Indra Sinha - Animal's People

“Fuck all do we have,” shouts someone.

“Thank you,” says Zafar, all grinning, and for once does not rebuke the swearer. “Yes, we have nothing and this makes us strong. Not just strong, but invincible. Having nothing, we can never be defeated.”

Some puzzlement there’s, but Zafar rides over it. “The Kampani and its friends seek to wear us down with a long fight, but they don’t understand us, they’ve never come up against people like us before. However long it takes we will never give up. Whatever we had they have already taken, now we are left with nothing. Having nothing means we have nothing to lose. So you see, armed with the power of nothing we are invincible, we are bound to win.”

I’ve not heard this before, I guess it’s Zafar’s new theory, but give it ten days and it will be on everyone’s lips. How happy the bugger is, he wipes his specs. Rewears them. Declares, “Friends, today something new has happened, little enough it may be but we are going to celebrate. We’ll have a picnic. We will take our whole crowd to somewhere outside the city, some spot where there’s trees plus water, we’ll take with us bread and chicken and sweets, we’ll make tea on a fire of sticks.”

On the way home he makes Bhoora stop at a chicken centre and buys two of the biggest, juiciest fowls, not a speck of pink on their wings.

“Bhooré miyañ, here’s one for your daughter-in-law, one for your wife.”

The birds are trussed and thrown, flapping, into the auto behind us.

“Just think,” marvels Bhoora when he has finished thanking Zafar. “After eighteen long years, after all today was the day.”

“We have not won yet,” says Zafar. “But we have to start winning one day. Why not today?”

“Why not today? Why not today?” Nisha and I start chanting. Soon Bhoora and Zafar have joined in. “Why not today? Why not today?” To people in the street, to turbans and dhotis, shalwars and saris, to all the citizens of Khaufpur, we’re calling out, “Hey, hey, why not today?”

Soon after this I have a roundabout of madness. What happens when I go mad, the voices in my head start yelling, new voices come gupping all kinds of weird and fantastic things, words that make no sense, such as “give us a garooli” meaning a cigarette, which I don’t even smoke, or “arelok pesalok shine from your darling arse,” whether it may be some different language I don’t know. Some of these voices I’ve already mentioned. They started when I was small, after I had the fever that bent my back, at that time most were friendly, told me stories, gave advice that saved me from quarrels etc., but they can also be nasty. They’ll tell me to do bad things, or else they will say some evil thing is about to happen which often it will, during these bouts I’ll be light, full of glee, I might do crazy things, I’ll shout out whatever the voices say.

In this particular madness, the voices are yelling and arguing, they make so much noise I can not hear what’s going on around me. It gets so bad I tell Ma. She’s taken me to the big hospital where they say, joking aside, you go in with one illness come out with three. In she marches, me walking on fours at her side like a dog and demands to see the head doctor. “Mon fils est malade, il entend des voix dans sa tête.” No one’s understanding a word except me who’s thinking it’s nice she’s called me her son. Because Ma’s a foreigner and’s making a grand incomprehensible fuss, they don’t kick us out, but take us to the chief doctor, a high professor is he, Khaufpur’s greatest expert on children born damaged by the poison.

This saala, old and fat he’s, a much-writer, a whole row of pens in his shirt pocket, his head is filled with knowledge about the crazy, demented kids of Khaufpur, but never before’s he met anyone like Ma, jabbering in her own tongue, pointing at me. The doctor gives me a brief look then turns to Ma and in a rough way asks, “So what is his problem?”

“What niaiserie is this?” snaps Ma, who’s no doubt thinking that such a big doctor type should make at least some effort to speak like a human being.

“Wants to know what’s wrong with me.”

“J’ai déjà dit!” complains Ma. “Il entend des voix. Il parle avec des gens qui n’existent pas.” Eyes, if you don’t know français, it means, I’ve already said! He hears voices. He talks to people who aren’t there.

“What is she saying?” asks the doctor. “Tell her I am the director of this hospital, she can’t come just like that into this office.”

“She says she has come because people say you are a great physician, the best in Khaufpur.”

At once this bastard’s all smiles. “Madam, I do my best.” He sends a self-satisfied smirk her way, totally ignoring me. “Normally you would need an appointment, but we are not inflexible. So, dear lady what can I do for you?”

“Such guttural baliverne can you follow?” asks Ma, she has got used to the idea that I can somehow interpret the bêtises of the Khaufpuris.

“He is placing himself at your service Ma, see how he’s making eyes, I think maybe he has fallen in love with you.”

“Shameless boy, tu t’en moques, soit sérieux. The people of the city are in need of care and what do they get? This baragouin.”

“What is the good lady saying?” he asks.

I was in my madness, remember, Eyes, it comes to me that I can ask him anything and there’s one thing that I want more than anything in the world, yet I’m afraid to ask. A desperate business is hope, not to be encouraged if you can be content with small happiness, but the curse of human beings and this animal alike is that whatever you have, always you want more. Ever since I realised my feelings for Nisha, a wish for one thing has been growing in me, day by day as I sit beside her, smell the perfume of her hair and her skin, it has become fiercer, I think unless I do something I will die, this desire will devour me and now a moment has come when I might at least ask for what I want. I cannot let it pass.

You will be disappointed , whispers a voice. Ask! shouts another.

Now or never. I take courage and say what’s in my heart, “Sir, she wishes you to do an operation to make me stand up straight and walk on two legs.”

Now I’m down on fours looking up at this important doctor, so impatient am I for what he will say that my eyes remove from his, down his nose slide and settle on his lips, ready I’m for his reply. The lips purse and chew, he’s thinking. Such a big doctor, I was right to ask, a grand professor.

Turning to Ma he says, “Madam, I must be plain with you, whatever could have been done for this boy, the time is long past. He will have to get used to his condition. There is absolutely no hope, this boy will never walk or stand up straight again.”

Ma’s asking something but I’m unable either to hear or reply. In my head a thing flees away shrieking like a bird, eee-chip-chip-chip, the sound of the world dwindles to an eerie hum. I am looking at a shelf in the professor’s room. On it is a jar, a big round glass jar of liquid that flashes like it’s full of sunlight.

“What did you think, it’s that easy?” says a gnarly voice in my ear. “Quit staring by the way it gives me the creeps.” Glaring at me from inside the jar is a small crooked man. An ugly little monster, his hands are stretched out, he has a wicked look on his face, as if he’s just picked your pocket and is planning to piss on your shoe. Such an expression, I forget my own troubles and start laughing. There’s something weird about him. Looks like someone’s peering over his shoulder, a second head is growing out the side of his neck.

The doctor follows where I’m looking and turns to Ma still as if I don’t exist, his lips move, I see rather than hear the words, “Be grateful this boy’s no worse, madam, that could have been him in the jar. Half of those who were expecting on that night aborted and as for the rest, well let’s just say some things were seen in this town that were never seen before.”