Animal's People (18 page)

“Four parts of me are strong, head, arms, chest…”

“Shut,” says she, “I know you love to yap, but the time's not now.” Her Hindi is really excellent. Way she talks, you can tell she's not from here, but her accent is better than for example a Bombay-wallah's, which is said to cause pus in the ears. She's so near I can smell her scent, while she's touching me, I can't help it, bad thoughts start up again. I've seen you naked, I've seen you washing your breasts, I've seen your cunt. This is shameful, for she's a good person plus I've strong reason to fear such thoughts, which are stretching my kakadus.

“Take off your pants.”

“No please.”

“Don't be shy, I've seen it all before.”

“I think not.”

“If it makes you more comfortable, Dayanand can step in.”

“No!”

“Great shorts,” she says as they come off, proceeds to examine my back, the place where the spine is welded to my hips. She's probing with her fingertips.

“What do you feel? Tell me as I press.”

“Fingers.”

“Here?”

“Fingers.”

She's at the exact place where my back twists forward, where my invisible other self is supposed to be. That one's nowhere standing tall but the same can't be said for the thing below, it has become huge and hard, reared up it's, feels like a log, with each beat of the heart it's battering my belly. If Elli's seen this lund of mine, she gives no sign, but's started questioning me about what other doctors have said, so I tell her about the great expert in the hospital, etcetera and etcetera, it's a complete waste of time, there's nothing to be done.

“Doctors aren't always right. That's why we ask a second opinion.”

“My case you need a seventh opinion.”

“Then we get it,” says she, putting away the dangly disc.

“The seventh opinion, what if it's the same as the first?”

“Well, it might be,” she says, prodding my shoulders. “Or it might not. There's also such a thing as a ninth opinion. I can assure you that if you had been born in Amrika, you would not be running around on all fours.”

She grasps my chin and says, “You have to trust me.”

It's now that the unbelievable and amazing thing happens.

I'm growling, grabbing at the dog. Elli doctress is startled. “What are you feeling? Are you in pain?”

No reply there's except this pretend grappling with the dog, rrrrrr'ing and baring of teeth, until Jara herself gets fed up. She stands up, gives me a look as if to say, “What the fuck are you doing?” then stalks off out of my reach, lies down again with her tongue lolling. Fuck all to do now, except go fully crazy, so I've rolled on the ground, scratched myself, screeched, grabbed stuff. Elli's run for help, I've quickly re-worn my kakadus.

On the way out, Dayanand stops me. “What's your game?”

“What's it look like?” I am still trembling.

He's holding a mop, for a moment I think he'll hit me, but he says, “Take your dog outside now.”

Then he adds, casual as you like, “I know who's stopping people coming here, you should tell Somraj Pandit and all his lot that Elli madam hates that Kampani worse than they do. I have heard her say so.”

Nice try, Dayanand, but I am not going to give anything away. “No idea what you're talking about.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

Why? Because of the unbelievable thing that has just happened, which I cannot speak about, hardly dare admit to myself. When Elli spoke of a ninth opinion, missing out the eighth, when she said I must trust her, this terrifying thought struck like a hurricane, surged up my spine like electricity, changed everything, the wild, stupid, unforgivable hope that she might cure me.

A boy's come racing on a bike, too small's he to use the seat, he rides one leg through the frame standing on the pedals, this is the way it's done.

“Animal! Animal, he's here!” This kid, he's one of those who keep their ears and eyes open for me, something useful flies in, they earn a rupee. “Animal, the foreign priest has come!”

What? How? When?

“He arrived last night, I heard the nuns talking, this morning itself he's coming here for Ma Franci.”

When she's heard the news, Ma beckons me close, ruffles my hair, which is as usual tangled. “Chheee, as much dust here as a donkey.”

Few people in the world I love, this old lady is one of them. Thinking of when she's gone, what a wound it will leave in my life, sky rent apart, light falling so bright you can hardly look, great sheet of light lying on an ocean. What's this got to do with Ma leaving I don't know, never have I seen the sea, it's what comes to me. Ma kisses my head, then presses her lips to my ear and whispers three things.

“Don't be rude to the padré.”

“I'm worried about Aliya's cough.”

“We'll meet in Paradise.”

When the padré shows up, wearing a long black robe, turns out he's not a français he's espagnol but he speaks la langue humaine.

“Bonjour Mère Ambrosine,” says he in that tongue, “it is a privilege to meet you at last.”

There's respect in his face and voice, when I look inside his head at his thoughts, they are mostly made of amazement. This old lady, more lines has her face than our lord's fishing net, her whole life she has given to the poor of this city. With what tenderness he delivers greetings from the head of her order and all the sisters in France, tells her how much they are looking forward to having her back with them.

“Don't see why they want me,” says Ma. “I'm all right here, I have my son Animal to look after me.”

So Père Bernard, that's his name, says, “Mother Ambrosine, it's all decided. The superior wants you to go to our house near Toulouse, it's nice and warm there.” He explains that an old house it's, with a garden that touches the bank of a river. She will find it pleasant to chat with other old nuns like herself, who have spent their lives in parts of the world such as Congo, Vietnam, Brazil, plus Tuamotu which, says Père Bernard, is an island in the Pacific where the order has a leper colony.

“These Tuamotu nuns, do they have leprosy?” I ask, afraid for Ma. It starts with dry skin, before you know it you're ripping off fingers like Chunaram, although only he has the genius to do it for money.

“I don't want to leave,” says mulish Ma.

“Truly I'm sorry,” says Père Bernard, “I know how unsettling this must be. Animal, would you like to visit Mother Ambrosine in France one day?”

“Best be soon,” retorts Ma, “I shan't be around much longer. Who's going to look after my people? Don't you know that the Apokalis has begun? It started here and it's coming back again.”

I've tried to explain to Père Bernard that far's Ma's concerned she has to be in Khaufpur for the big event, otherwise it's fillum khatam, end of movie.

Says he, looking puzzled, “I am sure the Apokalis will also reach Toulouse. That's near your family home, isn't it, Mother Ambrosine?”

“My home is right here,” says Ma. “My only family is this boy. But since you won't change your mind so there's no more to say, I'll start packing.”

She opens a cloth bag. All she owns after fifty-five years in Khaufpur is two sets of old clothing, one she wears while the other's washed, plus her specs, plus book of Sanjo, also a small Isa nailed on a cross. Ma hands it to me and says, “For you my dear son. Excuse me, father, I would like a little time to pray. Animal, take father to the parlour, entertain him nicely. Make him some tea.”

So I've lit the fire, put on a pan to boil, and led Père Bernard outside to sit on the log under the tamarind tree, for so fine-leaved a tree it gives a cool shade. Ma calls it our parlour. Here I sat with the jarnalis français who taught me to swear, later also with the Kakadu jarnalis. Eyes, if you ever come to Khaufpur it's where I'll sit with you.

I think Père Bernard finds it hard to talk to me, I've asked him what sort of movies they have in France, he says he does not see many movies. Next I ask whether Ma will be able to get her favourite baingan bharta, but he does not know what this may be. I'm just explaining about bedding the aubergine into hot ashes, etcetera, when little Aliya arrives with her granny Huriya and other old women from the basti. Ma's cronies, they have come with garlands and sweets to say goodbye.

“She's inside,” I tell them. “Please go in.”

Père Bernard is charmed that these old ladies, among whom are Muslim women in burqas plus Hindu women in saris, are so fond of the old nun. Says he, “Such friendships are the fruit of a lifetime's work. All in France will be moved to know how much Mother Ambrosine was loved.”

After maybe ten minutes, the guests emerge and stand in the door crying, waving to Ma within. Sorrowfully, they go away. Watching the slowly retreating figures of those old hunched women, I feel desolate because in the end we are condemned to lose everyone we love.

“Well, I think she must be ready,” says Père Bernard, consulting a shiny wrist watch. Seems they are booked on the one-thirty flight to Delhi, whence another aeroplane leaves for France at six.

When after twenty minutes she has not emerged, Père Bernard goes to the hole in the wall and twitches the plastic sheet that's our door. “Mother? Mother Ambrosine?” Receiving no reply, he bends and pokes in his head. “Tiens! There is no one here! Where has she gone? How could she vanish like that?”

“Father,” says I, fully sobbing, “did you hear a trumpet? Ma says when the Apokalis starts, an angel will blow a trumpet, all who love Isa miyañ will be snatched up to heaven right then and there.”

“Nonsense,” says he. “Utter nonsense.”

At this very instant a train rumbling through the Nutcracker gives a loud hoot and he jumps. Eyes, that kind of joy is almost enough to make a person believe in god.

“Father, you must give me your watch.”

“What for?”

“So that if Ma Franci comes back, I can tell her what the time is. After all she has a plane to catch.”

He looks a bit surprised at this, but let's face it, his head is already well fucked. The watch I've cached in the wall. It must stay hidden for I can guess what will happen next. Sure enough, within an hour approaches a cloud of dust which contains two pandus in a jeep.

“Okay, where is she?”

“How should I know? I was here with that foreign father, when we looked inside, she had disappeared.”

“People don't disappear,” says the senior pandu. Fatlu-in-training is he, all belt and belly, standing there like a fucking Sadda miyã ki tond.

“You're welcome to look for yourself, watch out for scorpions, don't forget to go up the ladder…if it will bear your weight.”

“I'll have less of your lip,” he says, giving me a filthy look, “don't think we don't know about you, filthy little chaar sau bees.”

Now, Eyes, around us by is a crowd from the Nutcracker, among it are a few young men, none too happy to see the police. Their presence gives me courage. “Hey fatso, threaten innocent folk round here, such a slippering you'll get, instead of chaar sau bees you'll be saying baar sau chees.”

He starts for me, of course, a couple of guys step forward, so he stops.

“We'll meet in Paradise,” Ma said. When the police have gone I have a good look to check the coast's clear, then I've hopped it to Paradise Alley and soon reached Aliya's place. Well before entering I hear laughter, a familiar voice says, “Tout que je me souviens de mon enfance d'autrefois, c'est un ciel poudré de bleu, la poussière sèche, des olives et des myrtes.”

It's Ma. She's saying that all she remembers of her long ago childhood is a sky of chalky blue, dust, plus olives and myrtes, whatever they may be.

“For those birds,” says Huriya, “he'll go to any trouble, really he would. If he could see, be polishing the bars of that cage he'd.”

I've peered inside. There they are, two old ladies, squatting by the hearth, Ma's still got on the black burqa she escaped in. There too is heaven's kettle, a curl of steam from its spout tells me that chai has been accomplished.

“J'ai lui dit, mon travail, c'est ici, dans le royaume des pauvres de bon dieu.” I said to him, my work is here in the kingdom of god's poor. “Besides, I don't want to leave my friends, how many years have we known each other, Huriya? Goodness, it must be fifty.”

“I tell him, husband, stop fussing over those birds, what's to become of your granddaughter when we are gone?”

“Plus he wanted me to go on an aeroplane.”

“The child's at school most days,” says her friend. “I told her, I said, ‘Aliya, go to school as often as you can, learn what you can. Education is precious. Without it you're like Hanif and me, you're done for.'”

“Why should I return?” demands Ma. “When I joined the convent as a girl, they called me a bumpkin because I'd grown up on a farm. You see we had a country way of talking. Viech d'ase, we'd say which was rude, ho barro lo porta! Bits and pieces come back to me, like Jacotin's nose.”

“Have some more chai,” says Huriya and pours.

“Thank you,” says Ma, who knows “chai.” “Animal should be here soon, I told him where to find me.”

“Aliya's so fond of Animal,” says her granny, who has in turn caught the mention of my name. “He's sweet to her, I was hoping he'd take her to that new clinic that's opened in the Claw, but we are not supposed to go there, I don't know why.”

Old Huriya is not the only one puzzled by the boycott of Elli's clinic. Around that time, I had to visit an old boy called Shambhu. He was a twice-victim of the Kampani. He had breathed the poisons of that night, plus the wells in his neighbourhood were full of poisons leaked from the factory.

Shambhu's body was a sack of pain, his breathing was difficult. “Oh my life,” he told his wife, “if I can't get a breath I'm going to die.”

“Get him oxygen,” the neighbours said.

“I don't know what is oxygen,” his wife the old woman wailed, the tears of her face making pocks in the dust.

“It is a gas, but a good gas,” they said. “It comes in metal bottles. If you give it to him he will be able to breathe easier.”

“But from where can I get oxygen? No money for food there's, where will I find money for this?”

“Take him to the government hospital,” one said.

“Sister, what welcome do we people get at the government hospital? They won't give him this good gas, they'll send him off with a chit for aspirin. Zafar bhai and Somraj, all those big people, will they give money to buy it?”

“Let me die, wife,” said Shambhu. “It must be god's will.”

She began caterwauling afresh. Someone said, “What about that clinic in the Chicken Claw, the one nobody is going to? Every day you see the doctor standing outside, looking for people to come. Let Shambhu go there.”

“It is a Kampani clinic,” another person said. “That's why people won't go there, even though it's free.”

“That Kampani is the very devil. They made it free deliberately because they knew that the poor have no money for the other hospitals.”

“If it's there why shouldn't we use it?” demanded Shambhu's wife. “Why should he not go there?”

“It's the Kampani clinic. That doctress, the American woman, she's paid by the Kampani. This is what I've heard.”

“He is going to die, what difference does it make?” Shambhu's wife cried. “I don't care where it gets the money from, so long as it cures him. A cow can eat many different things, grass, leaves, but the milk she gives is always the same. It's milk. This doctress is not charging. Says all are welcome. If god has sent such a person to us, who are we to refuse?”

“Sister, we all agree, but Zafar bhai says we must not go.”

“If my Shambhu dies,” she said, “his death will be on Zafar bhai.”

The people of the Apokalis ground their teeth against suffering and stayed away from Elli doctress's clinic. Alone among the Khaufpuris I would visit her. Zafar encouraged me. He thought I was spying on her, it's what he told people who complained, “How come Animal's allowed to break the boycott while we all are denied free treatment?” I felt bad about this, not because of Zafar, but because by deceiving him I was also deceiving the rest.

I was there when an old man came and told Zafar, “An ulcer weeps, it makes the skin all around putrid and this goes on day and night the pain it's unceasing, with such pain you can't think, you cannot read your prayers or work or sleep, nothing can you do but just endure it, at the end of each day you can say nothing except I've survived, and after many days and nights blur into a dream, you say, well I am still here, but so is the pain, in truth it makes you mad.”