‘Dhutt. Arey dhuttt.’
‘What is it, Karim? What?’
‘Rats. Saala, can’t even have one meal in peace.’
‘Don’t take it out on rats.’
‘Why. You related to them?’
‘Leave it.’
‘No no, tell me na. You want to marry one. Is that it?’
‘Don’t push it, Karim.’
‘Achha na, I was only joking. I love rats. No seriously.’
‘Come away, there’s nothing here. Those dogs got away with the best bits. Maybe the next Rajdhani.’
‘Haan yaar…’
‘…kindly pay attention! Coming, from, New, Delhi, going, to, Cuttack, the…’
Kalki tossed away the mango peel he had extracted from the heap. ‘Karim bhai, hear that? That’s Behrampur coming in on ek. It’s time for my night shift at Bansi’s—he’ll kill me. Chal, I’ll see you at school tomorrow.’
‘To hell with school.’
‘Come on, don’t say that.’
‘What “don’t say that”? I’ll be selling mugs and chain locks and nail cutters till I die—it is my fate.’
‘Our fate is not in anyone’s hands.’
‘Not in anyone’s hands. So you like it when people throw your salary at you from moving trains, is it? You like shooing away rats to get to your lunch and your dinner, hain? Saala bastard, not in anyone’s hands…’
‘Enough of your bakwaas; look, I am off.’
‘…two, three, zero, two, Barhampur, Express, via…’
Karim caught hold of Kalki’s hand playfully and swung it. ‘Come, I’ll accompany you to ek. My shift on aath doesn’t begin till ten.’
‘Hurry then or I’ll lose half my wage.’
The boys walked alongside each other, Kalki on the rail and Karim hopping and skipping the sleepers. Karim picked up a stone and lobbed it high up in the air. He ran forward to catch it.
‘Haan, haan. What’s a one day wage, yaar?’
Kalki clucked his tongue. ‘Saala. You have your mausi to buy you your schoolbooks. Maybe you should tell her to buy some for me too next time. That way I can forego the night shift and sit on my ass all day like you.’
‘…Kanpur, Central, Allahabad, Mughal, Sarai, Gaya, Parasnath, and, Dhanbad, is, arriving, at, Mughal…’
‘You think mausi’s generosity comes free? You take my place tomorrow onwards, bastard—let me see you carry forty buckets full of shit from the cowshed to the gobar-gas plant every morning. Saala.’
‘Achha yaar, leave it. Remember what the Gita says: “Do your job, don’t worry about the fruits”.’
Karim made Kalki slow down by catching his wrist. ‘Who is Gita? Your night-shift company, is she? Good-looking, is she? Is she?’
‘…Sarai, at, platform, number, one, thank you…’
‘Gita—Bhagavad Gita, you stupid...’
‘Oh. And anyway, what’s new in what it says, hunh? We are only doing our jobs, aren’t we, and we have never gotten close to as much as a half-eaten apple—wrinkled guava maybe...’
Kalki slapped his forehead. ‘No, you brain-dead son-of-a-mule. Fruits, meaning, not “fruits” but reward, benefit. You understand?’
‘Saala. Give me real fruits any day.’
‘Bas, enough yaar. No point telling you anything.’
‘And anyway, where have you been getting all this gyan from, haan?’
‘Arey, Bansilal’s stall is full of such books. Gita, Ramayan, Quran, Mahabharat—you name it.’
Karim smiled as he hauled himself up the platform ledge. ‘Oh. So now you have become a panditji.’
‘Achha yaar, enough. Now give me a hand…’
The boys stood on platform one, inspecting their whereabouts like two soldiers dropped behind enemy lines. Kalki scratched his head. ‘Oye, what’s the matter? Number one looks deserted. And who is that fat dog with one arm longer than the other?’
‘Why, that’s Bansilal, you fool. And by the looks of it he is carrying a gun.’
‘That’s not a gun, you mule, that’s a fly swatter.’
‘I am sure he’ll use it like a gun on you. Anyway, happy night-shifting, see you sometime tomorrow.’
Kalki shouted after Karim. ‘Not sometime, saaley, early morning. School—understand?’
But Karim was already a fair distance away, refusing to look back. ‘Didn’t hear you. Goodbye, Kalki.’
‘Saala,’ mumbled Kalki, shaking his head. He consulted the platform clock and calculated he was five minutes late—acceptable given the time. But then again, the country was in a state of Emergency. Five minutes were five too many. His thoughts were interrupted rudely by a near collision with the behemoth that now stood right in front of him.
‘Oye, Kalki-ke-bacche. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Good evening, Bansilalji. What happened? You look like you are in a bad mood.’
Bansilal reached for Kalki’s ear. ‘Saaley kuttey, how dare you.’
‘Ji?’
‘I said, langoor ki aulad, how dare you talk back to me like that?’
‘…’
‘That’s better. Keep that trap shut—you should know who you are talking to, you understand?’
‘Ji...’
‘Again!’
‘…’
‘Didn’t hear you. You said something, boy?’
‘…’
‘Sure you didn’t?’
‘…’
‘That’s good. Now listen—Yes…where was I. Yes, where were you? Aren’t you late? Haan?’
‘…’
‘You don’t understand the value of time, hain?’
‘…’
‘By my watch, you are seven minutes late.’
‘But saab, I...’
‘Haan? Haan? Didn’t hear you...’
‘…’
‘There are boys who will work better for half the money I pay you. But I say, no. I say I am a kind man, I’ll help this rotten bastard trying to make something of himself. Listening?”
‘…’
‘I say, “Go on, get lost. I already have my little Kalki musahur.” That’s what I tell them. And what do I get in return? Do I get some respect from you? But for me, you’d be picking and eating shit from the tracks. Do you understand me, boy?’
‘…’
‘I let you read all the stall books, no extra charge, no pay cut. You try and read such good stuff from a library, they’ll fleece your little ass. But I say, “Arey Bansilal, think of the punya you earn from this”. Who will even look at you, let alone help you go to school, haan? Didn’t I write a letter of recommendation for you? Didn’t I write that Kalki is a very intelligent boy and that he has read all my stall books, haan?’
‘…’
‘Who else would you have got that letter from? A coolie? From that bastard Raju? And what would they have bragged about you—that you can pour a cup of tea in a kulharr without spilling a drop?’
‘…’
‘Are you listening, boy, or am I just talking to myself?’
‘…’
Bansilal formally lifted his gag order. ‘Oh. Yes, you can respond now.’
Kalki opened the floodgates. ‘I am so sorry, Bansilalji. Cut my head off and put it on display at the stall if it ever happens again. It was all the fault of the platform clock, Bansilalji.’
‘I am listening.’
‘Please don’t even think of paying me my wage for tonight.’
‘I wasn’t anyway...’
‘You have been like a father to me, saab, what more I can tell you.’
‘You can tell me more.’
‘But for you I couldn’t have even dreamt of going to school. You are like a god to me.’
‘Carry on.’
‘I cannot apologise enough. I have a valid excuse, but saab, in reality, no excuse is valid enough.’
Bansilal was pleased by this. ‘Good, I like that.’
‘It is my weakness. It has always been my weakness, the d
esire to show off.’
‘Accepted, accepted…’
‘I must ask you to trust me as you have never trusted me before.’
Worry lines started to form on the fat man’s forehead. ‘Wha–, what’s going on...’
‘I belong to the world…’
‘All that’s fine, but...’
‘I am an imbecile. I see only half the picture.’
‘I am glad you have seen reason but...’
‘It is the brain, the little grey cells on which one must rely. One must seek the truth within, not without.’
‘Why, that’s good. I mean, the way you have put it...’
‘In that case I shall require four weeks’ wages in lieu of notice.’
‘What?’
Kalki ducked his head and squeezed his tongue out. ‘Arey sorry, saab, forget the last bit.’
‘Why. W-what’s going on? Is there—are these some lines you have picked up from...’
‘Ji, saab, from my partners Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.’
‘Why, you bastard. You making fun of me?’
‘…Kindly pay attention! Coming, from, New, Delhi, going, to, Dibrugarh, the…’
‘I knew you’d like them. You have that reader’s eye—ear.’
Bansilal was pleasantly surprised. ‘Do I?’
‘Sure you do. Why else do you think Wheeler & Sons have kept you in charge of their stall for the last fifteen years?’
Bansilal puffed up his chest a little. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
Kalki was unforgiving, certain that sarcasm was lost on Bansilal. ‘They can judge a man’s intelligence, his interest in literature, in fiction, in crime…’
‘…two, four, three, six, Dibrugarh, Rajdhani, via, Moradabad, Bareilly…’
‘You think so?’
‘Of course. You have educated so many travellers, saab. It has been your gift, your contribution to humanity.’
‘Now don’t stretch it, boy. That’s not a line from a stall book, now is it?’
‘Arey saab, you are too modest. You don’t know what the world thinks of you.’
Bansilal agreed. ‘Well, I can guess sometimes, but...’
‘Leave it na, saab. Let bygones be bygones. As I was saying, from today I’ll redouble my efforts in your service.’
Bansilal pinched Kalki’s cheeks, first one then the other. ‘Kalki, you are a good boy. I am happy to have bought you from Deodhar. You are the best investment I have made in years. Worth every paisa.’
‘…Lucknow, Varanasi, Ballia, Chhapra, Hajipur…’
‘Arey saab, leave it na.’
‘No, I am telling you it is true.’
‘Arey saab, why make fun of your humble servant.’
‘Arey ban-cho when I say it is true, it means it is true.’
Kalki scratched his head. ‘Er, then saab, about today’s wage…?’
‘Achha achha saaley, I won’t cut it.’
‘Saab, there is only one of your kind.’
‘That there is.’
‘…Barauni, Katihar, Kishanganj, Jalpaiguri, Cooch…’
‘I mean it.’
‘Bas, now don’t push it. You know I only mean well when I scold you.’
‘…Behar, Alipurdaur, Kokrajhar, Bongaigaon, Guwahati, Lumding, Diphu, Dimapur, Mariani, and, Tinsukia…’
‘Of course, saab.’
Bansilal gave Kalki a gentle push. ‘Now get in or customers will think the stall is empty.’
‘Ji. You first, saab.’
Bansilal shook his head slowly. ‘Alright, alright…saala. But you are alright, Kalki.’
‘…is, running, seven, hours, late, from, its, scheduled, time, of…’
‘Thank you, saab.’
‘Enough now. Let’s get some business rolling…haan, yes madam? Can we help you?’
‘…arrival, and, will, arrive, at, Mughal, Sarai, at, zero, five, forty, hours, on, platform…’
A young woman, wearing an ill-fitted blouse safety-pinned to a heavy sari, shuffled her feet by the magazine racks nervously. She raised her arm to reveal it half-hidden by maroon bangles that fell against each other. The half that was not hidden was hennaed intricately. Her hair parting was daubed with the brightest of red sindoor. En route to her honeymoon, this was perhaps the first occasion when, coaxed by her husband, she had ventured out on her own to explore the workings of the world. She stretched a hand out, uncertain where to point it.
Bansilal tried to be encouraging. ‘Anything in particular? Arey, Kalki beta, please show madam the latest magjeen-shagjeen.’
‘Yes, sir…here, madam. Here’s the latest Women’s Era, Stardust, Illustrated Weekly—or would you want Griha Shobha? Nootan-kahaniyaan?’
The woman pointed accusingly at a magazine. ‘Is that the latest Filmi Kaliyan?’
‘…number, four, Thank you…’
‘No madam, latest comes tomorrow by Rajdhani. This is last month’s…have you read it, but? No? It has the latest on the Rakhee–Neetu Singh tiff. We’ll give you forty percent off—no saab?’
Bansilal nodded approvingly. ‘Yes yes, why not.’
‘Okay, then. That Filmi Kaliyan, and that Griha Shobha.’
‘That’ll be seven rupees, madam.’
‘Here.’
‘Thank you…come again.’
The woman snatched the magazines from Bansilal’s hands and hurried out of view. Bansilal gave a knowing smirk and fell back on his stool. He took the fly swatter and sliced the air a few times. Turning to Kalki he asked, ‘Oye, Kalki? Ban-cho I didn’t know Rakhi and Neetu were tearing their plaits out?’
‘Arey saab, who cares. Filmi Kaliyan got sold na? Bas.’
‘Saala. You’ll get me into trouble one day.’
‘Why, saab? Will Rakhee aunty and Neetu didi get down from Kalka Mail with brooms in their hands and come looking for our stall?’
Bansilal spotted another customer coming their way. ‘Quiet.’
This time round it was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles thick as the bottom of a goli-soda bottle. He brushed away an imaginary speck of dust from his dog-collared shirt, which stuck to his upper body like a swimsuit. Unconcerned with his fashion statement, he joined his thumb and forefinger and placed them right under his beaked nose. Then, smoothly, he broke the two-digit formation apart, running each along his handlebar moustache down to the last bristle. He repeated the procedure and said: ‘Arey bhai, listen.’
‘Yes, sir...Kalki beta.’
‘Yes sir, how may I help you?’
‘Arey, you have that latest one by Agatha Christie?’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘Arey, that latest one. Can’t remember the name, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Arey, you know the one na—she came out with it only this year.’
Kalki tilted his head forward a little. ‘But sir, didn’t you know? The queen died last year. It was in all the papers...’
‘Which queen? Who died?’
‘Agatha Christie, sir, the queen of crime.’
The man was taken aback. He removed his glasses. ‘Oyay chhotu, saaley—you making fun of me?’
‘No sir, I was only...’
‘What “I was only”? What is this stall? Who is the proprietor?’
Bansilal came off his stool. ‘What…? Yes sir, it is me, Bansilal. Why, what happened, sir?’
‘Ban-cho I’ll complain to your headquarters. Give me your full name.’
‘Arey sir, no need to get this angry. Please, let me handle this. Kalki! Apologise. Right now.’
‘But saab, I...’
‘I said, apologise to our respected customer here right now.’
Kalki turned to the man and bowed. ‘Sir, Bhagwaan-ki-kasam, Dharti Mata-ki-kasam, my intention was not what you think. I was only trying to second-guess what book you were looking for. Please, I apologise, from the bottom of my heart.’
‘Yes, alright. Better be careful next time. Now, what was I asking for.’
‘About her lat
est, sir. Yes sir, in that case you want Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case. Excellent choice, sir, if I may be permitted to say so.’
‘Yes, that’s what I wanted in the first place.’
‘Yes, sir, here it is—Curtain. Sixteen rupees, fifty paise.’
‘Here, take the money…Any good, this? Well, how would you know.’
‘Indeed, sir, if I may be allowed to say so, it is excellent. Madam Christie wrote it forty years ago, almost during the same time as her Murder in Mesopotamia, but it smells and feels like Poirot is at his best.’
The man gaped in wonder. ‘Arey Bansilal, who is this boy, bhai? How is he speaking such good English, hain? And smells. Feels. Hercule is his chacha or what.’
Bansilal added his two-penny. ‘Arey saab, you will cry buckets at this poor boy’s story.’
‘Some other ti...’
‘He ran away from his village last year and landed up at Mughalsarai. I took pity on him and gave him this job. He is very intelligent, saab, even goes to school every day. He has read all the books we have stocked here. Backwards. His favourites are of course Agath...’
The man cut Bansilal in mid-flight. ‘I don’t have time, boss—train’s about to leave.’
‘Some other day then…Arey, Kalki beta, go on na, whatever you were telling sir.’
‘Ji, saab. So as I was saying, your choice is perfect for your travel to—Cuttak, is it?’
The man looked suspiciously at Kalki. ‘What is it to you? I may be going anywhere.’
‘No no, I was just asking so I know how much time you have at hand, sir—to finish the novel, you see. Well, anyway, it is sure to keep you awake all through your journey.’
A chin was scratched. ‘You think so? I mean, Agatha’s lost her touch recently, no?’
‘You might be right there, saab—about the late madam, but this was written almost forty years ago.’
The man clearly felt out of depth. He pretended otherwise. ‘Ah, I see what you mean.’
Now there was no stopping Kalki. ‘What a story, saab, what a story, I tell you.’
‘Yes yes, no need to...’
‘Captain Hastings goes to see Poirot for one last time. Poirot is very sick—in a wheelchair.’
‘Yes, well, enough...’
‘Poirot tells Hastings there’s a murderer in the house and that he will refer to him only as X.’
The man tried to cut in. ‘I said, listen boy, that’s...’
The Rat Eater Page 11