Without realizing it, he closes the flaps of the bathrobe, covering his nakedness. Something similar to tears tickle his nose. The Whole serenades in his ears. Looking at the maid, he’d like to hug her, comfort her, but the idea of touching her repels him.
Again, he drops his arms, uncovering himself. The maid notices the change with a furtive glance and begins to work with greater vigor. Nil places his cock on her head and the maid turns to stone and Nil can feel like an electric shock going through her, immobilizing her and discharging in her sex. He’s arousing her, he knows that.
Demented, like that of an automaton, the maid’s arm keeps up its work. Nil starts to push. Gently, with rhythmic movements of the pelvis, he accompanies her back and forth, looking at her black and shiny head swaying, her coconut oiled braids following the slow, harmonious, smooth movement of the thrust of his hips.
The spatula falls to the ground with a sinister sound, breaking the peace of the moment, and then the body of the maid comes alive and she stands and runs from Nil, but only a little, not enough to lose her job.
Nil waits, waits for the event to develop by itself. He observes like a scientist would, triggering the reaction but refraining from altering the process, but nothing happens, the maid stands still, her back to the kitchen counter, cornered, her arms along her body, her head bowed and her eyes to the floor. She does nothing. She’s a fucking ornament—she’s not real.
With a stride, Nil covers the distance that separates them, and without using his hands, without even lifting his arms, presses his body against hers.
Nil starts humping her, creating friction between his member and her side and, spreading apart his legs, he bends to achieve the optimal position and increase the physical stimulus, which is neither pleasant nor painful, but mere contact, pure and simple. His face touches her head by accident and Nil winches and he has to keep himself from leaping backwards. Not to hurt her feelings, you know. She enjoys attention. She deserves it, she craves for it and, indeed, come think of it, she has always teased him showing up with that bare hip of hers. Nil presses his body against hers with greater vehemence, and her skin—lascivious and bitch-black—is exposed and Nil pushes her against the kitchen counter, to which the maid clings to withstand the rhythmic assaults. Nil opens his mouth and surrenders to the power of his own physical, economic and intellectual superiority, which makes him unreachable, a higher being. She is Nothing, and the Whole inside him accompanies his every move like the tide on the hull of a ship. This is her yearly bonus, he decides.
With a thrill, Nil wonders if this woman, too, will bend her arms behind her back and, if so, how she will clean the house in such a position, and with this thought crystallized in mind, he comes on her, on that cheap, trashy green sari.
Breathing out, Nil takes a step back. The maid is half lying on the kitchen counter, her hair falling on her face in a carefree fashion. Some of her locks drop to tickle her armpits, where large sweat patches match in colour with the dark skin of her hip. Although her eyes are far away, on her face hovers an unreadable expression that, Nil thinks, should be satisfaction.
Her arms, to Nil’s slight disappointment, look alright. She looks away.
When excitement wears off and boredom takes over, Nil grabs his Mac and walks to the living room, Flo Rida blaring through the Wi-Fi speaker system. The bass sound charges him anew. On Nat Geo, a new documentary by DiCaprio, his favourite activist. Nil sits down, his laptop in his lap so that he can donate to a nonprofit organization that works to combat climate change right as he watches the doc.
At one point during the night, the maid must have decided to decamp because when Nil gets up to get a glass of Old Monk, he finds no one in the kitchen, and the freezer defrosted. Downing three glasses, Nil notices two things each time he gets to the bottom of the glass: his nose is bleeding, and the only visible reflection is his own, thank god.
At dawn, the bottle of Old Monk is gone and Nil has joined all the campaigns against deforestation in Malaysia he managed to find on Google, and Nat Geo is broadcasting a discussion about the Crusades, which is quite interesting, and Nil would like to stay and watch it all, but it’s time to go. After all, he killed the whole night away waiting for this moment.
In the shower, Nil cleans carefully not only his groin, armpits and head but his entire body, focusing on the most recondite recesses, from the back of his knees to his perineum and along the entire length of his spine, and for the first time it occurs to him that the nose bleeding might not be a good sign and the very thought of having created a defect in his own body fills him with regret, and yet he can’t help thinking that a line would solve the issue. Coke, he thinks, doesn’t eliminate the problem, it makes it meaningless. While closing the taps he notices that his hands are shaking again.
The driver is sleeping in the car. Nil knocks on the window and he wakes up with a start and rolls down the window showing no respect, but then comes to his senses and opens the door and gets out and is standing now in front of Nil.
“How many times have I told you not to sleep in the car?” Nil is trying to open the back door, but it’s closed. “It stinks.”
The driver jumps back in and unlocks the doors and Nil sits and lights a Benson and blinks when the Mercedes leaves the parking lot. Dawn floods the interior with its milky light.
Scheria stands in the poisonous mist with imperial fashion. Nil messages Mel asking her if she’s up. He apologizes in case he awakened her. He will meet her regardless of her answer, he decides, and feels bold about it. And when Mel reassures him with a mirror selfie wearing nothing but a new shirt and pants, Nil texts that they must talk—he wanted to say this for so long—and that he’s on his way and it’s urgent.
Mel says, Come.
In the elevator, Nil turns away from the mirror and tries to sing along the song filling the air, making up his own words. He rubs his sweaty hands on his trousers until he grazes his palms.
When the doors slide open, no one shows up to greet him. The entrance, in all its amplitude, mirrors that of his parents in Delhi, with the only difference that here every floor and wall is not covered with marble, but teak, or something like that. The resemblance to his childhood home makes his heart skip a beat.
He makes his way out of the elevator, the doors trying to guillotine him as he passes, and then, once in the main hall, Nil realizes that the entire house is lit up. The sun outside still shines with shyness. But here, every lamp and bulb is on. Everything is illuminated.
Mel appears at the beginning of that long, narrow corridor, which at his parents’ is always adorned with flowers in ceramic and blown glass vases, but here is, in all its unsettling length, empty. She has put on a pair of pajama pants a few sizes too large that don’t seem to be hers. Even the shirt, in person, looks oversized, a recent purchase about to be brought back to the store or maybe simply bought to be wore at home.
She waves.
“There is something I must tell you.” The second time he says the infamous words Nil hears them losing their power.
Mel wears dark circles around her beautiful eyes. Nil holds his breath when she opens the bathroom door and slips inside and leaves it open so that he can follow in, follow her in that place so intimate and personal. Mel closes the door behind him. Nil swallows, keeping an eye on her. Mel open all the taps: the two sinks, the shower, the tub, the imported bidet.
“Mel—” He can’t find the right words.
Mel points at the toilet, touching his shoulder with grace.
“Come, sit down,” she says. “Don’t worry. Has something happened at home?”
Nil struggles to ignore her offer but decides that he has to do this on his feet. He leans against the green marble counter, his fingers laced behind his back. “Is your father at home?”
Mel cracks a smile and shakes her head like a child would and, it’s obvious, she’s high as a zucchini.
“We have to stop, Mel.”
She looks at him, curiosity shi
ning in her eyes. Nil can glimpse at her panties through the pajamas she’s wearing. They are white. Then, rousing himself, he speaks again. “The investigation. Everything—”
“But we’re so close.” Her eyes flutter. “We know who he is, we just have to wait for him to come out and incriminate himself.” She chuckles. “We are so close to framing that bastard.”
Facing away from her, Nil picks up an expensive-looking bar of soap, scratching the brand logo printed on it. “You won’t like it.”
“What?” she goes, clenching her fists. It’s disquieting the contrast between her modulated voice and intoxicated movements.
“There is no good way to say it.”
Her eyes grow wild. “You found out something new.” She giggles.
Nil bows his head searching for words. Perhaps, at the same time, he enjoys the suspense he created.
“Nil.”
A beat. Nil realizes he can’t say it out loud. Even if he’s drunk. Even if he’s made himself miserable.
“Nil.”
“I know who he is.”
“Ameen?”
“No,” he goes. “The one behind him.”
“What are you saying?”
“I saw Chandra on TV a few days ago.”
“He will be elected, everybody knows that. That doesn’t make him the Mafia, though.”
“His slogan, ‘Make Ayodhya Beautiful Again’—the campaign is based on the idea of developing the Pit. Getting it out of feudalism, as he puts it. But the Pit is already industrialized. Ninety percent of the city’s factories are in the Pit and all plastic products and rubber and leather and bricks and even the cigarettes we smoke, everything comes from the Pit. “
“Come to the point.” Her voice rings clear, her eyes still misty.
“All the wealth that the Pit generates never stays inside the Pit, ever” Nil eyes the large wall mirror and looks away.
“Of course,” she goes, “in their bloodtrail the multinationals make sure not to leave a single penny in the place they exploit, and when it happens the Cartel brushes everything up.”
“This is not all. Chandra promised that if he’s elected he will expand the development program and build new facilities where now is only shacks—but how will he do that?” Nil starts to pace the room in length and breadth, keeping his eyes on Mel, his mind galloping elsewhere.
“The Water Mafia,” she says. “That’s how.”
“The Mafia drains the slum dwellers of their every last resource to evict them, then the government deports them, claims the land back and sells it to construction companies for redevelopment. No questions asked.”
“This way they make it look like a necessity and not a human rights violation.” Mel tucks her hair behind her ears. “The government turns a blind eye to allow the Mafia to do the dirty work for them. This is a classic, Nil.”
“Yes, yes,” Nil gesticulates, “but managing a racket requires considerable capital, a patron let’s say. Who is the patron, Chandra? He has enough resources thanks to his trucking company, sure enough, but he has no interest in redeeming this land—” Nil grinds his teeth. Looks at Mel. “Who will be the one to benefit the most from further impoverishment in the Pit? Who will actually build on those lands?”
Silence. Only the sound of the water pouring down.
“Mel—”
“You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
“I’m not saying anything, Mel.”
“Then do.”
“What?”
“Say it, if you think it’s the truth.”
“Wait—”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“Mel...”
Mel slaps the air. “No, don’t nip off now.”
“It’s my father,” spits Nil. “It’s your father. The window we broke is our own.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, flushed.
“Worlds United is the Cartel.” The sound of the water envelops the bathroom. “The monopoly of the contracts, the bulldozers in the Pit, and the Water Mafia, too. It’s us, Mel. We have the political support, we have the media, we have the people—”
“It makes no sense.” Mel’s eyebrows look like the wings of a wounded bird.
Nil breathes out. “I’m sure,” he sighs.
“How?”
“Ameen.” The sound of water against the ceramic. “Ameen is my father’s right arm. The arm...” The sound is deafening. “They’re going to kill him. We are going to kill him. The Hijra—Gabriel.”
Mel stares at him.
“We’re exterminating those poor devils,” Nil says in a shrill voice.
Mel holds his eyes and her face is devoid of any emotion and there is something the matter with her eyes, those beautiful, sparkling, tired eyes as intense as the embers of a fire left to die. She starts crying.
“Oh my God!” she says and curls up on herself, bending her knees and crouching down, and Nil, full of eagerness, bends down next to her and lifts his hands but can’t bring himself to touch her, and she’s breaking to pieces and he’s the one at fault. Ferang told him to shield her from all this shit, yet he didn’t.
“I know, Mel,” he says. “I’m sorry, too. I’m really sorry.” The hand of Nil mimics a caress that never materializes. “But don’t worry. Nothing will happen. Nothing will happen. We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
Mel stops crying but is still crouching and hiding her face in her hands, her fine hair falling around her like a veil.
“We will burn everything, all the investigation, as soon as possible, and forget about it all. Don’t worry.”
Nil tries again to touch her arched back, but then she jerks her head up, and he winches and abandons the attempt.
“No,” she says.
“What?” She is looking at him from below and Nil knows the spark dancing around her pupils. “Mel, no—maybe I didn’t explain myself. Worlds United now controls every drop of water entering into the Pit, the largest slum in Asia, and drains those poor beasts of each rupee and then pulls down their shacks to build skyscrapers on the land claimed by the government. This is a crime against humanity.”
“And our wealth is based on the thirst in this city.” Mel’s voice trembles. “We have no choice.” A pause. “We have no choice, Nil,” she says.
“This will destroy our families!”
“Nil...” Mel gets up. “You found the truth.” The way she says the word is everything. Nil’s heart rises. “I’ve always known you were the one, but now look, you got it, you really made it, Nil. “
He stands. “Mel—”
“I’m afraid,” she says, leaning toward him and taking the tips of his fingers between hers. “I feel lost and I know this means betraying our parents and wiping out the future they prepared for us. But this is what is right. And we did it together.”
Nil backs away. “No—”
Mel goes after him. “It’s important, Nil. For those people, for our country, and especially for ourselves. It’s right. It’s good.” Mel, her hands in his hands, looks right into his eyes, the water still pouring from the taps. “I need it, and you need it, too.”
Nil stutters. He does not know where to lay his eyes. “Mel, you don’t understand,” he says. “You’re not from here.”
Something in her eyes shifts. “Don’t you dare.”
“Mel, my parents...” Nil retracts with his body but keeps his hands where they are. “I can’t betray them like this. I would be—it’s against the Indian culture, Mel.”
“Your parents are shit and you are less Indian than I am.” There is no anger in her voice. Her voice rings sweet and melodious.
Nil studies her face but has to look away, the taps spewing water, and Mel is inches from him, gripping his hands.
“Nil. Nil! Listen to me,” she says. “Worlds United is one of the largest conglomerates in the world, and if we do this, we will redefine the global economy. We will change the world, Nil, and for the better.” Mel grabs
his chin gently. “It’s our duty to do so. We’ll be remembered forever, and what you did will be forgiven.”
Nil feels like puking. But Mel hugs him urgently, sinking her fingers in his arms, and all is well. Of course she knows, but as long as she’s holding him it doesn’t matter.
She leans closer, on her tiptoes, to his ear. “You will be rid of her,” she says in a whisper. She digs her fingers into his muscles, his tendons, to the bone, while her ash-colored hair spreads on his chest, and then their eyes meet, and so do their
MEL
mouths. Mel presses her lips on his, pushing, her eyes wide open, trying to impress a mark, a seal, an imprint. Nil’s eyes, large, black, remain wide open, too, while Mel pushes her pelvis against his sex. It doesn’t seem to respond to the call.
“Breathe with me,” she says when their lips part.
His upper lip shining with sweat, a vein throbbing across his forehead, Nil seems to want to back away but something prevents him, something keeps him in place, his muscles tensed, his eyes hungry for her. Mel smiles, hugs him, lays her head on his bony chest, feeling the irregular beat of his heart. She closes her eyes. Nil’s body relaxes a little. His eyes, Mel can almost see it, close as their breaths intertwine in an alternating rhythm, so that when his chest is empty, hers is filled. Gradually, Mel feels Nil surrender against her, his head gently resting on the parting of her hair, his knees touching her thighs, he surrenders himself to the hug. Their breaths synchronize.
“I’m taking you home,” she says, moving away.
“I’m here with—”
“Never mind.” Mel smiles. “Send him away.”
Objects in the Mirror Page 27