The madness is over, my body doesn’t want to know me, it gets into a sulk, there’s darkness now in the castle of lights. Shame comes plus terror. How will I show my face to Nisha after disgracing myself in a tree outside her window?
Well, I am sorry to say it really is not that difficult. Next day Nisha’s the same as always, all I have to do is forget last night. Think it never happened. This works well. I decide I will never climb the tree again. Relief. Four full nights go by before I set foot in its branches. This time Nisha is not alone. Now, I learn three things. The first is that Nisha and Zafar are not doing anything. I can see only the tops of their two heads, they must be sitting on the floor talking to each other. The second thing is that guilt is just a feeling, you can choose not to feel it, how else do the Kampani bosses sleep? The third thing is that no matter what I might see, there is nothing can I do about it. Even if I were to see Zafar and Nisha glued together like dogs, there’d be no way to stop them except by going to Somraj, and thus proclaiming to the world that I’d been spying. I need a cleverer plan.
The idea that strikes is a good one, but involves my friend Ali Faqri who is not always easy to find, so the first step is to locate Abdul Saliq, the Pir Gate beggar. Eyes, I have mentioned this fellow before, it’s said that women can’t resist him, look at him you’d never know why. If you took a skeleton, chopped off one of its legs, removed half its teeth, dressed the result in rags and pissed all over it, this is the type of impression that Mr. Saliq likes to give.
On a blue morning, white doves fluttering in and out the arches of the great Pir Gate, I find Abdul Saliq at his usual post, leaning on his crutch with his hand out, uttering his well-known cry, Keep away, you faithless gits!
“Hello Animal,” says he. “Been a while.”
“Truly, guru. How’s business?”
“God provides.”
“You’re looking awful.”
“Thank you. Keep away, you faithless gits! I do my best.”
Sometimes strangers to the city will give Abdul Saliq a coin just so they can ask what his cry means. Slowly, like a cricket umpire giving a batsman, he’ll raise his finger, which does not stop until it is pointing at the arch far above. There, cut in the stone is a line of Inglis PROCUL HINC ABESTE PROFANI.
“It means,” says he, “that you are entering the city of the elect, whereof the mystery is shouted from the rooftop, but none may decipher it, yea, except within their own souls.” This is the type of stuff that Abdul Saliq likes to say and do. Bit of chit, bit of chat, I’ve talked him into buying me a chai from the RTI shop, best in Khaufpur, nicely spiced plus frothed up with a pinch of salt, nothing like it, if you ever come here, Eyes, you should definitely try it. Costs two rupees per glass but Abdul Saliq is not short of money, plus he’s always generous to an ex-pupil. We get talking of the old days, I ask if he knows where I can find Faqri.
“Working,” says he, giving me a look.
“Care to tell me where?”
“Over by the bus station. What? Does he owe you money?”
“No such luck. Today I’m buying.”
“I won’t ask.”
“I won’t tell.”
At this he laughs. “So it’s a girl.”
“What’s a girl?” It never fails to throw me, this genius of Abdul Saliq’s.
“Your problem, Kuala Lumpur Police Department.”
“What makes you think I have that kind of a problem?” But of course he is right. After wishing khuda hafez to Abdul Saliq, he likes blessings almost as much as coins, I take myself off to the bus stands, pretty soon I’ve found what I’m looking for.
Noisy place, is Khaufpur bus station. Dirty old buses pulling in and out, smokes of diesel, crowds pushing to get on, new arrivals struggling to get off, shouting at the porters who are climbing like langurs on the roofs of the buses, tossing down bits of baggage. “Ho you, put it down!” “Sir, I have already carried it.” “I never told you to.” “You never told me not to.” “You’ve taken it only ten yards.” “Minimum fee applies.” Attach to this the coughing of rusty engines, the cries of hawkers, the blaring of filmi songs, every bus a different tune, and you will understand that it takes an expert to pinpoint within this hubbub a small upset coming from the direction of the deluxe coach stand.
A chubby, prosperous-looking gent has got down from the just-arrived a/c coach from Nagpur, he’s being accosted by a beggar boy. The kid is well into his routine, he’s pawing at his victim and whining, and the stout musaafir is perspiring and getting annoyed. He snaps at the beggar to leave him alone, but the fellow’s whines just get louder. “Hey master-ji, hey worship, sahib, you are my father, my life, you are my god.” “Don’t touch!” cries the mark. He’s having his shirt tugged, doesn’t like it. “Take your hands off me!” Great performance by the number one, he’s picked an ideal target and knows exactly how to get him seething, all set up for the switch.
So, here’s Faqri now, the number two, just one more of the hundreds of faceless guys passing through that place. He stands looking on as the fat man addresses harsh words to the beggar. “Get lost, hop it, sod off.”
Number one’s backing away, gone is his whine, he is mouthing the foulest insults he can think of. The mark’s furious eyes are fixed on him. Timing’s perfect. Yes, here it comes, beautiful really, the loud chuckle of disgust, Faqri pointing at the man’s shirt, then at the sky, I’m mouthing the next line as he speaks it, “Oh dear, bombed by the Khaufpur air force!” A vile looking splodge has appeared on the man’s shirt. Heads swivel upwards, looking for the guilty bird. I never see the number three despite I’m looking for him. The mark’s still cursing the mess on his shirt, his wallet is already half a street away. Faqri stays a moment longer, then fades away into the spectators who are cracking unkind jokes at the fat man’s expense. I’d clap, if I wasn’t using my hands to stand on. “Bravo, well played sir, more, more.”
There are plenty more scams, we knew them all, Faqri and me, lost coins, cigarette-stub, spilled channa, bloodstain, broken-bottle, Scotch whisky, hair-oil scam, but the most artistic was the one I’d just watched. Get some lime paste from a paan-maker, mix it up with dirt, cowdung, tobacco juice, chewed grass, anything really. The effect you’re after, what you’re looking for, is a big white or brown splotch with streaks of black and green that looks as if it has just exited a pigeon’s arse. The rest you know. This was the bird-shit scam, we’d play it with me as the number one and Faqri like today flicking the bird-shit. Usually Abdul Saliq would find us the number three, had to be a specialist. We earned well, until I got caught. See, if you are going to con people and get away with it you have to be able to vanish in a crowd, but not many Khaufpuris go on fours, and that’s how Fatlu Inspector got his hands on me. First time I was arrested I got slapped about a bit, then ushered into His Highness’s presence.