Indra Sinha - Animal's People

Like the whole rest of the world, Elli doctress is angry. A fist of fire is she, and she yells at the demons to go away and leave her alone.

“Where should we go, madam?”

“Without burning this place we cannot leave.”

“Smash a window, put in fire.”

There’s a sound like a lump of music shattering into shards, it is a whole raga in two seconds. Somraj comes flying out of the darkness like a giant white moth, such a fine sound he’ll be wanting to catch and keep in a jar.

“Kill the bitch!”

“There will be no killing here,” says Somraj, placing himself between Elli and the demons.

“Stand aside Pandit-ji.”

“No. You shall not touch her.”

“Bhai sahib and bhaiya are dead because of her friends.”

“Those people are not her friends, bhaiya and bhai sahib were her friends.” The pandit’s looking somewhat blurred, as if he’s in two minds. He puts his arm around the shoulder of an equally blurry Elli and leads her across the way. The demons and their torches vanish into the door of the clinic.

I look up and see the half-moon perched in the mango tree, peering down at me through the leaves. “I see you, Animal,” says the moon.

“I see you, moon,” says the animal. “Are you jamisponding me?”

“You are dreaming,” says the moon. “You need to wake up.”

“I would rather dream.”

“There’s a thing you must do.”

“What is this thing, O moon?”

“Wake up and find out,” it says and is disintegrated into shining pieces by moving mango leaves. The windows of the clinic are flickering orange. It comes to me that my little friend, the Khã-in-the-Jar, is inside and the thing I must do is save him.

Elli’s office is alight. Flames are coiling like snakes in the corner, spitting fiery seeds at the walls.

“Oh don’t hurry,” says the Khã-in-the-Jar. “All the time in the world, me.”

“Where are you?” She must have shut him away.

“Over here you dozy cunt.”

“Where?”

“In the cupboard.”

I move towards it and suddenly I am sliding, there’s liquid on the floor, it smells like rough daru, it’s overpowering it makes my eyes water, I’m retching, my hands gash on something sharp, I’m slipping and sliding in pools that burn like raw hatred, I bump into something cold and slimy. It’s the cyclops. His one eye stares at me. He smells like a rancid pickle.

“Leave him,” says the Khã-in-the-Jar. “Eight we were, board members of the poisonwallah shares. Seven flasks were smashed and our friends are on the floor, any second this stuff will catch light and badoof!”

“I’ll save them.”

“No no,” he says. “By burning they’ll be freed. My fear is that the flames won’t reach this cupboard.”

“Then I’ll save you.”

“Shabaash Animal, smash my jar too. Quick, there’s no time.”

But I’ve disregarded the bugger’s wishes. I’ve tucked his jar under my arm then it’s out of there, fast as three feet can fly ignoring his yells I gain the street, apart from my mind spinning spiderwebs, the moon above constantly changing shape and the wolfshead gnawing my guts, things seem normal.

“Hey,” he’s shouting. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll burn I swear but first we must have a chat.”

“Where’s the time for chatting? Don’t you know it’s this night?”

“Shut up, or I’ll be forced to do you no harm.”

This threat is very terrible to him, so his two heads glug fluid and seethe in silence. I’m out of the Claw in a flash, hiding in shadows. Various kinds of uproar can be heard, shouting coming from different parts, fires are burning, from the direction of the old city come loud bangs like gun shots. I need to avoid the main road so I’ll take the shortcut home. Many ways are there into the factory and I pick one on the Claw side where a small tree leans onto the wall. How to mount? Place Khã in fork of tree. Pull up. Move Khã higher. Climb. Place Khã on wall. Shift self onto wall. All the while I am muttering, “Just a little while, we’ll get home and have a talk then I am carrying my Zippo I swear I’ll burn you.”

“You’ll regret this,” he snarls.

The clear light of the moon falls on the jar and I see with horror what it is I am carrying. The jar slips from my hands and falls, bursts, liquid gushes out. Lying on the ground inside the factory is the thing that was within, a half-rotted relic of that night.

Fleeing that cursed place through moon-licked grasses and bushes that bite, I am driven by a fear greater than snakes or dogs or men with sticks. The thing I am fleeing is more deadly than any of these and fouler than that poor creature rotting in his chemical womb. I am running from myself. I am running from the things I’ve done. I think of Zafar, whose death my poisons hastened, dry as a smoked fish he ended, yet right to the end how kind he was, the tears he could not shed are making my eyes watery lenses through which the world bends and bulges in unknown ways.

There are beings in the grass too, flitting beside me and mocking. The faces of the dead swim around me, jeering, is this that Animal who swore at us, insulted us, rebuked us for being powerless puffs of wind, mere gusset-gusts? Well, it is your turn, good it’s to see you suffer, Animal, limping along with thorns in your paws and waking nightmares, look, here is the poison-khana, you didn’t expect to see it, did you? You are lost in your own jungle. Come, climb it, do, and just try lording it over us this time, climb up to the top and go hang from the moon. Go on, leap off the top and grab hold of the moon. It will feel cool like ice. There, get your paws round the top of it, cling on. What, you are afraid of falling? That your back will break, that you’ll die? What difference, son? Your back’s already broken and you are dying. Feel the datura burning you up, the Nautapa is nothing compared to this heat which eats you from the inside.

I was right to eat the pills, I deserve to die, I should have done it sooner, made an end to myself, all of these things might have been avoided, yes it’s good to be dying for at last I shall be free of myself, of grief, pain, horror, despair, self-loathing there will be an end, and whether there is resurrection or reincarnation, whatever plans angels, devils or gods may have in store, I am never coming back.

At last there is the wall again on the far side, and I’m through a hole in the bricks and ahead is the railway track and on the other side the low roofs of the Nutcracker, as I enter its alleys I sense something going on, the rumble of a crowd, voices raised in argument. What time is it? No using consulting the moon, it has slipped away to the other side of the sky. Hours must have passed. The fire in my guts is growing worse, but some clarity has returned. It will not last long for have I not swallowed thirteen of Faqri’s golis? I am going to die, first I must say goodbye to Jara and to Ma.

“J’entends la voix d’une multitude d’anges et des autres êtres vivants, et leur nombre était des myriades de myriades et des milliers de milliers.” Thus is the old woman shouting. She’s hearing the voice of a horde of angels and other living beings, numbering millions and millions, they are crying out to god, and all the creatures of the air, on the earth and under it, in the sea, are crying. There is a tang in the air, my eyes begin to sting. Why is Ma cooking this late at night? Why is she frying chillies? Coming nearer to the tower, I begin to cough, the chillies are catching in my eyes, my throat, each breath feels like fire, matching the datura blaze in my guts. Still she shouts, “Je regardai, et voici, parut un cheval blanc.” What are you doing you foolish old woman, yelling about white horses and crowns of victory? I know what comes next, it’s the red horse whose rider has a sword to end men’s gorging on one another’s flesh, then a black horse, ridden by one who carries scales of justice. It is not just my eyes and guts which are on fire. There’s a heat on my back, the ground around me is a mass of writhing shadows.