Indra Sinha - Animal's People

“Shhh,” said Somraj.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Nisha? She’s here? Zafar?”

“They’re back.” She’s touched her fingertips to his cheek, his lips.

“Please, not here,” says Somraj, removing her hands.

“Tell me what happened. Why did the police fire?”

“To frighten. Playing tough. The politicians want this deal.”

“But the court is ready to make an order against the Kampani.” Mentioning the Kampani made her feel sick.

“If they sign a deal, the case will be dead,” he says. “Our only hope is they don’t reach an agreement before the hearing. Once we have a ruling, it will be hard for them.”

That’s why Musisin and the others are here, she realises, almost at once he echoes this thought. “It’s the first time they have sent lawyers.”

“Surely the government has people’s interests at heart,” she tries, wishing to believe it. Somraj shakes his head. “In this country decent people don’t go into politics.”

“So what can we do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Like Zafar’s power of nothing?”

“Zafar is Zafar and by nothing I mean nothing, but maybe he is right. There is a strength that comes from having nothing because you have nothing to lose. What is it? Maybe courage, or ingenuity, or desperation, it appears where there is no help and no hope. Look at how you came to us. Out of nowhere, and out of nothing came a clinic.”

And now Somraj tells her what at that time no one else knows, of Zafar’s plan for a fast unto death.

Elli can no longer hide her unhappiness. Somraj, awkward and gentle as ever, reaches out his arms to her and draws her close to him. If ever’s the time to share her secret it’s now, but she does not have the courage.

What can I find to do? she’s thinking. What can I do that might make even the smallest difference? Nothing presents itself. Elli closes her eyes and thinks about nothing.

It’s past eleven when she leaves the clinic. She’s wearing a burqa to disguise herself. Still she keeps to the dark side of the lane.

Elli walks up the wide road leading to the Chowk. It’s late, but the place is still full of people. No one takes any notice. In a quiet place she removes the burqa and puts it into a bag. Then hails an auto.

The Jehan-nabz Hotel is clean and softly lit. In the garden are dinner tables and waiters with turbans like roses clearing away dishes. Elli checks her reflection in a case of swords and guns that had belonged to the Chhoté Nawab. The few months in the Khaufpuri sun have browned her skin. The receptionist is discreet and efficient. “Of course at once, madam,” he smiles, shortly afterwards reporting, “The gentleman is coming right away.”

Nearly a year since she’d last met Frank. She wonders if he’s changed, it would be odd to treat him like a stranger. But Frank looks as familiar as ever.

“Elli!” He catches up her hands. “You look great.”

“So do you.” He looks elegant, completely relaxed. Never ruffled, always charming. She remembers how proud she had been when he used to sweep her into a room full of strangers, announcing, “Hey everyone, this is my wife,” and how jealous she would get when the other women flirted with him.

“It’s okay to kiss you? Just a chaste one?”

She offers her cheek, trying to hide the tumult inside. What can I offer him, she’s wondering, to make him do what I want.

“Two Jack Daniels, long as the glass is tall,” he tells the hovering waiter.

“Frank, is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“There’s my room,” he says, with a smile.

“Not that private. Perhaps we can walk in the garden.”

When they’re outside and he takes her arm, she is not sure how to react. The hand steering her elbow is the old possessive Frank. He’s still thinking of her as his wife.

If her ex-husband notices her awkwardness, he gives no sign. “Back home it’s late spring,” he says. “You should see the flowers. They’re out everywhere. Just before I came out here, I went walking in the woods with your folks. We saw all those things you used to tell me the names of. Let me see, cow’s tongue, that’s yellow, right? Bloodroot, Indian pipe, that little thing that looks like a dog’s tooth, Dutchman’s bitches…”

“Britches,” she says, with a genuine laugh. “How are my parents?”

“Martha’s having a grand spell. Your dad’s good. He said to tell you they are looking forward to your visit.”

“That’s good, I’m looking forward to it too.”

Frank hesitates. “Apparently you’re bringing some friends.” Uh oh, she seeks escape in her glass, but the drink is going straight to her head. They have come to a group of wicker chairs in the middle of the hotel’s wide lawn. Ahead is the blue glow of the swimming pool and near it a tree hung with coloured bulbs.

“Your dad says you’re thinking of marrying an Indian guy. Is this true?”

“We’ve talked about it.”

“Are you serious?” Now his voice is a river of concern, as if she were a child about to do something stupid. Same old Frank, so reasonable, utterly lacking in imagination and adventure.

“He’s a singer,” she says, as if this explains everything.

“A singer? What is he, in a band?”

“He sings classical music.” How can she begin to describe Somraj? “Indian classical,” she adds, to stop him making a comment about opera or Pavarotti.

“Do you love him?”

This question pierces her. Don’t ask me that, she thinks, or I’ll cry. “No more questions,” she says, trying to smile. “I’m not on oath here.”

“The witness will answer,” he says in his light teasing manner.

“The answer is that you don’t consider marrying someone if you don’t love them. At least I don’t.”

“Ouch,” he says, making a face. It was the way he always used to end their quarrels, make a funny face, make her laugh.

“You used to love me.” He’s heading straight back into territory she wants to avoid. “You know I want you back.”

“I’m sure you’re better off without me.”

Frank begins to complain about his life in Pennsylvania, how it’s work, all work these days, no time for fun.

He’s stalling, she suddenly realises. He’s wondering why I am here.

“Frank,” she says, “I’ve come to talk to you about something important.”

She begins to tell him about the people she has met in Khaufpur. Of Hanif Ali, left blind for twenty years by the gases of that night, of the woman who poured her poisoned milk onto the ground. She tells him about me, the strange, half-mad boy who goes on all fours, and believes he’s an animal. She describes the horrifying things she sees every day, and tells how the Kampani’s refusal to share its knowledge of the poisons is hurting people.

“Elli, this is awful, but you know that people like me don’t have control over those kind of decisions. All I can do is my own job.”

“Why do I have to be your conscience?” she cries. “Make it your job. Can’t you see that hiding behind trade secrets is totally wicked? There are people back home who know exactly what those gases do to the lungs, to the eyes, to the uterus. Frank, I see young girls who bleed three times a month and others who have one period in five months. No one knows how to treat them.”

“When I get back home I can knock on some doors.”

“If they withhold information that could save lives, that’s murder.”

“Whoa Elli,” he says, “now calm down, I would like to help you if I can. I’d do most things for you. But there’s no point pretending I can do things I can’t.”

“You can try,” she says. “At least get the Kampani to clean the factory. Its poisons are in the wells, they’re in people’s blood, they’re in mother’s milk. Frank, if you came to my clinic I could show you. Specimens, I mean. Foetuses, babies that never made it. You wouldn’t want to see such things, even in your nightmares.”