Sniggers come from the local lawyers, the judge is tapping a pencil on his desk, looking irritated. “So have you come to lecture us?” he says. “Or do you have something useful to say?”
“Sir,” says Zafar, “the Kampani chooses to ignore your court, but this same Kampani has many offshoots and subsidiaries trading in India. Our prayer is for you to issue a summons to the Kampani and its named bosses in Amrika, requiring them to submit themselves for trial before this court. If still they do not appear then in accordance with the due provisions of the law, let all the Kampani’s assets in India be attached.”
Well, at this, a couple of the local lawyers start giggling. “Your lordship,” says one, “we have lost count of how many times over the years this petition has been put by Mr. Zafar to your lordship’s learned predecessor in this case, before that to his learned predecessor, going further back, to his predecessor and his too, and so on beyond memory. Always it was deemed devoid of merit.”
Holy cunt, what a twisted nain rabougri is this from our own city to take the side of the Kampani? I’m glaring at this bugger with such hatred, he can surely feel me raal tapko’ing the back of his neck.
So then the judge is looking even grimmer, pencil’s tapping so hard I’m thinking it will make a hole in his desk. The lawyer who spoke is looking smug, now Zafar’ll get what for, here comes a right fucking coup de bec.
Says his lordship, “Are you appearing for the Kampani, Mr. Babulal?”
“No milord.”
“Mr. Babulal, are you familiar with the essays of Francis Bacon?”
“No milord.”
“‘Private opinion is more free, but opinion before others is more reverent.’ Try to remember this, Mr. Babulal.” The judge clears his throat. “Mr. Zafar, let a list of the Kampani’s assets in India be drawn up and entered to the court. This case is adjourned, I will reserve my decision.”
Well, no one can believe what they have just heard. The judge leans back in his chair, like he’s relishing the sensation he has created, then he turns to Babulal and says mischievously, “I will be happy to lend you my Bacon.”
After this, great rejoicing there’s on our side. On the steps of the court Zafar makes a speech. He says, “Friends, the Kampani sitting in Amrika has everything on its side, money, powerful friends in the government and military, expensive lawyers, political masseurs, public relations men. We people have nothing, many of us haven’t an untorn shirt to wear, many of us go hungry, we have no money for lawyer and PR, we have no influential friends.”
“Fuck all do we have,” shouts someone.
“Thank you,” says Zafar, all grinning, and for once does not rebuke the swearer. “Yes, we have nothing and this makes us strong. Not just strong, but invincible. Having nothing, we can never be defeated.”
Some puzzlement there’s, but Zafar rides over it. “The Kampani and its friends seek to wear us down with a long fight, but they don’t understand us, they’ve never come up against people like us before. However long it takes we will never give up. Whatever we had they have already taken, now we are left with nothing. Having nothing means we have nothing to lose. So you see, armed with the power of nothing we are invincible, we are bound to win.”
I’ve not heard this before, I guess it’s Zafar’s new theory, but give it ten days and it will be on everyone’s lips. How happy the bugger is, he wipes his specs. Rewears them. Declares, “Friends, today something new has happened, little enough it may be but we are going to celebrate. We’ll have a picnic. We will take our whole crowd to somewhere outside the city, some spot where there’s trees plus water, we’ll take with us bread and chicken and sweets, we’ll make tea on a fire of sticks.”
On the way home he makes Bhoora stop at a chicken centre and buys two of the biggest, juiciest fowls, not a speck of pink on their wings.
“Bhooré miyañ, here’s one for your daughter-in-law, one for your wife.”
The birds are trussed and thrown, flapping, into the auto behind us.
“Just think,” marvels Bhoora when he has finished thanking Zafar. “After eighteen long years, after all today was the day.”
“We have not won yet,” says Zafar. “But we have to start winning one day. Why not today?”
“Why not today? Why not today?” Nisha and I start chanting. Soon Bhoora and Zafar have joined in. “Why not today? Why not today?” To people in the street, to turbans and dhotis, shalwars and saris, to all the citizens of Khaufpur, we’re calling out, “Hey, hey, why not today?”
Soon after this I have a roundabout of madness. What happens when I go mad, the voices in my head start yelling, new voices come gupping all kinds of weird and fantastic things, words that make no sense, such as “give us a garooli” meaning a cigarette, which I don’t even smoke, or “arelok pesalok shine from your darling arse,” whether it may be some different language I don’t know. Some of these voices I’ve already mentioned. They started when I was small, after I had the fever that bent my back, at that time most were friendly, told me stories, gave advice that saved me from quarrels etc., but they can also be nasty. They’ll tell me to do bad things, or else they will say some evil thing is about to happen which often it will, during these bouts I’ll be light, full of glee, I might do crazy things, I’ll shout out whatever the voices say.
In this particular madness, the voices are yelling and arguing, they make so much noise I can not hear what’s going on around me. It gets so bad I tell Ma. She’s taken me to the big hospital where they say, joking aside, you go in with one illness come out with three. In she marches, me walking on fours at her side like a dog and demands to see the head doctor. “Mon fils est malade, il entend des voix dans sa tête.” No one’s understanding a word except me who’s thinking it’s nice she’s called me her son. Because Ma’s a foreigner and’s making a grand incomprehensible fuss, they don’t kick us out, but take us to the chief doctor, a high professor is he, Khaufpur’s greatest expert on children born damaged by the poison.
This saala, old and fat he’s, a much-writer, a whole row of pens in his shirt pocket, his head is filled with knowledge about the crazy, demented kids of Khaufpur, but never before’s he met anyone like Ma, jabbering in her own tongue, pointing at me. The doctor gives me a brief look then turns to Ma and in a rough way asks, “So what is his problem?”
“What niaiserie is this?” snaps Ma, who’s no doubt thinking that such a big doctor type should make at least some effort to speak like a human being.
“Wants to know what’s wrong with me.”
“J’ai déjà dit!” complains Ma. “Il entend des voix. Il parle avec des gens qui n’existent pas.” Eyes, if you don’t know français, it means, I’ve already said! He hears voices. He talks to people who aren’t there.
“What is she saying?” asks the doctor. “Tell her I am the director of this hospital, she can’t come just like that into this office.”
“She says she has come because people say you are a great physician, the best in Khaufpur.”
At once this bastard’s all smiles. “Madam, I do my best.” He sends a self-satisfied smirk her way, totally ignoring me. “Normally you would need an appointment, but we are not inflexible. So, dear lady what can I do for you?”
“Such guttural baliverne can you follow?” asks Ma, she has got used to the idea that I can somehow interpret the bêtises of the Khaufpuris.
“He is placing himself at your service Ma, see how he’s making eyes, I think maybe he has fallen in love with you.”