“It’s because the greatest and best pleasure of life is available freely to the poor as to the rich, it’s that famous thrill for which all humans are crazy. Rich and powerful people risk everything for it, yet it can equally be enjoyed by the destitute.”
Farouq who up till now hasn’t said anything decides this is the moment to chip in. “In such pleasures Animal is the expert, should see how he ogles the Amrikan doctress. Ask him yourself if it isn’t true.”
Nisha picks up her bag and says, “Okay, I have to go.”
Zafar squeezes her hand, a look passes between them, Eyes, it smashes me up inside. With a wave she’s gone out into the alley.
“Shabaash Farouq,” I say, “you got rid of Nisha.”
“Say, Zafar brother,” insists Gaurilal, “isn’t it true what I just said?”
Says Zafar, “Not exactly, Gauri brother. For the rich sex is an indulgence, it’s in the homes of the poor that it becomes an art.” Always he’s trying to find new reasons to praise the poor.
“What? Are you saying that for the poor sex is better?” It’s me.
“Fuck do you know about it?” sneers Farouq.
“My god, I love these philosophy discussions,” says Gaurilal, scratching his head. Other fools are grinning. They’ll wag their heads and say wah wah but haven’t a clue what’s going on.
“Look,” says Zafar, “suppose you’re a young couple. It’s spring and desire is rushing through your veins. Lying side by side, you reach out and touch one another under the sheet. But you have to be careful, ma-in-law’s bundled up asleep just a few feet away. Your brother’s kids are sleeping in the same room. You must wait till everyone else is asleep, and after you’ve lain quietly awake trying to reckon their breathing, you’re obliged to proceed with minimum movement, no scrapes or rustles, uttering not the smallest sound. To be erotic in such circumstances, this is what makes it an art.”
“Might even be,” says Gaurilal, “that these very restrictions on the poor, need for breath-control plus twisting about of the body to fit cramped and unlikely spaces, are what gave rise to yoga.”
Zafar thinks about this for a while, he’s removed his glasses and polished them on his shirt-tail, then he replaces them and says, “No, I do not think so.”
Well, the big flaw in Zafar’s theory is that it’s wrong. No one else will point this out, so it’s up to me. “Zafar brother, kids from the Nutcracker get used to hearing their mothers and aunts sighing, ‘Oh baba,’ plus whispers of ‘do it more quietly,’ they have to learn to keep shut and not giggle.”
So then Zafar claims his theory is not spoiled by such cynicism, on the contrary it proves that the poor have further virtues. As well as being modest, inventive and long-suffering, they are also discreet and keep a sense of humour in the face of their troubles. He speaks of how people whose lungs were ruined by the Kampani’s poisons, who have difficulty just breathing, still manage to laugh. But when Zafar talks like this it’s not the laughter of the poor I hear, it’s the laughter of the Kampani that slaughtered them.
Later, lying alone in my bed in the ruined tower, listening to the scorpions making their tiny sounds in the walls, the question suddenly strikes me, how does Zafar know so much about tiny rustling of sheets, harsh breaths etc., plus the need to keep totally silent during sex. Then of course I remember Somraj’s ability to hear the smallest sounds.
TAPE NINE
Going up the mango put the idea into my head, I swear that’s where it came from, until then I had never seen the frangipani in Somraj’s garden as anything but a tree. Beautiful white flowers it had, with yellow hearts full of scent, and if angels had breath their breath would be like the deep joy of those flowers, but it was still just a tree. Only after the mango adventure did I notice that this frangipani had a smooth trunk, no thorns or prickly bits, that its branches began low and would be dead easy to climb, plus a large branch was swaying only a few feet from Nisha’s bedroom window.
Now as I’m looking at this tree, it occurs to me that I could climb up and just check on what she and Zafar were getting up to in there. Is this so wrong? I need to be certain that brother Zafar isn’t taking advantage, I just want to be sure. If I climb this tree it’s not to spy on Nisha but to guard her honour. You could even say it’s a duty. I owe it to Nisha. Girl like her, from a good family, she should save her chastity for marriage. If it becomes known that she’s been playing around, who’d marry her?
Who’d marry her? Well, I would. My situation has never bothered her. Nisha accepts me how I am, when she calls me four-footed it’s fact, nothing more. With others there’s malice, Farouq is always gibing at me, even Zafar once teased, “Shall we photograph your gallop?” We’d just watched a show on Chunaram’s tele about a chap who set up twenty-four cameras in a line and fired them so, so, so, so, as a horse raced by to see if all its feet were ever off the ground at once. I thought, even Saint Zafar forgets himself and stumbles, yet by doing so he proves himself human. “If I galloped past those cameras,” I asked, “what would they show, a miserable animal or a miserable boy?” So Zafar immediately said he was sorry and gave me a hug, Farouq carried on laughing. Now here’s a thing, if someone says to you, you’re lazy, well it’s something you can change. If you say to me, Animal you are greedy, rude, stubborn, your cock is hanging out of your pants, all of these things I can change, what I can’t change is being a four-foot. To be made to feel bad because of something that isn’t your fault and you can do fuck all about, that’s cruel. Nisha could never be cruel. I’m thinking how kind and good she is to me, I doubt if I’ll ever meet another woman like her. I’m then thinking that if I was a really nasty person, I’d let gossip spread, because then no one else would marry her, but I care too much about Nisha. Morally I have no choice but to climb the tree.
First night in the frangipani, I’m terrified. The leaves of that tree don’t grow thick like mango leaves, they’re more in clusters at the end of each stem, but the tree is towards the back of Nisha’s garden plus there are no lights in the lane, so no one can see me slipping up onto the long branch that goes past her window. It’s late, after ten, the sound of a sitar is drifting up from Somraj’s music room. Full of sadness it’s, like Somraj’s memories. Nisha’s window is dark. She’ll be tidying up, probably making her father a cup of tea. I know Zafar is there because his motorbike is outside. Not long now before they come up. I am petrified by the thought of what I might see. Once when I was small I caught the parents of a boy I knew, I went to their house looking for him. The house was one room which they all shared. No one was there, but noises were coming from behind a curtain pulled across a corner, I took a peek and found two brown monkeys having a wrestling bout. It took some time to realise that these were the father and mother of the boy. I said, “Hello, where’s Raju?” They jumped apart, looking round.
“What are you doing, uncle?” says I.
“Oh it’s you!” says the dad crossly. “I’m just looking for auntie’s earring.”
“What, was she sitting on it?”
“Why don’t you bugger off?”
Well, Eyes, I never got a proper look, that’s why I told you the first naked woman I’d seen was Elli.
The light goes on. With no warning I’m staring into Nisha’s room, a huge face is staring back at me. It’s Shah Rukh Khan, the movie star. Bastard, what right have his paper eyes to see the things that go on in this place, where I’ve never been? Just beneath Shah Rukh’s face I can see about half the bed. Now Nisha moves past it towards a shape in the corner. It’s a cupboard. Of Zafar there’s no sign, a few minutes later I hear the bike starting up and catch the red glow of his tail light turning and heading for Nekchalan’s. I could leave. Tonight at least, her honour is safe. I should go, because she may start getting undressed, but it’s too late, already Nisha is pulling off her kameez. Okay, so I won’t look. I am not here for a cheap thrill. She’s loosening the string of her shalwar. I’ll put my hands over my eyes. Shalwar’s off, hands are behind her back, then brassiere’s down, what a ravishing sight. After a while I tell myself it does not really matter, because I am here to guard her honour, and the only way I can do it is this, if it means getting a view of this thing or that, well it’s a price I have to pay. She stoops to remove her underwear. The things I witness now are not for you or the thousand other eyes. Try to understand, never in my life have I been with a woman yet have so badly wanted it for how I don’t know long. Like a performing bear that thing of mine stands up to dance. Lights are going on all over my body, senses are drowned in the rushing of blood, a pulse is thudding in my ears, do it do it, what? what? that that, no no, yes yes, really? really? yes yes, how? how? so so, o o, oh yes, oh no, oh fuck, that pattering in the leaves, it isn’t rain.