Aravind Adiga - Between the Assassinations

He waited till noon, and then a man came out. From the number of people following him, Chenayya thought he must be the big man. He went running past the guards and got down on his knees:

“Sir! I want to work.”

The man stared at him. The guards came running up to drag Chenayya back, but the big man said:

“I have two thousand workers, and not one of them wants to work, and here is this man, down on his knees, begging for work. That’s the attitude we need to move this country forward.”

He pointed at Chenayya. “You won’t get offered any long-term contract. Understand? Day by day.”

“Anything, anything you want.”

“What kind of work can you do?”

“Anything, anything you want.”

“All right, come back tomorrow. We don’t need a coolie right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

The big man took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

“Hear what this man has to say,” he said, as a group of other men, who were also smoking, gathered around him.

And Chenayya repeated that he would do anything, under any conditions, for any sort of pay.

“Say it again!” the big man ordered, and another group of men came up and listened to Chenayya.

That evening, he came back to Mr. Ganesh Pai’s shop and shouted at the other workers, “I’ve found a real job, you motherfuckers. I’m out of here.”

The Tamilian boy alone cautioned him. “Chenayya, why don’t you wait a day and make sure the other job is good? Then you can quit here.”

“Nothing doing, I quit!” he yelled, and walked away.

The next day at dawn, he was back at the factory gate. “I want to see the big man,” he said, shaking the bars of the gate for attention. “He told me to come today.”

The guard, who was reading the newspaper, looked up at him fiercely. “Get out!”

“Don’t you remember me? I came-”

“Get out!”

He waited near the gate; after an hour it opened, and a car with tinted windows pulled out. Running side by side with the car, he banged on the windows. “Sir! Sir! Sir!” A dozen hands seized him from behind; he was shoved to the ground and kicked.

When Chenayya wandered back to Mr. Pai’s shop that evening, the Tamilian boy was waiting for him. He said, “I never told the boss you quit.”

The other cart pullers did not tease Chenayya that night. One of them left him a bottle of liquor, still half full.

The rain fell without pause. He rode his cycle through the downpour, splashing down the road. He wore a long white plastic sheet over his body like a shroud; a black cloth tied it around his head, giving it the look of an Arab’s cape and caftan.

This was the most dangerous time for the coolies. Wherever the road was broken up into a pothole, he had to slow down to avoid tipping his cycle-cart over.

Waiting at the traffic intersection, he saw to his left a fat kid sitting on the seat of an autorickshaw. The rain made him playful; he stuck out his tongue at the fellow. The boy did likewise, and the game went on for several turns, until the autorickshaw driver chided the boy and glared at Chenayya.

The pain in his neck began biting again. I can’t go on like this, he thought.

From across the road, one of the other cart pullers, a young boy, drove his cart alongside Chenayya’s. “Have to deliver this fast and get back,” he said. “Boss said he’s depending on me to be back within an hour.” He grinned, and Chenayya wanted to shove his fist into the grin. God, how full of suckers the world is, he thought, counting to ten to calm himself. How happy this boy seemed to be, to destroy himself with overwork. You baboon! he wanted to shout. You and all the others! Baboons!

He put his head down, and suddenly it seemed a great strain to move the cart.

“You’ve got no air in one tire!” the baboon shouted. “You’ll have to stop!” He grinned and rode on.

Stop? Chenayya thought. No, that is what a baboon would do: not me. Putting his head down, he pedaled on, forcing his flat tire along:

Move!

And slowly and noisily, rattling its old wheels and its unoiled chains, the cart moved.

It’s raining now, Chenayya thought, lying in his cart that night, a plastic sheet over him to protect him from the rain. That means half the year is over. It must be June or July. I must be nearly thirty now.

He pulled the sheet down, and lifted his head to relieve the pain in his neck. He could not believe his eyes: even in this rain, some motherfucker was flying a kite! It was the kid with the black kite. As if taunting the heavens, the lightning, to come strike him. Chenayya watched, and forgot his pain.

In the morning, two men in khaki uniforms came into the alley: autorickshaw drivers. They had come to wash their hands in the tap at the end of the alley. The cart pullers instinctively moved to the side and let the two men in uniforms through. As they washed their hands, Chenayya heard them talk about an autorickshaw driver who had been locked up by the police for hitting a customer.

“Why not?” one autorickshaw driver said to the other. “He had every right to hit that man! I only wish he had gone further, and killed that bastard before the police got to him!”

After brushing his teeth, Chenayya went to the lottery seller. A boy, a total stranger, was sitting at the desk, kicking his legs merrily.

“What happened to the old fellow?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Gone into politics.”

The boy described what had happened to the old seller. He had joined the campaign of a BJP candidate for the Corporation elections. His candidate was likely to win in the elections. Then he would sit on the veranda of the candidate’s house; if you wanted to see the politician, you would have to pay the old seller fifty rupees first.

“That’s the politician’s life-it’s the fastest way to get rich,” the boy said. He flipped through his colored paper pieces. “What’ll you have, uncle? A yellow? Or a green?”

Chenayya turned away without buying any of the colored tickets.

Why, he thought that night, can’t that be me-the fellow who goes into politics to get rich? He did not want to forget what he had just heard, so he pinched himself sharply at the ankle.

It was Sunday again. His free day. Chenayya woke up when it got too hot, then brushed his teeth lazily, looking up to see if kites were flying in the sky. The other pullers were going to see the new Hoyka temple that the member of Parliament had opened, just for Hoykas, with their own Hoyka deity and Hoyka priests.

“Aren’t you coming, Chenayya?” the others shouted to him.

“What has any god ever done for me?” he shouted back; they giggled at his recklessness.

Baboons, he thought, as he lay down in the cart again. Going to worship some statue in a temple, thinking it’ll make them rich.

Baboons!

He lay with one arm over his face; then he heard the tinkling of coins.

“Come over, Kamala,” he called out to the prostitute, who was in her usual spot, playing with the coins. When he taunted her for the sixth time, she snapped:

“Get lost, or I’ll call Brother.”

At this reference to the kingpin who ran the brothels in this part of town, Chenayya sighed and turned over in his cart.

He thought, Perhaps it is time for me to get married.

He had lost contact with all his relatives; plus he did not actually want to get married. Bring children-into what future? That was the most baboonlike thing the other coolies did: procreate, as if to say they were satisfied with their fate, they were happy to replenish the world that had consigned them to this task.