“As-salamu alaykum, bhai,” says Mel, making sure her smile shines through her voice.
The Blind Man turns his head halfway, the dim light of a lamplight bathing his face, the web of scars shining bright and clear around his eyes. His eyes are as white as curdled milk.
“Wa alaykum salaam, bahan,” he answers, his smile warm, almost friendly, showing his stained, cracked teeth, waiting for her to speak.
The music comes from an old radio propped up against the wall, halfway between the Blind Man and the others.
“How’s it going?” Mel asks.
“No water,” goes the Blind Man, staring somewhere between Mel’s nose and mouth. “Not enough even to wash our clothes, or our children. Not even to make tea.” The Blind Man brings the glass to his mouth, wetting his lips. “The work of Mukhannathun improved the situation, but it’s not enough. It never is.”
“We’ll fix things,” Mel says.
The Blind Man nods imperceptibly, so much that Mel isn’t sure he did. She starts to kneel next to him, but on second thought just flexes her knees a little as a sign of closeness. The three men are still staring at her without having moved a muscle since she entered.
“I remember them, the rains,” says the Blind Man, his eyes turning gray. “The streets were full of it and you had to be careful not to get carried away, but we children would dive into it and swim as if it were nothing. Even in the Pit. Especially in the Pit.”
“Global warming, that’s what they call it.”
“Ah,” goes the Blind Man, his monotone voice inflamed by a moment of vivacity. “Big words. But these words don’t matter here. You know what matters instead? The cracks on the bottom of the river. The fires. The water we use to wash our body and then our clothes and then our dishes. They do this to keep us on this side of the Fence. And for the money, of course. Water means both life and death, but we only know the latter meaning.”
Mel listens in silence, her mind distracted when the song on the radio changes. It appears to be Bengali now.
“Yes, do your best,” says the Blind Man. “A war is coming otherwise.”
The late-evening aazan rises outside the shack.
“Powder,” Mel says, “do you have any?”
The Blind Man clicks his tongue, and the man sitting in the center, despite the intoxicated expression on his face, jumps to the order, rummaging in a black canvas pouch, and fishes out a small plastic bag. The Blind Man extends his arm, waiting for the other to hand him the package, and then offers it to Mel.
“How much?” she goes, without taking it.
“Three thousand.”
“Too much, bhai.”
“It is the right price.”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
“Arre, Blonde Girl, it’s Afghan stuff.” The Blind Man’s eyes now seem to have found Mel’s.
“Yes, but this is the usual price. And then again the last time it wasn’t strong enough.” Mel fakes frustration, but she’s enjoying the dance of bargaining.
“Two thousand seven hundred, final offer,” he says.
Mel clicks her tongue, throws back her head. The roof is made of asbestos and it’s covered with scratches.
“Deal,” she says, “but I also want a bit of that.” Mel points to the hookah, turning her head so that the Blind Man can follow the sound of her words.
“It’s not for sale,” he says.
“I didn’t ask to buy it,” Mel replies. “The first time is free, isn’t it, for a loyal customer?”
A smile cuts through the face of the Blind Man.
Leaving the Pit, her Yves Saint Laurent scarf fluttering in the hot wind, Mel hurtles zigzagging through the night traffic, blinding the autorickshaw drivers coming in the opposite direction, trying to meet their eyes with a friendly smile, finding though that most of them avoid her green gaze.
In front of Leonard Cafe, one of the coolest restaurants in Candil, the colonial ward of Ayodhya, a beggar lies unconscious in a pool of his own vomit, his trousers down below the buttocks. Soon the police arrive, lifting him, throwing him in the back of their patrol car, driving away so that the evening can resume to the cackle of tourists in glitzy shops as the crowd flows in and out of the pricey restaurants among the countless street-kiosks, everyone pretending they didn’t see it.
It’s almost impossible, wherever you are in Ayodhya, not to see the lit top of Scheria.
In the underground car park, Mel leaves the Enfield with the park boy, trying to make small talk, cracking a joke and laughing at it alone, while the boy, taut as a rope, smiles his sweet, sad smile, and stays put in place like a soldier waiting for Mel to disappear into the elevator. She gazes at him just before the doors close, and realizes she’s never seen him before.
She begins to undress as soon as the 80s-furnished living room at the one hundred seventeenth floor welcomes her back. Leaving a trail of garments up to her bedroom, she glances through the long corridor only to find her father’s studio shroud in darkness. In the bathroom, before slipping into the shower, she looks into the mirror, just for a moment, curling her lips in front of her graceless body.
She does a line. She enjoys the touch of the water falling on her skin. After the shower her own body looks younger, more beautiful in the mirror.
“Maybe I should wait for Dad,” she whispers, her panties in her fist. But then decides otherwise, and wearing a provocative dress she sprays herself with La vie est belle by Lancôme, and polishes her nails with Tiffany China Glaze.
Back in the elevator, Mel enjoys thirty seconds of “Thin Line Between Love & Hate” by The Persuaders. In the parking lot, a new park boy brings her the Enfield.
***
The Financial District, East Ayodhya.
Imal’s penthouse is on the top floor of the building, but the party is on the terrace. Silence reigns in the elevator on the way up, but roaring electronic music greets Mel at the opening of golden doors. Mel makes her way to the bar, stopping to smile at Careena as she passes her, only to pick up pace to get away from her as fast as she can.
“A double Old Monk, neat, please,” she tells the barman, wobbling her head.
The terrace is packed with university students in expensive clothes, under the effect of even more costly substances.
“I think he will,” Mel says, without turning her head. “Gabriel, I mean. He will transition.”
“What makes you say that?” Nil, sitting on a faux leather stool, his face brighter, leans towards her, while Ferang, sitting next to him, nods at someone in the crowd.
“They expect him to,” answers Mel, eyeing the preparation of her drink.
“A matter of honor, is that what you’re saying?”
“Or social pressure,” goes Ferang, on his lips a crooked smile.
When the barman hands her her drink, Mel downs it in one go, trying to keep her expression impassive, and turns to them.
“What else?” asks Nil, clearly in a good mood.
Mel looks at him for a moment, shaking her head. “Nil, not now. It’s a party, let’s have fun for once.”
“Good idea,” says Ferang, standing up. “Let’s put aside journalism for a moment and do some PR.” He pauses, as if expecting to elicit laughter. “You think you can do that, Bernstein?”
“Sure,” says Nil.
Mel lets the crowd swallow her. Trying to resist the urge of pressing her body against others’, she meets the gaze of Jack, Claire and Vivaan from International Relations, but then sees a group from Broadcasting who’re talking about Eyes Wide Shut by Kubrick in a critique-like manner although none of them, as far as she knows, attend Cinema Appreciation. She walks to them.
“—to fuck Nicole Kidman,” says Anamish, squinting.
Wajisha responds emphatically. “The way she says it, my god, like, sums up the rottenness of this world in one word.”
“The rottenness of humans, you mean.”
“The rottenness of the man-made institutions, I would say,” Priyansha g
oes.
“Mine is an existential analysis on a purely individualistic level.” Anamish takes a sip of what appears to be Coke and Malibu. “Kubrick, I’m sure, doesn’t aim to paint a universal framework, but a firm personal image, an almost intimate one.”
“Nah, not really, man,” says Wajisha. “Kubrick has always seemed, like, a Marxist to me. I think he has, like, opted for a collectivist message, especially for a work so closely linked to the perspective of a single character.”
“I doubt Kubrick is a Marxist—” says Priyansha.
“That’s right,” chuckles Anamish, “and even if he were, applying Marxism is the least Marxist thing you can do.”
“Guys, Kubrick’s dead,” goes Mel.
The three look at her stunned: their half-empty glasses hanging just below their lips, on their faces an expression between bewilderment and annoyance. Mel is panicking, but only briefly, before trying to make up for the inopportune intervention.
“You know what I say?” Her voice is a shrill. “There is this Bollywood film that reminds me of Eyes Wide Shut—Ajnabee. Have you seen it?”
A look of open disgust blooms on Anamish’s face.
“Bollywood is rubbish,” he says.
“That’s right, it’s for villagers,” confirms Priyansha.
Wajisha, with her rat-teeth, makes a contrite face. “Come on, don’t use that word in a derogatory way,” she says. “But yeah, Bollywood goes well with the inhabitants of the Pit.”
Suddenly aware of the heat hovering above the terrace like a hood, Mel feels covered in sweat. “What a beautiful bracelet,” she says, grabbing Priyansha’s wrist.
“Dalì designed it.”
The three go back to their movie talk, and though Mel stands next to them, she doesn’t talk or even listen to avoid being tempted towards saying the wrong thing again. A part of her would like to slingshot to the bar and get another Old Monk, but a predominant part commands her not to look distressed and give them friendly smiles instead.
Ferang appears plowing through the crowd, holding an Old Monk full to the brim that Mel grabs with gratitude as soon as he comes within range. Anamish, Wajisha and Priyansha physically open-up to the newcomer, stretching their lips in automatic smiles, and Mel finds herself eclipsed by the fairer complexity of her opponent.
“What about you, Ferang?” asks Anamish. “What do you think?”
“Of Bollywood?”
“No, of—”
“I think it’s creative.” Ferang half smiles. “I think it’s crazy, and sometimes a bit childish, but no doubt fun. I indulge in a movie or two every now and then, with my kids.”
“So noble,” says Priyansha, brushing his forearm.
“Well—” Anamish starts, stops, takes a sip. “Well, you have a point. Surely Bollywood knows how to entertain.”
Wajisha nods quickly, smiling with her lips sealed to hide her teeth. “True, think about the number of its fans. Unrivaled in the whole world.”
“Of course,” says Ferang with a shrug.
“But...” goes Mel but, at a loss for words, she lets her voice fade into the background music, “I Gotta Feeling” by The Black Eyed Peas—to which people on the dance floor react as if it were the last hit of the summer, and not from fucking centuries ago.
After a moment, Anmsih cuts in. “Bollywood is not bad, fair enough,” he goes, “but the film you mentioned, Ajnabee? That’s crap.”
“Yes, it is,” says Mel. “I saw it as a child.”
“Wait,” goes Wajisha. “You grew up here?”
Mel’s heart stops. “We went to the same school.”
“Right.”
“My mother was Indian.” Mel raises her chin.
Anamish laughs at Wajisha.
“What, you didn’t know? Have you been living under a rock till now?”
“That’s right,” Ferang says, “Mel is the princess of liberal India.”
The roar of the music drowns their voices. Mel realizes that she has finished Ferang’s drink.
“I’m going to get myself a Campari,” says Priyansha, strolling away.
“That’s because it has antidepressant effects, you know,” says Wajisha, leaning towards Ferang, winking at him. Anamish laughs.
Anamish and Wajisha move to the bar as well, and Mel is waiting for them to turn around and ask her to go with them, but when they don’t, she pushes through the mob and reaches the damn bar touching the dope hidden inside her bra.
She drains another Old Monk, neat, afraid to meet the eyes of other people. She finds herself messing up conversations again, but keeps at it, terrified of losing opportunities to make friends.
A hand rests firmly on her waist. Imal, biting his full lip as in a Bollywood movie, orders two shots of whiskey, his mouth a few centimeters from Mel’s cheek. He waits for a dramatic few seconds before speaking.
“Girls like you are not made for flirting... they’re made to be loved.”
Mel looks at him, then looks away, blinking her eyelashes. She hopes she’s done it right.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous your eyes are?” he continues. “If I had a heart, I would no doubt lose it for that smile.”
Mel remembers to smile. “Come on, you don’t mean it,” she goes.
“To tell you the truth, I might even say that you’re sexy.”
“Do you really think I’m sexy?”
“Sure.” Imal moves his hand to touch her leg but stops. “I’m afraid I’ll burn myself if I touch you.”
“Wow,” she says, “You’re so original.”
Imal wavers, his dumbass face wrapped in contemplation, before speaking again.
“Your eyes are a postcard. They’re perfect. They make you dream.”
Mel blinks again.
“And your lips... they keep me awake at night.”
Mel gets closer, bowing her head, trying to look at him from the bottom up. She asks him for a cigarette, but without waiting for an answer she shoves her hand in his pocket. But she doesn’t take the packet, she just let her hand rest there and looks into his eyes. Imal smells of Paco Rabanne.
“Do you want to suck me?” he asks.
Mel’s smile melts, just a little, then freezes on her lips, her cheeks turning into granite. She moves closer, now their bodies are almost pressed together. With her fingertips she brushes up his collar bone, then she glances around, and back she stares into his eyes.
“Ask me again.” She smiles.
“Hmm?” Imal has shifted his weight on his heels, holding the whiskey shot to his chest in an unconscious defensive position.
“Ask me again,” whispers Mel into his ear.
Imal frowns. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s an invitation.” Mel laughs shyly, the exact same laugh she laughed a moment ago.
Imal looks at her as if she were a rare beast, blinks in rapid succession, lowers his chin to meet her lips, and repeats, “Do you want to—”
“I’ll bite it off you, then I’ll make you swallow it and I’ll make sure you drown in—”
NIL
His heart racing, Nil touches Mel’s hand.
“—your own blood,” she says.
“Is there a problem?” he asks.
Imal’s eyes dart to meet Nil’s with what looks like a plea in his pupils, and Mel steps back and smiles and squints and all at once she looks as harmless as a child.
“Oh,” she says, “we were just talking about how nice it would be to have Skrillex here, once he’s done with the concert in Bombay.” Mel rests a sweet hand on Nil’s shoulder.
Imal says nothing, his lower lip hanging down towards the glass that he’s still holding to his chest. “Hymn of the Weekend” by Coldplay fills the terrace and Mel bends to sip from the glass Imal is holding but the glass is too small and a drop falls from her lips and stains his seven thousand rupee blue and green squared Ralph Lauren shirt.
“It’s really a good party, Imal,” she says in a valedictorian tone.
He hesitates for a second before walking away.
“Let’s get something from the bar,” says Mel, and from the tone of her voice it could be her way of thanking him for intervening and saving her, and Nil thinks that yes, it must indeed be so, and while they wait for the bartender to serve them, he finds Mel looking at the dance floor while drumming her fingertips on the ream of expensive-looking tissues placed on the bar, and Nil doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s truly a beautiful night,” she mutters. A beat goes by. “Don’t you think?”
Following her gaze, Nil observes the lights and the mass of people and his heart speeds up a little and he has to lick his lips before answering. “Yes, it has its perks. Imal knows how to throw a party. From what I know, his father did the same back in the days of our parents.”
“In the family villa, I suppose.”
“I guess.” Nil can’t help but turning to look at her, before looking away again. “They have it since the times of the British.” Once more he’s looking at her, only to turn away and resume people-watching with a dry mouth. “I heard he wants to throw a party over there, the next time his folks are going to Bombay.”
Mel turns her head with sudden urgency, something glimmering in the depths of her eyes.
“We’re getting closer, Nil,” she says, pushing back a lock of hair, exposing her graciously protruding ear. “This is our opportunity to do what’s right.”
Nil doesn’t know what to say and he’d like to ask more about her meeting with the Hijra, but doesn’t want to look pushy and so he glances at the bartender, thinking that if the jerk would hurry he could stall, drink up and think of an intelligent answer.
“Ferang has the spirit, and I can gather information.” Mel’s voice radiates a warmth that rarely Nil has heard in the way she talks. “But you—you, Nil, you have the passion. You don’t do it for fame or power, you just want the truth, nothing but the truth.” Their eyes meet. Nil thinks of caressing her face. “That’s why we’ll win. Cause you’re the good one among us.”
Nil feels the hand of a giant clenching his throat and smashing his carotid artery and so he thinks about the Crooked Woman, and he knows that the Whole has awakened within him.
Objects in the Mirror Page 8