Indra Sinha - Animal's People

“Time for supper,” says I, reaching my hand into the hole in the wall where is the big purple onion I’ve kept aside for tonight’s meal.

“Have a care!” cries Ma. Adds with a cunning look, “Animal, dis à nos amis, soyez prêt, il vous appelera à tout moment,” it means tell our friends be ready, he ’ll be wanting you any moment.

By our friends she means the scorpions that live in our wall, press your ear to the stones you’ll hear their scrapes, rustles, the clicking of tiny claws.

“What have the scorps to do with this?” I ask, removing one from the onion before extracting it from the wall.

Seems Ma has big hopes for the scorpions. “Animal, when the time comes these little beasts who live in the walls of our house, they will come creeping out and grow huge. They’ll reach the size of horses. They’ll grow stiff red wings like locusts, that rustle when they move. They’ll have faces like people and long hair like women, but their teeth will be like lions’ teeth, which they’ll gnash in the most horrifying way.”

“What will they do next, Ma?” I’ve somewhat crushed the onion with a stone, then buried it in the hot ashes of the hearth.

“They’ll wear golden crowns, when they beat their wings, it’ll sound like an army of chariots rushing to war.”

“And then?”

“Well, my little Animal, they’ll still have their tails, only much much longer, ten feet at least with a sting the size of a bull’s horn, what they’ll do is they’ll go around stabbing people, the ones who’ve done evil to others.”

“People like Fatlu Inspector and the Chief Minister? There’s a little dough left, I’ll make a chappati.”

“They’ll sting them with their tails, and those people will want to die, but won’t be able to, because the poison won’t kill them. It will fill them with agony for five months.”

“Why five months?” Five months is not enough for Fatlu Inspector. “Why not six months? Why not eighteen years?”

“It’s what Sanjo saw,” says she out of the well of her madness.

Once Ma’s eyes were bright blue, now they’re milky with coming cataracts, but when she speaks of Sanjo such a look comes into them, you’d expect their milky clouds to part and light come streaming through. Ma brings out a small black book, it’s the one written by Sanjo that tells about the end of the world, she holds it up close to her nose. “Jusques à quand, Maître saint et vrai, tarderas-tu à faire justice? à tirer vengeance de notre sang?”

Eyes, in case you don’t understand Ma’s language, this is Sanjo talking to him , he’s saying fuck’s sake how much longer will you make us wait for justice? And if you still don’t know who he is, well it’s god. Sanjo reckons that the world is full of wickedness and is going to be wiped out, this will happen in various appalling ways and is called the Apokalis.

Sanjo’s dream has a strange effect on Ma, it makes her afraid and joyful at the same time. Says she, “Don’t you see, my poor little Animal, the Apokalis has already begun? It started on that night in Khaufpur.”

Onion comes out of the embers looking like a ball of ash, break the crust it’s juicy and sweet inside, smells good. Ma does not notice the food, so caught up is she. “Listen, injustice will triumph, thousands will die in horrible ways. Well, what else happened on that night? Nous sommes le peuple de l’Apokalis.” We are the people of the Apokalis.

“Old woman,” says I giving her her share of the roti, “listen to yourself. You ask what’s normal for me, I’m mad only once in a while, you are fulltime hypped.”

Ma grumbles about the insolence of the young. “Mark my words,” she says. “It has begun again, and will not stop. Round the world it will go. Right now it’s in Amrika but it will return to Khaufpur. Terror will return to this city. It began here, here it will end.”

But Sanjo’s wrong. Fucking world didn’t end. It’s still suffering.

In the low flicker of our oil lamp, Ma’s face looks like a witch’s, onion juice is dribbling from her jaw. No teeth, with a piece of roti she scoops the soft centre into her mouth. It’s not much, a bit of salt plus a little chilli would at least make the stomach glow, but we have neither.

Later, when we have turned out the lamp she says to me in the darkness, “Animal, listen, can you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“The wings of the beast, they sound just like metal shutters rattling down over the shop of Ram Nekchalan.”

Soon her snores tell me she is asleep.

I lie and think about the thing that happened in Amrika. Sleep stays far away, the rain has stopped, through holes in the roof stars are shining. During monsoon time I patch these gaps with plastic, thatch, anything, but wind must have blown it off. Through some deep abyss a star is falling, inside me wells a deep dread, such a terrible thing, who would have thought it could happen to others, to die in terror, may I never know such a death. Then it’s like someone is singing softly in my ear

O my darling child let me wrap you up warm

your little nose, your flowerbud mouth, I’ll hide from harm

and though my heart’s breaking I must lay you down

and never shall we meet again till this world’s overthrown

After a while the night is filled with silence and no more stars fall.

Out of the darkness comes a screaming that makes my hair stand on end. Instantly I’m awake. Not yet dawn. Another howl, it’s the call of a train coming through from Delhi. In the gloom I hear Ma Franci whimpering. For Ma the hooting is not the 2616 GT Express rumbling through the Nutcracker, it’s an angel in a sooty robe blowing the last trump. Ma’s eyes are open, but she’s fully asleep, how often have I heard her shriek in her bed, it’s of that night she dreams, lying on her mat, so many years has she lain there the soft earth is moulded to her shape, the bumps and hollows near the hearth, they’re made by a bony old bint who sees in dreams the moon turning to blood, the world curling up like a leaf in the palm of her hand.

Elli appeared the way a spider does, from nowhere. Catch a movement in the corner of your eye, it’s there. We were all in Nisha’s house, which is her dad Somraj’s house in the Chicken Claw. Who’s we? Nisha of course, Zafar, he virtually lived there. Farouq I’ve mentioned, he was Zafar’s right hand man. As well as these there were some other cronies, plus me and Jara. We’re on the verandah, talking about the thing that had happened in Amrika, and Farouq’s chafing me because I’d thought it was a movie.

“It was you who talked of movies. Just love making me look stupid, I hate you second-most in the world.” I could not say who I detested the most.

“Animal, take your head out your arse, I mentioned movies because movies show how they live over there.”

All’s set for one of our rows, but Zafar intervenes, “We know zilch about their lives, they know nothing of ours, that’s the problem.” How does a person become so fucking wise I don’t know. I’m trying to think of some ploy that will make me look good in front of Nisha simultaneously making Farouq look bad in front of Zafar when suddenly this racket kicks up in the street, kids are shouting “Aiwa! Aiwa!” Stopped outside in the slush of the Claw is a car, not an auto or even a taxi mark you, a full four-wheel car it’s, driver in uniform, everything. This foreign woman has climbed out, she’s stood with tilted hip, looking at the building opposite. Some man’s with her, he’s pointing at the building and talking, she’s listening and nodding. Hardly have they arrived, but already she’s gathered a small crowd. In addition to “Aiwa, Aiwa!” the kids are calling out the other things they shout whenever they see a foreigner.