Animal's People (12 page)

“Zafar bhai said to give a receipt.”

“Zafar bhai this, Zafar bhai that,” the man sneers. “I know your Zafar bhai, he's a troublemaker, always sticking in his nose where it's not wanted.”

“His nose is fully wanted. Zafar bhai also says that you are to leave Pyaré Bai alone, there must be no more harassment.”

“Listen to this sadak chhaap giving orders to his elders and betters. Who do you think you're talking to?”

“Just give me the receipt,” says I, “names we can swap later.”

The moneylender by now is angry, he's called out behind and a couple of his goons come into the shop. “What's up, boss?”

“This kid,” he says. “Needs a fucking lesson in manners. Needs to learn how to show respect.”

“Give me the receipt for the money,” I repeat, beginning to feel alarmed, for if I don't get it, this guy could deny he ever received the cash.

“Sisterfuck, let me tell you, you don't talk to me that way, understood, or I'll kick your crooked arse out all the way down the street to Hazrat Mahal and from there maybe also to Ram Mandir.”

At this, Farouq who is leaning in the doorway picking his nails starts laughing. “That I'd like to see, uncle, it's all this bugger deserves. Many's the time I've been tempted to plant a foot on his unlovely butt. I've known him since he was a snotty kid of fifteen, never had he anything but abuse for his betters, so I fully understand your problem with him. His attitude is bad, his manners are uncouth, the stupid fuck actually thinks he's an animal. This kid needs straightening out, your shoe up his backside would probably do wonders. Trouble is,” says he, “if you kick his arse down the road, I'll be forced to kick yours right after him.”

The moneylender looks at him in wonder. “What's this? Another insolent time-pass man, you and he are together?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Farouq, still looking at his nails. “I would not take pleasure, well not a lot of pleasure, in breaking your legs, but if you talk to me that way, don't blame me if that's what happens.”

“Saalé,” grunts one of the heavies, “just who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I think I'm Farouq Khan Yar-yilaqi. If you ever want to find me, ask for me at my uncle's house. His name is Afroze Khan. I guess you've heard of him, if not just head down to Ajmeri gate, anyone will tell you the way.”

We got our receipt, hurriedly signed by the cringing moneylender who also promised to deliver Pyaré Bai's pots and bicycle back to her without delay.

“You fucking hoodlum,” I said to Farouq, we were outside again, heading for Chunaram's, “from where did you learn those B-movie dialogues?”

“Animal darling, don't tempt me.”

“Well,” says I, “looks like we'll be doing quite a bit of this type of work. I too should practise dark speeches, like Shatrugan,
BATTAMEEZ KUTTÉ
,
MAIN TUMHÉ NASHT KAR DOONGA
!!!” Shameless dog, I'll destroy you!

Several passersby jump and start looking round to see where this terrible threat has come from. Farouq's killing himself laughing. “Animal,” he says, “you might be an okay guy, if you weren't such a cunt.”

A mystery is Elli. Zafar's tried all his sources to find out who she is and where she has come from, come up with a big fucking nul. All we know is she had a big job in Amrika, she gave it up to come to Khaufpur. Then one day Dayanand lets slip that she had worked in a hospital for veterans.

“What's the name of the hospital?” asks Zafar when I tell him this.

“Medical Centre.”

“Which medical centre?”

“Just the name's Medical Centre. Dayanand said it was a huge building that stands on a hill. Veterans are soldiers.”

“I know what veterans are,” says Zafar. “Surely now we can trace her. Did he say which city?”

Nisha says, “I will go tomorrow and search on the internest.”

“What? You think Elli doctress's picture will be on the internest?” I've given a loud snort of amusement.

“Why is it funny?” asks Nisha.

“I know what all kind of pictures are on the internest.”

They're staring at me like I've said something wrong so I've nodded my head at Farouq. “He told me.”

“What did he tell you, darling?” It's Nisha. Now they're all laughing, except Farouq who looks like he's wishing he wasn't there. So here's a chance to screw that fucker.

“He said it was part of my education. What he'd show me I'd never forget.”

Farouq too's pretending to laugh. “Fool can't take a joke,” he says, but I can hear his thoughts gritting, little bastard, my boot, your arse, so I've winked at him which makes him even madder.

“Animal, there are all kinds of things on the internest,” says Zafar, “not just the, er, what Farouq may have mentioned.”

“Can I come with you?” I ask Nisha. “The internest I would like to see.”

“Of course you shall,” says she, giving me a sweet smile. “After all, it is part of your education.”

Some time after this, I'm hanging round in the Claw when Elli appears and calls out, “Hey Animal, want to come in and hear the piano?”

“Definitely yes.” Where's the harm? I'll report to Zafar what I've seen.

Totally different is the building from when Ganesh and the others had it. More light's coming through the windows, which in the gone era used to be brown. Everything's clean. In the first room there are benches all round the walls, in the middle is a table covered with newspapers etc., in a corner's Miriam Joseph sitting behind a desk, she gives me a smile. “Hello Animal, is madam going to look at your back?”

“She is showing me the piano.”

I'll show you something else and all
, says a voice in my head, it's the rough one that sounds like pig-chunder.

What's inside those pants, go for a closer look.

Elli ahead of me, calls, “It's upstairs, are you okay to climb up?”

Surprised she'd be, what we can climb.

Shut your trap! I don't want them spoiling things. No way'll Elli doctress do anything of that kind. All the same, her arse-pumpkins wagging up the stairs ahead of me, well it is disquieting.

She will change your life!
comes that echo from before.

“How've you been anyway?” Elli calls down.

“Thank you very much, I am feeling fine. I don't have any pain.”

“Are you in pain often?” she asks, holding open a door.

“Not at all, but many people are.”

“So why did you say you don't have pain?”

“Because I'm one of those who doesn't have it. Madam.”

“Should I be confused? And don't call me madam, call me Elli.”

Good she doesn't know what I am actually thinking, which is hoo boy I've seen you naked. Dirty little thrill is this, like I've some sort of power over her, comes joined to shame, I've not told anyone what I saw from the tree, hardly was it my fault, how could I know she was taking a bath?

The piano is in a room which I was supposing would look like Somraj's music room, but fully different it's. First off there are books everywhere, on shelves, on tables, in piles on the floor. There are fat chairs covered in cloth, plus one such-a-wide one it could seat four to five Khaufpuri backsides. She sees me looking at it. “Stretch out on the sofa if you want, get comfortable.”

The piano I expected to be a flat instrument when it came out of that box, maybe like a santoor, but I see now that the piano is the box itself, which has been raised off the floor and is standing on three legs of polished wood. She lifts a curved flap and there are the keys. I've to stand up on the sofa chair to see them, a long row of black and white, far longer than Pandit-ji's harmonium.

“What would you like me to play?”

Well, I don't know much proper music, fillum tunes are more my choice, but I don't want to look ignorant, plus so many times I've listened to Somraj talk and teach. “I am quite fond of raga Bhimpalashri.”

She bursts out laughing, “I didn't know you could play ragas on the piano.”

“Do you know
Tum Se Achchha Kaun Hai?
” It's one of my party pieces, from the film
Jaanvar
, not the
Jaanvar
movies of 1982 or 1999, but the original old one from 1965 with Shammi Kapoor plus Rajshree, the best
Jaanvar
. The name means Animal, so it's my movie, the song name means “Oh, Who Is Better Than You?” but when I sing it I change it to
Mujh Se Achchha Kaun Hai?
which means, “Oh, Who Is Better Than Me?”

Elli says, “I'll play something I know.” She's started tapping the keys and this rumbling music comes up out of the piano box. Deep it's, like a grumble of thunder, deeper than any instrument I've heard except maybe a drum, then she makes her hands skip to the other end, the music becomes high and sweet like bells.

“How did you learn to play so nicely?”

“Well,” she says, her fingers busy on the keys, “we always had a piano in our house. My mother played. She was good. When I was about twelve she became ill, her hands would shake so much she could no longer play. That's when I took it up.”

“You learned so you could play for her?”

Elli drops her hands into her lap. “It's cruel to lose a gift like that.” She looks over at me, but I am thinking of Somraj. “Your neighbour across the way, he used to be a singer. Now he's a music teacher.”

“Tall man, always dresses in white? Has a daughter? We've hardly said hello.”

At the mention of Nisha I feel like a traitor because I can't stop having bad thoughts about Elli Barber. About Somraj I don't know what to say, the tone in Elli's voice suggests she thinks he's not very friendly, and of course I can't say why. Thinking of them across the road reminds me of what we need to find out.

“Dayanand, your manager, he says you used to work in a big hospital in Amrika.”

“That's right, I did.”

“Were there many sick in your city?”

“Sure, but not like here.”

“What is the name of your city? I have heard of New York.”

“Not New York,” says Elli Barber. “Nor anywhere so interesting as this. This place is so fascinating. I should write to my piano teacher. Miss Girton her name was, a real old Maine crawfish, she'd be amazed if she could see me in Khaufpur.”

“We are all amazed, and I do not know what is a crawfish.” As she does not reply to this I ask again, “So which city are you from?”

“Nowhere you've ever heard of, I grew up in Coatesville, Pennsylvania.” She says this like her mind's elsewhere.

“That's an odd sort of name.”

“What's odd about it?”

“Just sounds odd. How do you spell it?” In this way, Eyes, I've tried to make sure of the name of her city.

She's sitting at her piano looking at me. “Animal, listen to me. The clinic will open soon. Soon's we're up and running I'd very much like to examine you.”

“Ghostville? Ghostville Pencilmania?”

“Coatesville,” she says, laughing. “C-O-A-T-E-S…”

Feet first then hands, I'm down the stairs, out of that place.

Farouq says that hiring an internest booth is cheaper than a hotel room so often couples go there to have sex. No doubt this is why people stare when Nisha and I walk in together. I look for a rag but can't see one. There are two seats, I've hauled myself up onto one, Nisha's slid her neat little bum onto the other. Her fingers are tapping on a flat thing covered with rows of buttons, somewhat like those of a harmonium. First time I've seen a computer, a screen there's, like a tele except instead of movies it shows pictures plus Inglis words.

Nisha asks the internest to tell her all it knows about Elli Barber from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. She waits for an answer, but nothing at all comes. Again and again she tries, there is a Veterans' Medical Center in Coatesville but the internest knows not a single Elli Barber.

“She's using a false name,” Nisha says. “Doctor doing an important job in a hospital, her name would surely be on record. You would expect the internest to have that kind of information.”

“How come it knows so much?”

“It just does. Look I'll show you something.”

On the screen appears a familiar building.

“Well fuck me sideways,” says I. “It's the Pir Gate.”

“Because this is Khaufpur dot com.” She's explained that it's a part of the internest that belongs to Khaufpur. It has pictures of all our famous places.

“Bugger me backwards! It's Abdul Saliq!” Pigeons are flying up round the huge red arch. Down in the shadows, if you look hard, is the tiny figure of the Pir Gate beggar with his hand out. I had never realised that the internest would know the same people I do.

Nisha's ignored the bad words, she's caught my excitement, says she'll show me more. Next thing the screen's filled with huge golden letters of Urdu which say
Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur
, plus there's someone tall, white-clad, looking twenty years younger than I've ever seen him.

“Nisha, it's your dad!”

“So handsome he was,” says she with a sigh. Taps more. The internest has gathered dozens of pictures of Somraj. Young Somraj with his guru Sahadev Joshi, him they used to call
Lajawaab
, peerless. With various musicians. With the governor of the state. With other stars at All India Radio. Singing with hands raised in rapture. When Somraj performed he'd get into a kind of trance, he'd utter without knowing what he was singing. Meaningless sounds just for rhythm, such as
na ta da da ni odani ta re tanom da ni yayali na ta na yayalom,
even these he sang with such conviction that some swore they were poems, or else mystical Persian syllables with the power to summon djinns.

Many amazing stories about Somraj the internest knew. It told how he'd be out taking the air with his mates and would sing the stuff he saw. He'd be walking by the Upper Lake and sing fish leaping at sunset, or he'd see a V of cranes passing overhead and fire off a song at them. Once in Bombay during the monsoon he stood on Marine Drive and matched his
Miya ki Malhar
to the wildness of the sea. Waterspouts were bursting forty feet above his head but Somraj refused to move till he'd caught the swing of the waves. Forty minutes he stood on the parapet, drenched by heavy falls of saltwater, and sang, a crowd of Bombay-wallahs gathered to listen. “Who is this guy?” they asked in their atrocious accents.

Said his spoonies, “It's the famous
Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur.”

“Khaufpur? Where's that?”

Says Nisha with a sigh, “Obviously, this was before that night.”

“Does it know stuff about you, Nish?”

“Let's see,” she says and taps buttons. The internest has got hold of a letter that Nisha wrote to a newspaper. Also it has taken a picture of her plus Zafar at a demo.

Of Zafar are countless reports, the internest has followed him around, taking pictures of him at a meeting in Delhi, throwing paint on the Kampani's office in Bombay, with Farouq addressing a rally in Khaufpur, no mistaking there's his unruly curls and flashing specs. Sometimes Zafar wears his old red turban, in one pic it's fallen off because he's being kicked by a policeman.

“Nisha, look me up, yaar. What does it say about me?”

“Darling it doesn't work that way,” she says, after we have examined many scenes of owls, frogs, panthers and etcetera.

“Why not? About everybody else even Farouq it has things to say. How come it knows nothing of me?”

“It will, darling, one day, I'm sure. You are going to do some great work in the world. Then everyone will know about you.”

When Zafar hears we've found no trace of Elli Barber and she's here under a false name he says he has reached wit's end. “On the one hand, people want this clinic, on the other, it may destroy all that we've worked for. If we can get the Kampani into court, they'll have to build a dozen such clinics.”