?”
Surprised she’d be, what we can climb.
Shut your trap! I don’t want them spoiling things. No way’ll Elli doctress do anything of that kind. All the same, her arse-pumpkins wagging up the stairs ahead of me, well it is disquieting.
She will change your life! comes that echo from before.
“How’ve you been anyway?” Elli calls down.
“Thank you very much, I am feeling fine. I don’t have any pain.”
“Are you in pain often?” she asks, holding open a door.
“Not at all, but many people are.”
“So why did you say you don’t have pain?”
“
Because I’m one of those who doesn’t have it. Madam.”
“Should I be confused? And don’t call me madam, call me Elli.”
Good she doesn’t know what I am actually thinking, which is hoo boy I’ve seen you naked. Dirty little thrill is this, like I’ve some sort of power over her, comes joined to shame, I’ve not told anyone what I saw from the tree, hardly was it my fault, how could I know she was taking a bath?
The piano is in a room which I was supposing would look like Somraj’s music room, but fully different it’s. First off there are books everywhere, on shelves, on tables, in piles on the floor. There are fat chairs covered in cloth, plus one such-a-wide one it could seat four to five Khaufpuri backsides. She sees me looking at it. “Stretch out on the sofa if you want, get comfortable.”
The piano I expected to be a flat instrument when it came out of that box, maybe like a santoor, but I see now that the piano is the box itself, which has been raised off the floor and is standing on three legs of polished wood. She lifts a curved flap and there are the keys. I’ve to stand up on the sofa chair to see them, a long row of black and white, far longer than Pandit-ji’s harmonium.
“What would you like me to play?”
Well, I don’t know much proper music, fillum tunes are more my choice, but I don’t want to look ignorant, plus so many times I’ve listened to Somraj talk and teach. “I am quite fond of raga Bhimpalashri.”
She bursts out laughing, “I didn’t know you could play ragas on the piano.”
“Do you know Tum Se Achchha Kaun Hai?” It’s one of my party pieces, from the film Jaanvar, not the Jaanvar movies of 1982 or 1999, but the original old one from 1965 with Shammi Kapoor plus Rajshree, the best Jaanvar. The name means Animal, so it’s my movie, the song name means “Oh, Who Is Better Than You?” but when I sing it I change it to Mujh Se Achchha Kaun Hai? which means, “Oh, Who Is Better Than Me?”
Elli says, “I’ll play something I know.” She’s started tapping the keys and this rumbling music comes up out of the piano box. Deep it’s, like a grumble of thunder, deeper than any instrument I’ve heard except maybe a drum, then she makes her hands skip to the other end, the music becomes high and sweet like bells.
