Objects in the Mirror

by Nicolò Govoni

  Mel’s voice reverberates in the night, takes on a plaintive note when she makes up the ending. She does it often, changing the last stanzas.

  “We were born and raised in the lies of others, and if I think to get this over with, you’re the first thing I will free myself of.” With each word, gradually, the Trump Towers reappear. The spell is broken. She says the last words without any intonation. “I hope you’ll be awake when I’ll remind you that for me it had never begun.”

  Mel sighs. She lights another bidi. Takes a deep drag. “Let’s break something,” she says.

  Nil is staring at a point of the roof between his feet.

  “What?” Ferang goes.

  Mel gets up. Throws her bidi over the edge. Looks around. Ferang stands up, too. He turns. Looks at Nil, sitting still. Nil shows sign of wanting to move. Ferang holds out a hand. Nil stirs. Grabs his hand. With a groan he gets on his feet.

  “Nil,” says Ferang, cheerful. “Let’s break Nil.”

  Nil is unresponsive. Mel collects from the ground a metal lunchbox, probably abandoned by one of the workers. She holds it up in the air and shows it to the others. She throws it to Ferang. Ferang grabs it, inspects it. A Hindi name engraved on the lid. On the bottom, a scratched and faded sticker. A flower, it seems. Ferang throws the lunchbox on the ground. The lunchbox bounces, making a loud grinding noise. Mel wields an iron bar. Hits the lunchbox. The lunchbox is dented. Ferang charges. Kicks the lunchbox. The lunchbox bounces on the ground three times.

  “Come on, Nil,” Ferang screams.

  Nil looks at them, biting his nails. He slips his hands in his pockets. He pulls them out. “Guys—”

  “It’s just a fucking lunchbox, Nil.”

  Nil looks at the lunchbox lying on the ground, his hair floating in the breeze. He stomps on the lunchbox. The lunchbox flies to the side, striking the concrete.

  Mel claps her hands in delight. Ferang goes silent. Nil kicks the lunchbox, but it’s a sloppy kick and the lunchbox rolls unharmed, and Nil loses his balance. Ferang laughs. Nil regains stability. Mel’s iron bar falls on the lunchbox with a jarring sound. The lunch box flickers in the air. Nil kicks it before it can touch the ground. The lunchbox hits one of the walls under construction. It doesn’t open. It’s violently bruised. They are approaching.

  Mel lifts the bar high above her head.

  “Kill it,” goes Ferang. “Kill that son of a bitch.”

  Mel hits. The lunchbox is trapped between them and the wall.

  “Break it,” Mel cries.

  Nil stomps on the lunchbox with all his strength. He laughs. Mel laughs, too. Ferang kicks the lunchbox. She giggles like a child in front of a box of candy. Mel hits it with the iron bar once again. Nil stomps on it. Ferang kicks it. The lunchbox takes the hits and has nowhere to go. They risk hitting each other constantly trying to go for the kill. They laugh with a full heart.

  “Show him who’s boss.”

  “Yes, make him pay.”

  “Yeah, break his face.”

  “Yeah! Yeah! Ram his ass.”

  “Kill him.”

  “Kill him.”

  The lunchbox lies devastated. It completely lost its shape, crushed in several places. Deformed. Disfigured. The flower-shaped sticker torn and unrecognizable. The engraved name lost in the wreckage.

  Ferang pants. Laughs. They all pant and laugh. Nil wipes his sweaty forehead. Mel runs a hand though her frizzy hair but doesn’t seem to sweat. Ferang sighs.

  “We didn’t have so much fun in centuries.”

  “Yeah,” Mel goes, then adds, “I love you guys.”

  Nil smiles. He wipes his glasses with his shirttail.

  “But let’s go to the overpass one of these days,” he says.

  “Sure,” says Mel, touching his shoulder.

  Ferang passes an arm around both.

  Going down the stairs, they chat and laugh. On the way back, the streetlights bounce off the deserted street. They find an illegal shop open all night, and next to it, a closed supermarket, whose car park is home to a notorious crack ring. Illegal, and, too, of course, open all night. They eat chips and ice-cream.

  Nil is dropped first, as usual. He lingers at the door of his beautiful, historic, classy, capitalist building. Mel guns the engine before he has the time to say anything. The Enfield speeds through Vile Parle, where the poor exchange years of their life for a flask of poisonous liquor, and then Mayhem Boulevard, where brats are sipping fine alcohol in artsy cafes.

  Once in Old Ayodhya, Ferang kisses Mel. He presses his lips on hers, receiving no response. He grabs her arms. Nothing. He grips more vigorously, but still no answer. He bites her lip. Blood. A groan. Ferang moves away, satisfied. A drop of blood on his palate. It tastes metallic. He wipes his lips with his index finger. He leaves, walking backwards. He looks at her. He keeps an eye on her. Then he smiles before slipping into the house. And only after a while he hears the sound of the engine taking her away.

  Before going to bed on the filthy mattress, he sends Spandan a message. He texts that he has the rent money, and to meet him tomorrow. Suresh, sitting on his bed, stares at the image of Goddess Lakshmi on the opposite wall. He studies it carefully, dead drunk, the atrophic small leg dangling from the edge of the bed. A sad scene. A funny scene.

  ***

  Ferang wakes up at sunrise. He goes out to queue up for two buckets of water. He bathes using one. A frugal breakfast made of rice and bananas prepared by a reborn Suresh. Mornings in the Old City smell like milk powder and burning plastic, and Ferang greets everyone in the street. Many reciprocate his greeting. Some recognize him, even. All is well today.

  He stops at a shelter where street children do their homework before school. He distributes packets of biscuits and tea without milk bought at a nearby kiosk. Some children recognize him, those who are not devastated by the glue they inhaled overnight. Two in particular, Ajit and Sriram, have crusty eyes and hold his hand when Ferang hands them the cookies, and instead of opening the package they hold it tight to their chest, muttering to themselves. Ten years of age, barely.

  Then he goes to a center where the neighborhood women learn to sew, so as to escape patriarchy. Here he plays the fundamental role of dispenser of smiles accompanied by some crap in Hindi, the usual two or three sentences repeated without a hint of shame week after week.

  He takes a selfie with a dead-eyed lady who can’t even bring herself to smile in the picture. He posts it on Instagram. A gazillion likes.

  Afterwards, he stops at a community centre where the residents of the Breach are taught that it is better to let your family die of thirst rather than yield to the demands of the Cartel. Ferang knows that eighty percent of these families will see their shacks demolished within the next three months. Here, the child of an alcoholic, Saravanan, who has grown particularly fond of him, lingers with him at the end of class, chit chatting. When Ferang leaves, the child seems happier than when he got there. Despite himself, Ferang smiles. Would you rather have hope or the truth?

  When Ferang swings by Doc’s rundown clinic, the tired-looking doctor asks him if he could find something to deal with the pain of the patients.

  “Still nothing, doctor,” lies Ferang. And then, with more conviction, he goes, “But I’m sure we’ll come up with something. God will provide for us.”

  From behind a curtain rise the cries of a poor devil dying. Ferang shuts him out, helping the doctor sterilize his tools with the flame of a lighter.

  When he gets back home, Spandan is waiting for him inside. Ferang feigns amazement.

  “The rent money?” the man cuts short, his voice both shrill and hoarse.

  Ferang bows his head. Pitifully. Walks past him without responding. He opens the lock of his closet, pretending to look for money. He turns with a hundred rupee note in his hand.

  “That’s all I have.” He fishes the wallet from his pocket and shows him the inside, empty.

  Spandan clicks his tongue. “What you’re doing is very
dangerous, boss,” he says in a faux-friendly tone. “Old Ayodhya is not the Pit.”

  “I think I know this place rather well,” goes Ferang, cut to the quick.

  “So you should know that the Cartel’s rules apply only to those who pays. The others risk big.”

  “Excuse me?” says Ferang, enjoying the dance.

  “Where is my money?”

  “Spandan—”

  “No, boss,” he interrupts. “Enough is enough. I came yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before that.”

  Ferang frowns. “You did?”

  Spandan wiggles his long and hairy fingers. He wears a green gold ring. “Boss,” he goes, looking like a handicapped bird, “the landlord will come after me.”

  “Then give me his number.” Ferang grins. “Give me his number and I will try to reach an agreement.”

  Spandan gets fidgety. Such a powerful yet little, little man. “The landlord shouldn’t be bothered with these matters. He said, ‘Spandan, you take care of all, I trust you blindly.’ I’m trying to help you here—”

  “Is it me or you have just threatened me?”

  “Boss, I’m the one who will have problems here. Call your parents and get them to send you money.”

  Ferang bares his teeth. “I earn my own money.”

  “So pay. You have to pay.”

  “I don’t have them. I tried, but—”

  “Then out,” Spandan goes. “You are the only one who gives me these problems.”

  “Last week you dragged that old man in the street,” points out Ferang.

  “Then you’re the only one of your kind who’s giving me these problems.”

  “I’m the only one of my kind, period.”

  “And you know what happens if I refer your case to the police.”

  Ferang flops down on his bed. Again, oh so very pitifully. “Spandan, please, there are people who need me here. I’ll find the money.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You could sell an item of value, if it’s true that you have no cash.”

  “I have nothing of value.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Ferang gets up, slowly. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re lying,” repeats Spandan.

  A beat.

  “Don’t you dare,” Ferang goes. Silence. Ferang stares at him straight in the eyes. “I know who your boss is, old sport.”

  Spandan doesn’t even bat an eyelid and turns and reaches the door.

  “I’m done with you,” he says. “I’ll get you deported, do you understand? I’ll get you jailed as an illegal immigrant and I’ll make sure you won’t set foot in this country again. Expect the police at your door by tonight.”

  Ferang lets him storm out. Waits till the motherfucker has almost reached the main road. “Spandan. Spandan,” he screams, chasing him, making sure the people hear. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Please. Please.”

  Spandan stares at him.

  “Twenty-four hours,” says Ferang.

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Thank you. I will make sure to find the money. I swear.”

  “Otherwise it’s over for you.” So fucking cheap. Has Bollywood become this much of a curse?

  Spandan is engulfed by the chaos of the main road. Ferang lets out a laugh. Getting back inside, he walks to Suresh, whispering, handing him an envelope.

  “Give this to Spandan tomorrow.” Suresh looks at the envelope without even nodding or touching it. He’s seen this far too many times. Ferang leaves the rent money on the plastic chair that the alcoholic uses as a nightstand.

  Ferang’s life is the best fucking movie in the universe, and everybody is watching.

  Shirt. Jacket. Tie? No, not today. Formal trousers. Armani Belt. And slippers—because he can. He takes the bus. Crosses the Ring. Gets to college late—again, because he can. He knocks on the open door of the classroom. He says, “May I, sir?” He smiles. Cocks his head humbly.

  During the class Ferang takes some notes, then strikes a conversation with a classmate, then looks out of window at the five stars societies surrounding the campus.

  “I’ve worked with more than eight thousand and eight children so far,” he says, out of the blue, to a fat and aroused-looking classmate.

  “Wow,” she says. Her eyes sparkling. He could have told her that he drinks cow urine and her reaction would have been the same.

  “Yeah, and I remember the names of maybe seven of them.”

  “What?” she says.

  “Yes,” goes the Bear, “because of the others I remember the faces, the eyes, the smiles. I remember through my emotions.”

  At lunch he’s sitting with Priyal. She talks about how one of the cleaning women dared try to talk to her in front of the bathroom, but then she’s quick to add that she is so friendly with the maid working for her. She even nods at her whenever she enters. Ferang talks about his plan to save the universe. They share a gulab jamun for dessert. She pays.

  After class, an orange afternoon turns apricot in the dusk. It seems the perfect backdrop for such an important day.

  Ferang steps into Candle Cove greeted by “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” by Presley accompanied by the puffs of smoke of the Smoking Woman sitting at the counter. Percy is sweeping the floor. Their usual table is empty. Ferang sits and observes the tapestry behind the bar, a giant tree of which the roots embrace the whole world. The leaves pierce the clouds. At first he thought it was an atomic explosion, but now he can make out the real features of it. He sits at the table waiting for the others to come.

  “A peach tea,” he tells Percy. “Fast.” Laying his hands on the table, he looks at his fingers. Shudders. “Please,” he adds.

  He checks his iPhone. Candle Cove smells of sandalwood with a hint of mold. The Smoking Woman is smoking at the bar. The waiter is taking too long. Damn slow Indians. Ferang glances at him, but for some reason his gaze is caught again by the tree behind the bar. A majestic tree. The roots as big as mountains, screwed around the spherical shape of a planet suspended in an indigo sky. The stem, magnificent in its strength, cuts in half the scene, exploding into a multitude of thick branches, leaves, flowers, among which hides another planet, floating in a crimson sea. Back on the stem stand stylized thumbnails of demons and heroes, the former with angel faces, the latter with dark skin, each perched on the thick bark, trying to—

  Percy places the iced tea on the table. Ferang thanks him, his mind elsewhere.

  One of the heroes, decides Ferang, is patricidal. One of the demons, is a god. One of the heroes is a woman, a mother, a sister and a lover, all at once. One of the demons is innocent. It all begins in a cell, in a world very, very close to ours. But these are mere flights of fancy.

  The door opens. Mel and Nil come in along with a whiff of heat.

  Ferang points at the glass of tea. “Take it away, Percy. Take it away, goddammit!” Ferang rises. “Hey, guys.” He waves stupidly. Smiles.

  “Come on, let’s go,” says Mel.

  “But I ordered a Gin Rickey.”

  “No time. We have to go.”

  “We’re killing him.” Nil’s voice comes off petulant.

  Unnerved, Mel snaps her fingers. She turns. “Let’s set things straight,” she says, “are we all on the same page or not?” Then, her eyes piercing Nil’s, “Are you sure you want to do this or not?” Mel gives him no time to respond. “You don’t even like him.”

  Nil opens his eyes wide. “That’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Nil looks at her feet in a frenzy. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

  “Nil.”

  “I—”

  “The Gin Rickey, please,” goes Ferang, talking to Percy without looking at him.

  “It’s about doing what’s right,” says Nil.

  “This is right, Nil,” says Mel. “In this way we win.”

  “If something goes wrong... The moment he will be admitted
to the hospital—”

  “We’ll get Ameen. We’ll get him with his hands still warm on Gabriel’s throat, and the media can’t possibly ignore a story like that. Proofs are not enough to make the truth true, Nil, you need the public to believe it is. Gabriel won’t risk anything he’s not willing to put at stake, believe me.”

  Nil doesn’t seem convinced, at all, but he’s defeated, and that’s enough. You don’t win arguments by proving someone wrong, after all—you prove them unworthy of having an opinion.

  Mel huffs in exasperation but tries to remain calm.

  “Mass deportation in the Pit, their houses destroyed and people disappearing,” Ferang says. “This is the Water Mafia. And in the villages now they’re making flour from dry brush. Do you understand, Nil?”

  Nil lowers his shoulders.

  Percy appears with the Gin Rickey.

  “We have to go,” says Mel.

  “Now?” asks Ferang.

  “Now,” says Mel.

  Ferang smiles. Downing the drink, all at once, he follows them outside.

  Showtime.

  ***

  The lights fading. The music rising. The curtain goes up. Showtime. A bronze sun on the splintered houses. Humans strolling outside the windows. Inside the taxi, three cardboard figures. Silent, they’re sipping Old Monk observing Old Ayodhya rise all around. The stage. The taxi driver pulls over. Nil pays through Paytm. Ferang gets out first. He does so ever so slowly. He does so with a solemn look. The lights turning on on the stage. The audience holding their breath. Violins. Piano. Maybe even the choir.

  Ferang is the first of the three to cross the doors of Lazeez. Paves the way. Doesn’t greet anyone, too solemn a moment for distractions. All the eyes on him, the main actor of this mighty play. Then he nods to the customers, conspiratorially. They nod back, like accomplices, perhaps.

  The owner sees them coming and lowers his gaze. Finishes drying the glass in his hands. He places it on the counter. Pushes it an inch further with the tips of his fingers. The glass falls and shatters. Shards everywhere. The customers are taken aback by the sudden noise, clearly, but no one turns to look. Without raising his eyes, the owner takes another glass from under the counter and starts drying it. Ferang crosses the room, the glass fragments crackling under the soles of his Vans.