Animal's People (33 page)

“A new time is beginning, darling, it'll bring a new kind of happiness.”

An odd look she gives me. “Animal, you should not go around wearing just shorts. Times've I told you? Let me buy you some proper clothes.”

“I won't be parted from my kakadus.”

She sighs. “This news is still secret. Don't tell anyone. Not a soul.”

“On my life.”

Well, I am feeling sick and betrayed, but I keep my promise to Nisha. Only two people do I tell, Ma and the Chairman of the Board, alias my little two-headed friend. His advice proves that he too is a selfish cunt and that everyone in this world is out for number one. “This is good,” says he, “when Elli doctress is in Amrika, it will give you a chance to get us out of here.” Some days later he informs me he has told the other members of the Board, they've passed a resolution welcoming the merger between Somraj and Elli.

Somraj and Elli, Elli and Somraj. What else does this news mean? Eyes, I'll gulp down old remembered bitterness, be a ringmaster of the imagination. When it is announced, the news means celebrations. A party. Not just a party, a grand party. It means a big tent in the street under the mango tree, yes, a coloured shamiana just like the one Elli's opening ceremony was held in. It means drinks, snacks, barfis in silver paper, supplied by Ram Nekchalan who claims to have hired a sweet maker from Agra. It means a feast of biryani and kheer with plenty of cream and raisins. Everyone is there. Musicians come from far away to celebrate the engagement of their great hero. Elli has asked me to make sure Ma Franci is there, so the party is enlivened by her tonton lariton and crazy etceteras.

“Je connais tes oeuvres, ton amour,” she tells Zafar, smiling blessings on him, taking his face in her hands. “Ta foi, ton fidèle service, ta constance.”

“Ma, it is Somraj who is getting married. Not Zafar.” How I hope this remains true. The music and reciting of poetry continues deep into the night, each of the city's poets trying to outdo the next.

“
Chalo dildar chalo, chand ke paar chalo
. Somraj-ji, let's all go to the lake. Right now, yaar. You must take a boat. Look, there is a moon, it's a night made for love.”

Love, what a charade. Too much of it in the world. Everyone is in love. Elli with Somraj, Somraj with Elli. Nisha with Zafar, Zafar with Nisha. Everyone except me. This world no longer pretends to be made of such things as music and promises but announces its true nature, which is love.

The happiness wished on all sides is endless and ever deepening. Thus do we spin and spin, trying to turn a moment's pleasure into forever, but why not, let's make the most of it, because it never lasts long. Always, there's something along to spoil it.

The Kampani lawyers arrive in Khaufpur with no warning.

Timecheck sees them first. Four Amrikans, leaving the Collector's office, getting into a car. “They met senior persons,” Timecheck tells us, “their leader is a big fellow dressed peculiar.” Well, no one knows what this might mean but alarming information is soon flying in thick and fast. This very afternoon the Amrikans will meet Zahreel Khan, tomorrow the CM.

Says Zafar to the gang assembled at Chunaram's, “The big hearing, it's less than two weeks off. They have come to Khaufpur to strike a deal. Has to be.”

“What kind of deal, Zafar bhai?” someone asks.

“What kind? With politicians there's only one kind. Out of court, into pocket. What else?”

“But they can't stop the case, can they?”

“Charges could be dropped, if a settlement is reached.”

Well, people are horrified. “No! How can they do this to us?” “After we've waited so long, they should let justice take its course.” “What can we do?”

As ever, all eyes are on Zafar. Gone are all doubt and indecision, this is Zafar the Great, war leader and legend. “The politicians are going to betray us, but we will wreck their plans. We'll bring thousands to protest, right there at the CM's house.” These few words are the entire plan for what Khaufpuris would come to call the CM demo.

Next day the
Khaufpur Gazette
runs a big headline
DEAL IN THE WIND
? The Amrikan lawyers, says the paper, are to meet the CM and the Minister for Poison Relief. The writer speculates that a deal may be struck between the Kampani and the government. Its timing is just before the long-awaited and crucial hearing, as a result the charges against the Kampani and its directors are likely to be dropped. “There is something rotten in the wind,” the
Gazette
writes. “Not just the smell from the factory. This is the stench of a deeper evil. To drop charges relating to the deaths of thousands of our fellow citizens, with no attempt to establish who was responsible, without applying to the law for a just remedy, is contrary to democracy and people's rights. If this deal goes ahead it will prove that the odour in our nostrils is justice rotting in Khaufpur.”

The city's anger blazes up like a huge fire. On the same day as the
Gazette
article is published, small presses in the Claw and Jyotinagar are working overtime printing posters,
WE WON'T LET YOU BURY JUSTICE
, plus
LIFE POISONED IS LIVING DEATH
, plus
NO SELL OUT
. Nisha wants one to say
LAW DIES, HELL IS BORN
, but Zafar says that the court case is still alive, to say that law is dead is to accept in advance that the Kampani has won.

“And if they do?” demands Nisha. “Then it will be too late. We must show the politicians what the consequences will be.”

“What do you think, Elli?” asks Zafar. Elli's been quiet, grieving almost, since the lawyers arrived, as the joy of her plans is suddenly submerged in the old and endlessly foul stream of Khaufpuri politics.

“I do not know what to think,” she replies.

The smell of ink clings to us as we rush from place to place pasting the posters wherever we can find space, on the Pir Gate, on the courthouse. Next morning walls all over the city blare their messages.

On the night before the demo, new slogans appear alongside the old ones. They've been painted by other groups, but Nisha must have talked to them. In tall red-dripping letters the wall shouts,
IF LAW DIES, HELL WILL REIGN
.

There are four lawyers. Bhoora sees them next morning leaving their hotel, which is a white palace on the hill above the lake. Jehan-nabz, this place is called, meaning the pulse of the world but we Khaufpuris always refer to it as Jehannum. This has been its nickname for a hundred years or more, since the time of Ghaalizali Khan, the Little Nawab as he was known for two reasons, one, he was short, two, he was fond of sodomy which he performed with equal zest on both sexes, including the wives of his friends who were summoned to the palace and given the royal four inches up the bum. Thus it earned the name of Jehannum, or Hell. Jehannum is not far from the Chief Minister's house. Sure enough that's exactly where these four lawyers fetch up. Their chief, reports Bhoora, is a white-haired man built like a buffalo.

Says Zafar, “Someone must follow wherever they go.” Of course everyone wants to get a look at them, but in the end Farouq goes on Zafar's motorbike to the CM's house, while I'm sent to watch the hotel.

I ride up to Jehannum with Bhoora, who's in a good mood and gives me a beedi. He stops where all the autos wait, by the big gate of the hotel. A loudspeaker booms “Auto!” when one is wanted, who's first in line chugs up to the entrance which is of marble with fountains and glass doors. Everyone in the city has heard of Jehannum, but hardly any have been inside. To stay there costs more in one night than someone in the Nutcracker earns in a hundred days of work. Bhoora knows the duty doorman, he vanishes for a while, comes back to say that the lawyers' rooms are on the garden side, near the swimming pool.

“Do you know how much such rooms cost? One night, six and a half thou! Baba, what a waste! Two weeks in there you could buy a brand new auto!”

“What should they do with autos?”

“Not just any auto,” says obsessed Bhoora. “GL-400 diesel, air cooled, four-stroke, electric start, compression of 18 to 1, what fools these lawyers are.” With this he falls asleep.

It's late afternoon when the Amrikans return, driving past us without a glance. The doorman, who's wearing a fancy turban like you'll see nowhere else in Khaufpur, rushes to open the door of their car. Bhoora's neighbour he's, lives in Jyotinagar, where the water is poisoned and many are ill, how can he show such respect to Kampani-wallahs? Of the first two that get out of the car there's not much to say, old they're, with short grey hair. The third is young and tall, a handsome saala with wavy blond hair. I'm staring at them with full fascination. You can't tell they are evil bastards, these servants of the Kampani. Last of all out gets the buffalo, ouf, has trouble exiting the car, so heavy he's. Now I can see why Timecheck said he dressed peculiar. His black coat discloses a red shiny lining, but it's his boots that mesmerise. Of snakeskin they're, like his legs are being swallowed by two pythons.

“Such boots,” says prodded-awake Bhoora. “I'd die happy in such boots.”

He's gone back to dozing, leaving me contemplating how it is that in the same world there are people like the lawyers and creatures like me.

There's music coming up the hill, voices and people laughing. I'm itching to be there. After no sign's been of the lawyers for a couple of hours, I reckon they'll not go out again. What harm in creeping down to have a look?

I prod Bhoora, poor fellow wakes with a snort. “Eh, what's up? Are they leaving?”

“Errand for Zafar bhai. I'm going down the road for a few minutes. If they move you are to follow them, then come and get me, I'll be under the big tamarind tree near the lakeside gate.”

Three gates has the CM's house, two grand entrances where soldiers with white gloves stand holding guns. The third is on the side overlooking the lake. Near this is an area with trees and grass where people are gathered, the place is buzzing like a fairground. Sun's just slipped behind the hills, the sky is a lake of fires reflected in the watery lake below. This is our famous inland sea of which they say,
taal to Khaufpur taal, aur sub talaiyya
, beside Khaufpur Lake everything else is just a pond. On the grass under the trees lamps like fireflies are flickering. This is where the women are, hundreds of them, their placards laid down for now, the buzz of their voices I heard up at Jehannum. Among the crowd, hawkers are moving, selling watermelon, nuts, pastries. I've a couple of rupees in my pocket, I'll find some kachambar, oh yes, cucumber sprinkled with pepper and lime juice, makes your tongue sit up on its hind legs and beg for more. Tea arrives in huge urns, pushed up the hill on bicycle-wheel carts which look like buckling under the weight. It's a Chunaram enterprise. The nine-fingered saala was proposing to charge one rupee a cup, but complains to me that Zafar has ordered him to serve it free.

“Good, I'll take two,” says I, who's not supposed to be there.

Next thing, a loud music starts up. Eyes, it's
Hillélé Jhakjor Duniya,
which is always sung at our Khaufpuri demos, kids in the bidonvilles learn it in their mothers' arms. The music's coming from a loudspeaker van, so loud it hurts my ears, plus never have I liked this song because it's about marching, upright and tall, towards freedom. I will give you a verse or two so you can see the sort of thing which brings tears to Zafar's eyes.

Outside the main gate of the CM's house stands General Zafar, hemmed in by his henchies, Brigadier Nisha and Lance-Corporal Farouq. In his strength is our hero, leading the chant, bellowing through a loudhailer, causing the earth to tremble by the power of nothing.

Police are arriving, wearing metal helmets and carrying staves, they line up outside the gates of the CM's house. Someone shouts “CM's car is coming!” Under the trees people stir, the crowd's getting to its feet, it surges forward under a forest of waving placards.

A couple of cops standing near me, their lips are moving silently. Like the rest of us they are murmuring the familiar words, one's even tapping time with his staff. “See these fuckers, how they've made their fucking bellies,” says a man in the crowd, but so amused am I that the police are singing, that I call, “Let them be, cunts that they are, they're also sons of ordinary folk.”

A new shout tells that the CM's car is arriving. As usual I can't get a view, so I've climbed onto the roof of the loudspeaker van, song's rumbling out from the speaker right by my head. As the CM's car passes, its flag is the only thing waving, occupant is wearing a fuck-you look. I know that look, I used to know the CM quite well. Faqri and I took to going to his house after we heard that he gave free meals to people from his home town, Sitapur. We did not know where Sitapur was, but nobody questioned us when we said we were from there. Mutton curry we'd get and roast chicken hot from the tandoor. The CM would sometimes come and question us about life back home, so we would invent whatever it would please him to hear. This happy state of affairs lasted until the CM went back to Sitapur where some idiot accused him of breaking a promise to his brother. The CM took the speaker by the arm, dragged him to the village temple and called on the gods to witness that this allegation was untrue, plus on the spot he swore to give up alcohol and never again touch meat, so after that Faqri and me stopped going.

The pandus have formed two lines, a kind of tunnel through which the car moves. At the last minute the big gates swing open, CM's in, cops reform in front of the rapidly closing gate. A second line of police forms in front of the first.

“Come out,” Zafar shouts, and the crowd chants, “Out! Out! Out!”

The CM has not the slightest intention of coming out. He's in and that's that. Lights go on all over. Master's home. The servants will be running round, there's dinner to be served. So what's he be doing now? Accepting a cup of tea from his loving wife, patting his kids on the head, asking how the homework's going, or if there's anything worth watching on the tele tonight?

With a blip and a twang the loudhailer hurls Zafar's voice across the crowd, the music from the loudspeaker van is meanwhile blaring, so Zafar's comments are clashing with the song.

“C
OME OUT
, C
HIEF
M
INISTER
. W
E WANT A WORD
.”

“C
OME OUT, DON'T SELL OUT
!” yells the crowd.