Never had I heard him utter so much, nor had ever he addressed so many words to me, I sat thrilled as he spoke on, until at last he came to an end, gave me a friendly look and said, still without a smile, “Please don’t mention this conversation to anyone else, especially to Nisha, I know you are close to her, if I talk to her of such things she becomes afraid that I am losing my wits. But I understand that you too have a power of hearing, so you will understand.”
Actually what I understood was never mind bicycles, if the poor sod hears music in such things as bhutt-bhutt-pigs, he must be fully fishguts. If he had not been such a forbidding man with good reason to have lost his noddle I might have made a joke of it, but on every subject other than music he was totally sane, and the fact that he was Nisha’s dad, plus I had my lunch every day in his kitchen were good reasons to be civil.
On a morning of rain, cloud horses pissing in the eye of the world, Nisha says to me, “Animal, coming to the court?” Seems there’s yet another hearing in the case against the Kampani. I’ve no particular love of the court, who’ve seen more than enough of it in my scamming days, but “Why not?” I hear myself say. “I’ve nothing better to do.” Well, it’s Nisha.
Normally Nisha would have gone on Zafar’s motorbike, but today as there’s three of us, we take Bhoora’s auto. Eyes, you want to know what is an auto, it’s a scooter-rickshaw with three wheels, except the way Khaufpuris drive they spend more time on two. Bhoora hangs round the Chicken Claw, if you see a guy curled up asleep in the back of his auto, spirals of orange peel on the ground nearby, you can be sure it’s Bhoora. Wake him up his deep-set eyes will open and look at you as if you’re part of his dream, then slowly he’ll start to grin. “Kyoñ Khãn, aaj kahaañ chalogé?” So, brother, where to today?
The three of us are in the back of the auto, Zafar is looking at papers, Nisha’s just gazing at the passing city and I am pressed tight between them feeling the warmth of her thigh against my hip. Things start happening in my kakadu shorts, relief it’s when Bhoora from the driver’s seat turns to engage Zafar in conversation.
“So Zafar brother, will there be some progress in the case?”
“Who can tell?” says Zafar, flipping over pages. “One day something must surely happen, why not today?”
“That’s a fine philosophy,” says Bhoora. “Me, I’d have long ago given up.”
“Giving up is not Zafar’s style,” says Nisha from the danger side.
“Eighteen years, it’s the lifetime of my eldest,” says Bhoora. “Boy’s just got married, his wife has a liking for chicken, daily it’s Selim get me a chicken, and make sure it has no pink feathers.” Bhoora swerves to miss an onrushing bhutt-bhutt-pig. “How is the boy to afford any chicken let alone a non-pink one?” Eyes, I should explain that at Khaufpuri chicken centres they put a pink mark on yesterday’s birds, which are cheaper because they’ve been in the cages an extra day, it makes them taste not so good.
“Bhooré miyañ,” says Nisha, “you can’t blame the girl for being used to good things. This is your fault for finding him a wife with expensive tastes.” She leans past me and gives Zafar a smile which turns my stomach.
“So what’s he doing now, your son?” asks Zafar with a chuckle.
“Zafar bhai, he wants to be an engineer, but I told him, all such fancy ideas forget, learn to drive an auto, it’s not such a bad life.”
“Auto driving is honest work,” says Zafar, “but an engineer’s wife could eat chicken twice a day.” I can hear the bugger’s mind churning, he’s thinking how he can help Bhoora’s son find the money for training. No wonder people adore him.
“At least I now know what advice to give,” says Bhoora. “Zafar bhai says tell your wife that one day she will surely have chicken, just she may have to wait eighteen years.”
The case is supposed to start in court two, Naya Adalat, at ten o’clock. Quarter to ten we are outside, half past ten we’re still waiting. There’s just Nisha, Zafar and me. No sign of judge, lawyers. Defendants are a whole nother joke, eighteen years late, what’s a few more minutes?
“Such a faith in the law my dad has,” says Nisha, “he should see this.” She tosses her hair, which is a thing girls learn to do from the movies to show they’re annoyed, then gives a little glance at Zafar. I really hate seeing her look to him for approval, but Zafar just nods, again checks the clock.
I’ve tugged his trouser to get his attention. “Why don’t you wear a watch?”
“What, and handcuff myself to time?” He gives me a grin. He’s thinking, I guess, that I’ll ask him to explain, so I don’t ask.
Nisha leans against Zafar and closes her eyes, putain strokes her hair.
“In this very court,” I say to break the fucking spell, “I used to be a mystery defendant.” So then they want to know how, when, why etcetera, and I’ve done the voices.
— Case against boy known as Animal, section chaar sau bees.
— Where is the accused?
— Your honour he is here.
— Where? I don’t see him.
— Right here, your honour, in the dock.
— Don’t be silly. I am looking at the dock, there’s no one there.
— Your honour, accused is of unusual stature.
Zafar’s chuckling. Nisha pats my shoulder. “Such a fool.”
“Not such a fool,” says Zafar. “Empty dock’s our problem too.”
Ten to eleven the judge finally turned up, arrived too are some local lawyer types in black suits. “New judge,” sighs Nisha. “I was four years old when this case began, now it’s had thirteen judges.”
“Lucky for some.” I’ve climbed on the backs of the public seats, which is the only way I can catch a sight of the new milord, plus it brings my head close to Nisha’s. She turns and smiles at me. Every bad thought about her and Zafar, they are instantly forgotten.
The judge is sat wrapped in a black robe looking serious, the legal types are gathered in front of him, talking loudly.
“I just wish…” says Nisha, again turning her head to me, I can smell the sweetness of her breath. “Yes?” But she’s abruptly stopped because a familiar voice is speaking. It’s Zafar. He introduces himself, seems he’s an intervenor in the case. Zafar’s specs are flashing, beard’s jutting, he says he has a petition to put, at which a couple of the local lawyers start giggling.
“My lord,” says Zafar, “there are two sets of defendants in this case, first there are the local accused, employees of the Kampani, their personal defence lawyers are here before you. Then there are the Amrikan accused, ergo the Kampani itself plus the big bosses who took the crucial decisions. For the past eighteen years these Amrikan defendants have not shown up in this court. They have not even bothered to send lawyers. They sit in Amrika claiming this court has no jurisdiction over them, yet nothing can be achieved without them being here, thus these proceedings drag on and on, for the people of this city justice continues to be delayed and denied.”
“I have done my homework Mr. Zafar,” says the judge drily. “What is your point?”
“My point, sir, is that thousands in this city have died since that night, for them was no justice. The factory is abandoned full of chemicals which as we speak are poisoning the water of thousands more. Must all perish before these Amrikan defendants appear? Speaking plainly, with no disrespect to you, I think in no other country would the law be allowed to become such a farce, if the will existed to resolve this matter, it could have been done long ago.”