Animal's People (28 page)

“Pray I don't drop you,” says he from below.

It's crossed my mind that Farouq's not joking, he plans for me a terrible end. Or maybe he'll trip and, oh, Animal le pauvre's short, awful life ends in a public cremation. Now again I'm terrified.

Way above the heads of the crowd, the fire's heat is fierce on my face. A little way off I spot Somraj and Elli. A couple of guys are looking at her in a not too comfortable way, but Zafar's there beside them with Nisha and the surliness turns to smiles flashing. Nisha looks round, our eyes meet. Fully amazed she's, to see me looking at her from a fire walker's shoulders. She tugs at her dad and points, so I've given a wave.

All wave back, except Elli. Elli's eyes are fixed on the pit of cokes being quickened by the bellows-men, strange eddies are playing under the red glow of the fire, her father in his hell hole, he had quietly faced such danger every day out of love for her.

Somraj is speaking in her ear, I think he's telling her the story of Hussein, but such is the hubbub in the place, the sound of the fire itself and above all the waves of chanting
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
that she cannot hear much. Then Eyes, it comes into my head with perfect certainty what she is thinking. It's of a different kind of fire, that Somraj had breathed, which had scoured his lungs and taken away his singer's breath. What must it have been like, that inferno?
O who will speak now for the orphans?
She has heard so many stories of that night, so many accounts of that vast slaughter of innocents.
Who now will speak for the poor?
What must have been the terror of waking in the dead of night, blinded by acrid gas
who will protect these wretched ones
running out into the night gulping fumes that tore and burned your insides
where now will they find refuge
causing you to drown on dry land because your lungs have wept themselves full of fluid.
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
That night had been cold, a night of bright stars
hear what harm the heavens have wrought
and all over the city, weddings were taking place for the astrologers had decreed it an auspicious time
a strange wedding for Hussein, the son of Ali
somehow they did not see the knot that fate had twisted
for they have dressed the bride and the groom
the threads of thousands of lives gathered together not in wedding clothes, but shrouds and severed, all at the same moment.
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
Elli feels horror, also the failure of her imagination.
What music was played at this wedding?
She's unable to imagine the cries of the dying, of those who lost their families in the stampede of panicking people
the thirst tormented cries of men and women
whose children's hands had been ripped from theirs. One woman there was who, knowing that she was dying
instead of festive lamps, the house itself was torched
wrapped her newborn son in her shawl and laid him in a doorway hoping he'd be found
the colours used at this wedding were bloodstains
by someone who would love him.
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
Elli's thinking that this woman was perhaps lucky not to have seen the furnace that melted her son's spine, the hammer-blows that beat his humanity out of him. She wants to give that boy back the gift of walking upright
the bride's gift was the groom's severed head
but as she thinks this she looks at Somraj and realises there is something she wants just as much
in which country may a bride expect such a gift
a gift for the sad, gentle man standing beside her
by God I swear, never will I wish to marry another
she would reach out and take his hand did she not fear he would be embarrassed, perhaps offended no,
not until I am covered and in the grave
how she yearns to give back Somraj the gift of his voice
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!

The marble balconies that surround the courtyard of the fire are lined with women in dark robes. On this night most of them have pushed back their veils, their faces are lit from below, the glow softly rouges their cheeks
watching with unblindfolded eyes.
As I sway towards the fire on my strange two-legged steed, the men just ahead of us are placing their feet on the wooden steps
as the seventy-one rode off to die.
A thrill of excitement or dread goes through my body, the pitch of the chant rises.

Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!

The black-robed Yar-yilaqi women raise their arms and bring them down hard on their chests
pierced by the spears of his enemies.
There are old women up there, and young pretty ones
trampled by the hooves of horses
I try to imagine Ma Franci in her black nun's dress among them, she would fit, lamenting Sanjo and the death of the world, with a grief as pure as these women mourning for their lost Imam
O Hussein! Never shall I forget Hussein!
How their arms all rise at the same instant, and all fall, thump!
Ya Hussein!
thump!
Ya Hussein!
thump!
Ya Hussein!

We are so near the fire that my forehead is burning. Only a few paces more to where the steps lead up onto the platform. I'm perched high on Farouq's shoulders.
Swords drank, busy with slaughter.
Ahead of us men, and boys too, those with black headbands and some without, are climbing to the burning edge of the fire.
Corpses were scattered in the desert.
There are men on the sides, keeping well back from the edge of the pit, ready to help those who are going across.
Savage birds hovered overhead night and day.
A little ahead a man steps on to the coals, which are dancing with a bright heat. In four long strides he walks across.
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
The second goes, and the third, and the next.
Paradise is theirs, they have gone to Paradise.
Helping hands pull them to safety on the far side. No one is left ahead of us.
They have become burned up in God.
I feel Farouq take a deep breath and tighten his grip of my legs.
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
As he steps out I open my mouth to warn him not to drop me but instead I'm bellowing with the rest

The strangest thing happens to me. As the heat roars up around us I feel that I am floating above the sand of a baking desert which is shimmering with heat
he who was a shining light is murdered
my mouth is on fire with a burning thirst and my eyes are burning and the passages of my nose are burning where the fiery heat rushes in
murdered in Karbala and lies unburied
and all around there are crowds and commotion, people falling dead, and somewhere in the distance are the banners of the enemy, shaking with hatred for all that's good and I'm helpless and unable to prevent the terrible thing that's happened which is the murder of goodness and innocence and the victory of evil and in some part of my head there is a roaring noise like a great wind, fanning the flames, a voice in my head is saying l'injustice ramportera la victoire and I realise that we have gone across and that I have been dreaming Ma Franci's or rather Sanjo's dream of the end of the world.

Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!

We are turning around. We are going back around. We will go over again. I begin to feel dizzy
I, Muhtasham, the beggar at your door.
Again it comes, the heat, the crimson wound, the fire is flowing, such colours are shifting in the coals. My head is doing spirals. I feel myself begin to slip from Farouq's back, sliding I'm
standing, empty, empty-handed, at the door of helplessness
falling and there is nothing now between me and the fire.

Let me die I'm thinking as I fall, I'll be happy. Everything in my life is swallowed up in that wish for oblivion. The fire itself as it jumps towards me has lost its ferocity, seems like a mild sunshine. Next thing I know I'm lying on a carpet inside the masjid, Farouq and others are bending over me.

“He's come to,” says one.

“Little idiot,” Farouq says. “Picked your moment, didn't you? I'm halfway across and you let go from round my neck.”

“What happened? Did you drop me?”

“You fainted,” says this other Yar-yilaqi guy. “You were lucky, if he hadn't danced and caught you, you'd have burned.”

“You caught me? You danced?”

“Thank me some other time,” says Farouq.

“Did you burn your feet?”

“No.”

“Fucking shame.”

“I should have let you die,” says he.

A big book of animals from the library Nisha borrowed once and she showed it to me, this book had pictures in of all the animals of India, bears and apes, wolves, deer of all kinds, rhino, tiger, lion, buffalo, you name it. There was cobra, king cobra, python, bloodsucker lizard, hoopoo, fish eagle, kite and crow, there was gharial crocodile, mahseer fish, hyena and jackal and dhole, which is a wild dog with round ears, but in all the book, in all of its hundreds of pages and pictures, there was no animal like me. Nisha said, “That's because you are unique. Be proud of it.” But I just felt sad.

Why mention this now? Because two nights after the fire walk I'm up in the mango tree, higher than Elli's roof. Above the Little Bear's swinging by his tail, a few shapes are flitting that might be bats. No problem now is this tree, which had so fought me the first time I climbed it. By now I know its ways as if they were stairs, this knot that stumpy branch, twist here, pull up there, leaves above me black, the moon tonight's not yet risen. See, I have found a name for the animal I am, I'm the bat-eared ape that climbs only in the dark of night.

Elli and Somraj are sitting on the terrace, their faces are lit from the glow of an oil lamp. My bat ears are flapped forward to hear what's being said. She's telling him about her marriage. It seems she met her husband when she was studying medicine and he was learning law. They met many times before they fell in love, at friends' houses, at demonstrations against the war in Iraq which the Amrikans called Desert Storm. Much of her talk, which is Hindi-Inglis mixed, I don't follow. There are some things even a don for language can't explain. What does it mean “students at pen state came out to support gay rights”? Appears these two were both idealistic idiots who thought that with law and medicine hand in hand they could change the world.

“He seemed so exciting,” says she. “He'd been to Colombia and eaten fried ants and drank stuff which he said was like a cannon blasting the skull into fragments.”

“We have daru like that,” says Somraj, “but I don't advise you to try it.”

“I was naive,” she says, “I didn't realise people change easier than worlds.”

The shadows on his face change, so he must be smiling. What? More smiles? And here he is drinking whisky with Elli and not even disapproving. I cannot imagine him behaving like this with any other woman. Maybe it's because she's a foreigner. But Somraj really seems to like her. You can see it in the way he leans forward when she talks, you can tell he wants to hear. He wants to know everything about her.

After getting married, she says, she was working long days in a hospital, the husband was struggling to make it as a lawyer. They'd come home tired and flop in front of the tele. Forgotten their lofty schemes, they were becoming the sort of people they once despised. “I mean,” she says, growing more passionate, “the sort of people for whom the world's nothing more than a box of dancing illusions, whose ideas of what's important stop at the edges of their own self-interest.” Somraj nods. Well, there are plenty like that in Khaufpur.

“We were drifting to a place I did not want to be. I could foresee golfing weekends and evenings out with company wives, the whole hateful middle-class flapdoodle. I wanted nothing to do with it. I felt I was losing my life. If the marriage had been better in other ways I might have tried harder to save it. I'm ashamed to say I didn't.”

Moths are whirring round the lamp that sits between them. He is silent, thoughtful, bent forward like a statue. What did he know of marriage, whose own had lasted only three years before it was terminated by that night?

“This is when I thought of coming to Khaufpur. I would open a clinic. I would touch the real world. It was a completely unreasonable idea and I was sure he'd hate it. Instead he praised me for being noble. When I began taking Hindi lessons, he said it was a beautiful dream to have.”

“I am glad you had that dream.”

Oh please, Mr. Somraj sir, let's not have you descending into slush. Any moment now they'll be holding hands and after that, who knows what? Of course it's why I am here, I'm waiting to see what they'll do, jamisponding has become my career. Will they kiss? Maybe even do
it?

“I wish you'd let me treat you,” says Elli, after they have been silent a while. “I hear you coughing at night.”

“You know I can't do that,” he says. “How can I take your help for myself while others are still denied it?”

“Then make them come, reason with Zafar.”

“Be patient with us, Elli,” says Somraj. “One day the patients will come.”

“That's what Zahreel Khan said,” she replies. “Him I didn't believe, but somehow I believe it when I hear it from you.”

Once again the moment comes close for which I am waiting. Night has plunged Khaufpur into its peculiar blackout, beyond the small cloud of lamp light is a deep sky of stars. Somraj in his white garments looks like a headless ghost, his dark face and hair have vanished.

“Can you smell the flowers?” he asks, ending this new silence.

“The jasmine?” It's like both of them are relieved to change the subject.

“They are not simply jasmine,” says Somraj, “they are raat-ki-rani, which means queen-of-the-night, the most powerful of all the jasmines.”

“Well, they certainly grow fast. They've climbed right up into the mango.” They glance up towards me, I nearly die of fright.

“I love the scent,” says Elli. “It reminds me of the jasmines my mother grew in our house near the forest. The scent is shining white, just as patchouli is a deep red note. Do you ever think of scents that way?”

“It's intoxicating,” says Somraj. “Like a woman's voice singing both high and sweet. A pure voice, yet the notes are grainy, diffused, glowing.”

Again a silence, seems to me they are gabbling just in order to reach these wordless moments when perhaps are thought things the tongue dares not utter.

“I am determined you shall sing again,” she says. Well, now she's blown it, touching that forbidden subject which never must be mentioned.

“Alas, I think not.” To my surprise Somraj's voice is gentle as before. “The breath of a singer is not ordinary breath. My father could take a breath and hold it for two minutes and then exhale it smoothly for one minute more. At first I could not do that, I learned slowly. I'd draw a deep breath and then recite a verse without inhaling. I had to speak clearly and slowly. When I could do this, I was given a longer poem, and a longer one. It came slowly, my father would get impatient and say it was a pity that breath could not be dissolved in water and given to me in a glass.”

“Who knows what can be done?” cries Elli. “I won't let you give up.”

“Breath is everything,” says Somraj. “
Sa
can be sung in as many ways as there are ways of breathing. For a singer, breath is not just the life of the body but of the soul.”

This is the moment! She leans towards him, the lamp outlines her face in golden light, in her thoughts I hear a kind of confusion, all now depends on Somraj, does he see the effect he is having on this woman, has he recognised the effect she has on him? Surely now that dark gap between their heads will diminish, they will come so close that no longer will they have a choice. After that, anything could happen, a kiss, strokes, more, clothes off, him on her in the bed, oh I can just imagine her pale arms on his dark skin, but the gap does not diminish, Somraj is still as a statue, she settles back in her chair, and me, who've been imagining all kinds of things, it's my nerves which are jangling, aiiee, que j'ai vachement envie de tringler, as they say in the human tongue.

It's late when they stop talking. Somraj gets up to leave, she accompanies him down. After a few minutes she returns in her nightclothes. She's climbed into her bed, carefully tucked in the mosquito net all around, but looks like she's having difficulty getting to sleep. She tosses and turns and can't settle.

Now is the time for my aching creature to have its freedom. I peer at it in the dark, what a relentless monster, no peace does it give me, always it's demanding, demanding, in my hand it feels hot and stupid, swollen like a jackfruit. My beastly lund wants to be pointed at Elli, brute thinks it's a kind of magic to mark her as prey, who's in control here? I aim the fucking thing away. Big moths are flying in the tree, I'm thinking maybe I'll accidentally shoot down one of them, what a dismal way to die.

That very night Zafar fell ill. I'd taken a big risk increasing his medication. His risk, not mine. The poor guy has had an appalling time. Nisha tells me that while her father was over at Elli's, Zafar's mouth became dry, he complained that insects were crawling over him. After this his heart started blurring like a tabla player's fingers doing a fast solo. No way could he drive his motorbike. When Somraj got home from Elli's, he found Zafar burning up and babbling. Somraj wanted to call Elli, but Nisha said no. Zafar's heart had slowed to normal. They put him to bed, she sat with him most of the night.

All next day Zafar sleeps, by evening is feeling a little better, tells us of a dream he had in which he's flying above Khaufpur sitting on a plant stalk, and while he is high over the clouds a crow comes along and flies by his side and asks if he has the time. “I am afraid not,” says Zafar, all polite, how irritating that he should display such perfect manners even to a worthless bird like a crow. “You seem a decent sort,” comments the beady-eyed shit-eater, “I will grant you three wishes.” Quick as a flash Zafar pours out his heart's deepest desires, “The Kampani must return to Khaufpur, remove the poisons from its factory plus clean the soil and the water it has contaminated, it must pay for good medical treatment for the thousands of people whose health it has ruined, it must give better than one-cup-chai-per-day compensation, plus the Kampani bosses must come to Khaufpur and face the charges from which they have been running for so long and the court case against them should conclude.”

“Whoa,” says the crow, “I make that at least seven wishes.”

Says Zafar, “All these proceed from one wish, which is that simple natural justice should prevail.”

So the crow starts cawing with laughter. “What a fool,” it chortles, “to think that such a thing as justice is simple or natural. Why do you expect that the lawyers up at the Collector's office wear silly little wigs and funny collars? If justice were simple what need for fancy dress? Why do they charge so much? If there were such a thing as natural justice, wouldn't you be entitled to it, whether or not you could pay?”

“Undoubtedly you are right,” says Zafar, “but a wish however foolish is still a wish, and that is my first one.”

Says the crow, “Granting an impossible wish is even more foolish than wishing it. What is your second wish?”

Zafar without hesitation replies, “My people are the poorest on the planet, those we fight against are the richest. We have nothing, they have it all. On our side there is hunger, on theirs greed with no purpose but to become greedier. Our people are so poor that thirty-three thousand of them together could not afford one Amrikan lawyer, the Kampani can afford thirty-three thousand lawyers. So my second wish is that you go back to my first wish and make the impossible possible.”

“Impossible possible?” caws the crow. “This is more foolish than the first. And your third?”

Zafar thinks about this for a long time then he says, “I would like to see the face of my enemy.”

“Look then,” says the bird.

As the crow says this, Zafar looks down and sees himself, a small figure standing alone on the shores of a sea that stretches up and away to the edge of the world, which begins to flash like a neon sign. Over the horizon appears a city of tall buildings. It grows taller, pushing above the ocean. It sprouts huge buildings like tusks in a pig's jaw. One building towers above them all, bleak, windowless, formed of grey concrete. The air around Zafar now starts to throb with pulses of purple and green light, a fierce fire howls in his bowels. The fire begins to consume him, his sight blurs, he has trouble focusing on the huge building.

The crow says, “Behold, the Kampani. On its roof are soldiers with guns. Tanks patrol its foot. Jets fly over leaving criss-cross trails and its basements contain bunkers full of atomic bombs. From this building the Kampani controls its factories all over the world. It's stuffed with banknotes, it is the counting house for the Kampani's wealth. One floor of the building is reserved for the Kampani's three-and-thirty thousand lawyers. Another is for doctors doing research to prove that the Kampani's many accidents have caused no harm to anyone. On yet another engineers design plants that are cheap to make and run. Chemists on a higher floor are experimenting with poisons, mixing them up to see which most efficiently kill. One floor is devoted to living things waiting in cages to be killed. Above the chemists is a floor of those who sell the Kampani's poisons with slogans like
SHAKE HANDS WITH THE FUTURE
and
NOBODY CARES MORE
, above these are a thousand public relations consultants, whose job is dealing with protesters like Zafar who are blind to the Kampani's virtues and put out carping leaflets saying
NOBODY CARES LESS
. It is the job of the PR people to tell the world how good and caring and responsible the Kampani is. In the directors' floor at the top of the building the Kampani is throwing a party for all its friends. There you'll find generals and judges, senators, presidents and prime ministers, oil sheikhs, newspaper owners, movie stars, police chiefs, mafia dons, members of obscure royal families etcetera etcetera.”