by Indra Sinha
It’s Zahreel Khan himself who breaks the spell he has woven. “Since the day of disaster itself,” he intones, returning to his notes, “Doctor Barber has yearned to come to Khaufpur to help in the relief work we are doing.”
“That who is doing?” This isn’t Zafar, it’s a voice from the crowd. “Give one example of relief work done by your department in the past year.”
“Two years,” calls another. “Five years,” it’s a third. Scornful laughter there’s, various numbers of years start flying around. I look to see how Elli is taking this, but from this distance I can’t make out her expression. She’s sitting on the dais with her face framed by flowers.
“Question for Doctor Barber,” calls Zafar. “For whose benefit is this clinic?”
Elli stands up, Zahreel Khan steps aside to make room for her at the microphone. “It’s for all who were injured on that night, plus people who are ill as a result of their water being poisoned by the factory. All who come are welcome, for all who come, treatment is free.”
It’s a good answer. I defy even Zafar to find anything wrong in it.
“Will you be gathering medical data? If so, who will have access to it, to what use will it be put?” This is Zafar again.
“We’ll be keeping patient records,” she replies. “But they’ll be confidential. Of course if the patient requests it, we would share their medical history with another doctor.”
“Which institutions are funding this effort?”
“None. My clinic is funded by a person who prefers not to be named.”
“Person or Kampani?” comes a shout. At once there’s hubbub, and a dozen voices start chanting, “Kampani out! Kampani out!”
For the first time Elli looks nonplussed. Zahreel Khan steps back to the podium. “Doctor Barber,” he says, “these ill-mannered types shame Khaufpur. Kindly ignore them. Tomorrow, when your clinic opens, you will see how the poor of this city come in their thousands to bless your good name.”
Across the road it’s shaking of hands, goodbyes, wishes for the morning. People drift off. Elli, still wreathed in flowers is wandering around the tent, picking up a thing here, shifting something there. Her staff take their leave. At last she goes into the clinic and shuts the doors.
Much later, as I’m perched in the frangipani, there comes music drifting across the road, she must be sitting at her piano. In threes her notes sound, like far bells, repeating over and over. Somraj comes out of his house and’s stood listening, like a pale statue he’s, on his face is an expression even I can’t read. Later still, the piano’s still playing, almost asleep I’m, when from much closer comes the hum of a sitar. Sounds at first like it’s accompanying the piano, but soon the two musics move apart. In the small hours a glow of light moves out onto her roof, she must be sleeping up there. A light breeze stirs the leaves of the frangipani. The light goes out. I imagine Elli, thrilled and terrified by what’s ahead, lying awake watching stars slide down the sky.
TAPE TEN
I wake with head’s singing. Still dark it’s but can’t sleep. I get up, step outside. Outrageous things are going on in my skull. The morning’s curled like a leaf, wind tastes like a bee’s banana. With merly music springing in my brain, I climb the stones of our tower, sit on the roof slope like a monkey waiting for dawn. One by one stars fade, behind the palm trees and flags of the Siva temple, sky reddens. I call to Jara. Early, early it’s, how early I do not know, hardly a soul awake, but I can’t wait to be on my way. Call me a cunt if you want, I’m curious.
I see a bird circling above, wonder what it’s seeing below. Up high and early, my eye dreams the start of this Khaufpuri day. I see the world and me in it. So high I’m, the earth curves away from me, the upper air’s full of brilliance. I see the world spread like a map, roads from all sides coming to the city. Over Khaufpur hangs haze like stale breath round the mouth of a drunk. The tips of the minars of the Taj-ul-masjid are touching the sun, below all’s dark, the lanes of Chowk are a nest of snakes.
Bird that I am sees all, white palace of gone rulers on hill, lake looks pale green from up here, eye slides along a road lined with dirty buildings, snarling away in dust and truck smoke, till it reaches a place where the city’s turned to jungle, railway tracks come running up and vanish, beyond is terrain harder to interpret, mottling of brown, a pimpliness which on looking closer resolves to the innumerable roofs of the very poor. Smoke is beginning to rise among the huts as inhabitants light fires for tea and whatever meal they can grab before another day of work.
Far below, an animal is moving slowly along a lane. What kind of creature is this, arse canted steeply into the air? dromedary? centaur? Short way behind a smaller, also non-human being strolls, stopping now and again to stretch sleepy jaws. These two pass slowly through the Nutcracker, past the jungle inside the factory walls, they are heading for a far bazaar where a lane splits in three. The middle way is a stony alley where cows with ribs like harpstrings pick at old paper bags, here’s Bhoora Khan curled asleep in his auto-rickshaw, nearby is a building shaded by a mango tree, above its door a sign says CLINIC, an empty tent stands outside, last night’s flowers have been thrown into the street, they are lying in a heap, a goat’s picking roses off the garlands. On the roof of the building a small figure stands. She looks up, sees the bird circling. Not yet within her view, a boy is coming up the road, followed by a dog.
A little while later, in the alley recline two lolling figures, a boy who goes à quatre pattes, beside him a yellow dog.
Later still. Elli, dressed in shalwar kameez, will be giving her last-minute instructions. Downstairs she will be, fussing over magazines in her reception. “Waste of money, madam,” the manager Dayanand had advised, “most people round here can’t read.” This is what he told the crowd at Nekchalan’s. Elli sent him out anyway to buy magazines in Hindi, Urdu and Inglis, plus crayons and paper for the children.
Almost time. Elli will be going to the doors. Light will come gleaming through cracks in the wood. She’ll make a joke of pressing her eye to them. Her manager, compounder and receptionist will join her.
“Madam, it is eight o’clock.”
She’ll take a deep breath, throw open her doors.
Elli steps out smiling, the breath for her welcome speech already in her lungs. Man, how slowly that smile fades. Last night, didn’t we all hear Zahreel Khan promising crowds? She must have expected to see people filling the street, clapping when the doors opened, but there’s no crowd, no queue waiting outside, apart from me and a few onlookers, the lane is empty.
She’s puzzled. She’s looked up, down, checked her watch, again looked. It is taking a long time to sink in. She calls, Dayanand appears in the door beside her. He’s not surprised, just scared, bloody, knew what was going to happen, didn’t have the guts to warn her. Ever since the democracy word has been going round the bastis, no one is to knock on that door. That clinic, avoid. Go there you’re helping the Kampani. Not everyone agrees with this, plus it’s well known that Somraj and his committee think the boycotting is unfair. All over the Claw, Nutcracker and beyond people are muttering we need this clinic, hope Zafar brother knows what he is doing, only out of love for him will we stay away. Dayanand says a thing, I’m not close enough to hear what, but all of a sudden Elli’s face seems to fold up, the light and happiness goes out of it.
Now, Eyes, part of me’s a nasty fucker. A cruel little thrill went through me as I saw the doors open and knew what was coming, but now I’m looking at the miserable face of this woman I barely know, every bit of that pleasure turns to anger against Zafar and his mad paranoia.
Each morning at eight she appears dressed in shalwar kameez and all, opens her doors, stands staring out at the street in which no one is waiting. Three days go by, not a single person comes to the clinic. Fourth day Elli opens her doors wearing the famous blue legs like she’s thought, well, what the fuck difference does it make?
On that day I’ve dropped by as usual, found some shade un
der a tree, Jara the dog’s watching with me. I’m tired maybe I’ve closed my eyes, or perhaps I’m studying that morning’s history in the dirt, which is a thing I do. From a height of eighteen inches you get to know a place pretty well, every crack in the road, every stone, every dropped, not-picked-up coin.
Blue legs appear. I look up. She says to me, “Animal, you’re here every day. The clinic’s open. Do you want to come in?”
I shake my head. Angry I’m with Zafar, I like Elli doctress, but I guess as things are I should not be seen talking to her.
“You know, I want to take a good look at your back,” she says. “I’d like to give you an examination, do some tests.”
“Please Elli doctress, leave me alone.”
She turns and walks away.
Taste of own medicine. Oh well, that’s that, I’m just thinking it’s time I got off to my errands when the blue legs reappear, marching towards me. She’s got this doctor thing round her neck, couple of tubes with a metal disc on the end, can’t recall the name. Legs stop right in front, She squats down, applies the disc to my back.
“Okay, you’re my first patient.”
“Not here, god’s sake.”
“Why not?” She presses the disc to my ribs. It feels cold.
“People will see.”
She fucking laughs.
“What’s funny?”
“You,” she says. “Scared of people. Deep breath take, hold.”
“I am not scared of anything.”
“Yeah, sure.” She stands, turns and heads back across the road. One moment I’m watching her walk away, then without really knowing why, I’m on my feet following her, Jara’s following me. Nobody owns me, I’m no one’s servant. Such thoughts pass through my head as I follow the swaying blue moons of madam Elli’s backside. Fuck you, Zafar, I’ll go my own way. This is how guilt infects, if you’re afraid that someone will be angry with you, you immediately start feeling angry with them.
Not half the road have I crossed and I’m snarling at Zafar, ohé Zafar brother, with all your doing good plus doing without, you’re a hero in these bidonvilles, no hero are you to me. You who are so fucking noble, so modest, above all, so powerful, at your one word the people of the Apokalis put aside their suffering. You say, do not go to this clinic and even though these people are full of pain, can’t breathe, are burning with fevers, even though the flesh is melting from their bones in flakes of fire, still they do not go. You say to them, without any proof, this clinic is owned by the Kampani, so they spit on its shadow, curse its name. Zafar brother, you’re a fool. You’re making the people suffer for nothing. The Kampani is stronger and cleverer than you. Go ahead, block the clinic, march, stop the traffic, shout all the slogans you like. Nothing changes. The people go on suffering, the Kampani does what it wants and no one can say anything to it. It’s the fucking Kampani I admire.
Manager Dayanand appears in the door where Elli’s blue legs and bum have vanished. “Animals not allowed. Leave your dog, he’ll be fine out here.”
“This dog is not a he but a she and unless you have forgotten I too am an animal.”
“Nevertheless.”
I whistle to Jara. “Come, we’re off.”
Elli reappears, asks what’s going on.
“Madam, the dog.” It’s Dayanand.
“It’s okay, no problem, we’re on our way.” This is me.
“Don’t be silly,” says Elli, whether to me or Dayanand I am not sure. Those moments are unclear in my memory because so shocking and unexpected is what follows that even now the thought of it leaves me shaking.
Elli doctress leads me through her waiting room where are the chairs, newspapers and etcetera into an office. “Wait here, I’ll just be a moment.”
Now I’m looking round this room, at the books in shelves on the wall. On the back of one I can make out the letters KHAUFPUR, on another’s written LUNG PATHOLOGY, a third says VETERANS AND AGENT ORANGE.
“Oi, Animal!”
Jara is sitting on the floor with a hind leg in the air, head’s tucked into her crotch, Elli’s still elsewhere.
“Over here,” says the voice.
On a table nearby is a kind of dome draped with a dark cloth. I give it a twitch, Jara’s stopped licking herself and is staring at me. Bordel de merde! It’s my little two-headed friend. Now, Eyes, since I first met the Khã-in-the-Jar I had seen him a few times in dreams, but this is no dream, his jar, which was in that big doctor’s office, is now here in Elli’s. It’s the first time since that day I’ve seen him in the flesh, he looks the worse for wear, body seems furry, like he’s starting to fall apart, but he still has that shit-eating grin.
“Kyoñ Khã?” he says. “How’s life treating you?”
“Okay Khã.” Far from fucking true is this, it’s just what you say. “How’s it treating you?”
“Call this life?” says he with steep bitterness. “This world for me is all angles and shadows and swimmery shapes. Of news I hear none, when I want to discuss, I must talk to myself. Anyway, good you’re here, I’ve been waiting for you to come.”
Eyes, I don’t know why, but this doesn’t surprise me.
“Hospital decided to chuck us out. After twenty fucking years nothing did they learn from us except that when you poison people bad things happen. No longer wanted we’re, to the incinerator we’d have gone, except your doctress heard about it, asked if she could bring us here.”
“Elli saved you?”
“Saved? You cretin, if she’d kept out of it by now we’d be free.” His two heads glug at each other, then he’s back to me. “It’s up to you now, Khã. You’re our only hope. Get us out of here. Break the jar, with fire destroy us.”
These are the same words he speaks to me in dreams. Now I’m confused. This little bugger is real, I can tap his glass jar and he’ll curse me, but is he also real in my dreams? If so what are we to make of this world that seems so solid? Is it too nil but lights and dancing shadows?
“Who are you,” I ask, “to order me about?”
There’s gurgling in the jar, the sound of mirth bubbling through poison. Who am I? So tragic you have to ask. Don’t you know?
chairman of the board I’m
a rusty sword I’m
by the world ignored I’m
the dragon’s hoard I’m
I am the egg of nature, which ignorant and arrogant men have spoiled. I can be a friend to humans, especially the poor, for money doesn’t interest me. Your Khaufpuri politician who recently celebrated his birthday with camels and elephants and dancing horses and a cake of fifty-three kilos, he does not know his gold jewellery is worthless, people like him should fear me, I’m a fire that will burn up his five senses. As for you, poor fuckwit, you think you’re an animal, I am your mother and father, I was you in your childhood, I’ll be you when you’re old. Dead am I who never lived, wasn’t buried, waits to burn. Tough I’m and tender, now you see me now you don’t, I go down into the earth and leap up to the sky, I am full of the natural light, yet those who meet me think I’m worthless, nothing, less than fuck all.
“You’re an unusual fellow,” says I. “Never before have I met a one like you.”
At this the contents of his jar churn, little gunky bits that must have come off the Khã are swept by currents of laughter into mazy dances.
“Brother Animal,” says he, “you and I are not so different. Doublers both, we’re. Two of me there’s, two also of you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not best pleased by this comparison.
“My two heads rise from one neck. From your hips, at the point where your back bends, rises a second you who’s straight, stands upright and tall. This second you’s there all the time, has been there all along, thinks, speaks and acts, but it’s invisible—”
Before he can finish, Elli doctress has whirled back into the room and started doing stuff with that cold metal cup. “Nothing wrong with your heart.”
“Four parts of me are stro
ng, head, arms, chest…”
“Shut,” says she, “I know you love to yap, but the time’s not now.” Her Hindi is really excellent. Way she talks, you can tell she’s not from here, but her accent is better than for example a Bombay-wallah’s, which is said to cause pus in the ears. She’s so near I can smell her scent, while she’s touching me, I can’t help it, bad thoughts start up again. I’ve seen you naked, I’ve seen you washing your breasts, I’ve seen your cunt. This is shameful, for she’s a good person plus I’ve strong reason to fear such thoughts, which are stretching my kakadus.
“Take off your pants.”
“No please.”
“Don’t be shy, I’ve seen it all before.”
“I think not.”
“If it makes you more comfortable, Dayanand can step in.”
“No!”
“Great shorts,” she says as they come off, proceeds to examine my back, the place where the spine is welded to my hips. She’s probing with her fingertips.
“What do you feel? Tell me as I press.”
“Fingers.”
“Here?”
“Fingers.”
She’s at the exact place where my back twists forward, where my invisible other self is supposed to be. That one’s nowhere standing tall but the same can’t be said for the thing below, it has become huge and hard, reared up it’s, feels like a log, with each beat of the heart it’s battering my belly. If Elli’s seen this lund of mine, she gives no sign, but’s started questioning me about what other doctors have said, so I tell her about the great expert in the hospital, etcetera and etcetera, it’s a complete waste of time, there’s nothing to be done.
“Doctors aren’t always right. That’s why we ask a second opinion.”