by Anosh Irani
chandni: Ten.
top rani: Colour of hair.
chandni: Dark brown.
top rani: Eyes.
chandni: Black.
top rani: Favourite hero.
chandni: Shah Rukh Khan.
top rani: Best movie.
chandni: Dil To Pagal Hai.
top rani: Mother.
chandni: Killed. In riots.
top rani: (to satta) You shake like a leaf. Chandni must be correct. I will accept your bet. If you lose, I get the seven thousand. Plus your daughter. She will be well looked after. She will earn more than you do. I know what you are thinking: my daughter will never be a whore. (pointing to chandni) I’m sure her father thought the same before he drank himself to death. It’s what men do. They abandon. And we eunuchs are the ones that are ridiculed.
satta: That is impossible. I will never allow it.
top rani: Then it is impossible for me to take your bet. Goodbye.
satta turns and walks hastily to the exit.
Fifty-to-one odds.
satta stops, but his back is still to top rani.
Fifty to one. Three and a half lakhs on a bet of seven thousand. Not only can you repay Khalil Bhai, but you can also buy your kholi back. And more.
satta faces top rani.
But I agree. A daughter is too much to ask.
satta walks up to top rani and hands him an envelope that contains the money and a slip of paper with the number he is betting on.
satta: I accept your condition.
top rani: Some people take more time to buy vegetables.
Pause.
If you win, your money will be ready. If not, I will make sure Aarti is here first thing tomorrow morning. It is good. Tomorrow is the last day of the year. Men pay a lot on New Year’s Eve.
satta exits. top rani gives the envelope to chandni. She exits.
Let me tell you a story. Don’t worry, everybody loves stories.
Pause.
Twenty-five years ago, there lived a man named Surya—handsome as the sun itself. Women looked beautiful in his light, baby moons reflecting his own beauty. When they made love to their husbands they cried out his name until their throats dried up. The first time I saw Surya, he was tied to a tree, shivering with fear. It was nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve and I was ten years old, a servant boy carrying a matka on my head . . . (points to the earthen pot) this very matka, to fetch water from a nearby well. Surya had raped one of the men’s wives. He would be set on fire for it. Men gathered round the tree and started to take off his clothes to shame him as he had shamed the woman. Once Surya was naked, his innocence was obvious. He was a eunuch.
Pause.
But the men were not satisfied: “If our wives burn for him, he shall burn too.” They poured gasoline over him, lit a match, and fled. I ran to the well, filled this matka with water, and tried to douse the flames. I poured water into his mouth. He drank a little, then touched this matka and blessed it. He said: “A king will make you whole.” That same day, at the stroke of midnight, I became a eunuch.
top rani spots chandni walking towards the door.
Where do you think you’re going?
chandni: To a movie.
top rani: What for?
chandni: To watch it.
top rani: You can’t go.
chandni: Why not?
top rani: I don’t feel well.
chandni: Maybe you have what Sudha has.
top rani: Why? Is she dying?
chandni: She looks like a skeleton.
top rani: Good. The same showpiece over and over is stale.
chandni: Then let me go from this place. I am your oldest prostitute.
top rani: You be grateful that I have given you the chance to put food in your mouth.
chandni: That’s not the only thing you’ve helped me put in my mouth.
top rani: I rescued you from a gutter. Your own father did not think you were worth it.
chandni: I am not worthless. You are. I’m going for that movie. The men in the movies have something you don’t. Something you never will.
top rani walks to the corner and picks out a cricket bat. He circles around chandni and makes sure that she notices the bat.
top rani: Do you know what I wanted to become when I was a boy? A cricketer! A century on my debut in England! I’d look dashing in my spotless white uniform. After the match, the British girls would rush to me and say, “I say, old chap, mister brown boy, can we stroke your bat?” But since I’m from India, I’d feel shy. We are a backwards country, we are not used to advances. Then the girls would say, “We have heard your bat is finer than English willow. Would you like to rest it on our pillow?”
He grazes the bat along chandni’s thighs.
One day you’re a young boy, playing cricket, staring at the sun . . .
The sun shines very brightly on him. The way he holds the bat suggests he is about to hit chandni.
The next day . . .
Blackout.
Five
Grant Road. Ten minutes later. aarti is seated on top of gantaal’s trunk. She still has the sheet draped over her and seems happy. Enter satta. He is very anxious.
satta: Where is that fool? I can’t believe he left you alone. (to himself) I can’t believe what I have done. How did this happen?
He goes to aarti. He holds her.
Aarti, I will never abandon you. Do you understand? No matter what happens. Remember what your mother used to say—be brave. When times are tough, be brave. If you are afraid, you will lose. If you are brave, you will win.
She wipes the sweat off his brow. He puts his head in her lap. She caresses his face.
Don’t worry. Your papa is okay. Your papa is okay. (looking skywards) I just wish that your mother would give me a sign that everything will be okay. Please, Shanti. Please . . .
He paces about restlessly. A dog barks once. satta freezes. He listens.
Did you hear that, Aarti? How many times did the dog bark?
aarti holds up one finger.
Once! Just once! A dog never barks once. Dogs always bark twice, or three times. Don’t you see what this means? I bet on one. The closing number is one. I am right. That dog barked once.
Pause.
Oh God, what if it barks again? Don’t bark again. Please. Maybe I should find it and kill it. Then it won’t bark anymore.
He rushes in the direction of the bark. gantaal enters.
gantaal: Where are you going?
satta: To kill a dog.
gantaal: What?
satta: It must not bark again!
gantaal holds satta, who is nearly hysterical. He looks at aarti, who seems afraid. He takes out some coins from his pocket and gives them to aarti.
gantaal: Angel, it is lassi time!
She takes the money and exits.
What is wrong with you? You’re scaring the girl.
satta: I did it. I can’t believe I did it.
gantaal: Did what?
satta: I placed my bet. This is a question of my life.
gantaal: The question of your life is whether you can trust your wife’s sister. She has given you the tip.
satta: I trust her with my life.
gantaal: Seven thousand rupees is a lot of money. If you lose, you have nothing. Who will look after your daughter then?
satta: Top Rani.
gantaal: Satta, that is something even I would not joke about.
satta: I’m serious. I owe a lot of money—fifty thousand—to Khalil Bhai.
gantaal: Fifty thousand! When did this happen? I thought you played small.
satta: My gambling increased after my wife died. If alcohol makes you remember, gambling makes you forget. I have failed in my
duty towards Aarti. I have failed. I’m a miserable father.
gantaal: You are a bad gambler, but a good father.
satta: I’ve wagered Aarti in a Matka bet with Top Rani.
gantaal: What?
satta: I’ve wagered Aarti in a Matka bet with Top Rani.
gantaal: What do you mean?
satta: I’ve wagered Aarti in a Matka bet with Top Rani.
gantaal: Will you stop repeating? I heard you.
satta: I am saying it over and over so that it sinks into my wretched skull!
gantaal: I cannot believe it.
satta: If I do not repay Khalil Bhai by tomorrow morning, I am a dead man. Who will care for her then? I’m glad her mother is not alive to see this.
gantaal: Why didn’t you just place the seven thousand?
satta: Top Rani refused to accept the seven thousand. The dead tip will not fail me. I know it. The dead tip will not fail me.
gantaal: Satta, I don’t know what to say.
satta: Just tell me I will win!
gantaal: Call the whole thing off.
satta: My days are numbered. Khalil Bhai has given me a final warning. If I do not pay him by tomorrow, I am a dead man.
gantaal: There must be another way out.
satta: Like what? Maybe we should ask your parrot.
gantaal: Even he will be speechless in this matter.
Pause.
But I overheard a conversation last night between the parrot and the cobra. Do you want to know what the parrot said?
satta: No.
gantaal: Good. The parrot said that when he was alive, his name was Polly. He was owned by a fortune teller. Now Polly was a very gifted parrot because he could tell the Matka numbers nine times out of ten. Lots of people came to Polly. “Polly the Punter, Polly the Punter, can you tell us the Matka number?” Then Polly would say the number out loud. The gamblers of this city respected Polly so much they started calling him the Matka King. Until one day. Saala, there is always until one day in everything. When you buy mangos, they taste good until one day they taste bad. You wear a pant that you like every day until one day you are too fat to wear it. A person is alive until one day the person is dead.
Pause.
Where was I?
satta: Polly the Punter . . .
gantaal: So Polly the Punter and his master were really happy until one day . . . people came to kidnap Polly. They held Polly by the neck so he could not scream for help. They squeezed his voice box too hard. All the magic was in Polly’s voice box. So Polly turned to stone. Right there in the kidnapper’s hands. That is what Polly the Punter told the cobra.
satta: Why didn’t someone squeeze my voice box? I would not have agreed to Top Rani’s wager.
gantaal: All will be well. Trust in God.
satta: God is great but always late.
gantaal: Ssh!
satta: I don’t care if he hears me. Where was God when my wife died? Hah? Which garden was he tending when those rioting bastards killed her? They were stoning the mill owner who was running for his life. And what happened? They hit my Shanti. I’m ready to accept whatever fate comes my way. You can tell God that.
gantaal: I will. But there is one problem.
satta: What?
gantaal: God does not come to this city anymore. Poor fellow cannot bear the smell.
satta smiles.
It is a good omen that you are smiling. No harm will come over your daughter. But I think after tonight’s closing number, you will never play Matka again.
satta nods.
Now you are relaxed and I am nervous.
He removes a cigarette from behind his ear and looks to the end of the road.
Where is a car when you need one?
Six
The brothel. December 30th. Almost midnight. It is dark. Oil lamps have been randomly placed and lit. It gives the brothel an eerie look.
top rani: I thought if I waited, the king that Surya spoke of would seek me. Throughout history, kings and eunuchs have shared a special relationship. At times of war, eunuchs served as protectors of the kings’ harems. For eunuchs were strong enough to keep the women safe, yet unable to make love to them. So in the past, kings have needed eunuchs. It was the people of this city who led that king to me . . . when they bestowed upon me the title of the Matka King. I realized it was me Surya was talking about. I had to make myself whole. So to honour Surya’s death, I do not pick an opening number on New Year’s Eve. And at the stroke of midnight, this city plays a special game. Raja Kheench: Pull the King. I throw Jacks, Queens, Kings, and Jokers into the matka along with the rest of the cards. It’s the one time I want gamblers all across the city to win. For I know that if I pull a king . . .
He picks up a dark grey cylindrical piece of stone, shaped like a phallus. It is wide at the base, but tapers at the top.
. . . I will be a man again. You see this thing?
He holds the phallus like an offering.
It is used to grind masalas. You place a thick slab of stone on the ground. You put the masala on that slab and sit on your haunches. You grind the masala to a paste. It is hard work—you rock back and forth, back and forth, and your limbs ache from squatting. But you do it because you are a servant boy and it is what you are meant to do. But that does not mean you cannot think of other things while you are doing it: of cricket and how you run away when you break someone else’s windowpane. That is what gives the masala its flavour—the thoughts of the person at the time of grinding. If you think about dead people, the masala will taste stale. If you are homesick for your village, the masala will taste bittersweet. And your master cannot understand how the masala tastes different every time because the ingredients never change. (indicating the phallus) But this is now a part of me. It’s almost midnight. Odd time to be doing all this natak. Odd time, no? (blowing out lamp nearest to him) Odd time to be woken from your sleep to see eyes shining in the dark. (blowing out second lamp) Odd time for you to be dragged by people you don’t know into your master’s kitchen. (blowing out third lamp) Odd time for you to hear them say, “You will no longer be a man.” (blowing last lamp out to a blackout) My hands are tied; my mouth is gagged. I cannot see their faces because it is dark. But I can see eyes.
Parts of the kitchen start glowing. At great speed, the oil lamps come on again.
They all have long hair and wear saris. They hold oil lamps in their palms and circle round and round like an offering. They remove my shirt. As they take my shirt, the bangles on their wrist . . .
The sound of bangles clinking rapidly.
Then they sit on my chest so I cannot move. I see their dark faces. They have colour on their lips, all red-red. In the centre of the forehead, a bindi. They tear my short pants. They turn me around. And put this delightful object inside me. I pass out from the pain of this . . . (indicates sodomy) so I do not feel the pain of . . . (indicates castration) When I open my eyes again it is midnight. They all shout, “You are pure, you are cured.” Where there should be the mark of a man, there is mud. To heal the wound, to stop the bleeding. They put mud. Mud behind also. To heal the wound, to stop the bleeding. Mud, like trees grow from. They take the man from me and give me mud in return. Mud.
He dips the phallus in the red mixture that chandni had placed in the tray. The phallus now looks blood-smeared. He places it upright on the swing.
By midnight tomorrow, I must be worthy of being whole again. Otherwise I will not pull a king. So I relive the worst moment of my life to purify myself for the best. It is called the Myth of Merit.
He lifts his sari just a little, faces the audience, and slowly sits on the phallus. He is in tremendous pain. Simultaneously, there is the sound of thunder. It starts to rain heavily. He stays there for a moment, regains his composure. He still breathes in and out slowly as the phallus is in him
.
It is midnight . . . the last Matka bet of the year.
The matka lies at the foot of the swing. So do the blindfold and pack of cards. He uses his feet to bring the matka directly in front of him. He points to the night sky.
It never rains this time of the year. It means the night sky is weeping. It could be for any one of us, for the sky looks over us all.
He separates coloured cards from the pack, empties the rest of the cards into the matka, and blindfolds himself. Then he puts his hand in the matka and pulls the closing number. He removes his blindfold and stares straight at the audience. He smiles.
Seven
Grant Road. Fifteen minutes later. Guru gantaal is absent but his trunk is on the street. We hear music. Street performers playing the drums, celebrating. Enter satta. He looks absolutely dejected. He is drenched from the rain. A few moments later, aarti enters. The white sheet still covers her. The sheet is wet. She goes over to him, tugs his shirt, and starts clapping her hands to cheer him up.
satta: Yes, dance, my angel. Dance! It will soon be the New Year! A new beginning for all of us! (looking skywards) Look—all the stars are out. Stars are the eyes of all the people who have left this earth. They are watching over us. Look—those are your mother’s eyes. I know . . . because I am unable to look into them.
Enter gantaal.
gantaal: Angel! I’m so relieved to see you!
gantaal covers her head with the bedsheet and wipes her dry. While doing so, he talks to satta.
I take it all clear? Jackpot?
satta: Yes, baba. All clear. Not to fear.
gantaal: So where are you going now? To pay Khalil Bhai?
satta: Later, later.
gantaal: What do you mean later? You don’t keep Khalil Bhai waiting.
satta: But we are celebrating.
The sound of thunder.
Even the sky is celebrating! It’s okay. Everything is okay. Listen to me.
gantaal stares at satta for a moment. The three of them listen to the sound of thunder. There is also the sound of a convoy of cars approaching.
gantaal: Listen to all those cars . . .
The cars get louder.
Never in my life have I seen so many cars on this road. How much commotion! As if anybody cares? Does Aarti care? Does Satta care?