by Anosh Irani
“The mosquitoes leave Daru alone for health reasons,” says Andha. “They are afraid of alcohol poisoning.”
“And they leave Andha alone because he’s blind,” says Daru. “They will not attack those who cannot defend themselves.”
I slap my thigh. I circle the room and flail my arms about in a cycling motion, as if it might be the appropriate and respectful manner of invoking the insect-god.
“I can’t bear these mosquitoes!” I shout. “Do something.”
Daru slaps me hard across the face. The man is small but not weak. I try to remain manly about it.
“Killed the bastard,” he says. “The one with the malaria germ.”
Andha swings his cane in my direction and it hits me on the right shin. “Direct hit!” he shouts. “That was a massive one, the leader is dead.”
“Is that all you can do? Make fun …” I want to complete what I am saying but it is useless. It is too late to change anything.
“We could be serious and complain about the abject poverty we live in. Daru, would you like to hear about my misery?”
“It would be my pleasure,” he replies. “But one minute.”
From behind the row of empty whiskey bottles, Daru pulls out a radio. It is old and has a huge antenna, as I assume each mosquito has.
“We will need musical accompaniment,” says Daru. He catches a station that plays classical music. The sound of a sitar pierces the stale air. It is a shameless attempt to generate fake emotion.
Andha throws the cane down and puts his hands together below his chin like paws. He wiggles his fingers and then starts clawing toward me.
“What are you doing?” I ask Andha.
“He’s telling you his story,” answers Daru. “In sign language.”
“Why in sign language?”
“It’s more touching.”
Andha carries on. With each action it is clear he knows nothing of sign language. He lies on his back and parts his legs. “I was not born like this,” he says, as he looks upward at the low roof. “What wonderful eyes I had. My eyelashes! They would flutter like a butterfly.”
Daru cuts in: “I will translate. As a child, I was happy. Now I’m blind and sad.” Daru walks to Andha, kneels on the floor, closes Andha’s parted legs and consoles him, feigning grief as he hugs him.
What else can they do but make a mockery of life? It is only natural that in this country people believe in a hundred gods. One God is not enough. One God has failed them, so they invent their own and worship them with words, milk and flowers in the hope that at least a few of these gods will come to life and help. I do not think it is stupid at all. Let people in other countries laugh. They would not last even a day in this hut. The mosquitoes would peel off their soft skin while they wondered what happened to the toaster and dishwasher, and why the smell of fresh paint has been replaced with the smell of shit.
Andha gets up from the floor. “Did you like our story? Does it warm your heart and move you to mournful tears?”
“No,” I say.
“Good. It’s not your pity we need.”
“I understand.”
“We are poor and so we have survived. You rich ones are sinking and drowning all over. Now it’s your turn to survive. Decide if Baba Rakhu is the answer. If not, all we need to do is move farther away from the tracks so that your blood does not splatter over us when you sacrifice your arm.”
“Do you want to know a secret about your lost arm?” asks Daru.
“What?” I ask.
“It misses being with the other one.”
Their hysterical laughter drowns the next sitar tune on the radio. The photographs on the walls are just photographs. They do not have the power of gods.
LIFE STORY
The transition from the mosquito hut to Baba’s dungeon does not seem drastic. In the hut, mosquitoes came in droves and covered the walls like curtains. In this khopcha, limbs do the same. The limbs are safer. At least they do not suck blood. But it does feel odd to be in dungeon-darkness at breakfast time.
“I knew you would come back,” Baba tells me.
“Why is that?” I ask, irritated.
“If you didn’t, your life story would stop. Even if our lives stop, our stories go on. Our stories have already lived a few days ahead of us. They know what will happen. They tug us along and lead us places.”
“And how do you know my life story?”
“I don’t. But I know mine.”
“So what am I about to do next?”
“There are three men. They like to drink tea, but they have no milk.”
“No more riddles,” I say. “The night has been long.”
“How long?” He pulls an arm out from the display. “This long?” He indicates shoulder to elbow.
“No.”
“This much?” Shoulder to wrist.
“No.”
“An arm’s length, then.”
I nod.
“I shall keep you at arm’s length until you catch up with your life story.”
“Just tell me what that means. I’m too tired to think.”
“Right now we are on opposite sides. Bring yourself onto the same side as me.”
ARM’S LENGTH
I am back inside the mosquito hut. I am not unprepared this time; I have smeared my body with a green mosquito repellent. I need to be on the same side as Baba. Andha and Daru will show me how. Perhaps it is just my imagination, but I think the photographs on the wall have changed places. It could be a custom that I am not aware of. All gods are equal and must therefore be shifted around the room.
Daru is on the floor, back hunched, still stroking an empty whiskey bottle. Andha, blind vision on, is reading a torn and tattered book.
“How’s the book, Andha?” asks Daru.
“Good photographs.” Andha’s cane is placed across his lap. He never uses it to walk; it is his toy. Andha drags his forefinger along the page. An inch higher and he will be reading thin air.
“Still a one-armed bandit?” Daru asks me.
“All limbs are sold out,” I lie. “This city is on a limb-buying spree.”
My repellent has the mosquitoes confused. Now they will be forced to attack the blind.
Andha closes the book. “You are destined to remain a one-legged biscuit,” he says.
“I have lost an arm,” I correct him.
“One-legged biscuit sounds better.”
The photographs could have changed places on their own. After all, they are gods. If we do not pray, the gods get bored. If the gods get bored, they play games. At night they must be flying around the room picking their own spots on the wall. Andha is blind; Daru is a drunk. Only an insightful cripple can catch them at their game. I want to spend the night here and see for myself. Covered by a blanket of mosquitoes, I will keep one eye open and check. If I am discovered, I will say that I am the one-eyed god, a new addition to their family. (They have no means of checking because there are so many gods.) I will catch the weakest and find out if there is a riddle-god. In this city you need a thick skin and a solver of riddles.
“Are you good at solving puzzles?” I ask Andha and Daru.
They look puzzled. They parley.
“I think it’s rich-talk again,” says Andha.
“He means his new car is eating up too much petrol,” replies Daru.
“Or the silver teacup on his bedside table is unpolished. It can be quite traumatic if the rich cannot see themselves in silver.”
“Look,” I say. “All I want to know is if you can solve puzzles.”
“We cannot,” says Daru. “I’m thirsty. I need tea.”
“Tea? Won’t that spoil the liquor taste?” asks Andha.
“I want to quit,” says Daru. “It’s spoiling my career.”
“Well, then,” Andha says. “Make some tea.”
“We are out of milk,” says Daru. “Do you have milk?”
“No.”
Daru points to me.
&nbs
p; “No milk,” I say.
“We are out of milk,” says Daru.
It is not the mind that remembers words. It is muscle. It has to be. Muscles twitch, spotting a familiarity in vowels, sounds, the way words travel through the air in curves and spirals, reaching the ears of those for whom they are meant. My body has recognized something right now. The soles of my feet tingle as I think about Baba’s words.
There are three men. They like to drink tea, but they have no milk.
“Do you both like to drink tea?” I ask them.
“I am a man who likes to drink tea,” says Andha.
“I am a man,” says Daru. “That is enough.”
“Do you have tea here?” I ask Daru.
“No tea, no milk.”
“Then we must go to the tea and milk,” I say. “Where is the nearest tea stall?”
“It’s a long walk,” says Daru.
“Very long,” echoes Andha.
“How long?” I ask.
Andha indicates his shoulder to elbow. “This long?” he asks Daru.
“No,” says Daru.
“This long?” Shoulder to wrist.
“No.”
“An arm’s length, then,” he says and looks my way.
GOONDA
The tea stall is just around the corner from the mosquito hut. It is small, a shelter for some poor animal during heavy rain. Three broken benches are scattered outside as though someone left them there in a hurry. A blackboard nailed to the entrance provides proper guidance to all customers. In handwriting that slants to the right are the following instructions in white chalk:
No Combing
No Singing
No Reading
No Standing
No Spitting
No Abusing
No Killing
I must bring myself onto the same side as Baba. Things that make perfect sense are false and should not be trusted. You must be illogical to understand the world. If I say a fish is out of water, you will say it is dead. I say, why pinpoint the obvious? If the sky is blue, you will say the day is clear; I say a beautiful angel has worn a blue gown and we are all looking up her legs from under it.
This tea stall is run by a tea girl. I thought all tea stalls were run by tea boys, all affectionately called Munna no matter how old they became. But this is a tea girl. Behind the small partition in the interior of the tea stall I see her head. Its sideways movement suggests she is washing something. I am glad we are here. I suddenly yearn for morning tea.
“Here we are,” says Daru.
“Now buy the tea,” Andha tells me.
“You order it,” I say out of respect. “We are in your area.”
“Sit on the bench. The tea will come,” remarks Daru.
The bench rocks under our weight. When the three of us stop shifting, it settles down. There are benches but no tables.
The tea girl walks out with two steaming glasses of tea. She is no tea girl, but a full-fledged tea woman. She hands the glasses to Andha and Daru. She sweats a lot; must be the steam from her large pot of tea.
“What tea, Munni!” says Daru. “Class. Too good.”
So all tea girls are called Munni. She has gone back in.
“What tea, Munni!” echoes Andha as he slurps the tea. He is quite loud.
“Etiquette,” says Daru.
“Manners,” says Andha. But his next sip is just as noisy.
I wait for my glass to arrive, but then trains are always late.
“Munni!” shouts Andha. “This pendulum is waiting for his tea. Hurry up!”
I hear a loud noise. I think I know what it is, but I am afraid to ask. Andha and Daru continue to drink, so I assume it is only a firecracker. They notice my concern.
“It’s only a gunshot,” says Andha.
“A gunshot?” I ask. “A real gun?”
“Yes, it must be Goonda,” he says.
“Goonda?”
“Contract killer.” Andha has almost finished his tea.
These impoverished men are casual. They are orange leaves falling on your cheek.
“Goonda is only coming for his tea. Why are you worried? You’ve done nothing wrong,” says Andha with a wry smile.
“Have you?” Daru roars with laughter.
They know about Malaika. I am going to be punished for it, killed in a cheap tea stall. If that is the way I am meant to go, so be it. But I refuse to be afraid. I will have tea with the contract killer. It should be like having tea with anyone else. After all, he is not going to pour the tea in his gun and drink it.
A thin, sunken man sways our way. His silky white clothes and shiny black gun are too loud for the ruins that surround us.
“Killed cockroach, bad cockroach,” he says to himself.
I want to tell him that the cockroaches, black and brown, are already dead. They have stopped coming to me. But before I can say this, he points his gun at us. I duck for cover and scramble underneath the bench.
“Get up, fool,” says Daru. “That’s his way of greeting you. Don’t swing like a pendulum before he even talks.”
Goonda stands very close to Andha and looks down at him. “You are blind, I am not,” he says. “Munni, is tea in the pot?” he shouts.
He then greets Daru. “You drink liquor, I drink not. Munni, is tea in the pot?”
He lowers his gun and looks at me. “You are delicate, I am not,” he says.
I cannot think of a single thing to say.
“You are delicate, I am not,” he repeats.
Daru glares at me; this makes me even more uncomfortable. Goonda simply puts his gun to my head.
Click.
With the click of Goonda’s gun, something clicks within me. I look at his arm and realize that his limb and digit, the opposite clutch, is the one that I must turn to the good. I must save Goonda’s arm, because I was unable to save mine.
“You are delicate, I am not,” he says.
“Munni, is tea in the pot?” I talk back.
He lowers the gun. “Pleased to meet you, I am not. Name is Goonda, contract killer, what?”
“I am armless, you are not. But I must save your hand, understand what?”
“Where did you find this specimen?” Goonda asks Daru. “From our area?”
“Yes. He’s staying with us.”
I can feel that Daru and Andha are proud of me. Their tuition has worked.
“Munni! Too long for tea,” shouts Goonda.
Yes, Munni. You take too long. Even I have not had tea. As Goonda walks to the interior of the tea stall, I look at Daru for approval. I am sure this was a test.
“There’s no bigger sinner than Goonda,” says Andha.
I look behind to see if Goonda is out of earshot. He has disappeared behind the partition with Munni. They must be lovers.
“All sinners deserve to be punished,” says Daru.
“We must go. We have a business meeting,” says Andha.
I stand up.
“No, your place is here. Goodbye, friend,” says Daru.
“You will soon be complete,” Andha says.
There is a gunshot. I find it hard to breathe. My stomach muscles clamp and I clutch at a wound. The bullet must have gone in so deep that there is no blood. I fall to the floor. The bench is the last earthly object I touch.
“You idiot,” I hear Daru tell me. “Just when we thought you had improved.”
“Did Pendulum think he is shot?” Andha asks Daru.
Goonda casually sways out of the tea stall. There is blood all over his silky whites.
“Too long for tea,” Goonda says. “So I sent Munni on a long holiday.”
“Sinners must be punished. They must be prevented from doing more harm,” whispers Daru. He and Andha walk away from the tea stall and toward their mosquito hut.
And then I finally understand. The solution is for Baba Rakhu to take away Goonda’s arm so he cannot hold a gun. Even Goonda will become a eunuch-dog. We are on the same side now, Baba and I.<
br />
Goonda goes to the blackboard. With his silk sleeve, he erases the No Killing sign. I have found the lost arm. It is Goonda’s arm, more lost than anyone else’s. It is that of a trigger-happy boy, skipping through the marketplace, killing everyone simply because the morning sun is out.
I know it is time to return to Baba Rakhu for a final visit.
LAST LESSON
I do not know what to make of this city. Trees are few, men are many, smoke is mistaken for air, prayers are mistaken for threats and answered with blood. Colours rule our eyes: brown of water, orange of temples, green of mosques, red of bindis, yellow of heat. I wait for the black of Baba’s dungeon to take over as I descend the concrete stairs into his khopcha.
Somehow it is quite light. A humble glow comes from below. It is only natural that in a place like this, a reversal occurs. Light overrules its own laws by emanating from the earth and travelling upward.
When I reach the bottom, the starkness of the room alarms me. A single arm hangs in the centre of the room with the surety of a piece of meat on a butcher’s hook. I was prepared for seventy, not one.
“Where have all the arms and legs gone?” I ask.
“I sold a few since we last met,” says Baba.
“That was barely an hour ago. There’s only one arm left in this room.”
“Your eyes see only that which they are meant to.”
He walks to the centre of the room and stands directly under the arm. He looks at it from different angles with his own hands clasped behind his back. He is strolling through a mango grove, contemplating the ripeness of the last visible fruit.
“Do you recognize this arm?” he asks.
“No.”
“You might if you observe its behaviour.”
I stare at the arm. Baba does not take his eyes off it, either. I am not sure what I am expected to note. I am no better than the village idiot who stood alone and watched the guillotine for hours, waited for the blade to slice even though no one was scheduled to be beheaded.