Animal’s People

by Indra Sinha

  Down by the road’s waiting Bhoora’s auto, he lifts me in. “Come,” says he. “Now we’ll go home.”

  Zafar and Farouq squeeze in either side of me.

  “Wait! What about Jara?”

  “The dog is okay,” says Farouq with a grin. “Just look behind to see what a popular bugger you are.”

  Right behind us is a bhutt-bhutt-pig full of people plus, I guess, Jara too.

  “Bhoora brother,” says Zafar. “Let’s go. Back to my place.”

  “No, no,” says I. “Just take me back home. Ma must be worrying.”

  There’s a silence, then Zafar says, “You need a doctor, and Elli has gone back to Amrika. We’ll go to my place.”

  Eyes, someone had mentioned Elli leaving, but not until now do I know that she has gone back home. “She’s not returning then.” Eyes, I’m not even thinking of my back, just sad it’s that things had to end this way. “I would have liked to say goodbye.”

  “No need.” It’s Zafar. Something not right about the way he says this.

  “Why are you smiling, you bastard?”

  “They’re repairing Elli’s clinic. Your mate Dayanand is there, the blue-lungi foreman’s there chain-smoking beedis. It will be ready by the time she returns.”

  “She’s coming back?”

  “See, we bring good news.”

  “Zafar brother, what does this glee mean?”

  Says Farouq, “Elli went back to Amrika, but she took Pandit-ji and Nisha with her.”

  “But,” says I, “she promised her husband, the lawyer, that she would go back to him. She told me this herself.”

  Says Zafar, “She promised to go back to Amrika. She did not promise to go back to him. What it means…”

  But I know what it means. It means the music of Elli’s promise will be heard loud and joyful at her wedding. So then I’m clapping.

  “Congratulations, Farouq brother. Zafar brother, to you double congrats!”

  “Why double?” Grinning like he knows the answer.

  “Because there’ll be not one wedding but two. You will marry Nisha and I’ll be there cheering. I love the pair of you. I swear, my brother, may god in whom you don’t believe, be my witness.” With these words, which I had no idea would fly out of my mouth, a great peace enters my heart. “Zafar brother, this gift which you gave me, please wear it at your wedding.”

  I’ve given him back the precious embroidered cap.

  “So after all, we won. The power of nothing rose up and destroyed our enemies.”

  Says Zafar, “When is anything ever as simple as that?”

  The auto’s bumping along the road that leads south to Khaufpur, behind us the hills are dwindling. The countryside is green from recent rain.

  After some time Farouq asks again why I’d run away. The way he asks this, it’s like there is another question hidden behind the first.

  “After the factory went up, poison smoke came. Ma said it would be like that night all over again.”

  “It was not,” replies Farouq. “This time people knew what to do, they got out. Even so, three died.”

  “Three? I thought it must be thousands. That fire was hell itself. It was burning my back as I ran away from the factory.”

  “Three is three too many,” says Zafar. “So you were in the factory. We thought as much.” They share a silence whose meaning I can’t fathom.

  As we rattle along, Zafar and Farouq tell the story of what happened in the days following the fire.

  Seems that after they had extracted their promise from the CM the city returned to a peaceful state. Right away the politicians got it into their heads that since things were back to normal they should after all quietly proceed with the deal. It would have to be done in secret. They reckoned that if they did the double-cross quietly plus delayed announcing it, it would be too late to stop. Zafar and Farouq were no longer in danger of dying, it would be difficult to make another demo, plus this time police and army were ready. So a meeting was set up, it would take place not in a government building, where all kinds of eyes would see, but right in the place where the Amrikan lawyers were, in other words, Jehannum.

  The morning of the meeting came. Up and down the road from the old city to the hill above the lake, police were out in numbers. Jeeps were going back and forth. Unless they were guests, people were being turned away from Jehannum. The police would stop them at the gate. Nobody could get in. If people asked why this was happening, they were told it was because there’d been threats to the Amrikans. “We are taking no chances,” the police said.

  Early on that morning, a woman was seen making her way up the hill. A poor woman she was, clad from head to toe in a black burqa. No one could see her face, she must have been young, for she was tall and stepped swiftly. In her hand she carried a jhadoo, a simple broom, used for sweeping floors. When challenged at the gate, she said she was going to her work as a cleaner. Little mind they gave her because soon messages were coming to prepare for the reception of some big shots, who’d be arriving shortly at Jehannum. Sure enough, the cars soon showed up. Not government cars, mark you, the CM, Zahreel Khan and others, they all came in plain white Ambassadors, one by one they disappeared inside.

  What all happened next, the world learned from these folk themselves. The shameful meeting began in a room with a big table, the four Amrikans were on one side, the politicians on the other. They had begun their arguing and haggling when without warning their eyes began to sting. An evil burning sensation began in their noses and throats, a little like the smoke of burning chillies, it caught nastily in the throat, it seared the lungs, they were coughing, but coughing made it ten times worse. Something was in the room, something uninvited, an invisible fire, by the time they had realised this it was already too late. These big shot politicians and lawyers, they got up in a panic, they reeled around, retching, everything they did just made the pain and burning worse. Tears streamed from their eyes, hardly could they see. One of the lawyers was trying to vomit, the rest of them ran in panic. They rushed from the room, jostling in the doorway each man for himself, the buffalo it seems being too bulky to rush, was left behind while the others scrambled to save their skins. These Kampani heroes, these politicians, they were shitting themselves, they thought they were dying, they thought they’d been attacked with the same gas that leaked on that night, and every man there knew exactly how horrible were the deaths of those who breathed the Kampani’s poisons.

  Says I, “It’s poetic justice of a fully rhyming kind.”

  But Zafar says that poetic justice, rhyming or not is not the same as real justice, but being the only kind available to the Khaufpuris was at least better than nothing. So that person must have thought, who had entered the hotel and carefully emptied a bottle of stink bomb juice into the air conditioner.

  “Was this your doing?” I ask Zafar.

  “It was not,” he says. “We knew nothing of it until afterwards. We were busy searching for you.”

  What made the whole thing fully grand was that someone had tipped off the press, they were waiting with their cameras when these goons stumbled out into the lobby. Once the secret was out, the deal was dead. The Kampani was saying that it was the victim of terrorism, the culprit should be prosecuted and locked up for years, but the jarnaliss took a different view. They said that one stink bomb, however disgusting, could not compare to the terror the Kampani had brought on the people of Khaufpur, plus how could the Kampani bosses demand that anyone should be prosecuted while they were themselves refusing to appear before the Khaufpur court?

  Not a soul knew who had done it. At last police remembered the woman in the burqa. The hotel staff were questioned, but none of them knew who she was. One or two had seen her with her broom. She spoke to no one. Soon after the start of the meeting this same woman left the place and went away down the hill. Nobody paid her any attention, all that witnesses could say of her was that she was tall, plus carried herself like one who knew what she was about.
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  This mystery woman who had killed off the Kampani’s deal, this heroine, for so she was in the kingdom of the poor, how did she so completely vanish? All the city wanted to know, plus many beyond in Amrika. Intelligence wallahs were crawling all over the bastis.

  “Never will they find her,” I cry. “See the Nutcracker, how the houses lean together, open in and out of one another, where better to hide something than in a labyrinth with no doors? Cops enter here, she’s gone that way, secret police arrive there, she’s back here, and which police-wallah, secret, or dead secret, will dare to twitch aside the veil of a respectable Hindu lady or ask a Muslim woman to remove her burqa? Never are they going to find her, not if they search a thousand years.” I’ve begun laughing. “In just this way did Ma escape from Père Bernard.”

  “It was not Ma,” says Zafar sharply. “Animal, whatever other name may come to your mind, don’t say it.”

  Farouq says, “Animal, there’s another thing you must not mention. Police are asking how the fire in the factory started. Don’t ever say you were in there.” From his pocket he gets something and hands it to me. “We found this inside the factory.”

  It’s my old Zippo, charred black, twisted by fire.

  I’m staring at my Zippo, wondering how it could have dropped inside the factory, then it dawns. “But are you thinking that I started the fire? I could not have, I had lost my Zippo, I did not have it with me, I swear. I know this for sure, because when I was in the forest, when I burned the Khã…” And that’s when doubt struck, plus horror, for I could recall the datura playing tricks, laughing at me.

  “We’ve told no one. If you have any sense, neither will you.”

  “You thought that’s why I ran away.” I’m remembering that little silence, after they’d asked me this.

  “We don’t think anything,” says Zafar. “You lost it, it wasn’t you, that’s that.”

  As the auto approaches the edge of the city there is a way off to the right which leads to the Nutcracker. This is where I’ve assumed we will go first, but when we reach the place the auto carries on past.

  “Why this way? Are you not taking me back to my place? I have to see Ma.”

  “Tonight at least,” says Zafar, “you will stay with me.”

  “But why? Ma will be worrying.”

  “I’ll explain everything when we get back. You need a bath, sleep, when you wake up tomorrow, then we’ll talk.”

  Then it strikes me that whenever I mention Ma there’s this little pause, and they change the subject.

  “Zafar! Please tell me! Where is Ma? What’s happened to her?”

  So at last comes out the tale which I myself could have supplied had I not willed myself to blindness.

  “Animal, Ma did not leave the basti. She was in there till the end, helping other people get out, cover up their eyes. She did not protect herself against the gas, plus people who saw her said she was singing, she took the gas deep in her lungs.”

  “But she is okay?” I cry in a voice to my own ears like a child’s.

  Farouq shakes his head. “Sorry, mate.”

  Zafar says, “People are saying she and Huriya Bi were heroines, saints, some are talking of erecting a statue to them. Where did they find such courage, I’ll never know.”

  “So Huriya makes two,” says I, with tears arriving. “Who’s the third?”

  But already I know what they are going to tell me. When Ma went into the basti she headed straight to the house of Huriya to warn them that if they stayed they would die. Already the air smelt of burning chillies, people were coughing. Huriya refused to let Ma go alone, she took a loving leave of her husband Hanif and their little Aliya, then she went with Ma. Many people witnessed this, dozens told how Ma and Huriya moved ahead of the cloud, warning people to get out. They were last seen heading towards the factory. Those who heard reported that Ma was calling out in loud, clear and perfect Khaufpuri.

  “The third is old Hanif, isn’t it? He stayed with Aliya, he would not have left her.” Then’s left only to wonder how all the grief and pity in the world can force their way out of two eyes.

  “Farouq,” I say at last, “you asked why I went to the jungle and I would not tell you, but I will now though it’ll enable you to tease me forever.”

  Then between the double disgrace of sobs and snot out it all comes, how I had tried to comfort Nisha and made that clumsy offer of marriage, which she scorned, how I had said it was because I was an animal, how she got angry with me. “Better it would have been, friends, had you not found me, for I don’t think I can bear to go on being an animal in a world of human beings.”

  Whatever reply I might have expected, it wasn’t what I got, which was two pairs of arms about me, while Farouq’s in one ear whispered, “Animal, I swear I will never be rotten to you again,” and in the other Zafar’s saying, “Animal, my brother, you are a human being. A full and true human being.”

  “Why are you saying this?” I’ve snivelled.

  Says Zafar, “Fool.” With that he’s pressed his lips to my head and all three of us are in tears.

  It’s now we arrive at the level crossing near the start of the Nutcracker, the one where the railway line runs past the factory, where I carried Aliya on my back. Our auto’s waiting at the closed barrier. We are on the left side of the road. On our right a big truck comes and blocks the other side. The long train goes through, 2652, Sampark Kranti Express. When it has passed we see that behind the further barrier a crush of autos, bhutt-bhutt-pigs, buses etcetera is also fully blocking the road. The two barriers lift, both sides stare at each other, then all rush forward at once until we are firmly stuck in a muddle of horns and curses.

  Says Zafar, “Welcome home.”

  So I got it back, my familiar life, I have it back. Everything the same, yet everything changed. After staying three days with Zafar I returned to the tower where I’d lived with Ma. Time passed, the travellers returned from Amrika, in due course I danced at their weddings. All live together now in Pandit-ji’s house, I still have my lunch there every day.

  Eyes, what else can I tell you? Life goes on. It will take time, so we’re told, to appoint a new judge in the case, the hearing’s again been postponed, the Kampani’s still trying to find ways to avoid appearing, but Zafar is confident we’ll get them in the end. There is still sickness all over Khaufpur, hundreds come daily to Elli doctress’s clinic. Abdul Saliq stands at the Pir Gate telling the low-souled to fuck off and die, Farouq’s still a pain in the arse, Chunaram has various new scams, Faqri’s doing good business, the factory is still there, blackened by fire it’s, but the grass is growing again, and the charred jungle is pushing out green shoots. Moons play hide and seek in the pipework of the poison-khana, still the foreign jarnaliss come.

  Three weeks ago, a fat package arrived, covered in blue and red Amrikan stamps it was, and addressed to Animal, Esquire c/o Elli at the clinic. Inside were many forms, plus a letter with good news for me, money has been found, my operation is booked. Elli was delighted, a huge hug she gave me and said that soon I won’t know myself. Zafar says he’ll help me to get a passport, in a couple of months I’ll leave for Amrika. Elli and Nisha will accompany me. All I have to do is sign a paper.

  Long have I sat with this paper under the old tamarind tree that was Ma’s parlour. Thought and thought I’ve, asked aloud for advice, my voices had none to offer, but began their crazy hissing, khekhe fishguts noises. It’s then I’ve remembered the tape mashin in the wall. I will tell this story, I thought, and that way I’ll find out what the end should be. I’ll know what to do. When I started speaking, when I heard dead Aliya’s voice calling, it was like she and the others who are no more came back to be with me. My dear ones, heroes of my heart. Eyes, I can’t tell you how I miss them, until I die this wound will never heal. They’ve been here through every minute of this telling. Ma’s here with me now, sitting smiling she’s, calling me son. Let me clear my eyes of dust and rainbows. Yes, I can see her. “We�
�ll meet in paradise,” she says. I know that one day I will meet her there.

  Eyes, here’s what I’m thinking, and this I’m speaking to the mashin, I’ve told to no one but you. Of the cash I earned from Zafar and Co., which was four hundred bucks a month, each day I spent only four. In a tin inside the scorpion wall is more than ten thousand rupees. Eyes, it was for my operation, but now that cash, plus a little persuasion from Farouq’s friends, will go to buy Anjali free and she will come to live with me. See, Eyes, I reckon that if I have this operation, I will be upright, true, but to walk I will need the help of sticks. I might have a wheelchair, but how far will that get me in the gullis of Khaufpur? Right now I can run and hop and carry kids on my back, I can climb hard trees, I’ve gone up mountains, roamed in jungles. Is life so bad? If I’m an upright human, I would be one of millions, not even a healthy one at that. Stay four-foot, I’m the one and only Animal. What reply would you give, Elli?

  I am Animal fierce and free

  in all the world is none like me

  Eyes, I’m done. Khuda hafez. Go well. Remember me. All things pass, but the poor remain. We are the people of the Apokalis. Tomorrow there will be more of us.

  KHAUFPURI GLOSSARY

  (Some common Hindi words listed here have a specifically Khaufpuri twist, and have different meanings in other parts of India; ñ signifies a nasal twang, as in French non.)

  aaj kahaañ chalogé?—Where are you off to today?

  Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur—the Voice of Khaufpur

  abba—father

  achchha—okay