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“Zafar brother,” says Farouq. “These ‘yous’ and ‘yours’ make me feel sick in the gut. Let the Kampani say what it likes, who’ll believe? People here know the truth.”

“You are the Kampani,” says Zafar, showing no sympathy for Farouq’s gut. “Thousands more claim that your factory has poisoned their water and made them sick. To refute them you’ll say that whatever may be in the wells, it does not come from the factory, that the chemicals in the factory don’t cause those kinds of illnesses. To make such arguments you need facts and figures. You need case histories, a health survey. Now do you see? Abracadabra-funtootallamish! Out of the blue appears an Amrikan to start a health laboratory.”

Everyone’s nodding, but my instinct says Zafar is wrong. Blue-legs does not fit my idea of a Kampani person and I’m not the only one who thinks this.

Says Somraj, “There may be other explanations. We know nothing yet about this person. She may have no connection with the Kampani.”

“You are right, abba.” Zafar’s polite as ever, but so deeply does he hate the very shadow of the Kampani that until the mystery’s explained, for him it will remain a conspiracy. “You are right, but before we can discover the truth the damage could be done. There’s too much at stake. We need to plan.”

One morning a cycle rickshaw struggles up with a sign balanced across the back, so big that it’s sticking out on both sides like an aeroplane’s wings. On the sign is written KHAUFPUR FREE CLINIC, plus below in smaller letters, DOCTOR ELLI BARBER.

It isn’t a health laboratory but a clinic, and not just any clinic, we soon learn, but a well-equipped modern clinic such as scumbags like us have never known. The Khaufpur Gazette runs an article. DOCTOR OFFERS NEW HOPE TO POISON VICTIMS. According to the paper, the Chief Minister has given his blessing, says the clinic is a great and wonderful act of charity by a good-hearted doctor, this Amrikan, Elli Barber.

“Sounds like Ali Baba,” says Nisha, Zafar laughs but not very happily.

The clinic is to be opened by Zahreel Khan, Minister for Poison Relief. That motherfucker’s involvement plus the CM’s blessing confirms all Zafar’s worst suspicions.

“Praise from that quarter does not come free. What’s happening?”

One morning there’s a snarl-up in the street. A truck carrying bales of cotton has got itself jammed beneath a tree branch. Coming the opposite way is a bullock cart carrying four men and a strange curved case of polished wood, very large, that sticks out behind. Cart can’t move forward, motorbikes and autos are jamming the road behind, terrific jackass-braying of horns there’s.

The doors of the clinic fly open. Out steps Elli Barber, stands with hands on hips taking in the confusion. The truck driver’s got down from his cab and is looking at the tree, auto-wallahs are mingling abuse and advice. Next thing this Elli’s walked right into the middle of the mess.

“Okay, okay! everyone calm down! You sir, if you could jump up there, loosen the bale, driver-ji you move the truck back twenty feet.”

To the master of the bullock cart she says, “If you just back up a few feet the autos will be able to squeeze through.”

“Madam,” says he, marvelling at this Hindi-speaking foreigner, “hardly is this some fancy car-shaar, a bullock cart it’s.” He gives a roar of laughter and winks at the men behind him. “It has no reverse gear.”

“So,” says she, “it needs some help. Come on.” She’s caught the bullocks by their nosebands and begun shoving. The men on the cart jump down to lend their shoulders. Bystanders are laughing, bullocks look amazed, they roll their eyes and toss their heads, slowly, slowly the wheels begin creaking backwards. This is not to the liking of the carter, who’s now looking foolish. “Just how am I supposed to steer?” So this Elli’s jumped up on the cart. “Move over,” she says and takes the ropes. Standing on the cart, gliding slowly backwards, she sees me chuckling and gives me a grin. But I can read feelings and it comes to me, my god, she’s terrified.

“Bravo,” I call out. “Brave you’re.”

“Can’t have them damaging my piano.” Next thing she’s jumped down and’s fussing round the men lifting the wooden case off the cart. It looks like a strange shaped coffin. The dammed up traffic begins pouring past. I’ve dodged my way across the lane through a frenzy of horns.

“Excuse me. What is a piano?”

Closer up she doesn’t seem so glamorous. Her two eyes are set a little bit close to her nose, but wah! those legs! right now’s their V just in front of my face. Voices in my head start making filthy comments.

“It’s a musical instrument,” says Elli Barber. Seeing I’m none the wiser she explains, “It has keys. You press them to get the notes.”

“Black and white keys?” Pandit Somraj in his house has a harmonium with such keys.

“That’s right.” She steps back and’s staring at me like she did the first time. “Your back. How long’s it been this way?”

“Long as I can remember.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

“Fuck should I know?” The rough words just jump out. After the grand children’s doctor, I’ve vowed never again to talk of my back.

“Has no doctor ever explained?” she asks, unfazed by my rudeness.

“What’s the point?”

“You see, if we knew why—”

I’ve turned and walked away on my hands and feet. Fuck and bugger why, such unanswerable questions just lead to discussions about the nature of god.

After some time I look back. The men are trying to squeeze the piano box through her doors, but she isn’t watching them, she’s looking at me. It’s that stare, we call it ghurr ghurr. Of a sudden her eyes from across the street seem to grow larger, a voice inside my head says, She will change your life!

When I regain my senses, I’m in Somraj’s house, with Nisha bent over me. “What happened, darling, we were so worried about you?”

What happened? At the moment I heard the voice speak those words I turned and dived in pursuit of it. The universe with all its stars and galaxies is a pinhead compared to the space inside the mind. Into that deep abyss I went diving, chasing the voice which fled away downwards squeaking like a bat. I flew through clouds of voices, must have been millions of them, only one comment do I remember. You got angry because when you looked at her you thought sex, when she looked at you she thought cripple.

“Some men brought you here,” Nisha says. “Along with that foreign woman from across the road. She said sorry for not taking you inside her place, it is not ready. She thinks you had a fit, but you don’t have fits, do you darling?” Nisha’s long hair as she bends over me, touches my face. Forget legs, forget sex, sweeter by far is love.

Doesn’t bear a grudge, Elli doctress. Next time I see her she gives a big smile. “Hello Animal, how’s tricks?” How did she find out my name? Elli always seems to be laughing. She’s a loud voice, isn’t shy to call out greetings in the street. Soon the entire basti knows her to say hello. Next she’s hired some staff for her clinic, we get to know them as well. There’s Dayanand the manager, Suresh compounder plus an Anglo-Indian lady called Miriam Joseph, wears dresses with large flowers.

When Miriam Joseph sees me she says, “Animal, isn’t it? Y’all remember me? I’d see all of y’all when I came to mass in the convent, my, how the world’s changed.” She scratches her armpit, looking sad, so I guess the convent is just not the same without Ma and me. Miriam must have told Elli my name so that small mystery is solved. Just leaves the big one.

Everyone is buzzing about the clinic. Why should such a thing be started in Khaufpur by an Amrikan woman? On whose behalf has she come? Seems Zafar’s suspicions have spread for there’s murmuring that Elli doctress, it’s what the Khaufpuris call her, has been sent by the Kampani.