Animal's People (14 page)

“Hardly surprising they are ill,” Elli is saying quietly, I guess so the Nutcracker folk don't hear. “Look at this filth, litter and plastic all over, open drains stinking right outside the houses. Flies. Every bit of waste ground is used as a latrine, I've seen people defecating on the railway lines.”

“Madam, it's these people, they don't know any better.”

“But you do,” says Elli. “So teach them. Organise people into teams to pick up the litter. Bring in pipes, water taps, build proper latrines…”

“Of course I agree, but from where is the money to come?”

“Where did it come from for that new road near the lake, or for all the new buildings that are springing up around the city?”

“Madam, this is not my department.”

“Well it's someone's department,” says Elli doctress. “Just look at this place. These houses look like they've been built by termites.”

At this government-waali gives an uneasy laugh.

“Seriously,” Elli says, “this whole district looks like it was flung up by an earthquake.”

On hearing Elli speak this one word,
earthquake
, something weird and painful happens in my head. Up to that moment this was Paradise Alley, the heart of the Nutcracker, a place I'd known all my life. When Elli says
earthquake
suddenly I'm seeing it as she does. Paradise Alley is a wreckage of baked earth mounds and piles of planks on which hang gunny sacks, plastic sheets, dried palm leaves. Like drunks with arms round each other's necks, the houses of the Nutcracker lurch along this lane which, now that I look, isn't really even a road, just a long gap left by chance between the dwellings. Everywhere's covered in shit and plastic. Truly I see how poor and disgusting are our lives.

“Hello Animal,” says Elli, who's seen me staggering round on three legs with a hand over my eyes. “How are you today?”

“Peas-potato samosa like a.”

“That good, eh?”

Government's given me a flashing specs look of disgust.

“Each one teach one,” says I to her. “That means you. Who're you to give me the evil eye? Be off with you.”

“Are you mad?” asks government-waali.

“That I am, pudding sister,” says I, feeling seriously disturbed. Voices in my head are offering advice. Say this, do that. “You should try washing between your legs,” I tell her, plus've gone into a kind of tail-chasing dance which brings cheers from the children.

Elli wags a finger at me, the two doctresses duck into a doorway, or what once I'd have called a doorway, now it's a termite-gobbled frame in a mud wall. What are these two up to? Well fuck it I'll follow.

Inside I am momentarily blinded. It's dark shadow, with light falling in stripes through planks of the farside wall. Elli and the other step through into a courtyard where are small papaya trees loaded with yellow fruit. I've stopped, because in the courtyard is a young woman sat on a stool in the sunlight. She has on a deep blue petticoat, but from waist up her body is bare. Her skin's very dark, black almost, her breasts are round and swollen. With slow fingers, she's pressing her breasts, sending jets of milk spurting onto the earth.

Elli is standing still like she's hoodwinked by the light. The mother, not looking up, continues to spill her milk to the dust. At last Elli says softly, “Poor thing. How did she lose her child?”

Government-waali doctress does not reply, instead she flashes out at the woman, “How many times have I told you not to believe rumours?”

That one says sullenly, “My breasts are killing me.”

“Then it's your own fault,” snaps the waali.

The mother shrugs but doesn't stop what she's doing, squeezing pale milk from dark nipples. “Why bother to come?” she says. “You people never help.”

“I'm here to help,” Elli tells her in Hindi. “What's the problem?”

“I won't feed my kid poison.” She's leant forward to cast the last dribbles of her milk onto the ground.

“Madam, she is deluded,” says Government. To the woman she says, “I can cure bodies, not fairytales.”

“Canst cure nothynge,” says a very old voice. Sitting in the shadows holding a plastic bottle to a baby who's staring horrified, out of eyes heavily rimmed with kohl.

“So here after all is your baby,” says Elli. “Why were you talking of poison?”

Says this granny, “We have loked upon the milke and it semeth to muche thinne and watry. Plus it enclyneth to reddenesse, which is unnaturall and euill. Likewyse, it tasteth bitter, ye may well perceyue it is unwholesome.”

“Burns his gut,” says the mother.

“The infant yeaxeth incessantly,” says the granny holding up the baby. “Out of measure he yeaxeth.”

“Yeaxeth? What's that?” asks Elli.

The laughter's dancing about in me so much it makes me want to jig, these village types, their outlandish accents and rustic way of talking.

“Hic,” says the kid, answering Elli's question.

Says the mother to Elli, “Our wells are full of poison. It's in the soil, water, in our blood, it's in our milk. Everything here is poisoned. If you stay here long enough, you will be too.”

Of an instant, it's like the ground under my feet has turned to water. The young woman seems to be floating on a glittering ocean, the papaya trees are tall green waterspouts or else tails of monstrous plunging fish.

My brain returns from wherever it's gone missing to discover Government advancing on me with a look of fury on her face. I've sharpish scarpered from that place and run to hide in I'm Alive's shop, it's the one place that the waali won't care to follow, not if she knows anything about Nutcracker people.

“Packet of milk I need, fifty grams of flour, two candles.”

I'm Alive fastens his bulging eyes on me. Shiny they're, huge glass marbles, they give him a permanent look of horror, like a man who is watching his testicles being devoured by rats. His real name is Uttamchand, but people call him Zindabhai, Zinda for short, it means “I'm Alive.”

“Animal, you're close to Zafar bhai,” he says, fetching out some milk. “This foreign doctress, is it the one they say, who's opening a clinic in the Claw?”

“Yes.” I'm crouched behind a sack of rice. “Is she coming, that Government-waali? If she heads this way I'll go out the back.”

“I don't want to know what you've done,” says he. “I hear from Chunaram that Zafar bhai's intending to boycott this clinic. I think this is a bad idea. Zafar brother has our support in everything of course, but this is a matter which concerns people's health, it is not a question of politics.”

“Can't miss her,” I say. “Eyes like fucking horseflies she has, plus buttocks that grind like they're cracking corn.”

“I don't see her,” says I'm Alive. “Listen, I know what Zafar's position is. I am saying that this time, this is none of his business. He does not tell me what I should eat for my lunch, same way's this, I should be free to go if I want to this clinic.”

“You don't need a clinic,” I say, coming out from behind the shelter of the sacks. “You're the man who can't die.”

“Oh but I do need,” says he, fussing around to gather my small list of wants. “If the upstairs one hasn't called me yet, does it mean I should live in pain? My eyes are failing, chest is bad, plus I don't know how many times in the night I have to get up for the latrine, there is a numbness to the left leg, fingers also tingle, so many times I've thought, Uttam, your time is up, but always the one above has his eye on someone else. In that house opposite lived Sahara, one day blood came from her womb, it was cancer, forty-six years old she was, died right there across the road, ten years older I'm, yet I'm alive. Next door to her was Rafi, spent all he had on medicines, hardly did he spare ten rupees for food, but it did him no good. He too's gone leaving me to remember him. My neighbour on this side, Nafisa, in her neck had swelling and pain. She could not lift her arm, she used to say that it felt like someone pulling her nerves from the inside. She is no more yet I'm still here. Her cousin Safiya lived two doors along. Women's problems she had, pain like she was losing a baby, the doctor told her to drink milk and eat fruit. She came to me and said, ‘Zinda, you must help us. We can't even afford rotis, how will we afford fruit?' I gave her some guavas, I said, ‘Sister, pay me when you can.' But before she could pay, she was gone, yet here I am still alive.”

Eyes, you must have guessed by now how he got his name.

“It's your goodness that prolongs your life,” says I, heading out of there.

“Wait,” he cries, “this is two rupees short.”

“I'll be back. Don't worry, Zindabhai, you'll never outlive me.”

“Wretch!”

Not two paces have I taken when I'm brought up short, staring into a blue crotch, right next to them is a pair of stout legs in shalwars.

“So here he is,” says Elli.

“This sisterfuck owes me two rupees,” cries I'm Alive, puffing up behind me and catching me by the ear.

“Let go!” I've tried to twist free but surprisingly strong's that fucker for one camped at death's door. Next thing he's thudded a foot on my backside.

“Seems this boy is a real bad character,” says Government-waali, with a voice full of satisfaction.

“And you're a liar,” I shout. “Elli doctress, what the woman told you about the water, it's true, everyone here knows it. Government types are lying. Zahreel Khan the minister himself came here to the Nutcracker and in front of a crowd of jarnaliss took a glass of well water and drank it to show it was safe. But Chhoté Ram, son of Mukund the tailor saw him a minute later go behind a house and stick two fingers down his throat.”

“Give me my two rupees,” says I'm Alive, landing another heavy kick.

“Stop!” says Elli. “Here's two rupees. Let him go.”

Namispond Jamispond, I've headed round the corner to Chunaram's where I find Zafar sitting with Nisha, Farouq and all, there I've made my report, leaving out the bit about I'm Alive.

“Some crap spy are you,” said Farouq, “this is old news.”

“We were just discussing it,” Zafar says. “Cavorting with government.”

“Not cavorting.” See Eyes, without meaning to I'm sticking up for Elli. “She was giving what-for to the government-waali doctress, plus you should have heard what she said when I told her about the water and Zahreel Khan.”

“What did she say?” asks Nisha.

“When government had gone Elli doctress said she'd always felt there was something not right about Zahreel Khan, seems the first time she met him he talked only to, Nisha excuse me, her lolos, which is to say her bloblos.”

“So then why is Zahreel Khan opening her clinic?” asks Zafar quickly to protect Nisha from the question of lolos plus bloblos. Adds as an afterthought, “You and she seem to be quite friendly.”

“I keep my eyes and ears open, like we agreed.”

“Your job is to find useful information. Is this useful?”

“Zafar bhai, please tell me what you count as useful? Is it what people are thinking and saying? Or is it only what you want to hear?”

Says Farouq, “Just listen to this street-chaff.”

“It's a fair question. Let him speak,” Zafar says.

No one will talk straight to Zafar, they daren't cross him, but I am not afraid. “Zafar bhai, if you really want to know, people don't want to boycott the clinic. They are all crying out for treatment.”

“Nevertheless,” he replies, “if we ask them to stay away, they will. Sometimes it's necessary to do a painful thing.”

“Zafar brother, you are always saying that the Kampani has all the money and power and rich friends etc., on our side there's nothing, you say that it is this very nothing that gives us the power to fight and maybe even win?”

“Not maybe,” he says. “Definitely. The Kampani don't know what they're up against, people who have nothing have nothing to lose, we will never give up, out of having nothing comes a power that's impossible to resist. It may take long, but we will win.”

“So this power of nothing,” I've persisted, “what is it? Isn't it desperation? If so won't that very power drive crowds to Elli's clinic?”

“We'll see,” says he with a frown.

“Elli doctress, she is not from the Kampani. She's on our side. I've read her thoughts, I have felt her feelings, you know I can do this.”

“Animal,” says Zafar sadly, “you are special we all know it, but some things are just too important to trust to feelings.”

Nisha says, “Well I think Zafar is right.” She's clasped his arm to show that whatever nasty doubting Animal says, as long as she's around he'll have the cleanest arsehole in Khaufpur.

“So what's your plan?” asks Chunaram, who's hovering on the edge of our group, where we're sat with our glasses of chai.