Indra Sinha - Animal's People

“Granny, it’s me Animal.” I’ve whispered, so as not to wake Aliya and Hanif, her granddad. “I’m looking for Ma. She’s not returned to the convent. Everyone is worried something bad has happened.”

“What’s happened?” she asks, mishearing me. “Is it the factory?” Like all the folk living round here, she’s terrified that one night the factory will rise from the dead and come striding like a blood-dripping demon to snatch them off.

“Ma’s missing. I’ve been searching for hours.”

“Your Ma? Ma Franci?”

“Yes, yes.” I can just make out her shape, leaning up on an elbow.

“Are you hungry, son? Have you had anything to eat today?”

“Never mind about that,” says I, cursing the frail wits of the old. “Have you seen Ma Franci?”

There’s silence while the old lady sweeps her head clear of dreams. Then she says, “Ma Franci was here earlier, chatting away like always about who knows what. She was laughing a lot. I do not know where she went.”

“I do,” says a little voice out of the darkness. It’s my naughty friend Aliya. “Want me to show you?” I swear she’d have jumped up and come, but by this time her grandfather Hanif Ali’s also awake, even his parakeets have started squawking. The old people keep Aliya wrapped tight in her sheet with talk of school in the morning and slaps if she doesn’t obey.

“But I know where she is. Suppose Animal can’t find her?”

“I’ll look after Aliya,” I say, but absolutely they refuse to let her go.

She’s their only grandchild, they say, all they have in the world after their daughter, her mother, died after how many years of lung-rotting illness, she’s their joy, their school-going pride, the night air is full of fever, they dare not risk the child’s health, all of which the child hears with heavy hearted sighs.

“Where the Nutcracker ends,” she tells me. “Cross the tracks.”

Well at least the moon’s out again. In hardly two hundred paces I’ve come to the gleaming rails beyond which is the factory wall enclosing its enchanted forest. Halfway across I have to stop for a train to pass, it goes by close, big wheels pumping right by my head, sparks flying, lump of coal’s dropped, rolls to my feet, lies there like the fire in a dog’s eye till the moonlight puts it out. When the last echoes are gone I hear the sound of old woman’s quavering

Quand j’étais chez mon père,

Petite à la ti ti, la ri ti, tonton lariton

A little way off, across the tracks and near the factory wall, is a falling down tower of stone with grass growing out of its walls. Some bigwig built it hundreds of years ago, in those days the factory lands were orchards. It was maybe a tomb, no one knows its purpose, when the poison factory came and threw its wall around the orchards, this ruin was left outside. Out of this place is coming the singing, a faint light flickers inside.

That’s where I find her, sitting on the floor, with a simple bundle of her possessions opened and strewn around her.

“Ah, there you are, home at last,” she says. “Be a dear and put the kettle on.”

For long I refused to admit I had feelings for Nisha. Man, how I would argue with myself. She’s not even pretty. Not my type. The voices in my head grew all excited. Oh yeah? growls a shnaggerfucker voice, sounds like it comes from a mouth full of blood with pigs’ teeth curling from the corners.

Could you be loved? demands another.

Listen, I like those film girls with made up faces, they make an effort to look pretty.

All know what he wants! hisses a sly she hovering near my left ear.

I reply that of course I fucking want. Who doesn’t? But nearest I’ve ever got’s looking at pictures that Farouq showed me, torn from a magazine. Farouq goes to see dirty flicks in the dive underneath Laxmi Talkies, made-in-USA movies screened by the Happiness Association. He tried to take me once, but they wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t a member.

Pussy pussy pussy , says a voice full of dark horrifying laughter.

Fuck off, says I, refusing to be scared. Not all of the voices are mocking or hostile. Some are friendly, they tell me not to worry, I should listen to them, they will tell me the best way to proceed. You too can fuck off, I tell them. You are all pathetic. Voices without bodies, what the fuck is the use of you? Without me you’re nothing.

We’ve minds, blinds, lemon rinds

But no bodies. It’s why you get so excited, having no bodies of your own you can only feel sexy when I do. This is why you’re always putting these thoughts in my head.

we are voices loud and clear

in all the world there’s none like we’re

as for you one thing is sure

dirty little fucker you’re

I don’t know about where you live, Eyes, but here in Khaufpur you can see everything on the internest. Guys with money can go to this shop, they have booths with computers that show sex. The guys can see as much as they like, the owners even leave rags in the booths. Farouq, Zafar’s 2iC, told me this, he claims you can even get in touch with girls, like in Dil Hi Dil Mein didn’t Sonali Bendre meet Kunal that way? Stupid movie, with a crap song, dub you dub you dub you love dot com ? Farouq is always singing it.

Fancy Sonali do you? sniggers blood tusks.

Could you be loved?

Definitely, I like filmi girls like Sonali who take the trouble to look good.

What’s Sonali? Big nose she has.

Long as your dong. Thick as your dick. Gock as your cock.

Doesn’t even make sense. Shut up, please.

Thing you want takes two. What girl’ll do it with you?

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!

I wanted it so badly, every night the wishing would make my monster hard. In my living rough days I’d often pass through Khaufpur’s street of brothels, it was close to the cafes where I liked to beg, sometimes the mamas would take girls in for their meals as they never had time to cook, one or two of the girls I got to know, they’d wave at me and smile. I thought if I could get some money together plus take a good bath, have some clean thing to wear, I could maybe visit one of those places. One girl particularly I liked, young she was, her name was Anjali, she’d smuggle me bits of paratha from the restaurant and joke about what a handsome, tough fellow I was. I’d say to her, “Don’t mock, it’s not kind.” “Who’s mocking?” she’d reply. She’d give a laugh, go off wiggling her backside, over her shoulder blowing me a kiss.

Maybe she was not mocking. Four parts of me that are strong and good, my face is handsome, I have powerful arms, solid muscled chest. As for the last…“My god what a lund. Fucker is made like a donkey.” This was the joke of Farouq and his chums when they caught me once, splashing in the factory lake. “Jaanvar you are hung like…a jaanvar.” Yes, and what joy I have found in that strong, lovely tower that oozes milk like a frangipani.

Love is different and more difficult. It has nothing to do with sex. This is what I tried to make my voices understand. Quietly does love happen. You’re not even thinking about romance, then she smiles and you notice for the first time that she’s not all that plain, her face is really quite sweet. You watch for her smile and notice that it pushes her cheeks up into two mango shapes, why should this shape be so pleasing, I don’t know. Then one evening she puts kajal round her eyes and brushes her hair, looks quite transformed, and suddenly Sonali Bendre is not so desirable as this one who’s been under your nose for so long, who’s all dolled up to go somewhere you’re not going, can never go.