The Parcel

by Anosh Irani

  ALSO BY ANOSH IRANI

  NOVELS

  The Cripple and His Talismans (2004)

  The Song of Kahunsha (2006)

  Dahanu Road (2010)

  PLAYS

  The Bombay Plays: The Matka King&Bombay Black

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF CANADA

  Copyright © 2016 Anosh Irani

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2016 by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.​pengui​nrando​mhouse.​ca

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Irani, Anosh, 1974–, author

  The parcel / Anosh Irani.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-0-345-81674-0

  eBook ISBN 978-0-345-81676-4

  I. Title.

  PS8617.R36P37 2016 C813′.6 C2016-902490-3

  Ebook ISBN 9780345816764

  Cover images: (Doves and cages) © Katie Edwards / Ikon Images / Getty Images; (old taped paper) © David M. Schrader, (floral background) © Steven Bourelle, both Dreamstime.​com Interior image: © Shahria Sharmin

  v4.1

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Anosh Irani

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I go by many names, none of my own choosing.

  I am called Ali, Aravani, Nau Number, Sixer, Mamu, Gandu, Napunsak, Kinnar, Kojja—the list goes on and on like a politician’s promise. There is a term for me in almost every Indian language. I am reviled and revered, deemed to have been blessed, and cursed, with sacred powers. Parents think of me as a kidnapper, shopkeepers as a lucky charm, and married couples as a fertility expert. To passengers in taxis, I am but a nuisance. I am shooed away like a crow.

  Everyone has their version of what I am. Or what they want me to be.

  My least favourite is what they call my kind in Tamil: Thirunangai.

  “Mister Woman.”

  Oddly, the only ones to get it right were my parents. They named their boy Madhu. A name so gloriously unisex, I slipped in and out of its skin until I was fourteen. But then, in one fine stroke, that thing between my legs was relieved of its duties. With the very knife that I hold in my hand right now, I became a eunuch.

  Perhaps my parents had smelled the strangeness in the air when I was born, the stench of the pain and humiliation to follow. At the least, they must have felt a deep stirring in the marrow of their bones to prepare them for the fact that their child was different.

  Neither here nor there, neither desert nor forest, neither earth nor sky, neither man nor woman.

  The calling of names I made my peace with years ago.

  The one I am most comfortable with, the most accurate of them, is also the most common: hijra. The word is Urdu for “migration,” and we hijras have made it our own because its meaning makes sense to us.

  I am indeed a migrant, a wanderer. For almost three decades, I have floated through the city’s red-light district like a ghost. But this home of mine, this garden of rejects—fourteen lanes that for the rest of the city do not exist—I want it to remember me. I want it to remember even though the district is dissolving, just like I am, like the hot vapour of chai.

  Come on. Who am I fooling? I don’t taste like chai. I am anything but delectable. I have been born and brewed to mortify. At forty, all I have left is a knife dipped in the moon and a five-rupee coin given to me by my mother.

  But mark my words: I will make myself a household name. I will spread my name like butter on these battered streets.

  1

  Underwear Tree had its name thanks to the array of underclothes that were left to hang and dry in its loving care. It was one giant hanger for clothes, a dhobi’s delight. At any time of day, underwear in all shapes and sizes were caught in its branches like kites. Over the years, Underwear Tree served as a barometer for economic growth. If the elastic of the underwear was tight, it signified that the people living in the hutments below the tree were doing well. If the elastic was loose, it meant overuse for the underwear and hard days for the owners.

  As Madhu looked up, she could see that the underwear that lay stiff in the morning sun was somewhere in between. Things could go either way from here. She, on the other hand, had only one place to go: Bombay Central for her daily bread and butter, and an array of abuses. But before going to work, she, as always, called upon that brave Maratha warrior Shivaji to kick-start her day as she inhaled his majestic beedis.

  She sent the smoke skyward, toward the pride of her neighbourhood, until she tasted the last bitter hit. That final trace of tobacco surging through her brain was what she enjoyed the most. Before flicking the beedi away, she burned a hole in the fabric of her sari with the lit end.

  It was a habit to rid her of anxiety; she also did it for luck.

  She smiled as the beedi disappeared into a gutter. Even dead cigarettes wanted to get away from her as soon as possible.

  —

  No shirt, no pants, no tie, but she was an office-goer like any other Mumbaikar. Her working space was in the most prime location. Bombay Central was her terrain, and she had worked it more than any other hijra in the city. It was her designated area. Only a few hijras, from her clan, had the right to beg here. Any infringement from an outside hijra. and Madhu would push a bamboo up her arse so deep, if she were to lift the bamboo to the sky it would become a flag—a trespassing hijra in a flowing sari hoisted among the clouds, singing in pain.

  How she wished she had the strength to do that.

  At forty, she was weak, her muscles looser than they had ever been, her belly resembling a hot-water bag, bulgy and changing shape without warning. The only thing she was capable of lifting was her middle finger. She showed it to passengers in cabs every single day.

  Only in her mind.

  She had to respect the passengers. They were allowed to abuse her, but she could not abuse back. That was a hijra rule.

  If someone abuses you verbally, take it. Do not react. Maintain your dignity.

  This was one of the guidelines that had been passed on to her by gurumai when Madhu became a hijra. Gurumai had almost thirty hijras under her, loyal disciples. She was everything to them: leader, protector, and spiritual mother. But only seven disciples were permitted to live with her, and Madhu was one of these.

  Gurumai was in her eightieth year now, and though her sagging chin was floor-bound, her head was still held high. She had instructed Madhu to conduct herself with dignity at all times.

  But to maintain dignity, one needed to have it to begin with, thought Madhu.

  To lose face, one needed a face. Not what Madhu owned: a visage confused beyond measure, man and woman
fighting it out to see who gained possession. Female energy had existed within her since she was a child. It had been subtle at first, showing itself slowly, a thigh here, a shy look there, a giggle in the dark. But then the woman started taking over, mocking the man, eventually leaving him limp. Now the man of the past was seeking revenge, punishing her for getting rid of him, pushing his way to the forefront again. If the unrest did not stop, she would not have a face left. Only a skull would remain.

  Madhu now realized that this was a pointless battle. She could never pass herself off as a woman. When others heard her speak, their eardrums curdled within seconds. Her voice was the first thing people heard—a brittle bray. Still, like a conch in battle, it was useful in Bombay Central, one of the city’s noisiest areas. When she spoke, you had to pay attention.

  Ready at last to open her account for the day, Madhu approached a taxi waiting at the signal. She reflected that, with the amount of time she spent at signals, she could be a traffic cop. But no—even that was too exalted a position for her. She was not fit to be a bribe-taking cur.

  The man in the back seat was about the same age as her, his hand leaning out of the window, his silver watch too big for his wrist. There was a red thread around his wrist as well, probably given to him by his pundit.

  “Give me some money,” said Madhu. “In God’s name.”

  She had said these words so many times it would come as no surprise if her tongue continued to roll them out hours after she was dead. She sometimes considered starting with something else, just once, but God had proven to be the most amicable mediator.

  “May God keep you safe,” she continued. “May your family and loved ones forever be blessed.”

  The passenger’s ears were not affronted this time, but his eyes clearly were. He gave her a quick glance then looked away, straight ahead, at the back of the taxi driver’s oil-covered head. It would take another three minutes for the light to turn green. Not a second more or less. Enough time for Madhu to make her presence felt.

  So she bent lower and let her face do the talking.

  Her skin was dark, but only in places, as though some mischievous spirit in his boredom had splattered tar all over it one night but failed to do a uniform job.

  She moved a long strand of hair out of the way, one that had escaped the clutch of her hair band. Each time her fingers grazed her forehead, she could tell that her wrinkles were getting deeper, the skin harder. So she tied her hair back tight, real tight, stretching the skin on her forehead as much as possible. Nothing worked. Each day she woke up rougher, her body in some sort of race to look fifty. It wanted to be ahead of its time.

  She knew what the man saw when he looked at her. She didn’t need a mirror. She saw herself every single day in the eyes of others, and this man told her nothing new. She was an irritant getting in the way. If the man had insecticide, he’d spray it on her and watch her wriggle to the ground in squeaky spasms until she stopped moving.

  He looked at her a second time. That was when the repulsion began to set in. Good.

  “May God fulfill all your dreams,” she said, raising her right hand, her palm facing the man, sending healing rays his way, from her palm to his forehead, to provide him with instant calm. It was a reminder that she was no common beggar. She was a mangti hijra—a mendicant who provided blessings in exchange for a meagre sustenance. Indian mythology had afforded her a special set of skills, but this man seemed to have forgotten that.

  All he saw was a thing in a green sari. A sari that made her resemble a parrot, a gaudy creature that sat croaking on one’s windowsill. She had a beak for a nose, and she had often thought of herself as a crow—her dark skin made her feel so—but today the green sari gave her a parrot’s sheen, made her two birds at once.

  If only she could fly.

  But she had, in her mind. She had travelled all the way to the Himalayas and back without ever leaving the city. She was, without doubt, a wanderer. She had no choice but to traverse the territory—from pain to more pain, the Kangchenjunga of pain, she had experienced it all.

  She had only one minute left before the light turned green.

  She clapped her hands, twice. A loud, shrill phat!

  It was the trademark clap of a hijra, open palms closing upon each other to produce the sound of a firecracker popping. It was the opposite of applause, a singular burst sent into the air, not in appreciation of anything, but a warning disguised as a plea; then two more in quick succession. She had been tutored for grace and authenticity by gurumai.

  It startled the fool, made him angry.

  “Move on, I have nothing to give,” he said, gesturing her away with his hand.

  Ah! He had made the mistake of engaging with her. The smart ones did not speak, ignored her with cold precision. This one was testy; his wife must be a nag, and this current encounter a reminder of her voracious appetite for brain-chewing.

  “You’re the first customer of the day,” said Madhu. “Special blessings for you.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. It was in earnest, but over the years her lips too had decided to take a course of their own. She could not control anything anymore. Or perhaps her smile had turned on her because of all the false promises she had made. In truth, there were no special blessings she could confer upon this man. The most she could do for him was say a genuine prayer so that he might have a hemorrhoid-free day. That was the extent of her influence.

  She moved closer to him and breathed into his face. All that TB, which she did not have, but could. It was a calculated move, to enter the universe of his taxi and dare cough inside it. But the man was tough. Not the slightest movement of hand toward hip, toward back pocket. Only thirty seconds to go; she was determined not to lose.

  But then the unexpected: the taxi driver took pity on her. He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her ten rupees.

  Ten. That was big for a taxiwala.

  The passenger scratched his neck, but Madhu knew it was not his neck that was bothering him; it was his humanity. The taxi driver, a man of lower stratum, of lesser earning capacity than him, had given a hijra alms. What would the man’s pundit say? How would this man peacefully eat his prasad when he went to temple the next day to pray that his dumb son might pass his exams?

  Madhu had managed to disturb his sweet equilibrium.

  “Just give the wretch something,” said the taxiwala, without turning to look at his passenger.

  Reluctantly, the man shelled out ten rupees. Of course he could not give less—his compassion had to match the taxi driver’s. It landed on Madhu’s palm, the first note of the day, the way rain brought relief to parched earth.

  Before the taxi took off, she quickly threw ten rupees back into the driver’s lap. The passenger failed to see this. Now that his ego was satisfied, he had leaned back into the seat of his taxi and closed his eyes.

  The driver and Madhu had practised this routine for years. The taxiwala did not take a cut. He too mistakenly believed that if she uttered a few useless words, the hammer of misfortune would not strike him.

  She slipped the first earnings of the day into a small pouch sewn inside her sari. There had been a time when she could wear a garland of money around her neck if she wanted to, but that was long ago. That was when she was silk, and men would slide up her legs like snakes, then disappear inside her valley for months, and come out fucked themselves, ravaged and shattered. Those were the days.

  May they never return, she thought.

  —

  Hours later, the day’s work done, she trundled back from the intersection.

  Not home, not yet. At 4:00 p.m. she had called it quits, and now she was at Dr. Kyani’s dispensary, sitting on the wooden bench in the waiting area. The two prostitutes on the bench opposite her were trying to muffle their coughs. She might as well live in a TB factory. Everyone had a knack for developing it. At least it could be treated now, unlike before, when people had no other option but to sit and watch their loved ones being
eaten up.

  The compounder, Faruk, was at his station preparing his concoctions, his eyes squinting in concentration, his unwavering attention on mixing the right amounts. That’s what made the difference between patients experiencing pain that was tolerable and pain that was gunshot piercing. If Faruk missed something, someone would spend the night screaming in agony or coughing their lungs out until they were ready to hang on Underwear Tree.

  Dr. Kyani was one of the last remaining doctors in the city who still created his own potions. It was an abandoned art, but Dr. Kyani was a magician who refused to forsake old secrets. Everyone in the red-light district respected him, even the pimps, who would not know respect if it slid down their very balls. Even they, in Dr. Kyani’s presence, suddenly tried to become human by saying please and thank you. For they knew that when the sickness came—any sickness—only Dr. Kyani could keep them from slitting their throats.

  It was thanks to Dr. Kyani that gurumai could sleep at night.

  For years the cough had laid silent, deep inside gurumai, a rat in a corner, deathly still, until a few months ago, when she’d started coughing so much it was hard for her to speak. Even though gurumai’s disciples knew what it was, no one dared voice it, until Madhu noticed blood in gurumai’s spittoon and begged her to see Dr. Kyani.

  “I don’t believe in doctors,” gurumai had replied. “You know that.”

  For some time gurumai braved the fevers, the night sweats, the war in her lungs so tight she wanted to reach in deep and rip them out herself, until she was robbed of sleep five nights in a row and could not think anymore. Even then, her pride did not allow her to seek help. It was only when Madhu beseeched her, as a child would its mother, not in words but through the sheer helplessness on her face, that gurumai allowed Madhu to ask Dr. Kyani for medicine.

  It was very kind of Dr. Kyani to treat gurumai. She was perhaps the only patient to whom he had ever given medicine without having checked her first. Gurumai said they were like lovers who had never seen each other and were having a long-distance relationship. When Madhu told Dr. Kyani this, he allowed himself a faint smile. He instructed Faruk not to take money from Madhu that day. Gurumai was thrilled with her free medicine. It was as though Dr. Kyani had sent her a rose.