Jeet Thayil - Narcopolis

‘Don’t worry, miya, it’s halal,’ said Pasina.

‘More merciful than halal, my yaar, this is quicker,’ said Kaanya.

‘And the patrakars will make some smart headlines about the Pathar Maar, stone killer this and stone killer that,’ said Salim.

‘Everybody’s happy, even the patharwallah,’ said Pasina.

Then, laughing redly, he added, ‘I think this fellow is nice and relaxed now. You should get high more often, miya, it suits you.’

*

They left him tied up, retching dry when there was nothing left to vomit. They left him on the floor with the door open and they went to Shuklaji Street, stopping for jalebis, which they wolfed from newspapers, the jalebis unusually yellow today, egg-yellow and very sweet, hot from the deep fry. They stood in the crowd, three happy men working their jaws, saying nothing while they ate. Salim ate his from the outside in, saving for the end the knotted bits at the centre, where the sugar syrup was thickest. After the jalebis, they had a glass each of masala tea, and they were ready. They borrowed a cab from Kaanya’s brother and drove to Khalid’s house. They waited until his son came home in his blue shorts and shirt, his big school bag full of books. They picked him up and put him in the car and — this was Pasina’s idea — they left the school bag on the sidewalk in front of the house.

Salim’s friends drove the boy, nine years old, asthmatic, too well behaved to be frightened, to Pune, about six or seven hours away on the national highway. They checked into a guest house on MG Road and for the next few days they went to the movies, two, sometimes three screenings a day. They saw Star with Kumar Gaurav, music by Biddu. No good, Pasina told Salim on the phone. Budhu should stick to what he knows, Tina Charles and disco. He’s useless when it comes to Hindi. The songs are pure dinchak, no heart, yaar. Even the bachcha was bored.

‘Biddu.’

‘Arre, yaar, Sallu, I know his name. Budhu, Biddu, he’s still a fool.’

They saw Desh Premee , with Kaanya’s favourite actor, and Salim’s: Amitabh Bachchan. Amitji with a meesha and what a meesha, said Pasina, like a skinny dead caterpillar on his upper lip, even Kaanya was disappointed. Pasina’s one-line review was categorical: Believe it, total flop it will be because of the choothiya moustache. They saw Namak Halal and Shakti , both starring Amitabh with Smita Patil, whom Pasina called a ‘dusky up-and-comer’, a phrase he’d found in a film magazine. The two movies received good reviews from the kidnappers. Even the bachcha liked, Pasina said. Still a kid, can’t stand up straight and piss, but you should have seen him looking at Smitaji: his eyes were like headlights.

Salim called Khalid a day or two after his son had been taken, called him a few times a day, at strange hours, with updates about the boy. ‘Bachcha has asthma, poor fellow, he needs constant care.’ ‘Looks like your boy takes after you, stubborn as hell.’ ‘Eats a lot, too much, you ask me.’ Khalid said in reply: ‘Please.’ It was all he had time for before Salim ended the call. So when, five days after the boy was taken, the kidnappers gave him a chance to talk, Khalid had a lot to say, and it took a little less than a week for Rashid to reopen his shop.

At first she continued to smoke opium, using garad only occasionally, but very soon — she was surprised how soon — she was smoking only garad. She made the pipe for customers and she lost interest in smoking it herself. Suddenly it seemed as if everybody had switched to powder, the customers, the pipemen, even Rashid, who hated it but smoked all the same. Then Salim brought her maal from a new source. It had a new name, Chemical. The first time she tried it, she felt something shut down, her nervous system, maybe, or her brain, some motor somewhere. She felt herself slipping through the mat into the floor. Below was a thick layer of cotton wool and below that were the blue pools of her nightmares. She was awake but removed from her body and she could no more have lifted her hand than fly. The deeper she sank into the water, the easier it was to sink; it was very easy, it took no effort at all. She settled heavily to the bottom of the pool, where she lay inert and comfortable, like the creatures that stirred around her. The nearest had an old man’s head, Mr Lee’s head, which turned or swivelled to her and said, I’ve been waiting for you. Do you know why I’m at the bottom of this pool? She knew, of course she did, but she couldn’t speak. Because you broke your promise, Mr Lee said. Because you lied to me. You said you were my daughter but you didn’t act as a daughter should. You abandoned me. You know that, don’t you? Dimple nodded her head. You said you would take my ashes to China but you didn’t. Do you even know where they are? No, Father Lee, I don’t, she said at last. She noticed that his face was not wet exactly but covered in tiny bubbles and she noticed that the water was getting colder. Do you know why I’m here? To remind me, she said. To make sure I never forget. You’re right about that. Oh yes, this time you’ve got it. Which was when she realized that he was speaking perfect English and she wondered if he had always had the ability to do so and had simply chosen not to. I’m here because my spirit has not been able to travel to its rightful place, he said. I’ve left my body or my body has left me, which is the first death. The second death occurs when those who love us and are loved by us also die, or forget, and our names are no longer spoken. Spirits such as mine must wait — it could be we have unfinished business, or we died violently, or were not given a proper burial, or our clothes were not burned with us — for whatever reason, we must wait, and the only way we can exist is in water. Otherwise we would disappear. I don’t like it. I smoke Chinese opium, the best opium in the world: of course I hate water. But I must live here if I am to live. Can you imagine what a trial it is? Can you imagine how infuriating? Of course you can’t, you’re one of the living, said Mr Lee with such contempt that Dimple flinched. Okay, enough for now, I’ll stop talking.Good, said Dimple, because you’ve said a lot, you really have. She noticed that the water was icy and she could no longer feel her limbs. But Mr Lee hadn’t finished. One last thing: you have to carry me, take me on your back because my leg’s still broken. Nothing changes when you die, except you can’t do half the things you used to and the other half you no longer have any interest in. Oh, and you have to live in this cold, cold water. She put him on her back, he weighed nothing, and they floated to the surface, where he bobbed and breathed but refused to let her go. He grabbed her face and whispered into her ear. Come back to see me and I’ll give you a chance to unbreak your promise. And then he swam agilely away. It was at this moment, as she felt herself sinking again, that her lungs began to fill with water and she knew she must wake up or die.

*

It was difficult to buy fruits and vegetables, but garad was available in plenty. Someone told her not to go out. A mob had set fire to the police station and there were armed gangs hunting for people to burn and rape. The man told her how the riots started, because of a rumour that a Hindu family of six had been burned alive, and the killers were Muslim, and the children’s screams could be heard far away. It was only a rumour but now there were real fires all over the city, though Shuklaji Street was so far untouched. When Dimple went out, she noticed that the only people walking around in numbers were the garadulis, as if they’d been touched by the hands of a god more powerful than the gods who were on fire, and because they’d been touched by a great god they were untouchable by the hands of men. At Salim’s she smoked Chemical, very little, because she knew how to use it now, she knew to respect it. She asked Salim, Why is it so strong? They put rat poison in it, he told her, and the strychnine gives the maal its kick. He said, Don’t worry, it won’t kill us, we’re not rats. But looking at him, she was not sure this was true. He had lost weight. His teeth protruded and his whiskers were short and bristly, like fresh stitches on his face. She thought: How quickly he’s aged. And: I have too. The window was open and she caught the smell of petrol and burning rubber. Who are they killing, she asked him, Muslims or Hindus?