Animal's People (17 page)

“It's not that,” says he, who hates saying a bad thing about anyone. “Just that lately I'm not feeling too good. Eaten something, must've.”

In Somraj's house is an uneasy tension. Somraj won't do anything to upset Zafar's plan, but there is a tug of war and Nisha is the rope.

“A daughter should obey her father,” I've given a pull to Somraj's side.

“Fine one you are to talk of duty,” says Nisha, “really Animal you are so transparent.” After a while she adds, “But quite sweet.” After some more time she says, “Zafar is upset. Some people came this afternoon from the bastis, they begged him to not boycott the clinic. Even Pyaré Bai came.”

“That day,” I said, “when I paid off the moneylender, I was thinking that when Elli doctress starts giving free treatment, people like Pyaré Bai will no longer need to borrow.”

“Zafar's not at all well,” says Nisha. “He feels sick, his mouth is dry, he's very hot. That's how ill this worry is making him.”

The evening of the opening ceremony we're all in Somraj's garden, watching them get ready across the road. Beside the famous mango tree is pitched a big colourful shamiana, inside Elli and her staff are hustling. Tonight her legs aren't blue, she's wearing shalwar kameez, like an Indian woman. Suresh and Dayanand are setting out rows of chairs, on a table near the door of the tent flower garlands are piled. Outside in the street Mando's band in tatty green uniforms are marching up and down, braying strange notes that scamper up and down the cracks between familiar keys.
Sa re ga
etc. can't describe them, such sounds need new names entirely. I know one of the musicians, a trumpet player, an old bugger, he's from the Nutcracker, he gives me a wink, folds his hands in greeting to Somraj, who's stood watching beneath his frangipani tree. All the players have an eye out for Somraj because even if he no longer sings he's still the famous
Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur
, no matter how long they live none of them will ever be a great maestro like he is. Maybe knowing he's listening makes them try harder, I mean they are playing almost in time, sometimes even in tune. Who knows what nameless things these sounds are doing to Somraj's ears? It's rarely that I speak to Somraj, mostly I don't dare, but this ruckus makes me feel so sorry for him that I blurt out my thoughts.

“Oh no,” he says, “I find it very interesting,” and begins talking of the skills needed by a brass player such as lip stamina, range, tone, speed of fingers and breath control. “This kind of breathing that brass players do, they take a great gulp of air and then they use their lungs, and these muscles here,” tapping his abdomen, “and in the stomach to control how it flows to the instrument.”

“Really?” What else is to say?

“Do you know how the note can be sustained even though the performer has no breath left in his lungs?”

“No sir.”

“It's called chakra breathing, which means breathing in circles. You won't find it mentioned in any yoga sutras. Can you guess how it's done?”

I've shaken my head.

“Fill your cheeks with air and push it out slowly, at the same time breathe in through your nose.” He puffs out his cheeks like two apples. “Try.”

I snort, puff, and make unusual noises. Nisha, who is nearby, has a fit of giggles. Just thankful I'm that Farouq's not there to mock, he and Zafar have gone off somewhere together. All day they've been mysterious, I have a feeling that they are keeping something from me.

“So you are still interested in music?” asks Pandit-ji, his mouth seems to give a twitch, almost smiling he's, which would be a miracle.

“Sir, what happens when the cheeks are empty?”

“Let go from the lungs and quickly fill the cheeks again.” He gives a kind of a gulp, then he's coughing, he can't stop.

“Pandit Somraj sir, are you okay sir?”

Somraj Pandit's doubled up retching, Nisha has gone running to fetch a glass of water, thus do the Kampani's gases rob him of his singing breath.

It's grown dark by the time Zahreel Khan arrives. Flashbulbs blossom as the
Khaufpur Gazette
gets its shots. The Minister of Poison is turned by the flashes into a ghost casting huge jumping shadows. Dayanand, Suresh and Miriam rush forward with garlands. He poses to receive them, hands folded, head bowed as if the flowers are heavy with the weight of responsibility.

Twenty minutes pass before the speeches begin. Lights inside the tent are wavering, Khaufpuri electric can't be trusted. Lurking in Somraj's garden, we see Elli on the platform, herself now loaded with flowers, listening to her chief guest making a speech into a brown gloom in which people's faces can barely be seen. Outside it's by now fully dark, she can't see us. Hardly for a minute has Zahreel Khan been speaking when from the direction of Ram Nekchalan's shop loud filmi music starts up, muffled and distorted, the minister has to raise his voice to fight against it. “Elli Barber is an eminent consultant. We in Khaufpur are proud to have attracted a doctor of such talent.”

“How did Khaufpur attract her?” calls a familiar voice. It's Zafar. He and Farouq are standing near the entrance to the tent, behind them there seem to be many other people clustered.

“Kindly save questions for the end,” says the Minister in a testy manner, peering to see who is causing this disruption. “You will get your chance.”

“Was she asked to come?” persists Zafar. “Who asked her?”

These further interjections Zahreel Khan ignores. Putting aside his notes he begins to talk of that night, how he himself had been in the old city and had been caught in the panic. He speaks of the scenes in the streets and the crush of dying people in the hospitals. He tells how he like so many hundreds of others searched all night for his missing loved ones, and of the terrible scenes in the city as morning broke. The filmi music is still playing up the road, but I reckon people can no longer hear it, it has vanished into a deep silence. For those listening to Zahreel Khan, it's their own memories they're hearing. Then there's one moment, the wind catches that sound in its airy hands and brings it to the tent, one clear phrase, a grave and beautiful voice singing,
Kaun Aayaa Méré Mun Ké Dvaaré
, who's this come to the door of my mind? Pandit Somraj gives a terrible sigh, like a groan almost, and goes back into his house. Poor Nisha, standing nearby is torn, she would like to join Zafar, but the duty of a daughter prevails, she disappears after her father.

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.

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 under 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?

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.”