Objects in the Mirror

by Nicolò Govoni

  Mel and Ferang lean over to read the page.

  “Wow,” Mel says, “a remarkable first time.”

  “It’s not, uhm, their first time,” says Nil. “They covered the issue the last time four years ago, and then nothing until now.”

  “‘Farmer poet commits suicide,’” reads Ferang. “This is crap, the story doesn’t even mention the drought problem, only this guy who wrote poetry and killed himself.” He smacks the corner of the page and leans back. “And there is no mention of the fact that this is the one hundred and twentieth case of farmer suicide this month, or why.”

  “It’s something, at least.” Nil has to grit his teeth to ward off the migraines.

  “Yeah,” says Mel, “the Times doesn’t even dare to write the word ‘suicide’ when it comes to this.”

  “Slaves of the system,” hisses Ferang.

  “I think it’s them we should contact when our story is done,” says Nil pointing at the Express.

  “For sure,” goes Ferang.

  “But first we must have it, a story.” Mel looks at the newspaper and closes her eyes. “Crazy, this piece is so vague that the man could have taken his life out of love or sadness or any other thing poets kill themselves for. It doesn’t even mention that the central theme of his poems was the drought.”

  Ferang grins. “You sure know a lot about this guy.”

  “Gabriel,” she shrugs. “He told me about him a few meetings ago. He was a pretty prominent figure in the Hindu community of the Pit.”

  “That explains why a national newspaper would even consider this guy.”

  “It’s not about religion,” says Mel.

  “It’s also about religion,” says Nil, his heart racing. “It always is in this country.”

  The drinks are brought in and things are as always and what appears to be a song by Sia fills the air, but towards the end Nil realizes that it is a piece from the eighties, just like all the others here, always a catchy rhythm but the words an incomprehensible mess.

  Nil’s erection is raging, but alcohol helps.

  “Who’s the reporter who covered the story four years ago?” Ferang asks.

  “Ganguli,” says Nil.

  “The lifestyle reporter?” goes Ferang with a grimace.

  “He used to be one of the leading investigative reporters at the Express at the time,” says Nil. “He had to publish an apology after that so-called exposè about farmer suicides saying he overestimated the problem.”

  “Did he mention the Water Mafia?” asks Ferang.

  “He mentioned Ameen,” says Nil.

  “And now he’s a lifestyle reporter,” goes Ferang.

  “And now he’s a lifestyle reporter,” says Nil.

  “I contacted him,” says Mel to the surprise of the other two. “But he isn’t going to comment on the incident. He seemed quite wary over the phone. He told me not to call him anymore.”

  “And another lead fizzles out.”

  Silence falls. The Smoking Woman puffs out a dense cloud of bluish smoke.

  On the fourth Chai Russian, Mel gets up apologizing and saying she has to study, but Nil knows she wants to just walk away and disappear and go off the radar for a while, and when she goes past him touching his shoulder to say goodbye, Nil thinks about asking her for some powder, but with Ferang and all his good deeds and merciless judgments sitting right there he feels uncomfortable and bites off his tongue swallowing half a glass of Sazerac and glancing at the Smoking Woman instead, who is still smoking at the bar and studying the wall in front her.

  The door closes behind Mel and Ferang resumes talking.

  “I’m leaving tonight.” The way he smiles is provocative and candid at the same time, and inspires confidence, just like the rest of him.

  “I’ll be there.” Nil tries to smile back and feels like he made a pretty good work of it and for a moment he feels connected to his friend.

  ***

  At dinner, Nil meets Dad at the Gymkhana. Dad is in town to catch up on business with Mel’s father and Nil has to see him. It’s the etiquette. Fearing he might read on his face the traces of alcohol and cocaine, he puts on a layer of Fair and Lovely.

  They order a plate of sushi and a veg sizzler respectively, and, despite Dad’s encouragement, Nil doesn’t order any alcohol. Dad is a vegetarian, obviously, but he is open minded—but Nil knows all too well that this was a test. He smiles at Dad’s jokes and nods to the company’s growth projections for the next semester.

  “We have a fine year ahead of us,” Dad says, rubbing his belly. In the air around him hangs his usual old fashioned cologne, which has the power to inspire respect and reminds Nil him of his grandparents’ house.

  Upon saying goodbye, Nil returns his father’s hug and feels the Whole swell and threaten to saturate him and then he runs into the car and orders the driver to take him to Old Ayodhya and downs two Old Monk shots in one of the Baccarat crystal glass set of six he purchased in London during his last visit, and the thought of the trip from sweet turns bitter when Jiya pops up in his mind. He shakes her away from his head. Anyway, the set of glasses is worth about thirty-five thousand rupees, that’s the point.

  “2Pac, ‘Ghetto Gospel’,” he tells Siri, but it’s the driver who takes up the request, and the song fills the cabin and Nil enjoys the sensory blur as he drinks a third shot and sinks into the seat, crossing his legs and smoking a Benson, as a true Western gentleman would.

  The Old City is hell, and the damn horns and the cries of the women selling fruit and the kids peddling glue on the streets pierce through the supposedly soundproof Mercedes as if it were tissue paper.

  Outside, the air hovers heavy, sweat staining the shirts of the pedestrians: those badly dressed stray dogs screaming with their shrill voices in their cacophonous dialects. The driver pulls over and Nil places his thirty-four thousand rupees Gucci loafers on the filthy ground and, afraid but concealing it the best he can, he glares steely-eyed at the two little rascals sitting under the statue of Gandhi, who have already spotted him. They sit up. They think twice. They sit back down, scratching their matted hair.

  Ferang’s house is little more than a shack and Nil is always afraid of getting dengue when visiting. The door is always left open. He enters. The entrance is actually bedroom and it’s dirty and depressingly lit. It’s the bedroom of one of the Ferang’s flatmates, a crippled forty-something who must have missed one or three of his polio vaccinations as a child. He makes up for it now by screwing up his liver at some cheap bar in the area, every night.

  “Suresh’s not there?” Nil goes, raising his voice so to be heard from the next room. Asking about the polio stricken drunk seems like a good way to start chatting, for some reason.

  In the corridor, which is Ferang’s bedroom, Ferang is packing and, upon seeing Nil, smiles a happy smile. His smiles feel good.

  “You know how he is,” he says turning his back to fold his underwear. “He always gets back late when he goes out at night.”

  Nil steps closer. “Still drinks a lot?”

  “You bet. These days he goes to the bar first, then he buys a bottle at the liquor store, and when he comes back in, he puts his crutches over there and sits in front of a sitcom drinking himself to sleep.”

  “And you can’t do anything about it?”

  Ferang laughs. “What, did you start liking him or something?”

  “No—” he says, then he retracts, “I mean, why not?

  “I thought he was too poor for you.”

  “How can you even—”

  “Joking!” Ferang slaps him on his side.

  Nil feels relieved. “And the others?” he asks.

  “They work at night. You’ve never met them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Me neither.” Ferang laughs, folding a linen shirt and placing it in his backpack. “It’s not an easy life, but I’m not complaining.”

  Nil looks around and the floor is covered by an opaque layer of something
that muffles the sound of his steps, making him glad that he didn’t have to take his shoes off before entering.

  “So,” goes Ferang without looking at him. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, why?” Nil forces himself not to look away, to no avail. “I always come to say goodbye when you leave.”

  “You should come with me once.”

  “Really?”

  “Everyone should meet my children, at least once in their lifetime. The world would be a better place.”

  “Then maybe I could—”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t picture you over there, it’s too complicated.” Ferang smiles accommodatingly. “It’s a terrible life.” His smile widens. “But one day, for sure, you will come.”

  Nil knows he’s going to get a hug, and when Ferang moves toward him he feels on one hand a sense of childish trepidation and on the other of blurry anxiety, and then Ferang wraps his arms around him and Nil wills himself to relax his limbs but, fearing that Ferang will notice the boner, he keeps his pelvis away and hugs him back and, when a warm wave pervades him and fear and anxiety decrease, he knows that Ferang is

  FERANG

  the best friend in the world.

  Ferang breaks contact. Slowly. He pushes him away. Slow. Sweet. Firm. Deliberate. They separate and he looks into his eyes. He doesn’t blink. He pats him twice. On the shoulder.

  “Let’s go get a cup of chai,” he says.

  They’re out. The aroma of the Old City gliding around them. Ferang breathes in. He squints. Cocks his head. The air smells of tanned skin and decaying leaves. But there is not a tree in sight. It smells aggressively, the red-hot asphalt.

  Ferang grabs Nil’s arm, just in time, before he steps on a decapitated rat laying on one side of the alley. A queue of ants connects it to the open-air drain flowing nearby. Nil covers his mouth but then conceals the horror he feels by scratching his chin. Ferang smiles. Nil walks faster.

  In front of the tea stall, Ferang breaks the silence. “Where’s Mel?”

  “She texted me that she was going to the gym—but you never know with her. She likes to disappear, you know.”

  “An elusive creature, no doubt.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if she is from this world.”

  After a moment of silence, Ferang bursts laughing. Nil blushes.

  “Two chais,” Ferang orders in Hindi. The chai-walla wobbles his head. A good man, this chai-walla, Ferang knows him well enough. Proud of his linguistic demonstration, Ferang smiles to himself.

  Still blushing, Nil goes, “Sometimes the things I say are just plain gay.”

  Ferang gives him a look of defiance before speaking. “Dude, please,” he goes, with faux-disgust, “Gay is not an insult.”

  “I know.” Nil scratches his upper lip. “I was joking.”

  “Your mother is in Humans Right Campaign, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she feels strongly about the rights of homosexuals.” He adds, “I do, too.”

  “Of course you do.” Then, in a more serious tone, “There is still much to do in this country. And I’m here to do my part.”

  Nil always listens to him with all he’s got, and Ferang knows it. Ferang drinks it in, he lives for this shit. At least, a part of him does.

  Chai. Served scorching hot. Steaming in the evening heat. Nil grimaces at first. But then drinks it with abandon. Drinking, Ferang keeps his eyes fixed on him. He studies Nl’s fingers arched to the maximum possible extent to limit the contact between his skin and the glass. Nil leaves the last sip. He always does.

  Ferang places both the glasses on the messy counter. The two of them stand watching the last glimpses of life in Old Ayodhya before darkness and its army take over. Men and women bustle about in every corner of the road, disappearing into the night where lifeless lampposts stand in watch. Ferang can see Nil trying with all his might to think of something else, pushing the thought of Mel away from him.

  “But sometimes she does come up with some out-of-the-world ideas,” Nil says, losing the battle against himself.

  “Who?” goes Ferang with ostentatious innocence.

  “Mel.” Nil pronounces the three letters as a Hollywood actor would, his lips encircling in embrace and then separating, longing for each other, before a third party, his tongue, comes in between their passion.

  “Sure she does.” Ferang starts walking. Raising his hand, he motions to Nil to follow him. They stroll in the dusty evening.

  “Do you remember—” Nil begins, but then looks around suspiciously. “Do you remember when she was the only one to smoke on campus? It was forbidden and Mel was the only one to do it, and she would sit on a bench in plain sight and light one bidi after the other. Now everybody does it.”

  “She changed the rules.” Ferang looks at the cracked, mold-spotted walls around them. Ah, the oblivious decadent streak of the poor. Art at its purest.

  “And what about that time she showed up to a party matching a Prada dress and some rubber flip flops?”

  “Yeah. A true innovator.”

  “Within a week all the girls started matching designer clothes to discount slippers.”

  “Callooh, Callay.”

  “Yeah,” goes Nil, for no apparent reason.

  Ferang chuckles. He’s walking a couple of steps ahead of Nil. Nil can’t really see him. Ferang knows that his laughter can be misinterpreted or lost in the din of traffic, and he’s okay with that. After all, isn’t ambiguity the most essential trait of geniuses?

  “You know what? you’re right,” Ferang says. “Mel knows how to come up with some remarkable ideas.”

  “Like the time she—”

  “Do you want to know her latest?”

  “Shoot.” Nil’s voice sounds shaded by sudden apprehension.

  “Heroin.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right.” Ferang turns to look at him. “I asked her for it.”

  Nil opens his mouth. The shock. A grimace. Livid, Nil raises his arms and waits for the necessary clarification, but Ferang adds nothing. He enjoys keeping him on his toes. Nil looks pissed, but in spite of it, Ferang knows he won’t dare asking any more than he already knows.

  An auto-rickshaw slows down near them. Ferang shakes his head and smiles. He smiles as if he knew the driver. He doesn’t, really, but he likes to think he does. The auto-rickshaw moves along.

  “It’s for Doc,” he says, ending his mind game. “The Breach doctor? The one that I work with? Last week there was this fellow Snehil with lung cancer and, man, you should have see it, the agony on his face, it was as if God—as if the Lord himself was looking at me in the eyeballs, you know what I mean? Of course, it wasn’t God, it was a call for help, my help, but I could do nothing but watch his life slip away.”

  “Why her?” asks Nil.

  “It is for these people that I do all this. They could never afford anesthesia or painkillers and—”

  “But why her?”

  Ferang ignores him. He doesn’t like his tone. “Thanks to this stuff we can assist these people in—”

  “Why her?” Nil’s tone is protective, almost aggressive now.

  “Because she’s good at it, bhai. Because she was born without the ability to experience fear and she’s a functional addict. That’s why. Don’t ask me stupid questions.” You brown bastard.

  Ferang is looking at him with thunder in his eyes. Nil blinks, his face a mixture of surprise and concern. Ferang comes to his senses. He tones down.

  “The only alternative is Rupesh,” he says cracking his knuckles, “and after what happened to the last doctor, Doc doesn’t want to get mixed with street drug dealers. Nor would he ask the Blind Man, of course. Not directly, at least.” Glancing at him with a smile, Ferang adds, “A Hindu would never buy from a Muslim.”

  “You don’t think she’s in danger, you don’t, do you?”

  “You’re risking more standing here with that Rolex around your wrist.”

  Nil glances around turning his
head jerkily.

  “No worries,” Ferang chuckles, “no one will lay a finger on you. Neither you nor Mel. You are the masters, that’s what you are, in this city.”

  “And you?” Nil asks after a long pause.

  “Me? I can manage. I move with the slum, I think like a slum-dweller. I’m part of the Pit.”

  No, you’re white. White, white, white.

  Nil hesitates. “You have it now, in your house?” A bit of curiosity in his voice.

  “Handy. The Blind Man’s dope is the best in Ayodhya, they say. If you’re not there yet, it’ll send you straight to heaven, they say.”

  “Have you already used it?”

  “I don’t do drugs.”

  “I mean—”

  Ferang laughs. Slaps him on his shoulder. “I know, I know,” he says. “No, we didn’t have a patient that critical yet, this week. Come on in. I’ll show you.”

  They walk toward the house, the thin roofs around them still giving off heat. Antennas stand here and there like sparse hairs erect in the darkness. People hurry to complete their work and return home and give in to sleep, or sex, or alcohol, anything to replace the intolerability of their lives. Yes, they go watch some trivial program on TVs sponsored by the BJP to manipulate them into accepting their bribe-gifts in exchange for their votes, and off they go drinking poison disguised as whiskey. I am one of them. Ferang walks one step ahead, paving the way. He can’t see Nil but he knows he’s looking around, a mixture of anxiety, disgust and misunderstanding in his eyes. No, you walk among them but you’re not one of them. Ferang enjoys the thought of his friend feeling lost in his own country, while he can manage all this.

  “Here it is,” says Ferang once they get home, placing the packet on the palm of Nil’s hand. “Smack. Black Pearl. Boy. Number Two, whatever you want to call it.”

  “It doesn’t look like anything special.”

  “From small things, baby,” Ferang sings, “big things one day come.”