She Will Build Him a City (23 page)

Some nights, when there is a power-cut in the neighbourhood, other children walk into The Mall to sleep in the atrium under the giant glass roof, some of them are the rich children from Apartment Complex that’s a mile away, children in night clothes, matching shirts and pyjamas, and they all lie down and look up at the night sky. On other nights, when they are more adventurous, they race each other in the atrium, play with the dogs and the children from under the highway, shout, hear the echo of their voices bouncing off steel and glass.

And then the hours pass and they begin to yawn wherever they are, in the trial room of a store, on the counter of a kitchen or next to a trash can, and as the first red-white light of day smudges the night above the highway, reflects off the sweeping glass exteriors of The Mall, they begin to leave. Aunty and Bandaged Baby, Uncle and Windshield Wiper Boy, Cartwheel Dancer Girl, all vendors and dogs, back to the traffic intersection where they came from. To face the next day, to seek out the kindness of strangers at the traffic lights, between red and green.

~

Tonight, as they leave, there is someone in The Mall who is watching them, someone who doesn’t need to slip out like them because she lives here. Very few have seen her, no one knows how old she is. Her eyes, wet and teary, catch the first light of day as she watches them from a window in Europa, the biggest theatre in the multiplex.

Her name is Ms Violets Rose – yes, two flowers in one name, a tiny bouquet, if you so wish.

WOMAN

Johnny’s Movie

Once you are up, I would like us to watch a movie together, a short film, no more than ten minutes long, there are no actors in it.

You tell me when you call me from New City that you don’t want to watch movies or read books or listen to any of the rubbish I say but maybe you will change your mind when you wake up, unpack, settle down in this house.

Because only when you are ready to sit in the same room as I – we do not have to talk – can you and I watch the movie together.

Give it five minutes, if you do not like what you see, walk away, do something else. I won’t, I will watch the entire movie because it seems new to me every time I watch it.

~

There’s a little story about this movie. The man who made it is a boy I taught in kindergarten at St Aloysius.

One evening, a year or so ago, just after dinner, I am preparing to go to bed with the Nobel book I told you about, it’s the one by Patrick White, when the phone rings and I wonder who can this be at this time, and when I pick up the phone, a man’s voice mentions my name and says, ‘Can I speak to her?’

And I say, ‘Yes, this is she.’

And he says, ‘Ma’am, do you remember me?’

‘Sorry, I do not,’ I say. ‘Who is this?’

And he says,‘My name is Maheshwar Agarwal. My nickname in school and at home was Johnny, you were my teacher at St Aloysius Day School. I got your number from the school.’

I am flustered, I am very embarrassed that I do not remember anyone called Maheshwar or Johnny, maybe my memory is failing, but I do not wish to appear rude so I say, ‘Yes, yes, I remember, how are you, Johnny?’

He’s a bright kid, he senses the hesitation in my voice.

‘It’s perfectly all right, ma’am, if you do not recall me, because I do not expect that you will. You had so many students. I didn’t do particularly well for you to remember me and I never was in touch. In fact, I didn’t do well in school at all, I used to skip school to watch movies. I failed twice in my Board exams and then I somehow passed. I took some kind of a course and now I work in a TV station, ma’am.’

This time, I do not lie: ‘I am sorry, Johnny, I do not watch a lot of TV.’

‘Ma’am, I am calling,’ he says, ‘to tell you I am sending you a movie I made.’

I want to know why he is sending it to me but I don’t know how to ask this question or whether I should ask it.

An uncomfortable pause which he rushes in to fill.

‘Ma’am’ – I can hear his nervousness –‘you are the only teacher I still remember from my school.’

I let him speak.

‘My wife says your KG teacher is the one who knows you best because she knows you when you know nothing, she is the one who teaches you how to read, write, count and I never got to say thank you to you. That’s why I want you to watch my first movie and tell me what you think.’

He says this all in one breath.

‘Of course I will,’ I tell him. ‘When are you coming to see me?’

‘I do not live in your city, ma’am,’ he says, ‘let me send you the DVD.’

‘Sure,’ I say and I give him my address and Johnny keeps his word.

The movie arrives in two days, just a DVD, no note, no sender’s address.

~

The most interesting thing about the movie is that it is all from existing material. There is not one image Johnny has photographed or recorded, not one chord of sound he has created. He has taken two days of TV news and commercials, almost eighteen hours of video and audio, mixed them all up, cut and spliced images from these to make a film that lasts barely ten minutes.

It’s about a boy, ten years eleven years old, who builds a ship near a city called New City and then drags it to the sea, hundreds of kilometres away, from where he sets sail, down the coastline along Orissa, Andhra Pradesh, around Sri Lanka, across the Indian Ocean, up to Africa, south south south to Antarctica to get some ice for his dying father.

Where does he get his remarkable images from? Well, that’s the mystery of the film and you and I will try to figure it out.

I can guess some. Like, I think, he gets the image of the ocean from a news item on an oil spill in the Pacific; the morning mist from a shot of the smoke-filled sky after a bomb explosion. These are what strike me the first time I watch the movie, before I remember that summer afternoon your father went in search of ice.

MAN

Four Bodies

‘Do you have a name for the patient?’ asks the AIIMS Mortuary Man.

‘A girl with a red balloon and her mother. They live somewhere here, they were here last night.’

‘I am not so sure, I have four bodies,’ says Mortuary Man, ‘500 rupees to view each body. No haggling, fixed rate.’

‘I will give you 700.’

‘Not more than one or two minutes each body.’

‘I will try to be quick.’

‘Half the money now, balance when you leave.’

He counts the 1,400.

‘You have a handkerchief?’asks Mortuary Man. ‘Cover your nose.’

The sun has set, post-mortem time is over. He hears the noise from the anti-quota protest rally, the whine of a police car, the shouting of slogans. By men and women.

‘What are you waiting for?’ says Mortuary Man as he pushes him inside. ‘Get in quick, finish your business, do you want me to lose my job?’

~

He steps into a swarm of flies, grey and black, moving like a shadow in the thick, stale air of the mortuary. They fly into his face, buzz in his ears, stain his shirtfront, crawl down his fingers. One nibbles at his nails. As if he himself is a fresh, new body that’s walked in. One hand covering his nose with his handkerchief, he uses the other to swat them away but the flies, having explored the bodies in the room, have nowhere to go. Above their buzz, he hears the sound of someone crying.

An elderly man squats in the corner on the cement floor, below a platform on which lies Body 1, a woman’s body. Next to him is a white plastic bag, its mouth open. She is on her back. Her thin legs are splayed, the skin peeled from below her right breast all the way down to her knees to reveal bone, fat and muscle. White, yellow, red, but death has drained all her colours to a burnt black-brown lit by one electric light bulb which hangs from the ceiling right above her body.

The room is windless but the bulb swings in a tiny arc. Maybe it’s the breath from the crying old man. Who is she? His wife, daughter, sister? Her head has been battered in, blood has matted the hair, her forehead is crushed pushing the entire face down, like a balloon, its air run out.

Body 1 is not Balloon Girl.

~

Body 2 and Body 3 are covered, each on a stretcher under the hospital’s regulation blue sheet pulled over the head. Must be deaths in the hospital. Post-surgery, pre-surgery, disease. Each one at least 5 feet tall, head to toe, so neither is Balloon Girl, neither can be Balloon Girl.

But he will check just to be sure.

Body 2 is a man, his eyes open. There is a cut across his chest freshly shaven and it’s now stitched, the heart must have given way.

Body 3 is a woman so fat her stomach drips, like tallow, over either side of the stretcher. She reminds him of the woman who waddled out of her car on the highway.

Not Balloon Girl, for sure.

~

Body 4 is no girl, she is a woman. Beautiful.

She makes his heart ache, she makes everything in the room disappear so that now they are alone, she and him. Gone are the flies, the stench, the old man crying. Her hair is black, silk, cropped close, her skin the colour and smell of lavender. The handkerchief is off his nose as he bends to look at her more carefully. Is she really dead, he wonders, because he feels the fullness of life rise up from her, envelop him like a warm wave.

She is on her back, like the other bodies, but her face, flawless, is turned to his side, her eyes closed, her arms straight, on either side of her body. He touches her below the chin, on her black mole, his finger traces her lips, there is a faint wetness, he slips the finger in, feels her teeth and gums, runs the finger all along the edge of her right shoulder down to her breasts. He looks to his left and right, no one’s watching, the old man is gone, he can hear people outside, the sound of talk and tears, but he cannot see anybody means nobody can see him so he quickly bends, kisses the hollow between her breasts where he thinks she is still warm.

He is very hard, he wants to undress.

No, he will not hurt her.

He only wishes to lie down next to her, keep looking up at the ceiling, and as and when they shut the mortuary, switch off the lights, he will close his eyes and sleep. The platform on which she lies is narrow so he will need to adjust himself, snuggle against her, but he won’t disturb her at night. Before he climbs up onto the platform, he wants to breathe her in so he places one hand on each of her knees and begins to part her legs, slowly, as if she were sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake her up, all the while looking at her face.

A fly sits on her lips, he swats it away. He lowers her head when he hears her: ‘What do you think are you doing? Let’s go.’

~

’Let’s go, let’s go,’ shouts Balloon Girl. ‘Someone’s coming.’

She stands at the entrance, she gestures to him to get out.

He turns away from Body 4, breathless, breaks into a run.

When he exits the mortuary, it’s already dark. Street lights are on, so are the lights in the hospital’s rooms and wards. OB vans from TV stations crowd the entrance, filming the protests where a new group of students has taken over from the previous one.

‘Where’s my balance?’ shouts Mortuary Man. ‘You took such a long time, I was sending someone inside to check on you. Did you find what you were looking for?’

He doesn’t register a word. ‘You found the body you were looking for? Is that body in there?’

‘No, it’s not,’ he says.

‘That’s good news then, whoever you came to look for is alive,’ laughs Mortuary Man.

Balloon Girl is standing next to him, pulling at his arm.

‘Don’t waste any time, let’s go,’ she says.

He pays the balance and turns to walk away.

‘Or maybe the body you want hasn’t been released by the hospital, come back tomorrow, I will be here. Half-price, only 250 rupees.’

Mortuary Man laughs again, he can see the gleam in his eyes, has he seen him with Body 4? No, too late to worry about such things as he walks, runs, to his car, Balloon Girl by his side. If she hadn’t been there to warn him, he could have been caught. So he turns around to thank her for looking out for him, for coming to get him out of there, but Balloon Girl’s gone.

CHILD

Violets Rose

Bhow barks once, twice, to clear her throat. She needs to speak.

It’s past midnight, Bandaged Baby is asleep, so is Orphan, both on the same tattered quilt, like siblings united.

Seven consecutive nights of play in The Mall and they are all tired so today they will sleep early. It’s late on Sunday, traffic is thin, the traffic lights are set to constant blink mode. Uncle tries his luck, crawls to the occasional car that slows down but no one even stops to look. All windows are rolled up for air conditioners to run at maximum efficiency because there is no let-up in the heat – the night sky is cloudless, black and fierce.

‘Come back, Uncle,’ says Bhow, ‘I have an announcement to make.’

They sit in a circle, the dog in the centre.

~

‘I know we all need to sleep so let me come straight to the point, this is about Orphan and what we should do with him because the time has come for me to take my leave. I need to go back to Little House. A dog has her turf and if she leaves it, she loses it. I am the one who brought Orphan here and I think it’s unfair on my part to leave him here, to expect that all of you take care of him, that I give you one extra mouth to feed.