Animal’s People

by Indra Sinha

  “Zafar bhai, may today be a chicken day!”

  It’s Bhoora, grinning like a fool. A small crowd is gathered outside Somraj’s house. Today the judge will give his opinion. Everyone’s excited, ready to leave for the court.

  I’ve suggested that for luck me, Nisha and Zafar should travel with Bhoora like last time, so Farouq is taking Zafar’s motorbike. Another auto will bring Pandit Somraj with a couple of his music chums.

  Quite a noise we’re making, chatter and laughing, the clinic doors open, Elli comes out, surprised to find all these people outside. Seeing me she says, “Hello Animal, what’s happening?”

  “Elli doctress, we are going to the court.”

  “Good morning Pandit Somraj,” she says coldly.

  “Good morning Doctor Barber,” replies Somraj. No smile today, he keeps his feelings locked in an icebox, but Something Khan’s staring at her as if he has never seen legs before.

  We’re just passing the big Hanuman temple when I spot Farouq, weaving through the traffic ahead. “Quick Bhoora,” I say, “speed up.” Bhoora obliges, I’ve reached out, caught Farouq such a slap on the back of his head, fucker’s all but toppled from the bike, cursing, vowing all kinds of bitter revenge.

  “Animal, that was dangerous,” says Nisha reprimands me, but with her thigh pressed against me I’m just laughing, ha ha plus hee hee plus ho ho. “Why not today?” I’m shouting. “Why not today?”

  When we arrive at the court there’s a big crowd, with jarnaliss plus a tele crew. The Khaufpur Gazette wants to interview Zafar. Our great leader has no time, says he will do it later, so I’ve bounded round the bugger, “Interview me, I’ll give a story that will shoot steam from your ears. Je te raconterai l’histoire de Jacotin et son nàs superbe.”

  Nisha says, “Darling, you are out of control.”

  “I am, I am!” It happens sometimes, just filled full of excitement and yap and don’t know what, some big thing is going to happen. Well, the Khaufpur Gazette is in no way interested in my interview so I head for the tele-wallahs and’ve jugged around making faces at them, Eyes, I wish you could see…I am pulling those faces now, tongue out eyes glaring, cheeks bulging eyes fully crossed…a hefty kick lands on my arse, it’s Farouq, “Little bastard, you could have killed me.”

  “You have to die one day,” I yell. “Why not today?”

  The court is fully crowded, hardly space to stand. I’ve tried to climb on the bench backs, this time all kinds of dirty looks I’ve got, but Nisha’s with me, she’s found me room.

  At last the judge enters, he’s wearing a black robe over his suit. The local lawyers are right up at the front, Zafar too is there. Milord sits, shuffles some papers on his desk, a court-wallah announces that this is criminal case number RT 8460/96.

  “Look who’s here,” says Nisha in my ear. I’ve followed her eyes, there at the back of the court is a foreign woman wearing a head scarf and dark glasses.

  “Why has she come?” Nisha demands, but how should I know. I’m still in that mad grinning mood, I give Elli a wave, she sees and waves back.

  Now the judge is talking, “With regard to the petition laid before the court by Mr. Zafar, the aforesaid petition is hereby…” here, just to be a cunt, he pauses and looks at all of us over the tops of his glasses…

  “…granted. The necessary summons plus letter rogatory…”

  But the rest of what he is saying is lost in cheers.

  “We’ve won! We’ve won!” shrieks Nisha, she’s jumped and run to Zafar, who has a huge grin on his face. Even Somraj, for the second time in a few days is smiling. People are stamping their feet.

  Calls a familiar voice from the back of the court, “Sir, a great decision!”

  “And who might you be?” asks the judge.

  “Sir, I am Doctor Elli Barber, I have opened a free clinic here in Khaufpur for the victims of this heartless Kampani.”

  “Good work, Doctor Barber, very good work. We wish you every success.” I’m thinking that Elli will now start complaining to the judge about Pandit Somraj, thank god she keeps her mouth shut.

  “Now things are different,” Zafar tells the Khaufpur Gazette. “The Kampani bosses must come. If they don’t, the Kampani’s Indian assets may be attached.”

  The big hearing, when the bosses must show up, is set for some months ahead, it will fall around the middle of June, just before the rains come to Khaufpur, the hottest time of year.

  Bhoora sings all the way back, it’s another chicken day.

  On my way to Nisha’s next morning, I meet Farouq on his bicycle’s flapping from side to side like a dog’s ear, laughing so much he’s.

  “Animal,” he says, “Animal, you crazy fuck, lord of dogshit, pawnbroker to flies, you will love this. Do you know what your Elli doctress is doing?”

  “So? Say.”

  “She’s only staging a demo outside Somraj’s house,” says he, hardly can he squeeze out the words for mirth. “Not just a demo, but a picket, everything. Says it is a gherao. It is just hysterical.”

  “What is Somraj doing?”

  “When we told him, he just stood calmly, then he says, I see, and turns to Shastri, this morning we’ll practise the alaap of Yavanapuri. I think the poor fellow is in shock. Who’s ever seen anything like this woman?”

  “And Zafar? Nisha?”

  “Well, what do you expect? Zafar is worrying about what is the right response, Nisha is just getting upset.”

  “She’s been upset a lot since Elli showed up.”

  “Ha ha, yes,” says he, giving me a wink. “Dirty little shit, you notice such things.” He’s wobbled away, still chortling, then turned and yelled over his shoulder, “Muharram is nearly here!”

  When I get near Somraj’s place, I begin to hear hooting and cheers. There’s a sizeable crowd of ne’er-do-wells and time-pass tapori types hanging around, shouting encouragement to her who’s provided them with this free spectacle.

  Elli blue legs is walking up and down outside Somraj’s, carrying a sign mounted on a stick. SOMRAJ IS UNFAIR, it says. Following behind her are Dayanand, Suresh and Miriam Joseph. The two guys look like they wish they could be anywhere else in this world, only Miriam Joseph is smiling. All three carry placards, on which are written, SOMRAJ LET THE SICK BE HELPED, STOP THE BOYCOTT and SOMRAJ HAVE A HEART.

  Much wondering there’s at this unusual sight, doubly unusual because although many foreigners come to march in our demos, none has ever started their own. Not in their maddest dreams can Zafar and Co. suppose they’d get such a taste of their own medicine.

  I stop to admire these four circling outside Somraj’s house, they’re vowed to do this every day until he lifts the boycott.

  There’s a stir in the crowd. The door is opening. Out steps Pandit-ji, stony faced as ever, immaculate in his white kurta pyjama.

  People start jabbering, now we’ll see some real drama, fireworks there are bound to be. “Somraj is an important guy,” says someone behind me. “He will know what to say to this arrogant foreigneress.”

  Somraj is holding a cup of tea, balanced on a saucer.

  “See how cool he is,” says the same voice. “He has come outside to drink his tea, to show us people that he is no way bothered by this nonsense.”

  “Now he’ll give the doctress what for,” opines another.

  Somraj goes up to Elli, who stops marching. Instead of giving her what for, he holds out the cup of tea. “It is a hot day,” says he in that beautiful voice of his, every word carries clear across the street. “You must be thirsty. Please, take this. More is coming for your companions.”

  I’m getting Elli’s thoughts, they are rushing round like a flock of chickens scattered by a dog. Then she pulls herself together.

  “Thank you,” she says. “But as you see, I am busy.” She shrugs to show that her hands are full carrying the placard.

  “So please,” says Somraj. “Allow me.” With one hand he removes the placard from the astonished doctress, w
ith the other gives her the tea.

  “So clever,” says the idiot behind. “See, he has the sign, how he’s looking at it. Now he will smash it down on the ground, it will fly to bits.”

  Elli standing there, takes a sip of her tea, fixes hostile eyes on Somraj and says, “Well, what are you waiting for? You signed the petition against yourself, will you now join our demo against you?”

  For one moment Somraj stands there expressionless. Then he’s turned to Dayanand and the others, who have come to a nervous halt and are looking on. “So then,” he says, “while Doctor Barber drinks her tea, I must take her place.”

  Thus is the crowd treated to the amazing sight of Somraj picketing his own house, calling upon himself to stop being unfair.

  Eyes, Khaufpuris aren’t the brightest lot, I guess it takes a minute for the message to sink in, then in the crowd someone cheers. A few more join in, but most people are puzzled. Is Pandit Somraj making a mockery of the doctress, or has he turned against his own? By the time tea arrives for the others, the watching crowd has dissolved into knots of people. Some are drifting away, others are clustered around Dayanand and Suresh and Miriam Joseph, slapping them on the back, saying that it takes those who have courage to speak. Elli and Somraj are stood together. I, who have the ability to read thoughts, watch their lips and I swear that Elli doctress says to him, “I do believe you really are against this boycott.” To which he replies, “You may draw your own conclusion.”

  A while later I’ve passed Ram Nekchalan’s shop. “Kyoñ, Animal?” he says to me. “What’s Zafar doing about this? People are saying that the foreign doctress has put Pandit Somraj under a spell.”

  “Count your money, shut your trap. Hypocrite cunt, you’re just wondering which way to jump.”

  “Come here, I’ll give you such a thrashing,” says he, enraged. But I’ve just laughed and gone away.

  Some way outside Khaufpur is a greenish river called Bewardi, there’s a place on the edge of the forest, some cattle-herders have made a small hut there, to watch over the animals as they drink, no more it’s than a thatched roof hoisted on four bamboo poles, but it has a smooth floor of clay, there’s a small hearth where tea can be made.

  Our bhutt-bhutt-pig has farted its way through the city and out to this peaceful place. This is after Elli’s demo by one or two days, as day by day my tale unfolds, it’s the weekend, we’re at last having the picnic promised by Zafar after our court victories against the Kampani. The original plan got postponed because of last year’s rains, then everyone forgot about it, but after the recent hearing someone said we should now definitely have the picnic, so Zafar told Farouq to organise it.

  On the day there’s about twenty people, we’ve hired the bhutt-bhutt to carry us. Somraj is coming later in Bhoora’s auto. He’s bringing the windup, it’s a wooden gramophone mashin with a handle, he’s had it since he was a kid, belonged to his dad, it does not need electric, so it comes to places like this and performs very old songs, songs older than anyone here alive.

  On the way people start singing. Everyone must teach a song to the rest.

  “Ma Franci, Ma to teach one.”

  So I’ve put this to her. “Something that’s easy to learn.” Shyly she starts singing:

  Dormez, dormez, mon petit pigeon

  Dormez, dormez, mon petit agneau

  Ferme tes yeux mon petit mignon

  Et laisse toi faire des rêves si beaux

  Soon all are doing their best with this, after which Ma sings Tonton Lariton and Zafar gives Hillélé Jhakjor Duniya. Add to such songs a big pot of chicken biryani, kebabs by Chunaram who’s here to brown them, plates, cups etc., in this way we’ve come to the Bewardi. Now smoke is rising from the hearth, food’s heating in the big pot, kebabs are dripping on twig spits, games we play, mostly kids’ games such as seven tiles, gulli danda, bird fly-up, cards, etc.

  Nisha says, “Animal, can we talk? I’ve something to ask.”

  When we’re sat by the river, she comes straight out that she and Zafar know I’ve been spending a lot of time in Elli’s clinic, plus recently I’ve been seen with her in the Nutcracker.

  “When have I tried to hide it?” I’ve been expecting this. “Hardly a secret, it’s right across the road. Plus she wanted to see the Nutcracker.”

  “Yes, but she was trying to get people for her clinic.”

  “Which of course she’ll do. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Have you told her anything about us, how we work, our plans, etc.?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting,” I reply to deflect this question for I hate lying to Nisha, “I am your Jamispond, jeera-jeera-seven?”

  Nisha bursts out laughing. “Animal, so desperate is your Inglis accent, you know what you just said, cumin-cumin-seven. So what have you found out?”

  “She’s harmless.” None too pleased I’m that Nisha’s making fun of me. “She’s sincere. We shouldn’t be troubling her.”

  “Leave those decisions to people who know more.”

  Soon the person who knows more’s come to join us, Nisha tells him what I’ve said, he sits cupping his chin, serious as ever. “Animal, you are a free human being, you are free to make your own decisions. Nobody will stop you or say you shouldn’t.”

  “So?” I don’t say what’s in my mind, which is I’m not a human being, plus I don’t need anyone’s permission to be free.

  “Nothing more, that’s it.”

  “First of all, Zafar, Elli doctress is not from the Kampani, at least I don’t believe so, but like I said I am keeping an eye open.”

  “This Elli,” says Zafar, “she’s pretty, has a nice smile.” Nisha shoots such a look, it’s aimed at him but pierces me. “What do you suppose Kampani-wallahs look like? Blood-dripping teeth, red eyes, claws?”

  Well, I’ve never thought about this, of course I’ve no idea.

  “They look ordinary,” says he. “You know why? Because they are ordinary. They are not especially evil or cruel, most of them, this is what makes them so terrifying. They don’t even realise the harm they are doing.”

  After lecturing some more on how some people who think they’re leading normal lives are in fact creating hell on earth he goes away, leaving Nisha curled up in a little ball of misery.

  “Nish, it’s like you hate Elli doctress. But why?”

  “I don’t hate,” she says, throwing a pebble into the river.

  “You’re too sweet and kind a person to dislike without reason, what is it?”

  “It’s nothing.” But there are tears in her eyes.

  “Nish, this is your own Animal you’re talking to, whom you plucked from the gutter, to whom you taught writing plus Inglis, who owes everything to you, who adores you, who never wants to see you sad. So tell me, darling, what is it?”

  So gradually it comes. At first it seems, Nisha disapproved of Elli’s blue legs, she disliked the way men’s eyes used to be drawn to them. At last out slips the real reason. “It’s so embarrassing to see your own father looking at a woman. To think such things go on in his mind.”

  “What things? Things such as…?”

  “You know what I mean,” she says. “The way he looks at her.”

  “How looks? He just looks. He’s a fair man, darling. Besides, what if he finds her attractive? Don’t you find anyone attractive?”

  She blushes and won’t say another thing. This tears me up. Not that I myself was hoping for a compliment but I feel certain she’s thinking of Zafar. The merest hint of sex, she thinks of Zafar! I feel sure they’re shagging. How have I missed it, so many nights in the tree, never once have I caught them. To be on the safe side I decide to double Zafar’s dose.

  “Living this way is hard,” says Nisha at last, her pebbles plop in the river louder than mine. “To have a dream, yet not dare to believe in it.”

  “Yes,” says I, who’s about to confess a terrible hope. “What is it, your dream?”

  “For this struggle to end. For us to win. As things are g
oing, maybe it can even happen.”

  “You really believe that?” I’m looking over to where Ma’s sat at the centre of a group of young men and women, holding forth. They’re giving it their best nods and grins, though no word of hers do they understand.

  “Do I believe it?” says Nisha. “Not really, that’s why it’s a dream.”

  “Is this all you dream of, Khaufpur, the struggle?”

  “You don’t understand,” she says, “I want it to end. I don’t want to spend my whole life fighting against the Kampani.”

  “Suppose it ends, what will you do?”

  Nisha sighs and says, “I’d like to have kids, but I told Zafar, I don’t want our children growing up here. The poison in Khaufpur’s not only in the soil and water, it’s in people’s hearts. Zafar and me, we’ve promised each other that the day we win, when there’s justice and no more need for us, we’ll leave this city. Animal, have you ever seen the coast near Ratnagiri? Zafar says it’s a really peaceful place. We would live in a little house by the sea, we’d grow vegetables and have lots of children.”

  “Name one after me.” It’s the first I’ve heard of this plan of theirs, with what jealousy it fills me.

  “Whoever heard of a kid called Animal?” she teases.

  “There’s only one Animal.”

  “That there is. There’s no one like you, you are such a dear friend. You would come too, to Ratnagiri. We’d be a group of friends. We’d get some land and build four or five houses. Zafar will write his poetry, and books too, he wants to write books. I will teach all our children, and yours, and local kids too. And what will you do?” she asks me.

  O my crazy heart.

  “I’ve a yen to go fishing. In one of those black canoes with an outrigger. All day long I will float and fish on a silvery river, at night I will drink toddy and sleep under the palms and wake to watch the sun rise over the sea.”

  “Idiot, on that sea the sun does not rise, it sets.” She throws more pebbles into the non-silvery Bewardi. “Okay, your turn, what’s your dream?”