Skinner

by Charlie Huston

  Everything else is just the world.

  It and its troubles will still be there when they land.

  She hopes.

  constantly upon her person

  THE DRONES HAVE come.

  Herons, say the Naxalites.

  Sudhir squats next to Raj in Media Control. A few hours ago it was his home, but now it is Media Control. All the computers and TVs and phones they had been using in #1 Shed have been moved here. Raj’s father says they need to decentralize. Besides, now that the electricity has leveled, there is no need to stay close to the gas-powered generators in #1 Shed. Here will do. Anywhere with a tap to the wire will do. And everywhere is on the wire now. Their chowk is lit up, humming, regular and smooth. As he promised, Raj’s father has brought the wire to everyone.

  Now, they are joking, if only we had a place to shit.

  The wire and the water first. Toilets next. One thing at a time, Raj’s father is saying.

  Raj wants to believe. Toilets next. But what if there is no next? The drones have come. What if there is no more time for next?

  Sudhir squats, his INSAS assault rifle rested horizontally across his knees, potbelly pressing against it.

  “They don’t shoot, the Herons. Just for looking. In Gadchiroli, they tried flying them over the forest. Heat vision. Stupid. The forest, everything is alive. What will they see? No. Nothing to be afraid of, the Herons. The helicopters. Be afraid of the helicopters. If they want to kill us from the sky, it will be with the helicopters. The Americans are not here. Predators. Not yet. So now be afraid of the bhenchod helicopters.”

  Raj understands this. The HAL Light Combat Helicopters, new pride of the Indian army and air force, have been buzzing overhead for hours now. They shake the corrugated roofs of hutments and both #1 and #2 Sheds. Everyone flinched and ducked at first, but now they are becoming numb to the noise. Numb and also very tired.

  Sudhir said they could shoot one of them down, maybe. But not yet. Not until the work has been finished. Even with the rumors that have reached the Internet and TV, shooting down a helicopter might bring the army and police crashing through the slum behind the column of bulldozers and APCs that has been massing on 90 Feet Road.

  Too soon.

  For now, the Naxalites have created a perimeter around the chowk. There has been talk of fields of fire. And there are mines. Trip wires. Slummies who live along the perimeter have either left the chowk or moved themselves and their favored possessions into the hutments of friends. As a result, many hutments now have two TVs! And, thanks to Raj’s father, plenty of electricity to run both. Also on the perimeter, natives of the chowk, standing watch with the Naxalites. For every slummie leaving the chowk, there are two who want in. They have heard that the wire is finally humming! They want to see. Some of this electricity is surely too. All these new vacancies, someone must occupy these hutments. A cousin of mine. See! See! He will live here. Help your cause. Even with the helicopters and the army and the police, the notorious occupancy and squatting laws of Bombay draw slumlords to empty hovels like flies to shit. Both buzz throughout Dharavi.

  The locals who sit in watch with the Naxalites give thumbs-up and thumbs-down.

  Yes, yes, this one I know and he is a bhenchod good man. There was no food at home for me and I knocked on his door and he fed me. And I him. That one? No. A bastard, a real bastard bhenchod. Bhenchod he sells iPhones, you see. But with no insides! Then says that you did not ask about the inside! A real bastard. Make him go away. Shoot him, maybe.

  Some who want to come in change their minds when the Naxalites say they must leave their phones. Each one with a piece of paper taped to it, the name of the owner written in black ink by the daughter of a courtroom clerk, a young woman often praised for her remarkable penmanship. The phones will be returned, soon. Probably. But no phones now. It is too easy for the police to put their people in here. Impossible to keep them out. Informants, yes, those are certain. But also some actual policemen. Somewhere in the chowk, poking, they must be here. Talk to your friends and your family. No need to be rude, but speak of general things with the new people. Safety first! And no phones.

  They cannot control the perimeter for long. Not once the army and the police decide it is time to come in. So the rumors. Raj’s father said he would have liked not to start them, but they need more time. Once the Shiv Sena men were massacred, they could no longer hope to hide what is happening. Too many guns. Too much gunfire. Could there have been a different way to deal with the Sena? Perhaps. But it set a tone of seriousness. To the outside world, it will appear to be nothing but a slaughter of fellow citizens. But to Indians, to Maharashtrians especially, and Bombayites most especially, it signals something very specific. An absolute line. A confession. We will die. No one shoots down the Sena and lives. Whatever is left unsettled by the army and the police, the Sena will settle with the citizens of the chowk. Lathis will swing, as will swords, and the jars of petrol will break and burn. So. Everyone in India understands. The people, slummies, Naxalites from the east, whatever craziness it is they want if they will ever open their mouths and say it, they are very ready to die, and to kill.

  And now, the rumor says, they have a bomb.

  Maybe it is best for the army and the police to wait and see what is to be seen. These people inside that bhenchod chowk, these Sena-killing madmen, they will blow up the whole damn fucking slum. And much of the city. If they have this bomb.

  So the drones have come, and the helicopters. And Sudhir is right, the helicopters are more dangerous. A threat just over their roofs. But Raj cannot help being afraid of the drones. So high, invisible, looking down at them on the ground. What do they see? How much? If they see too much, it will be over. The helicopters will have their way, and the soldiers and the cops behind the bulldozers. And then the Sena. He wishes he could blind the Herons. Stab their eyes as if they were actual birds.

  Sudhir is rising, lifting the assault rifle over his head as he stretches.

  “So now you know better than to worry, okay?”

  He lowers his arms and the weapon and wiggles the stock at the half-dozen boys and girls, none older than thirteen, sitting at the media stations in the shack.

  “And you have responsibilities. A cadre. Eh, kids? Your leader should be fearless?”

  The kids have known Raj all their lives. So they laugh. Because they have seen him run from bullies. Run from his mother. Run from some of them when they have fought with him. But they do not laugh long or very hard. Because Raj never leaves anyone behind when he runs, and, once they are safe from the threat, he always has a plan for what to do next. There is nothing wrong with being afraid. In the slum, you are afraid or you are foolish. Raj is not foolish.

  Sudhir laughs, too.

  “Okay, so now we all got to go back to work, yeah? I got to go out to Number One Shed and see what is happening, and I got to check with my fighters on the perimeter. We got to talk on our radios and our phones so the army and the police can listen in, yeah? Hear what we say to each other. Disinformation. And you kids got to be careful, the TV news, what they say on their blogs, Twitter. How they are talking to each other, some of that is for you. Same thing. Disinformation. So don’t panic if you read some bhenchod Twitter that they just captured your leader or similar lying bullshit. They know we’re listening. Everyone listens to everything now. They just want to scare us. Make some panic. So don’t panic. Listen to Raj. Stay cool, you know. Unless he says you got to run. When Raj says you got to run, you got to run. Yeah?”

  The kids are laughing and nodding; Sudhir, stern-faced, acting out how they should run, potbelly bouncing as he trots in place with his weapon held at port arms, pretending that something horrible is chasing him. A helicopter thunders overhead, each turn of the rotors slapping the roof and making it jump, some of the kids covering their ears so that they are the last to hear the series of pops that become audible after the copter has passed. Gunfire on the perimeter.

  Sudhir is at the
door when the pops stop, followed by a bang. New sound. Land mine. He stops, points at their screens.

  “Look, look. Find out what they are saying on TV.”

  He taps the two-way radio attached to the shoulder of his body armor by a Velcro strap.

  “Call me and say. Okay.”

  When he runs he does not do it with the high-kneed trot he used to make them laugh, but becomes something sure-footed and elegant in movement, disappearing between two shanties, running toward a rising column of smoke and dust just now glimpsed in a sliver of sky between crowded rooftops.

  The other kids are looking at Raj.

  An urge to run, but there is nowhere to run to. He is in his home.

  He has known them his whole life. David. Chiman. Khadim. Khajit. Rani. Avinashi. They run in the same alleys. Fall in the same mud. They all love Kalki. They also like Priyanka, but everyone likes Priyanka. Kalki is not so much older than them and she doesn’t act like a star. They have eaten in each other’s homes. They shit in the same holes at the outhouse. He has scars, one on his elbow and one above his right eye from fights with David and with Rani. He is a little bit in love with Rani, he thinks. But he also likes Avinashi. Khajit has no parents, lazy-eyed boy with only his grandmother, and they rent some floor in Khadim’s house. Chiman is the best cricket player. He can bowl and hit. He is holding his willow-bladed bat now, squeezing the cane handle.

  How can they be looking at him for what to do? Sudhir has already told them. What can he say that will change anything? He rubs his nose, almost dips his finger inside his nostril, but Rani is watching and she hates it when he picks his nose.

  “You know, Priyanka and Kalki, they must know about what is happening here. Do you think they will maybe Twitter about it?”

  Rani looks at the ceiling, rolling her eyes.

  “Bhenchod no. Piggy Chop is so stuck up anyway and why would she care about the slum. And Kalki only uses Twitter to answer questions from her fans.”

  Raj rubs his nose harder.

  “We can maybe ask her what she thinks, yeah?”

  More pops from the perimeter.

  Raj points at the screens.

  “But we got to work also. David, the TVs are saying what now? 24x7NDTV.com. Okay. Chiman, don’t look so much at the bhenchod cricket scores at the bottom of the screen. Okay. Avinashi, please, Breakfast News From Bombay is live-blogging what? Okay. We are not running yet so we are working. Khadim, Khajit, new hashtags to create. This is the list.”

  Dropping a list of Twitter topics to create. Conversations to start. Places where news might come to them.

  #dharaviuprising. #dharavirevolt. #dharavirevolution. #dharavinuclear. #dharavispring.

  There are many more. A list his father has been preparing for weeks.

  They are all sitting at the screens now. Raj can see that the 24x7NDTV online news stream is showing live video. From a rooftop west of the slum. A blurry zoom shot on the smoke and dust raised by the land mine’s detonation. He looks at the list of email accounts, dozens and dozens, opened by himself and the other kids over the last few days. Matching Twitter accounts. Google accounts. Facebook. That is what is next. Now that the rumor is out, he needs to prepare for his father’s statement. So, Facebook pages are created.

  Official Facebook Page of Dharavi. Dharavi Official Page. Dharavi Independent. Independent Dharavi. Dharavi State. Dharavi City. Official Page of the independent City-State of Dharavi.

  “Raj, Raj.”

  He turns and looks at Rani; her desktop is covered in Twitter windows. Official feeds from government, police, and military offices. Also US government. UN. UK. Pakistan. One of the windows is pulled center.

  “Raj. What do I ask Kalki?”

  Everyone stops clicking.

  Raj rubs his nose.

  “Ask her if she has ever come to Dharavi.”

  Khadim shoves Khajit with his elbow.

  “Like maybe on the tour.”

  Khajit holds out his hands and makes his eyes big and sad.

  “You got money, lady? My mom and dad are dead. You got money, lady?”

  The wonderful scam they like to do when the people come for the Dharavi tour, rarely leaving 90 Feet Road or the 13th Compound.

  They all laugh.

  Raj raises his hands.

  “Bhenchod you ask her then if you know.”

  Rani is already typing.

  “No. I want to know if she’s ever come. It’s a good question.”

  Chiman turns back to his Dell monitor, one corner of the screen covered in duct tape where it is cracked.

  “She won’t answer.”

  He taps a key, turns back to Rani.

  “But also tell her we are her biggest bhenchod fans ever.”

  Rani nods, typing.

  “Okay, yeah, good.”

  A helicopter passes overhead again, not as low as before, but the roof and parts of the walls rattle. No more gunfire heard from the perimeter. Raj doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what any of it means. His mother will be back soon. She took lunch to his father. She carries the gun with her always now. Tucked somewhere inside her sari. As constantly upon her person as Taji. Raj wants her to come home. If he cannot work in #1 Shed any longer, he wants at least one of his parents nearby. If one of them is at hand, he knows that he cannot be left alone. They will either live together or die together.

  Something changes on the screen of his computer. Something not connected to the mindless work of opening Facebook accounts. An alert. classicsteelbikes.com. A message alert. He clicks the icon and the message board appears. New box of text. Private message.

  Very close, Little Shiva. Where are you?

  POPOPOPOPOP.

  Short burst, rapid fire. Closer than the perimeter? What does he know about the sound of gunfire? Nothing until these last few days. Everyone working, talking about Kalki.

  Very close, Little Shiva. Where are you?

  That is wrong. Why does this person want to know where he is? Raj sent the coordinates. Why does this person not simply go to the coordinates? Where the two water mains run past #2 Shed, the space between them glutted with garbage, open space on all sides. That is where this person should be. And if there, then quickly surrounded by the Naxalites. They will take this person where he is meant to go. This is not Raj’s job. Not any longer.

  Bhenchod.

  Why is this happening? Now, when there is gunfire outside and his father is at #1 Shed.

  Bhenchod.

  What will happen if he gets up now and runs to his father? Will his friends become nervous without him? He is meant to be here. Where is his mom?

  Another message.

  Quickly, please.

  Quickly. So urgent? Why are you so urgent? Go to the coordinates.

  Enough. He types.

  Go to the coordinates.

  Hits the enter key. Trying to solve the problem on his own before asking help. As his father would want him to.

  Men with guns, Little Shiva.

  He can use the radio, call his father. Call Sudhir. Wait for his mom to come home. Men with guns, Little Shiva. Yes. We have sent messages to you, brought you here, and there are men with guns waiting for you. Okay. They won’t hurt you. But will this person believe him? No.

  Bhenchod.

  The helicopter passes again. Somewhere above, Herons circling. Naxalite fighters on the perimeter. Army on 90 Feet Road. Sitting here in his home, watching what the world is saying about his neighborhood, always ignored, until now. Because of guns and the promise of a bomb, now they are talking about his home.

  Bhenchod.

  All he wants to do bhenchod is go outside and play with his bhenchod soccer ball bhenchod.

  Instead he types a string of coordinates, easy enough. Open the GPS on the phone on his little tippy computer table and ask it where it is. Nothing else to do but hit enter and this person will know exactly where Raj is. Okay.

  Bhenchod come here and I will bhenchod take you whe
re you are supposed to bhenchod be.

  He hits enter.

  He turns his head to look at his friends. David leaning to push his shoulder against Avinashi no matter how many times she tells him to stop. Chiman clicking away from 24x7 for cricket highlights. Khadim and Khajit playing a word game only they know the rules to, finishing a sentence the other starts, the last word always a curse. Rani clicking through the Twitter feeds, returning second by second to see if Kalki has responded to them.

  He suddenly sees with great clarity that some of them will die because of what his father has done. All of them may die. Has he done something to speed them to their graves by sending his last message, inviting this itinerant ghost into his home?

  Where is his mom? Where is she with her gun?

  encounter killings

  SKINNER THINKS ABOUT the Bombay police force and their reputation for unsanctioned executions. Encounter killings is the term of choice. Suggestive of a scenario in which a police officer just happens to be there when a dangerous criminal attempts to do something of an unlawful nature, requiring a response in deadly force. In practice it is a euphemism for ambush. The thought is certainly relevant to his current situation, though he knows that none of the men hidden nearby, apparently waiting for him to arrive, have any affiliation with law enforcement.

  They are very good at hiding, but their skills have limits. They cannot, for example, make themselves invisible. Skinner is invisible. In any case, they haven’t seen him yet, and because they haven’t seen him yet he’s been able to stay on his uncertain perch atop a flimsy scrap wood awning shading the front of some kind of workshop that reeks of caustic fluids. Heaps of filthy rectangular fifteen-kilo cans made of tin plate fill a tiny yard behind the shop and hint at the recycling industry housed within. One of the gunmen is in that yard, wormed onto a corner of the roof at the rear wall of the shop, eyes poking up just high enough to see the garbage dump that matches the coordinates Skinner received in the Lazarous family tomb.