Indra Sinha - Animal's People

“So Zafar brother, will there be some progress in the case?”

“Who can tell?” says Zafar, flipping over pages. “One day something must surely happen, why not today?”

“That’s a fine philosophy,” says Bhoora. “Me, I’d have long ago given up.”

“Giving up is not Zafar’s style,” says Nisha from the danger side.

“Eighteen years, it’s the lifetime of my eldest,” says Bhoora. “Boy’s just got married, his wife has a liking for chicken, daily it’s Selim get me a chicken, and make sure it has no pink feathers.” Bhoora swerves to miss an onrushing bhutt-bhutt-pig. “How is the boy to afford any chicken let alone a non-pink one?” Eyes, I should explain that at Khaufpuri chicken centres they put a pink mark on yesterday’s birds, which are cheaper because they’ve been in the cages an extra day, it makes them taste not so good.

“Bhooré miyañ,” says Nisha, “you can’t blame the girl for being used to good things. This is your fault for finding him a wife with expensive tastes.” She leans past me and gives Zafar a smile which turns my stomach.

“So what’s he doing now, your son?” asks Zafar with a chuckle.

“Zafar bhai, he wants to be an engineer, but I told him, all such fancy ideas forget, learn to drive an auto, it’s not such a bad life.”

“Auto driving is honest work,” says Zafar, “but an engineer’s wife could eat chicken twice a day.” I can hear the bugger’s mind churning, he’s thinking how he can help Bhoora’s son find the money for training. No wonder people adore him.

“At least I now know what advice to give,” says Bhoora. “Zafar bhai says tell your wife that one day she will surely have chicken, just she may have to wait eighteen years.”

The case is supposed to start in court two, Naya Adalat, at ten o’clock. Quarter to ten we are outside, half past ten we’re still waiting. There’s just Nisha, Zafar and me. No sign of judge, lawyers. Defendants are a whole nother joke, eighteen years late, what’s a few more minutes?

“Such a faith in the law my dad has,” says Nisha, “he should see this.” She tosses her hair, which is a thing girls learn to do from the movies to show they’re annoyed, then gives a little glance at Zafar. I really hate seeing her look to him for approval, but Zafar just nods, again checks the clock.

I’ve tugged his trouser to get his attention. “Why don’t you wear a watch?”

“What, and handcuff myself to time?” He gives me a grin. He’s thinking, I guess, that I’ll ask him to explain, so I don’t ask.

Nisha leans against Zafar and closes her eyes, putain strokes her hair.

“In this very court,” I say to break the fucking spell, “I used to be a mystery defendant.” So then they want to know how, when, why etcetera, and I’ve done the voices.

— Case against boy known as Animal, section chaar sau bees.

— Where is the accused?

— Your honour he is here.

— Where? I don’t see him.

— Right here, your honour, in the dock.

— Don’t be silly. I am looking at the dock, there’s no one there.

— Your honour, accused is of unusual stature.

Zafar’s chuckling. Nisha pats my shoulder. “Such a fool.”

“Not such a fool,” says Zafar. “Empty dock’s our problem too.”

Ten to eleven the judge finally turned up, arrived too are some local lawyer types in black suits. “New judge,” sighs Nisha. “I was four years old when this case began, now it’s had thirteen judges.”

“Lucky for some.” I’ve climbed on the backs of the public seats, which is the only way I can catch a sight of the new milord, plus it brings my head close to Nisha’s. She turns and smiles at me. Every bad thought about her and Zafar, they are instantly forgotten.

The judge is sat wrapped in a black robe looking serious, the legal types are gathered in front of him, talking loudly.

“I just wish…” says Nisha, again turning her head to me, I can smell the sweetness of her breath. “Yes?” But she’s abruptly stopped because a familiar voice is speaking. It’s Zafar. He introduces himself, seems he’s an intervenor in the case. Zafar’s specs are flashing, beard’s jutting, he says he has a petition to put, at which a couple of the local lawyers start giggling.

“My lord,” says Zafar, “there are two sets of defendants in this case, first there are the local accused, employees of the Kampani, their personal defence lawyers are here before you. Then there are the Amrikan accused, ergo the Kampani itself plus the big bosses who took the crucial decisions. For the past eighteen years these Amrikan defendants have not shown up in this court. They have not even bothered to send lawyers. They sit in Amrika claiming this court has no jurisdiction over them, yet nothing can be achieved without them being here, thus these proceedings drag on and on, for the people of this city justice continues to be delayed and denied.”

“I have done my homework Mr. Zafar,” says the judge drily. “What is your point?”

“My point, sir, is that thousands in this city have died since that night, for them was no justice. The factory is abandoned full of chemicals which as we speak are poisoning the water of thousands more. Must all perish before these Amrikan defendants appear? Speaking plainly, with no disrespect to you, I think in no other country would the law be allowed to become such a farce, if the will existed to resolve this matter, it could have been done long ago.”

Sniggers come from the local lawyers, the judge is tapping a pencil on his desk, looking irritated. “So have you come to lecture us?” he says. “Or do you have something useful to say?”

“Sir,” says Zafar, “the Kampani chooses to ignore your court, but this same Kampani has many offshoots and subsidiaries trading in India. Our prayer is for you to issue a summons to the Kampani and its named bosses in Amrika, requiring them to submit themselves for trial before this court. If still they do not appear then in accordance with the due provisions of the law, let all the Kampani’s assets in India be attached.”

Well, at this, a couple of the local lawyers start giggling. “Your lordship,” says one, “we have lost count of how many times over the years this petition has been put by Mr. Zafar to your lordship’s learned predecessor in this case, before that to his learned predecessor, going further back, to his predecessor and his too, and so on beyond memory. Always it was deemed devoid of merit.”

Holy cunt, what a twisted nain rabougri is this from our own city to take the side of the Kampani? I’m glaring at this bugger with such hatred, he can surely feel me raal tapko’ing the back of his neck.

So then the judge is looking even grimmer, pencil’s tapping so hard I’m thinking it will make a hole in his desk. The lawyer who spoke is looking smug, now Zafar’ll get what for, here comes a right fucking coup de bec.

Says his lordship, “Are you appearing for the Kampani, Mr. Babulal?”

“No milord.”

“Mr. Babulal, are you familiar with the essays of Francis Bacon?”

“No milord.”

“‘Private opinion is more free, but opinion before others is more reverent.’ Try to remember this, Mr. Babulal.” The judge clears his throat. “Mr. Zafar, let a list of the Kampani’s assets in India be drawn up and entered to the court. This case is adjourned, I will reserve my decision.”

Well, no one can believe what they have just heard. The judge leans back in his chair, like he’s relishing the sensation he has created, then he turns to Babulal and says mischievously, “I will be happy to lend you my Bacon.”

After this, great rejoicing there’s on our side. On the steps of the court Zafar makes a speech. He says, “Friends, the Kampani sitting in Amrika has everything on its side, money, powerful friends in the government and military, expensive lawyers, political masseurs, public relations men. We people have nothing, many of us haven’t an untorn shirt to wear, many of us go hungry, we have no money for lawyer and PR, we have no influential friends.”