Temporary People

by Deepak Unnikrishnan

  In this city, where tall tales are birthed by all sorts—all kinds, every minute, seconds—her claim may be the mightiest of all. But I believe her.

  My report follows her transcript.

  Be well,

  D

  TRANSCRIPT

  [Verbatim. The punctuation is mine]

  MAY 5, 1991

  We sit opposite each other at a round table. Her parents have left us alone, taking Maya’s brother with them. I smell incense, sandalwood. I have been given sweet bun-colored chai and a plate of arrowroot biscuits for dipping. Maya’s having Tang.

  M: (extends her hand): Girlie. Precocious. Twelve, not ten. Soon, thirteen. Me.

  D: (I shake it gently):Maya, sweetheart, look—

  M: Business, luv, let’s discuss. Ah, you squirm. Prefer a respectful moniker? Debashish, right? Uncle Debashish? No? If you had been a woman, “Madam”! I would have yelled, then groped your chest, announcing to the world how pert your tits have gotten. Oh, how you stare.

  Exactly!

  I dislike pretending to like you, too, so ditch the formalities, dynamite the baby talk. But, touch me, I bite you. Instead, let’s discuss where we are at this stage in our lives, let’s mull nuances, but it won’t happen, I think. You are bound to say, I will tell you when the time’s right, when you are old enough—which in my time, the due time, could be another ten years and change, if I survive childhood. So for now, luv—

  D: “Sir,” acceptable.

  M: Sir? OK. Sir. For now, you wanna tug my cheeks, pull them wide, see some teeth, go ahead; you wanna pat my bum, fine; you wanna cuddle, hug, OK. Go right ahead. Scum. Hurry, though. There’s work to be done; loads. I am twelve, the schedule’s tight. If your hand must wander, qweek! Us children are busy. And aging fast. But trust me. Touch me, I bite you.

  D: About the girl, M—

  M: Here’s what happened. Our father is a crazy little fool.

  Brother and I picked him up from the bar last night.

  D: Time?

  M: When Cinderella’s chariot turns back into a squash—then. We tied Father to Henrietta Sivasankar, Brother’s stuffed hippo, so Father couldn’t run away. Henrietta is chubby. We then tied both of them to the back of our bike, which I pedaled while my brother wobbled like bug antennae on the bike frame, as he kept an eye on our boozed-up father. Brother’s six. He assumes my superiority as the older sibling to be a permanent, non-negotiable dynamic. But I can tell he is biding his time. We do agree on the important stuff. We are children, members of the shorter species, and we acknowledge the world is rigged. There are rules to follow, parents to con, school to attend—the prerequisites of adulthood. Sometimes these norms are carefully explained by our caregivers and tested in front of party guests eager to witness developing skill sets in the competition’s progeny. Brother and I have a name for these judicious child bearers—Manufacturists. The m, capitalized. Normally, Manufacturists comprise of two parents, Mother, Father, the birth makers. Sometimes, because of circumstance, death, divorce, adoption, substance abuse, or choice, a Manufacturist is only one person. This person, respected in some societies, and maligned in others, is the single parent. A single parent can be a mother, the birth giver, or the father, the birth causer. Usually, sex has occurred. Another scenario upends this argument. Here sex doesn’t occur. The plot involves agencies in India, hospitals loaning out wombs, healthy mothers attached like tails. What’s the technical term for this? Don’t prompt me, thinking out loud here. So something. Sor, soor, sur. . . ah, s-u-r-r-o-w-g-u-t. [O: Maya spells it out, beams.] That’s it!

  D: Please continue.

  M: Brother and I posit that most Manufacturists beget the firstborn for want of a test subject and casually beget the rest to keep the first mistake company. Brother and I are not naive. Soon, we will turncoat into adults ourselves. After all, we were manufactured and product tested, too. Here, in Hamdan. Both born at Corniche Hospital. But Brother and I have decided to fight for a while before the mutation. We’ve written lyrics.

  [O: Maya jumps on the table. She lifts her knees, up-down, up-down. She marches.]

  And what a fight t’will be

  woe, some glee

  let’s dupe our destiny

  You are taking notes here. Leer. Hear. Heed.

  Write, I remember our anthem.

  Write, I stand up.

  Write, I am at attention, a sapling expecting the wind.

  Write, I sing.

  Write, I rhyme.

  And what a fight t’will be

  woe, some glee

  let’s dupe our destiny

  [O: She jumps off the table, sits, continues.]

  Which now makes our current situation a little shitty. Considering Brother and I are presently captive inside Mushtibushi’s tummy—

  D: Now? Inside? We are here, Maya. Mushti-who? A Japanese friend?

  M: Fool, I did not ask.

  Mushtibushi, the peep-show pimp, the looker upper hiker of skirts, the unzipper of flies. One more, I promise. Just one more. The harbinger of sleaze.

  D: Tummy? You mean yesterday? Not now?

  M: Look, luv, whose story is this? I tell it my way.

  So here we are, Brother and I, stuck in an elevator. Inside Mushtibushi.

  Not with Mushtibushi.

  But inside Mushtibushi.

  A Manufacturist like yourself will tut-tut pish-posh this predicament. Like you did right now.

  We fear that day, Brother and I; we fear that mutation. An adult—look at you!—is a boring animal. So much will be left behind, our minds will turn slothful, our imaginations will be tranquilized.

  D: We evolve, Maya. Not dissolve.

  M: Liar. We expect the metamorphosis, embrace it like bedtime. But it will be a terrible day. From Us, as we are now, a bundle of zip, zap, into That, You. Average, a-fud, a-dud. In adult form, the child’s tucked away, manacled, locked away like Rapunzel. Hiding like a troll in a cave, misunderstood, a neutered monster with its balls in its pockets. Like you, sir. Your eyes. Avert.

  [O: She points. I comply.]

  D: The girl, Maya.

  M: So. Here’s what happened.

  Father, the crazy fool, borrowed some cash. We know this. He doesn’t tell us these things outright all the time. But we know This. Over breakfast. Or lunch. Possibly lunch. While we munch. Lunch. Father shares.

  Children, Father says, enough is enough, today I decided to fix our troubles. Look, Father continued, the bank’s mad, the grocer’s mad, the people are mad, so many people just bloody mad, but we need to pay these people back. So, Father continued to continue, because everyone’s mad I went out and looked for the fattest man in the market, invited myself to his house, where I offered myself to him like a goat and begged for a few. Life isn’t, as Aesop said, so simple, Father says. Laughs.

  Anyways, Father had been going to the market often—

  D: Where? Near the Old Souk—

  M:Only Father knows. He’s been going there to borrow since I was born, since Brother was born. This meant he borrowed many fews [O: Pidgin—cash] from more than a few for over a few years. One few too many, Brother and I whewed. To borrow fews Father deposits a blank check with the fewgiver. Of course, without collateral, no fews. Without fews, only feuds.

  Father was the master of the collateral.

  Father first offered Mother’s gold as collateral. Then Mother’s house was offered as collateral. Then Mother’s plot of land was offered as collateral. Then Mother’s passport was offered as collateral. Then Brother’s passport was offered as collateral. Then my passport was offered as collateral. To keep an eye on the collaterals, Father spoke to God. But before talking to God, before giving fewgivers collaterals, before signing one, two, three, many blank checks, Father sobbed. Unbeknownst to Mother, unbeknownst to Brother, unbeknownst to me, Father might probably still end up in prison, our collateral appropriated, our passports returned, our selves deported.

  Tell me something. You speak adult. Pidgin. Spelled
like bird?

  D: No.

  M: Write, a futile endeavor.

  A futile endeavor, borrowing all this cumbersome few.

  To pay fewgiver A, Father borrowed from fewgiver B. When B hollers, Father phones C. Lurking, sputtering, like Gargamel, is the bank. You understand how this works now, don’t you? Game’s over when all Father has left to pawn are bones and hair. But this time, he, our few-addicted daddy borrowed fews from a bloke who invited himself over to our house at five in the morning when Father didn’t pay his interest on time. This fewgiver turns up with his wife. Genius. To catch your rapscallion father, the bloke says, before he—Father!—disappears like a jinn, to report to duty on time, where he does his best to be paid in fews, so he can at least try and cover the 60 percent interest he is expected to account for.

  Father’s job don’t pay enough.

  D: What does your father do?

  M: Stuff. Easy stuff, tough stuff, OK stuff, he does all kinds of stuff. On his company ID is a picture of a telephone. Underneath the telephone, Father’s face. He must comb hair, polish shoes. Eat breakfast. Before he does stuff. You know? Telephone stuff. He does all this, then runs away before the fewgivers come.

  Stop distracting me by furrowing your brow. Just listen, be still.

  This particular fewgiver is obese, a man with an owl’s face, a doughnut’s girth, a terribly roundy little man. At the door he bangs and hisses. Blowing it fine hard good to shake it break it make it fall, yelling for the return of his bountiful few, borrowed by my rapscallion father, who slips out of the house at four, predicting the owlish fewgiver’s presence at five. Foiled, unhappy, this crazy roundy little man walks into our home, demands a cup of chai, kicks Henrietta, our stuffed hippo, who does him no harm, and begins the verbiage, his wife by his side. [O: I now hear it, surprised I missed it: Maya’s Vs possess a Malabar cadence; her Vs sound like We’s.]

  Your father hides, does he? Roundy Little says. But not for long!

  The rest is unintelligible. Brother and I concur this is a ploy. Roundy Little wants to scare us into handing over the owed fews.

  BUT Father paid him his weekly fews, the owed interest, last week. Roundy Little thinks we do not know. Brother and I know. We answer the phone. We know. We hope mad-dog Roundy Little blows a fuse. We wish to unleash beloved Milo on him. Milo’s a dog. Black like wolf. Eyes like frog. Milo bites legs.

  On the phone, the fewgivers vary from the polite to the obscene. Roundy Little calls often. He likes to talk hush-hush, a randy porno devil who remembers my tits. He thinks he is the first man to ask if they’re firm. He asks if Brother’s getting bigger. These quests. Needs. Finger up bum hole. Untouched wee-wees. Brother and I would like everyone to get on with it.

  Get on with it. Get on with it. Get on with it! Us children, children no more, are busy.

  D: Was Roundy Little at your place yesterday?

  M: Wanted chai, fatty, roundy little man. Sipping, invectives jump like fleas off his tongue. Mother, immune, listens patiently. Finished? Mother asks. More chai, then?

  Roundy Little shrugs, berates Lipton, the cup, the tiny saucer. Berates Mother. Talks about consequences. An apocalyptic denouement, he thunders, will plague the family if Father doesn’t pay. He mispronounces “apocalyptic.” He articulates the T in “denouement.” A lightning bolt appears above his head. Thunder, thunder, thunder. Prison isn’t fun, he winks, slurping his refill, watching Brother and me.

  Roundy Little hints now, hints that Brother and I should unravel like spools of vice. Some skin could easily cut back a few fews, Brother and I hear now. Again, Roundy Little thinks he is the first to ask. He slurps more chai. I hear his wife peeing in our toilet. Mother waits. Roundy Little waits.

  Today, nothing. Mother must be tired.

  Sometimes the adults get right down to it, without fanfare, us hustled out like pesky cats. Go play, Mother would hasten. When Mother wants us to go play, Brother and I do not argue. But not today. Today, she says nothing.

  D: Today?

  M: Yes, today. My tale, told my way.

  Today, Roundy Little puffs for two hours. Waiting, waiting. He leaves, disappointed. But the bum pinches my butt.

  Months ago, an uncle squeezed Brother’s wee-wee. A man ever twiddled your wee-wee? Like so. Watch me. Like so. [O: She holds up her right pinkie, plays it like a harp, squeezes.]

  A woman, surely? My, my. But you do know, don’t you? You know then how the body thrums, how the thrumming sometimes appears unannounced, by accident, in a dream, watching cartoons, like a jinn or a witch’s reflection in a pot of brew. It just comes, the thrums.

  Still, just get on with it, I say. Brother and I say.

  Soon, Manufacturists ourselves, the thrums we hide with skill.

  D: How? Memories return, Maya.

  M: Maybe. But we pack them thrums in barrels, swallow them whole. Them thrums stick to our bellies like gum. They’re digested slowly. Number two-ed out. Eventually.

  D: If the thrums remain—

  M: Worry not, we will heal. Forget. Exaggerate. Stand helpless if the thrums thrum again. We hope, though. Hope our kids never come home quiet, sit us down, like Brother and I never sat Father and Mother down. Like you sit me down. Then Tell. Tell. Tell.

  D: Maya—

  M: Hush. So here’s what happened.

  Before we got stuck here [O: The elevator, it’s clear.], we brought Father back from the bar. That would be at night. And as we biked home [O: Maya jumps back on the table, handling an imaginary bike.], the four of us, Henrietta Sivasankar urging us to hurry, we noticed Father’s morale had sunk. He couldn’t do it anymore; defeat was at hand, prison expectant. Father left—remember?—that morning browsing the market for fews. The fewgivers, after all these years, laughed at him.

  Near Kentucky Fried Chicken, Father stirred, cursed Vishnu, apologized. We brought him home in that state. No more beseeching the gods as he lay in bed, silly-looking, grin specked, damaged. Normally, Father would come home with the breath of a fire-eater, saunter to the bathroom, and free willy, pissing into the toilet bowl. Ceramic, so blue, so blue. Cookie Monster blue. [O: Maya’s seated again; her tongue, I now notice, is the color of Tang.]

  Father would remind the gods it was their responsibility to take care of the few fews he needed to get our lives back in order. Imperative, you help—hear? Father would blurt. I hurt none helped all so hear me yes now OK, Father would blurt. Brother and I sometimes helped him with his shoes. What? we would ask him. What!

  To bed, please, Mother would plead. Sometimes, Father would push her, then apologize. Cry. Snore.

  Our pagan pantheon, Brother and I posit, rests the instant Father begins to pee and plea. Aloud, Father wonders if Krishna knows our woes. Any of them: Brahma, Creator? Vishnu, Preserver? Shiva, Destroyer? Hello? But all, asleep. As Father begs for a couple of fews to restore order in our lives, Brother and I swear, we hear the gods snore.

  Father’s luck is rotten, he thinks. He must be right. So, Brother and I conclude, after all these years, Father’s tired. His face, worried. Grin specked no more; booze, unhelpful. Like that, we wheel Father home, with the help of Henrietta Sivasankar, our hippo.

  Home, Father frees willy to pee. Heartbreaking, Father’s silent piss. Quite then Brother and I decide to intervene. It will be done tomorrow, as soon as Father is out by three a.m., escaping testy Roundy Little who may turn up, or not, at four since the word’s probably out in fewgiver land that Father leaves at four to escape the fewgivers who lie in wait at five.

  But we wake at ten, not six; our fault. After breakfast, we head for out. There is still a plan. Brother and I have a plan. We plan to wait outside till dark until the evening’s fewgiver pays our home a visit. As he berates, then leaves, Brother and I plan to follow him home, discovering where he keeps his fews, stealing a few fews to give Father once he is home, hopefully customarily grin specked, pee filled. So with this in mind, Brother and I leave home, determined to snare a few fews and be home in ti
me to surprise Father.

  Such thoughts in mind, in we walked, forgetting to think. Only when the elevator door closes do we realize how we erred. And here—

  D: Here?

  M: Look, whose story is this? Look around you, observe his insides. We are captives now. Inside the insides of the looker upper hiker of skirts. We, Brother and I, know him. You by now know him. The aforementioned Mushtibushi. Mad, he is. Mad!

  D: Because?

  M: Twice a month, we children pick a volunteer. At noon on the designated day, the volunteer follows those waiting—sometimes one, sometimes two—into Mushtibushi’s steel chamber. If no one’s there, the volunteer waits twenty minutes, then boards the elevator. Alone. This month, we did not meet to select bait; summer vacations were around the corner and parents were planning month-long trips. The know-it-alls remembered; they took the stairs. Brother and I, busy tailing fewgivers, forgot. When the doors closed, Brother and I knew: trouble.

  Mushtibushi is an observer. If the waiting men don’t show, Mushtibushi isn’t happy. Unless.

  D: Unless?

  M: When the men don’t come, the volunteer isn’t spared. The child is required to wait. Then the child walks in, alone. Angry Mushtibushi shuts his engines down. Switches his lights off. Makes no sound. Stores the child like a birdy with a worm in its beak. Which is what he began to do to us as we realized our mistake.

  But Brother and I have a job to do! A fewgiver to nab! So Brother and I confer. We make an offer, Brother and I. We promise a child. [O: She pauses now.]

  D: When the children don’t show up as expected to, what happens?

  M: The men come anyway. Random days. Random times. Twice, women came. They take anyone. Anywhere. Anyhow.

  D: The child you promised? Did you deliver?