Animal’s People

by Indra Sinha

  “You’re just jealous,” he says, “because no girl wants to do it with you.” But he’s scowling, so I know I’ve scored a hit.

  I tell him that Ma Franci also talks of heaven to me. “Isa miyañ loves you as you are, your soul is as precious to him as anyone’s. Take him to your heart and you’ll be saved from hell.” I replied that I deserve to be more precious than anyone else because I’ve already been to hell.

  “Wah wah,” says Zafar. “Sixer.”

  “Heaven and hell forget, we’re stuck on this earth,” says Chunaram, who also believes in life after death, but of a different kind. Chunaram says I should be a Hindu because of all I’ve suffered in this life, I’m sure to get a better deal next time round, more than likely be a prince or politician or something. Trouble with that way of looking at things is by the same logic my situation is the result of evil things I did in my past lives, some people do look at me as if they’re wondering how many children I murdered last time round.

  Whoever I talk to, seems the main reason for having a religion is to cheat death and live again, here or in heaven, wherever. Well, I don’t want another life, thanks, not if it’s anything like this one.

  “You wouldn’t be crooked in paradise,” says Farouq. “You’d be whole and upright.”

  Well, this is also what Ma says about heaven but I don’t believe a word. If religions were true there wouldn’t be so many of them, there’d be just one for everyone. Of course all say theirs is the only real one, fools can’t see this makes even less sense. Suppose people talked of beauty in the same way, how foolish would they sound? Times like this I feel sorry for god’s being torn to pieces like meat fought over by dogs. I, me, mine, that’s what religions are, where’s room in them for god?

  I hate to praise Zafar but he is the only one who has a sensible view because not only doesn’t he believe in god, he thinks religion is a bad thing. The idea of heaven was invented by the rich and powerful to keep the poor from rebelling. Zafar will dip in his pocket for a beggar but never gives to those who ask in the name of god. He says if he believes in anything it’s humanity, that deep down all people are good. I don’t know where he gets that idea, because there’s no evidence for it in the world.

  Zafar and Farouq have this in common, I should cease thinking of myself as an animal and become human again. Well, maybe if I’m cured, otherwise I’ll never do it and here’s why, if I agree to be a human being, I’ll also have to agree that I’m wrong-shaped and abnormal. But let me be a quatre pattes animal, four-footed and free, then I am whole, my own proper shape, just a different kind of animal from say Jara, or a cow, or a camel.

  Farouq says if I want to end up in paradise I’ll have to turn human.

  “Why so, moosh?”

  “Paradise is for humans, not for animals.”

  “What harm do animals do?”

  “Not a question of harm. Do you expect that every ant that gets crushed under a villager’s horny heel goes to paradise?”

  “Don’t see why not. If they have flowers and birds in paradise why not ants? Isn’t there room?”

  “There are no insects in paradise,” says Farouq.

  Zafar hearing this remarks that in that case the Kampani’s dead factory must be a kind of paradise because it too has no insects.

  “Wait!” I say. “Didn’t you tell me that in paradise people will have fine couches surrounded by precious silks and carpets?”

  “Surely,” says Farouq.

  “And fountains and rivers will come gushing forth and there will be fruit orchards as far as the eye can see?”

  Farouq nods, I have got him now.

  “And wine, milk and honey will flow?”

  “They will.”

  “How can there be honey without bees?”

  So Zafar starts laughing and says Farouq must admit I have a point.

  “Leave bees out of it,” says Farouq, aggrieved as if his mother had been a bee and was being insulted here. “Animal is not a bee. What kind of animal are you, anyway?” he demands. “You’ve never said what sort you are.”

  Well, Farouq thinks he has turned the tables here, because like I just said I am not a cat, or a dog like Jara, nor camel, goat, leopard, bear etc.

  “I’m the only one there is of this type.”

  “You look a lot like a human being to me,” Farouq says.

  “Of course he’s a human being,” says Zafar.

  “You pretend to be an animal so you can escape the responsibility of being human,” Farouq carries on. “No joke, yaar. You run wild, do crazy things and get away with it because you’re always whining, I’m an animal, I’m an animal.”

  “And I’m an animal, why?” I retorted. “By my choice or because others named me Animal and treated me like one?”

  “You’re well enough looked after now,” says Farouq. “We are your friends. Don’t we care about you? All this bitterness, it’s in your own mind. To be accepted as a human being, you must behave like one. The more human you act, the more human you’ll be.” He spoils the effect of this decent speech by adding with a smirk, “Four-foot cunt.”

  At this Zafar looks down in the mouth because he’s not in favour of making a mockery of those who are otherwise. He says this discussion has gone far enough and that Farouq is a bad loser and also that we are both wrong, because there is a heaven, but in the words of the poet,

  Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,

  Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.

  “If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!”

  I daren’t tell Ma of my problem, first because she will fret, second she is already mad as a leper’s thumbnail.

  Six nights to go, she leans towards me with a crafty smile and whispers, “The angels, they’re already here. They’re here among us in the Kingdom of the Poor.”

  “What kind of angels?”

  She gives me a look, like it’s me who’s crazy. “The usual sort, of course.”

  Well, it is no good arguing, plus I don’t want to. There is little enough pleasure to be had from life, if someone is getting a kick from seeing angels, then good for them.

  “These angels, you say they’re here in the Nutcracker?”

  “Of course. I heard a trumpet this morning, before it was light.”

  “Would be the Pushpak Express.”

  “Always some facile explanation,” says she. “There was another blast not ten minutes later.”

  “Hooter at Khaufpur Heavy Electricals factory.”

  “Faith is evidence of the unseen.”

  “No doubt, no doubt.”

  “Listen Animal, I have seen the angels burning inside people’s bodies. I’ll look at someone and suddenly I’ll see the outlines of this other bright being locked inside. Angels I call them, although some may be demons, but they’re all alike trapped in this flesh, which for spirits is like being buried in mud. Only their eyes look out and they are so pitiful.”

  “Is there an angel trapped inside me?”

  She takes a look. “Can’t see one, but it might be sleeping, or doing some other business.”

  “Very true.” At such times there is nothing to do but humour her.

  “We live in hell. You realise that? This is hell.”

  “Yes Ma.”

  “When you look at the smoky flames that pass for lamps around here, you can understand why I say we’re living in hell.”

  “Yup.”

  “But that’s not why I’m saying it,” she cackles. “To be trapped in a human body, that is hell, if you happen to be an angel.”

  I can sympathise with these angels. To be trapped in an animal body is hell, if you dream of being human.

  I don’t want to die. Farouq says the fire can be crossed safely only by those whose hearts are true, which mine certainly isn’t, but if I back down he’ll never let me forget it. In my dreams I find amazing ways to survive the fire. I leap across in one bound. A downpour comes and puts out the flames. An angeli
c hand plucks the back of my kakadus and hoicks me clear.

  So scared am I, next day I ask Elli doctress what can be done to protect hands against the touch of red hot things. My hands are hard and horny because they’re also feet, but I feel they will not survive pressing on coals.

  “What on earth’s going on?” she demands. I end up telling her about Farouq, how we have a bet.

  “Of course you are not to do it,” says she, same as everyone else. I tell her I’ve never yet seen anyone fall in the fire, or burn, plus Somraj told us that he had once done it as a young man.

  “How can that be, Somraj is a Hindu?”

  “And I’m an animal. So?” See, Eyes, in Khaufpur it’s the custom for people of all faiths to go to this famous Yar-yilaqi fire walk and many have also walked across the coals. “Somraj Pandit said he didn’t feel the fire, it was like walking on cool water.”

  “Think I’ll have a word with that Somraj,” says Elli with a grim set to her face, and I feel sorry for the poor pandit, he has already had it in the ear from Nisha, who went cross-eyed fishguts when I told her the same thing.

  Elli looks at me, “My dad risked his life near red hot metal, but he was doing it for his family, what are you doing it for?”

  “I am doing it for my honour.”

  But this is nonsense, because if I cared for nothing but honour, which is a kind of heart’s truth, I wouldn’t be afraid.

  Eyes, the real reason’s Nisha, so jealous have I been since learning of her and Zafar’s Ratnagiri plus children plans. I want to impress her, also I want her to keep worrying about me and realise what she will miss if I am roasted.

  “Animal, you are a total fool, will a doctor be there?” Seeing I don’t know the answer, she says that if I insist on going ahead, then she herself will come and wait by the fire, in case I, or anyone else, should need her.

  “Elli, you can’t go, it’s impossible.” She’s a foreigner plus she’s Amrikan, how should she go to a masjid at this holy time, when her country is bombing Afghanistan which is right next door to the Yar-yilaqi homeland, plus many relatives of our own Yar-yilaqis are living there? She says nothing, but knowing Elli by now I should have realised, she’s like me, no one can stop her doing what she wants.

  This conversation happens in her office where’s sitting the Khã-in-the-Jar, but today he keeps his mouths shut, just floats regarding me with a pissed-off expression.

  “What? You, parapagus sahib. Have you nothing to say?”

  “What can I say?” replies the Khã, crossly. “You are not going to do this. You know it, you’re just a posturing wanker. Bloody, it’s your friend the Khã who needs to burn, but do you think of him? You don’t. With you Animal, it’s all me, me, me.”

  “Zafar brother, what speed is it now?”

  “Sixty-seven.”

  “Now, Zafar bhai? What speed?”

  “Eighty-nine,” comes the reply torn away by wind.

  It’s three in the morning, we are roaring from the lake up towards the CM’s house, this is the widest road in Khaufpur and the smoothest.

  “What speed?”

  “One hundred and two.”

  The world is speeding by so fast, only time is flying faster, it is the eighth night of Muharram, tomorrow I meet the fire.

  The house blurs past, already we’re at the big hotel Jehannum. On the way back down, Zafar chuckles to see lights have come on in the CM’s windows.

  “What speed, Zafar brother?”

  “Thirty-two,” says he. “Staying that way.”

  Zafar brother, I didn’t say this, if I did not hate you I would love you, you are an unusual human being.

  The night of Ashara Mubarak, I’ve gone to Somraj’s house to meet Bhoora, he’s going to take me to the masjid in the Chowk.

  Out of her clinic steps Elli. She’s wearing a scarf on her head and a long-sleeved shirt, long to the knees over loose pyjamas. The outfit is dark blue, beads all over are sparkling, it sets off her dark hair. Except for her blue eyes, “like holes through which you see the sky,” this is what an old woman in the Nutcracker had told her, except for these eyes which could be hidden behind a veil, almost she looks like an Indian woman, her skin is browned by the sun almost as dark as Nisha’s, but it won’t be disguise enough.

  “Elli, you cannot come.”

  “Oh, I am not going with you,” she says. A figure dressed in immaculate white is exiting Somraj’s house. “Someone else has kindly offered to take me.”

  When I reach Chowk, it’s thronged with every kind of Khaufpuri. The Yar-yilaqis are out in force, Muslims of other communities, also Hindus and Sikhs, have come to watch the fire walk, some to join in. Of Elli and Somraj no sign there’s, but near where the pots-and-pans street joins the cloth bazaar I see Nisha with Zafar, they are talking quietly. I creep up until I am right behind them, they don’t notice so absorbed’re they. Nisha’s saying, “…left her husband in Amrika.” This much I catch, but not Zafar’s reply. Nisha then says, “He’s not himself,” after which there’s silence until Zafar puts his arm round her waist. Some kind of growl I must have given for Nisha whirls round and starts gabbling, “You wretched boy, so there you are, don’t you realise you’re driving everyone crazy with worry? No way are you doing this stupid thing, Zafar has already told Farouq, now they will not let you. No, don’t speak, don’t say a thing. I am so angry with you. Why are you spying on us? Don’t you realise what you’ve done, with all your antics? If you want to spy, go find my dad and the Amrikan, then let’s all go home.”

  How I hate that “us, us, us.” Nisha can have no idea how painful are such words or she’d never say them. I’ve given every hint I can to Nisha that I love her and would like her to be with me. What more’s to do? You tell me. Give up the battle? What chance had I against Zafar? I know what you’re thinking, Eyes, that I should have accepted defeat gracefully and wished Nisha joy, but I just couldn’t do it. I never said I was a good person. How can I explain the rush of feelings whenever I saw her, how my heart seemed to jump when she entered a room? All I know is that I loved to be near her. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to stroke her hair and press my lips on her closed eyelids and tell her that I would always be there to take care of her.

  Eyes, I know that such talk is the sorriest kind of bullshit. What to do? A creature in love, its brain is fully fucked.

  The lanes of Chowk are so narrow, in most places you’ll hardly get two fat buggers past one another, it’s a total jostle from the alley of the tinsmiths to the gulab-baadi where strings of white jasmine buds hang down and the stalls are heaped with marigolds and roses. Near the masjid, all kinds of rugs and carpets are hung up for sale, plus saris and cloths. Here I’ve at last spotted Somraj and Elli and commenced navigating towards them through groves of legs, trying not to get my hands trodden on.

  “Bastard,” says a loud voice, “you’re saved, you know that? Zafar has said you are not allowed to do it.”

  It’s Farouq, wearing a black headband, barefoot, ready for the fire walk.

  “I can still watch you make a fool of yourself.”

  “If you misbehave I’ll throw you on the fire myself.”

  “Fuck off. You love me.” With any luck Farouq will fall on the coals and burn to death like a big black moth. I am not going to tell Farouq that Zafar or no, nothing is going to stop me keeping my word.

  We’ve exchanged a few more insults but his heart’s not really in it, he moves off and I’ve slunk closer to Somraj and Elli, who are slowly strolling towards the masjid. She’s looking around with a kind of eagerness, like a child, I’m hanging a few paces behind, struggling to hear.

  “…never been outside Amrika,” it’s Elli speaking. “He would not believe this place. These rugs, they look like if you sat on one it might fly away with you.”

  “They are of a good quality.”

  “Oh really!” she says laughing. “If I said I wanted a magic rug, I do believe you’d take me looking for one.”

 
; “But of course, it’s my duty.”

  “Your duty?”

  “You are a stranger in my city. I am your host.”

  “Is it just duty?”

  “Also my pleasure.” Said without the smallest smile.

  “That’s a bit more friendly,” says she and her next words are lost, but she’s laughing. The mela intervenes, next thing I hear is, “After we were married I came here with my wife, she chose a rug for the house.”

  Elli asks, “You miss her?”

  I didn’t hear his reply, if he made one. Probably he didn’t speak because after a bit she says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Now he turns and gives her a smile. One of those rare smiles of his. “No, no, not at all. I was listening to the music.”

  “You sure? I haven’t upset you?”

  “No, no,” says he. “Definitely you have not upset me. Listen, how so many musics are running together.”

  From all sides are blaring chants and laments for Imam Hussein. Every doorway seems to pour out a different song, it’s like walking through dense clouds of music. Marsiyas, these laments called, there are dozens of them. Some are in Hindi, others in Arabic and Persian, but whichever language they are in you catch the same meaning, at least I do. It’s like every good thing in the world is dying and the people of the world, they see but do not care. The mourners are defiant, never will they give in to evil powers. For me, who am neither Muslim, nor Hindu, nor Isayi, this is a music that could also comfort Isa miyañ dying on the cross or go with Sri Rama into exile from Ayodhya. It’s all one to me, what I like is the defiance, I like it a lot. Somraj does too, but for different reasons, his head is turning this way and that, as if the sounds are butterflies and his ears are nets.

  We are near the big masjid and the marsiya from inside is coming out full blast through big speakers.