Animal's People (35 page)

Up on the highest platform, where the death pipe starts its solo climb into the sky, I'm sitting with my arm round its blackened stack, the city is mapped out below in a million pricks of light. Join the brightest dots, you get the lines of the main roads. High above the lake is a cluster of lights, it's Jehannum, a little way below some lesser lights where a few hours ago the demo was held. Around me the factory is a region of darkness, a black shape outlined by the low glimmer of slums. Now a strange thing happens. In one instant all the lights of the city go out, between them appear pale shining shapes, triangles, squares, oblongs, in Chowk the minars and dome of the mosque are shining, it's like my eyes are playing tricks, then I realise that the moon is out again.

There's a battle going on between earth and sky, war is being waged between the light of human beings and the light of the moon, I am thinking of Somraj, because his name means lord of soma and soma is the moon and also the golden sun. Somraj, what will become of you? This animal, with his inner eye, sees you crushed beneath heavy blows. My news will wreck you. I think you will die, Somraj, because death has been in your mind a long time. That dream of yours, the one which keeps coming back, which won't leave you, Nisha told me, it's your memories of that night, but in the dream all the things of then are happening over and over again. You are in a street where lights are reduced to pinpricks by a thick cloud of gas. In this dim kerosene light dying figures are stumbling past. Nafisubi Ali's child is standing at the corner, crying for his mother. The boy's crying grows louder until in your mind it becomes a raga, one so awful that no instrument except the human throat can sing it. This raga fills you with fear and despair. Your mouth opens and emits no sound. The dead in their hundreds are sprawled in the roads, they are leaning half upright in doorways, their mouths are open and they are singing, out of their throats the death raga pours in green gusts, it swirls round them and flies in your face, in that green burning fog your world is lost.

My arms are round the pipe, now cold, up which the poisons flew to kill a city. The pipe is moaning. A hundred feet above my head wind is blowing across its mouth, the death pipe's wailing like a giant flute. I put my ear to its rough surface and listen. Inside are voices and it's like they are screaming. It's the dead of night, in my head is this howling that makes the hairs of my neck stand on end. I have the power to understand these things, I know right away what this is, it's the dead beneath the earth, it's their bones and ashes crying out in rage against their murderers. The dead are shrieking at me that the good earth has been defiled with blood. In thick clots the blood lies, won't be washed away by rain. The blood cries out for justice. Once the earth has tasted blood it craves more, now the killers must be killed. This is the old and the real law, it's the price that must be paid for murder, the price demanded by the furious spirits beneath the earth. Give us justice, screams the blood. It promises years of disaster, years of illness, if I do not take revenge. It warns me that ulcers will eat my flesh with white and weeping sores. Things will come to haunt me, nightmares from hell, sent by my murdered parents, hideous night demons, unnameable horrors of the night. If I do not take revenge they will come for me. Whips, like scorpion-stings, will flay my body and drive me out of human society. Never again will I share food or drink with human beings. I'll be an outcast. For me there'll be no sanctuary, no relief, no end to suffering. No one will shelter me. I will end up friendless, despised by all, and then, worn away by endless pain, I'll die. This is the song of the blood. The dead are rising up in the factory grounds, they are coming, looking as they did on that night, with eyes dripping blood they are coming, they're coming for me.

There are times to be afraid and there are times when you can be pushed just so far. This day's had too much of everything, of mayhem and excitement and betrayal and emotion and confusion, I too have fucking had enough. I say to the dead, who the fuck do you think you are, to threaten me with your reedy fucking complaints? If you had power you would have long ago taken your revenge, you are as powerless as us living, all you can do is wail in empty pipes, nothing can you do to the people who took your lives, they will grow fat and we will die and they will build factories above our graves and use our ashes for cement. Another thing, I yell, descending. You can hurl what curses you like, but I've already lost my place in the human world, plenty of people already despise me, but you are dead and I am alive.

“Here's a filament of fluff, spun on a farting breeze. So it crows, so it crows.” Long before I reach home I hear Ma's thin voice scraping at the sky. It's past midnight. I'm afraid, the shouting in my head's getting louder. I slide in under the plastic sheet to find Ma sitting on the floor crooning to herself. “Hear it all-hallowing out of the sea, one, three, look there's four, how many more, how many more? Hello, Animal.”

“Ma,” I say, “I am in a mess.”

“Off its scales see the sea pouring, hear it roaring, just like snoring, shut the door shut the door, ha ha there's no door.”

It's not a good time to be hearing this strange crap. “Ma, come back from wherever you are. It's important.”

She listens carefully as I pour out my story.

“Ma, what should I do?”

“Be a dear and fetch my name. I had it just a moment ago, I must have put it down somewhere.”

“Your name?”

“Yes, dear, I seem to have lost it.”

“Where did you have it last?”

“Well, I was reading, by the lamp there.”

“I shall have a look for it.” I make a show of hunting round, lifting things, looking in corners. “Oh look, here it is, it's in your book. You must have used it to mark the place.”

“Are you sure?” she says, peering at me with milky eyes. “I don't see it.”

“It's here.” I've picked up a leaf from the floor and blown it towards her. “Your name is Ma Franci.”

“That's not my name, that's a leaf,” she says, getting cross. “What have you done with my name? Have you taken it?”

“What would I do with your name?”

“Well, you need a name, don't you?”

“My name is Animal.”

“Oh look, it's all right,” cries Ma. “Here it is. It was keeping my place in Sanjo's book.”

Sleep is impossible. Talking to Ma solves nothing. She informs me that there are a lot of angels operating in the Nutcracker, they seem to be planning something big. “All's arranged,” she says. “Isa's on his way.” What kind of world is it where you have to ask advice of the insane?

The dog, as if sensing my turmoil, comes to the foot of the ladder and whines, but she can't climb up. Out of the darkness comes Ma's voice singing.

After some time she says, “Animal, are you awake? Aliya is not well. I told Huriya to take her to the doctress, but of course the mad old fool didn't understand a word, you must make sure she goes tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I want to cancel tomorrow.

Above my head there are holes in the roof, through them I see the moon a silver ball and I think of all the people in this world who are also looking at the moon and I wonder what they are thinking.

I wake to earth's shivering. It's vibrating like when a train goes by a mile away and you can feel it under your hands and feet but you're not really sure what's happening. If you put your ear to the earth you can hear it as well, a kind of growling. Only today it's not a train and it's not the platoons of the poor on the march and it isn't me, if you are crazy enough to put your ear to the earth today you will regret it because the earth is shivering not with fear but with fiery, blistering heat. The Nautapa has begun.

Eyes, Nautapa is nine days of heat so fierce it fries any part of you that touches the ground. You know how air shimmers over hot ground, well during the nine days, the air dances so violently you can't see straight, it's like looking through rippling water, but water is the one thing there isn't. Bang, it's gone. Being out in the Nautapa is like breathing inside a clay oven. They say that when these nine days arrive the rains are just around the corner, which is just as well because suffering this bad can't last long. Things crack, wilt, start to give up. The air is sucked from the sky and out of people's lungs.

On this first morning of the Nautapa I get to Huriya's and Hanif's place to find that Ma was right. Aliya is coughing, her forehead is virtually glowing.

“Could Elli doctress come?” the anxious old people want to know.

What can I say? Can't tell them I don't want to face Elli the Betrayess, besides she'll be busy. Nobody but me knows the truth about her so things will be going on as normal, the clinic will be full of people waiting to be seen.

“Aliya will have to go there,” I say. “I'll take her.” I can't see how I am going to do this. Autos, which need paying customers, don't bother coming to this part of the Nutcracker, anyway, there's no money to pay for one. I could go to the Chicken Claw and look for Bhoora but he might not be there plus it would take a long time. Neighbours who could have taken Aliya on a bicycle are not at home. There's a rusting bike a few doors away but even if it works it will be no use to Huriya, and Hanif's blind. As for me, despite my boasting this Animal can neither ride nor push a bicycle.

“I can walk,” says Aliya, but outside is wicked, the best part of a mile to the railway crossing and the road past the factory, however there is no other plan, so we set off.

As we step outside the heat hits. “Lean on me,” I tell her, “we'll stop if you get tired.”

“I can't hold your hand,” she says. “You'd fall over.”

“True. So hold just here.”

Yip! The ground burns like hot metal. I'm wanting to dance, skip from shade to shade, but the poor kid is gasping, her mouth is wide open and her hand on my neck is a flame, hot and angry like when my back began to twist.

“Listen Aliya, and I'll tell you a story I heard from Ma. Once there was a man called Jacotin, who had a massive nose. He was a lonely fellow and lived all by himself.”

“Wasn't he married?” asks Aliya, brave she is.

“No, he never found a wife. He was a bit simple, you see.”

“Like you.” She's limping. The earth is biting our feet with fiery teeth.

“Me? What crap. There's nothing simple about me. The older this Jacotin got the lonelier he became.”

“Granny says you're a bit touched.”

“Does she now? He could hear music, could Jacotin, that no one else could hear. He called it the music of angels.”

“Yes, she does. Because you talk to people who aren't there.”

“It was a sweet music beside which human music seemed dull.”

“Animal, I'm all dizzy.”

“Aliya, listen.” I'm very afraid for her. “I am going to be a horse and you shall ride on my back.”

We stop in the shade of a wall and look for a foothold from which she can scramble onto my shoulders. “Aliya, wrap your arms round my neck, hold tight to my hair.” Thus, with her small burning body on my back I've started again, thinking it won't be long before we meet someone who'll help.

It gets to be a question of counting steps. When you are a human you can count left right left right, but with four feet left hop right hop, it's not so straightforward. For the next hundred paces I'll think of water. There's no water. A hundred is too many, do twenty at a time, think of soft grass. The grass in the factory is by now long and dry, the grass at Jehannum last night smelt of earth, the kind of rain that comes from rich men's hosepipes. Last night, how I wished last night had never happened. How will I break the news? I don't have the guts to face Somraj, so I should tell Nisha, but I don't want to upset her, so I must tell Zafar, because he will know what to do.

By god how each step hurts. Aliya is whimpering, I'm afraid she'll slip and fall off. Still the track is empty. I can't really lift my head to see how far away the road is, her fingers are wound in my hair, I might send her tumbling. She's pressed so close, I can feel her heart thudding. It's racing. Farouq told me once that the heart is made to beat a certain number of times, the number for each is different, but the heart keeps count, when it has done its stint, it stops, not one extra beat will it give. He said it was best to make the heart beat slow, that way a lifetime can be stretched and I said some might ask why anyone would wish to stretch a life like mine? Meanwhile Aliya's small heart is rushing her life away and never will I reach the road.

How much time passed I do not know, but there comes a moment when I hear voices and start calling for help, people come running. Some men lift Aliya off my back and carry her while I fetch along behind on my blisters.

When we reach the clinic I'm all done in. Miriam Joseph takes one look at Aliya and runs for Elli, who's furious with me. “You should have phoned, she could have died,” says angry Elli.

I cannot look at her, who must at this moment be play-acting, for how else could she so badly betray us? I say nothing. I have nothing to say. What use to say there is no phone in the Nutcracker? Without a word I turn and go across the road to Nisha's house where I can bathe my hands and feet in cool water.

It's evening before Somraj brings news. Aliya was so bad that Elli said she must go to hospital. This of course terrified Aliya. Like all Khaufpuris she believes that if she goes into the hospital she will never come out again, so Elli kept her in her own bedroom all day with ice and fans and medicine to take away the fever. By evening Aliya's temperature was down. Elli took her home in Bhoora's auto and ordered him to bring her and her granny Huriya to the clinic each morning without fail for the next seven days. She's sent word for me to go over and have my hands and feet looked at.

“It's too late.” No fucking way am I going there.

“Elli's waiting,” says Somraj.

“Sir, I have to get home or Ma won't eat tonight.”

“Don't be silly,” Nisha says, “how will you get home like that?”

I tell her I am feeling much better. My hands and feet are pretty tough, any time other than Nautapa it would have been no problem.

Nisha says, “No, you must go to Elli. After our meeting Zafar will take you home. I'll send food for Ma.”

Well, is there ever saying no to Nisha? To keep her sweet, I promise to go to Elli's, but what I actually do is sit outside Somraj's house and listen to the voices inside.

“No violence,” Zafar says. “This I insist, there must be no violence.”

I'm sitting eavesdropping outside Somraj's house, plus at the same time worrying that a whole day has gone since I caught Elli kissing the lawyer. It's more difficult to speak now because I'll have to explain why I didn't pipe up straight away. Maybe I will tell Zafar when he takes me home. Right now he's busy talking. I can hear his voice. He's telling them what he has found out from his spies.

“Only blanks in the air, sir,” this is what the police chief told the CM, who was livid, the firing was a big embarrassment. Already he'd issued a statement, regrets, response to provocation, glad no injuries, restraint needed all round, enquiry, appropriate action. Zafar says that he and others only escaped arrest because with the Amrikans in the city and a deal to hatch, last thing the CM wants is further protests plus jarnaliss asking questions. Trouble he cannot avoid. A stone-throwing crowd had stormed the Narayan Ganj police station. Somraj and the committee had sent people out into the bidonvilles to calm things down.

“When it starts,” repeats Zafar, “there must be no violence.”

“Can't guarantee,” says someone else. “There's fury out there.”

A woman's voice. It's Nisha. “Why won't people be furious? Twenty years they've waited. For what? This betrayal?”

Zafar says, “Friends, it's like this. If we allow anger to rule us, if we break the law, we place ourselves in the same situation as the Kampani. Listen, it's we who have suffered injustice, and the Kampani which has committed it. We are the ones who are asking for justice, let's not ourselves break the law. Friends, the Khaufpuri media, or some of them, may be sympathetic to us, but in the world the Kampani is powerful. The Kampani has armies of lobbyists, PR agencies, hired editorialists. We must be impeccable, or else we make it easy for them to say, ‘these people are extremists,' from there it's a short step to ‘these Khaufpuris are terrorists'…”

He then relates how the Kampani in Amrika had staged a mock-attack on one of its own factories. “It was a drill. Police, FBI, fire service, all were involved. The Kampani invited the newspapers to watch and said, look, this is how we'll deal with terrorists. Can you guess who these ‘terrorists' were? In the story given out by the Kampani they were Khaufpuri protesters. In the Kampani's fantasy the Khaufpuris took hostages and demanded coffee, then executed one of the hostages because the coffee was not to their liking.”

“What was wrong with it?” someone asks.

“Not enough cardamom, probably,” says someone else.

In typical Khaufpuri fashion a debate starts about how much cardamom or clove should be used in coffee, and whether adding a few grains of salt improves the flavour.

“It was not hot enough,” says Zafar.

Silence, a moment's incredulity, then a rose of laughter blossoms in the room. Says Zafar, “Friends, for a moment think what's really going on here. What is terror? The dictionary says it's extreme fear, violent dread, plus what causes it. On that night our people knew terror beyond what a dictionary can define. Who caused it? Our people continue to feel extreme fear, violent dread, because they don't know what horrors might yet emerge in their bodies. Who refuses to share medical information? Our people want justice in a court of law. Who sneers at justice by refusing to appear in court? Terrorists are those who cause terror, who endanger innocent lives, who don't respect law. The only terrorists in this case are those who run the Kampani.”

“It's a strange world,” says one, “where a Kampani does acts of terror and then calls us, its victims, terrorists.”

“Bastards should be executed,” says another. More voices pour out anger.

“No violence,” says Zafar. “Not now, not ever. Listen, it might be that we'll never win against the Kampani. Maybe we won't ever get justice. But even if those evil ones escape punishment, they will still be just as bloodstained, just as wicked, in their hearts they themselves know it. Whatever happens they are ruined beings, their souls are already dead.”

Hail, Saint Zafar. What a fucking hero. Champion of the good and true, he'd even spare our enemy. No way do I buy it. Eyes, I've said I admire the Kampani but thinking of what those people have done, how they hideously took my parents' lives and left me in this world alone, I'm filled with such hatred, I think my skin will burst. Wicked are they beyond all limits, didn't I see the proof myself last night in the gardens of Jehannum? An animal isn't subject to the laws of men, I will slit their eyeballs, I will rip out their tongues with red hot pliers, I will shit in their mouths. Blood's shaking my heart, I'm giddy with rage. Then it's just as quickly gone, leaving me limp, body's like a goatskin filled with grief.

Nisha is speaking. “Zafar my love, when grief and pain turn into anger, when rage is as useless as our tears, when those in power become blind, deaf and dumb in our presence and the world's forgotten us, what then should we do? You tell us to put away anger, choke back our bitterness, and be patient, in the hope that justice will one day win? We have already been waiting twenty years. And when the government that is supposed to protect us manipulates the law against us, of what use then is the law? Must we still obey it, while our opponents twist it to whatever they please? It's no longer anger, Zafar, but despair that whispers, if the law is useless, does it matter if we go outside it? What else is left?”

After this there is a long silence. No one is saying anything. No one can speak. At last comes Zafar's voice, sounding weary.

“Nothing is left.”

“And then?”

“What else? We fight. We carry on. We don't give up.”

“People do give up,” says Nisha. “They give up when they've nothing left to give.” A private battle's still going on between them, something that must have started long before this day.