Uday Prakash - The Walls of Delhi

The man with the bag in his hand walks ten steps down the darkness of bylane seven and, halting in front of the ditch, removes a pint bottle of Bonnie Scot, and downs it in one go, before tossing away the empty bottle and pissing in the ditch. The man is Chandrakant Thorat.

Even though he was middle-aged, Chandrakant enjoyed new Indy Pop like ‘Jhanjar wali hoke matvali’ and ‘Channave ghar aa jaave. ’ It was funny that the favourite music of Chandrakant, who spoke pidgin Marathi and just passable Hindi, was Panjabi pop music. And whenever love stirred in his heart for Shobha, his wife, the emotion found expression in Panjabi: Baby, baby, what can I do? My heart’s horn honks when I see your pretty face! You oughta hear it, baby! You gotta hear it, baby! Shobha responded, chiding him, ‘Coming home drunk again? How many times have I told you, drink as much as you’d like, but do it at home. If anything ever happened to you, I’d end up like our lady of the night! Then what?’

These words sobered him up instantly. He certainly didn’t want to die and force his wife to rely on kind-hearted men.

‘You just doused my Bonnie Scot with bitter herbs. Make me some food. I’ve got to go to work early tomorrow.’ Then Chandrakant was silent. He hung his head low as he ate, stretched and yawned, then lay down to sleep on the mat on the floor. She ate afterwards, then did household chores late into the night, washing dishes, chopping vegetables for the morning, ironing Chandrakant’s pants and shirt, until finally, at midnight, she sat by the outdoor tap and bathed. By the time she finished her work, humming some old song while she adjusted the fan on top of the trunk, Chandrakant was already snoring. RUNNING OFF WITH SHOBHA

Shobha and Chandrakant had been living together for some thirty years. Chandrakant had fled with her from Sarani where she had been living with her husband, Ramakant.

Ramakant had no job and no skills: he ran around wherever he could to try and get a small piece of the action. He was addicted to playing the market, and also worked part-time for the police as a false witness. Those days, the eyes of a certain police inspector had fallen on Shobha; every night, the inspector came over to their house to drink and eat. Every night for three months, the middle-aged inspector’s lust fell on Shobha. Those three tortuous months in Shobha’s life were worse than hell. He arrived at the house around nine at night; as soon as he stepped in the door he took off his uniform and hung it on a peg. Now down to his sweaty, smelly, dirty undershirt and brown, greasy shorts, he took a seat on the little mat on the floor, and forbade the outside door to be closed because then there would be no breeze to cool him down. Ramakant served the inspector as if he were his butler, running back and forth to the kitchen and market for salty namkeen snacks, hard-boiled eggs, and, whenever the need arose, another bottle of hooch. Ramakant also kept his glass nearby, so whenever he had a free moment after running around fetching things for the inspector, he sat down next to the inspector and joined him for a shot. He was proud of those moments; they were a real honour and treat. He laughed and joked with the inspector, and chided his wife Shobha — ‘Hurry up, squeeze the lemon, bring the snacks! Inspector sahib likes green chilies. Thinly, cut them thinly!’ Or, ‘Don’t just toss the dish on the floor! Place it in the man’s hand, nicely, gently, that’s it. And what happened to the coriander? Didn’t I just buy two bunches for inspector sahib to enjoy?’

‘Ramakant, how about one more?’ the inspector said. ‘And give your better half something to drink, too. Tomorrow a friend of mine is coming. We’ll have a party!’ the inspector said.

Ramakant’s face lit up at the mention of a party. A party meant he would get to eat mutton or chicken, with plenty of snacks, too, plus more good booze. On top of that, he was always able to ferret away a few rupees from the money the inspector gave him for the food and drink.

‘Consider it done, sahib! So will it be mutton or chicken? Should I have her make fish or pakoras to go with the drinks? She’s a fantastic cook. How much meat, four pounds or five? And how much whisky d’you think’ll be necessary?’ He grinned shamelessly and added, ‘See, if there’s any food left over it’ll be a big help the next day. After a big party Shobha’s in no shape at all until two or three in the afternoon.’

After getting drunk, the inspector might launch into song, or start hurling vile curses. He had convinced himself that Shobha was thrilled to have found such a robust specimen of a man as he, and one with money, too — particularly after playing long-suffering wife to the penniless, shiftless, good-for-nothing Ramakant. The inspector also came to accept that in her heart of hearts, Shobha fancied him indeed. And once the inspector understood this, he stepped up his abuse of Ramakant, chastising and reprimanding him at every word, pausing to fasten his gaze on Shobha, to whom he started sweet-talking. It transpired that since she was little she had a soft spot for dark gulab jamun, not to mention her other favourite sweet: rabri-ilichi kulfi. How was this loser going to procure such sweetmeats for Shobha? The inspector at once sent Ramakant out to fetch the delicacies. As soon as he was out the door, the inspector drew her near.

His hairy potbelly poked out from a filthy, stinking undershirt, underneath which he grabbed Shobha’s head and brought it to his sweaty, soiled crotch. Her every breath caught a second stench of the raw sewage rivulets that crisscrossed the neighbourhood. She nearly retched on the spot. The inspector stroked her hair as he swigged from the bottle. Sounds issued from her mouth as if she were getting the sour taste of a lemon and the hot part of a chili both at once. The door to the outside was left open, a fact that late-night passers-by often noticed. Moreover, the little vacant patch of land in front of the house was a popular spot for people to stop and answer the call of nature. Here, in perfect darkness, a crush of young nogoodniks, out for a midnight stroll, gathered by the house of police flunky Ramakant to watch live porn.

‘Party night’ meant that the inspector brought a buddy. Those nights, Shobha endured inhuman torment and suffering. After getting well drunk, the men let loose the beast within. And in that room, Shobha fell victim to the violence of the wild animals and the frenzy they unleashed. Once they got going, they sang, drank more, praised the fish pakoras to high heaven, laughed and giggled, groped and fondled Shobha, squeezed and pinched. Ramakant encouraged them in all this.

A fat and flabby fair-skinned contractor was brought to one such party by the inspector. He was in his late fifties, early sixties. That night they had even set up a VCR to watch porn; back then, VCRs had just come out and could be rented in the bazaar. Leering at the stunning Shobha, he casually let slip that this year he was going to be elected as municipal councillor, having locked up all the votes from this neighbourhood and the surrounding ones.

That night Shobha was taken to the gates of hell. The contractor and inspector committed unnatural acts, including the contractor inserting a beer bottle in her rectum. The inspector laughed, ‘What the heck are you doing!?’

‘What am I doing?’ The contractor overflowed with delight. ‘Just a little drilling from the back side to bore a big hole so that the motor’ll hum from the under side! I’ve got a twenty-horsepower tractor!’ Shobha gasped for breath, blood dripping on the rug and floor, while porn flashed on the TV. Unconsciousness relieved her from the torments. It was nearly four in the morning when the inspector and contractor finally made their way home. Shobha was greeted with splitting pain when she came to; she wanted to get up and get dressed and wash off the blood and semen. She found Ramakant mounting her. She gave him a kick. Then, in fits and groans, she found the bucket of water kept just outside the front door and began washing herself, not a stitch of clothing covering her body.