by Indra Sinha
“So you’re a sex-specialist?”
“Specialist in everything,” he says proudly. It should be his motto. Look at his razor-crease pants, shirt with hoisted collar, Faqri is twenty years old, already you can see the man that’s coming, prosperous, devious, can’t give a straight answer, would make a perfect politician.
Subtlety is of no use, I’ll have to be blunt. “I’m after something that takes away the sex urge.”
“Takes it away? What? Your famous lund is out of control?”
“Not for me.”
“Lady friend?”
Having no choice, I tell him the story.
“Are they already doing it?” he asks.
“How would I know?”
“Jealous,” sniggers Faqri. “Wish it was you?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I say. “She is like my sister.”
“Some sister,” says he. “Kuala Lumpur Police Department.”
“Fuck off.” Kuala Lumpur Police Department, it’s a way of saying KLPD, which in turn is a way to say Khade Lund Pe Dhoka, or deception of the standing cock, c’est à dire, a pricktease.
When we reach his place, Faqri sets about grinding some black seeds into a powder. A little bit later he shows me a thing that looks like a goat dropping.
“One of these, he’ll feel sick as a dog, in no mood even to speak to a girl let alone get sexy with her.”
“How long do they work for?”
“One pill per day,” he says. “If things look really bad you could give one and a half. Do not exceed prescribed dose. How many do you want?”
“Discount for quantity?”
I go away with a plastic jar containing thirty-six pills.
The first pill I give Zafar on the day of the big democracy. The democracy is a meeting where everyone has their say, followed by a big fucking row, after which everyone does what Zafar wants. This one happens in Somraj’s music room which he keeps sacred to goddess Saraswati and blue-throated god Siva. It’s a beautiful room to my eyes, it has walls of white, hung all over with instruments that make many types of sounds. There are bolsters, cushions, plus rugs spread on the floor, one came from Afghanistan, it was brought by a Hazara who traded it for singing lessons, pictures of helicopters and guns are woven into it. Zafar despises possessions, but these carpets are the only things I’ve seen him take pleasure in. “In Khorasan,” he told us, “the weavers tie one knot of the wrong colour because only god can make something perfect.”
“Since when did you start believing in the upstairs-one?”
“Hark at Animal,” says Farouq, “god’s knot in humanity.”
Zafar was well pissed-off with Farouq, but I don’t think he was sticking up for me, Zafar hates all mention of god, but even more hates being caught praising him.
So now let’s tell you who all were at this durbar. The room’s so full it’s like a bladder bursting with important types. Zafar and his mates, they’re on one side. Opposite is Somraj, with a couple of his musical chums, in between are all the rest. Ram Nekchalan the shopkeeper is there looking mighty pleased, first time he’s been invited to a meeting so grand. He’s sat next to a sardarji Timecheck Singh. Ask Timecheck anything, he’ll look at his watch. Lawyers charge per minute. Say “Hello,” he’ll check the time, can’t help it. All these are from the Chicken Claw, there are a half-dozen others from elsewhere in Khaufpur, plus two from the Nutcracker. Last of all’s me, I’m hanging in the door, Zafar sees and calls me in. No room there’s, but Nisha signs for me to sit between her and Zafar, so I’ve squeezed in. Oh joy, Nisha puts her arm round my shoulder, from the other side Zafar drops his arm round me, I’m truly among friends, chuffed to be included in the council of the great.
Zafar starts the meeting by telling how this Amrikan woman’s appeared in Khaufpur and bought the building, what the Khaufpur Gazette wrote, she was doing a wonderful act of charity, and how Zahreel Khan, the Minister for Poison Relief, will open this so-called clinic.
“So-called?” asks a woman I don’t know. “Isn’t it a real clinic?”
“I am sure it is a real clinic, Dr. Misra,” Zafar replies, “the question is, what is its real purpose?” He then reports what we’ve learned from Dayanand and Co. about the kind of medical work that will go on across the road.
“Excuse me, Zafar bhai,” says someone else, “but these things, they’re exactly what is needed here.”
Zafar’s not having it all his own way, but I’m no longer listening. Eyes, I don’t give a twisted fuck about politics, I’m in Zafar’s group for one reason which is to be near Nisha, and you can’t get much nearer than I’m at that moment. Her thigh’s pressed tight against my knee, my nostrils are full of the scent of her, she is warm and her flesh is soft. I begin thinking about certain things I’ve seen in the frangipani and the monster down there stirs. It shifts, gives a throb, I feel it thickening. My kakadus are changing shape. Fuck! No! Not in front of all these people. I dive a hand into my pocket to clamp the unruly beast against my leg, my fingers find Faqri’s box of pills. Desperate I’m, will have to pop one, but can’t slide it open without letting go of my unruly lund, which immediately starts to rear and buck, damn that fucking thing, it has no respect. Well, there’s nothing for it but to lean right forward and plant my other elbow on the creature, but this in turn leaves the hand twitching to no purpose, so I rest my chin on it like I’m concentrating, must look peculiar for Nisha whispers, “Are you okay?”
“Fully. This discussion is very fascinating.”
By the time I return to what’s being said, it’s to hear Ram Nekchalan, the man who wants to be everyone’s best friend. “We shouldn’t help the Kampani to gather its false information. We should fight.”
Hypocrite! I can’t help it, I say, “What’s changed, Nekchalan? Last week you were talking as if this clinic was your idea.”
Someone laughs, it’s Farouq. Ram Nekchalan looks like he wants to kill.
Now everyone is looking at me, who’s crouched forward to hide the shape in his pants. Fool that I am, why did I speak? Was there ever a worse fucking time to draw attention to myself?
“Hah!” I give a shout.
Instantly there’s a loud ringing in the air, people are looking round to see from where it has come. It’s the instruments. Hundreds of strings singing tiny songs. Somraj whose eyes were closed as if to escape this futile discussion, now opens them and comes back from wherever he’s been. He says, “The boy is right. You people have no proof, yet you’d start fighting. This clinic is much needed, I for one will not support a boycott.”
Nisha’s arm round my shoulder tightens. Oh dear, caught between her dad and her lover, this means trouble. Somraj’s friends make matters no better by loudly agreeing with him. Says his student Shastri, who resembles a lizard, his jaw juts from beneath his ears like an iguana’s, “In a just society, a person is innocent until proven guilty.”
“Of women it’s said, do not despise them,” chimes in Somraj’s other pal, a rough and ready beardo is he, Somraj’s best friend plus his tabla player from the old days, I don’t remember his name, Something Khan, all tabla players in this city are something Khans. “Why should we not despise them? Because we might be despising a thing through which god has planned much good.”
The debate goes back and forth with the three musicians ganged up anti the rest. Why are they opposed? Is it because Elli too is a musician? Somraj, who listens to all sounds, maybe he’s heard her playing her piano.
On Zafar’s face, I guess because of Something Khan’s bringing god into it, are signs of irritation. “Is poison presumed harmless until it kills?” he retorts. “Isn’t this the lesson of Khaufpur, that you don’t wait to be harmed before you take action to protect? Friends, at long last we have a chance, however slim, of forcing the Kampani to court and winning proper compensation for our folk. We dare not put that at risk. We have to act together, so if you can’t support, at least don’t oppose.”
At this everyone starts
talking at once. Some are grumbling, from other quarters comes loud support.
“I am not comfortable with this,” says Somraj, the only one who dares speak openly against Zafar’s proposal. “We need better evidence before we deny to people something that could help them.”
Says Zafar, “Abba, we have failed to find any trace of this woman’s history. This alone is suspicious, she’s almost certainly operating under a false name. We have tried all usual channels. Nisha has searched on the internest, nothing.”
“Nothing is not evidence,” says the stubborn Voice of Khaufpur.
“Abba,” says Zafar again, I hate to hear him calling Somraj father, “Animal is cultivating a friendship with Elli Barber. I feel confident that he’ll soon extract some useful information, then we will be in a position to judge.”
“Papa, if we could win this compensation,” says Nisha to her father, “think what a difference it will make to people.”
Still he’s not looking happy. I am happy, Nisha’s warm thigh is pressing against me, the demon below is thank god back to sleep.
“Just think, papa,” wheedles Nisha, “what the Kampani has paid till now is so small, hardly does it amount to the price of one cup of daal a day.”
Somraj sighs. “All right, I can’t support, but I won’t oppose.”
Now all can relax, what a wonderful thing is democracy. A general hubbub starts up, Timecheck looks at his watch.
Nekchalan giggles and says, “Three rupees.”
“Three rupees, what?” asks Farouq.
“Three rupees for a cup of daal.”
“Depends which daal,” someone else says.
“Urad daal, tuwar is dearer,” says the shopkeeper. “But it costs me more to get it in,” he adds quickly lest anyone should suspect him of profiteering.
“Pitiful it’s,” says Zafar. “What else does three rupees buy? Pir Gate tea, one glass? Yes, Animal?” This time I’ve raised my hand to speak.
“One tea plus one samosa at Chunaram’s.”
They laugh, so things are back to normal, good even, lund’s back under control, two speeches made at this important meeting.
“Talking of tea,” says Nisha, “would everybody like some?”
I’m up onto my four feet. Thé pour tous. The gurgling and bubbling of the pan on the fire sounds like laughter. We return bearing uneven loads, Nisha carrying a tray loaded with glasses, me with a single glass.
“Zafar brother, this is for you.”
The unsuspecting bugger accepts it gratefully, pulls me down beside him.
“Sit here, Animal,” he says to me. “You have a wise head. Let us plan how you shall interrogate Elli Barber.”
“What do you really think of her?” asks Nisha on my other side.
“What do I think?” I say, watching him drink. I can’t say what I really think. Poor Elli, you’re about to be betrayed by these undeserving arse-holes you came to help.
“I think she has blue legs.”
The last few days before Elli doctress’s clinic opens Zafar brother can be seen wandering with gleaming specs, frowning to himself, tugging at his beard. I whistle this tune whenever I see him, it’s that one, you know, that goes
Strolling down the highway I’m
eating my bhel-puri I’m
if your granny’s careless, what can I do?
if your heart is jealous, what can I do?
“Yaar Animal,” says Zafar, “do me a favour, don’t drive me mad.”
“Don’t you like my singing?”
“It’s not that,” says he, who hates saying a bad thing about anyone. “Just that lately I’m not feeling too good. Eaten something, must’ve.”
In Somraj’s house is an uneasy tension. Somraj won’t do anything to upset Zafar’s plan, but there is a tug of war and Nisha is the rope.
“A daughter should obey her father,” I’ve given a pull to Somraj’s side.
“Fine one you are to talk of duty,” says Nisha, “really Animal you are so transparent.” After a while she adds, “But quite sweet.” After some more time she says, “Zafar is upset. Some people came this afternoon from the bastis, they begged him to not boycott the clinic. Even Pyaré Bai came.”
“That day,” I said, “when I paid off the moneylender, I was thinking that when Elli doctress starts giving free treatment, people like Pyaré Bai will no longer need to borrow.”
“Zafar’s not at all well,” says Nisha. “He feels sick, his mouth is dry, he’s very hot. That’s how ill this worry is making him.”
The evening of the opening ceremony we’re all in Somraj’s garden, watching them get ready across the road. Beside the famous mango tree is pitched a big colourful shamiana, inside Elli and her staff are hustling. Tonight her legs aren’t blue, she’s wearing shalwar kameez, like an Indian woman. Suresh and Dayanand are setting out rows of chairs, on a table near the door of the tent flower garlands are piled. Outside in the street Mando’s band in tatty green uniforms are marching up and down, braying strange notes that scamper up and down the cracks between familiar keys. Sa re ga etc. can’t describe them, such sounds need new names entirely. I know one of the musicians, a trumpet player, an old bugger, he’s from the Nutcracker, he gives me a wink, folds his hands in greeting to Somraj, who’s stood watching beneath his frangipani tree. All the players have an eye out for Somraj because even if he no longer sings he’s still the famous Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur, no matter how long they live none of them will ever be a great maestro like he is. Maybe knowing he’s listening makes them try harder, I mean they are playing almost in time, sometimes even in tune. Who knows what nameless things these sounds are doing to Somraj’s ears? It’s rarely that I speak to Somraj, mostly I don’t dare, but this ruckus makes me feel so sorry for him that I blurt out my thoughts.
“Oh no,” he says, “I find it very interesting,” and begins talking of the skills needed by a brass player such as lip stamina, range, tone, speed of fingers and breath control. “This kind of breathing that brass players do, they take a great gulp of air and then they use their lungs, and these muscles here,” tapping his abdomen, “and in the stomach to control how it flows to the instrument.”
“Really?” What else is to say?
“Do you know how the note can be sustained even though the performer has no breath left in his lungs?”
“No sir.”
“It’s called chakra breathing, which means breathing in circles. You won’t find it mentioned in any yoga sutras. Can you guess how it’s done?”
I’ve shaken my head.
“Fill your cheeks with air and push it out slowly, at the same time breathe in through your nose.” He puffs out his cheeks like two apples. “Try.”
I snort, puff, and make unusual noises. Nisha, who is nearby, has a fit of giggles. Just thankful I’m that Farouq’s not there to mock, he and Zafar have gone off somewhere together. All day they’ve been mysterious, I have a feeling that they are keeping something from me.
“So you are still interested in music?” asks Pandit-ji, his mouth seems to give a twitch, almost smiling he’s, which would be a miracle.
“Sir, what happens when the cheeks are empty?”
“Let go from the lungs and quickly fill the cheeks again.” He gives a kind of a gulp, then he’s coughing, he can’t stop.
“Pandit Somraj sir, are you okay sir?”
Somraj Pandit’s doubled up retching, Nisha has gone running to fetch a glass of water, thus do the Kampani’s gases rob him of his singing breath.
It’s grown dark by the time Zahreel Khan arrives. Flashbulbs blossom as the Khaufpur Gazette gets its shots. The Minister of Poison is turned by the flashes into a ghost casting huge jumping shadows. Dayanand, Suresh and Miriam rush forward with garlands. He poses to receive them, hands folded, head bowed as if the flowers are heavy with the weight of responsibility.
Twenty minutes pass before the speeches begin. Lights inside the tent are wavering, Khaufpuri electric can’t be trusted. Lurking i
n Somraj’s garden, we see Elli on the platform, herself now loaded with flowers, listening to her chief guest making a speech into a brown gloom in which people’s faces can barely be seen. Outside it’s by now fully dark, she can’t see us. Hardly for a minute has Zahreel Khan been speaking when from the direction of Ram Nekchalan’s shop loud filmi music starts up, muffled and distorted, the minister has to raise his voice to fight against it. “Elli Barber is an eminent consultant. We in Khaufpur are proud to have attracted a doctor of such talent.”
“How did Khaufpur attract her?” calls a familiar voice. It’s Zafar. He and Farouq are standing near the entrance to the tent, behind them there seem to be many other people clustered.
“Kindly save questions for the end,” says the Minister in a testy manner, peering to see who is causing this disruption. “You will get your chance.”
“Was she asked to come?” persists Zafar. “Who asked her?”
These further interjections Zahreel Khan ignores. Putting aside his notes he begins to talk of that night, how he himself had been in the old city and had been caught in the panic. He speaks of the scenes in the streets and the crush of dying people in the hospitals. He tells how he like so many hundreds of others searched all night for his missing loved ones, and of the terrible scenes in the city as morning broke. The filmi music is still playing up the road, but I reckon people can no longer hear it, it has vanished into a deep silence. For those listening to Zahreel Khan, it’s their own memories they’re hearing. Then there’s one moment, the wind catches that sound in its airy hands and brings it to the tent, one clear phrase, a grave and beautiful voice singing, Kaun Aayaa Méré Mun Ké Dvaaré, who’s this come to the door of my mind? Pandit Somraj gives a terrible sigh, like a groan almost, and goes back into his house. Poor Nisha, standing nearby is torn, she would like to join Zafar, but the duty of a daughter prevails, she disappears after her father.
