“Zafar’s not at all well,” says Nisha. “He feels sick, his mouth is dry, he’s very hot. That’s how ill this worry is making him.”
The evening of the opening ceremony we’re all in Somraj’s garden, watching them get ready across the road. Beside the famous mango tree is pitched a big colourful shamiana, inside Elli and her staff are hustling. Tonight her legs aren’t blue, she’s wearing shalwar kameez, like an Indian woman. Suresh and Dayanand are setting out rows of chairs, on a table near the door of the tent flower garlands are piled. Outside in the street Mando’s band in tatty green uniforms are marching up and down, braying strange notes that scamper up and down the cracks between familiar keys. Sa re ga etc. can’t describe them, such sounds need new names entirely. I know one of the musicians, a trumpet player, an old bugger, he’s from the Nutcracker, he gives me a wink, folds his hands in greeting to Somraj, who’s stood watching beneath his frangipani tree. All the players have an eye out for Somraj because even if he no longer sings he’s still the famous Aawaaz-e-Khaufpur, no matter how long they live none of them will ever be a great maestro like he is. Maybe knowing he’s listening makes them try harder, I mean they are playing almost in time, sometimes even in tune. Who knows what nameless things these sounds are doing to Somraj’s ears? It’s rarely that I speak to Somraj, mostly I don’t dare, but this ruckus makes me feel so sorry for him that I blurt out my thoughts.
“Oh no,” he says, “I find it very interesting,” and begins talking of the skills needed by a brass player such as lip stamina, range, tone, speed of fingers and breath control. “This kind of breathing that brass players do, they take a great gulp of air and then they use their lungs, and these muscles here,” tapping his abdomen, “and in the stomach to control how it flows to the instrument.”
“Really?” What else is to say?
“Do you know how the note can be sustained even though the performer has no breath left in his lungs?”
“No sir.”
“It’s called chakra breathing, which means breathing in circles. You won’t find it mentioned in any yoga sutras. Can you guess how it’s done?”
I’ve shaken my head.
“Fill your cheeks with air and push it out slowly, at the same time breathe in through your nose.” He puffs out his cheeks like two apples. “Try.”
I snort, puff, and make unusual noises. Nisha, who is nearby, has a fit of giggles. Just thankful I’m that Farouq’s not there to mock, he and Zafar have gone off somewhere together. All day they’ve been mysterious, I have a feeling that they are keeping something from me.
“So you are still interested in music?” asks Pandit-ji, his mouth seems to give a twitch, almost smiling he’s, which would be a miracle.
“Sir, what happens when the cheeks are empty?”
“Let go from the lungs and quickly fill the cheeks again.” He gives a kind of a gulp, then he’s coughing, he can’t stop.
“Pandit Somraj sir, are you okay sir?”
Somraj Pandit’s doubled up retching, Nisha has gone running to fetch a glass of water, thus do the Kampani’s gases rob him of his singing breath.
It’s grown dark by the time Zahreel Khan arrives. Flashbulbs blossom as the Khaufpur Gazette gets its shots. The Minister of Poison is turned by the flashes into a ghost casting huge jumping shadows. Dayanand, Suresh and Miriam rush forward with garlands. He poses to receive them, hands folded, head bowed as if the flowers are heavy with the weight of responsibility.
Twenty minutes pass before the speeches begin. Lights inside the tent are wavering, Khaufpuri electric can’t be trusted. Lurking in Somraj’s garden, we see Elli on the platform, herself now loaded with flowers, listening to her chief guest making a speech into a brown gloom in which people’s faces can barely be seen. Outside it’s by now fully dark, she can’t see us. Hardly for a minute has Zahreel Khan been speaking when from the direction of Ram Nekchalan’s shop loud filmi music starts up, muffled and distorted, the minister has to raise his voice to fight against it. “Elli Barber is an eminent consultant. We in Khaufpur are proud to have attracted a doctor of such talent.”
“How did Khaufpur attract her?” calls a familiar voice. It’s Zafar. He and Farouq are standing near the entrance to the tent, behind them there seem to be many other people clustered.
“Kindly save questions for the end,” says the Minister in a testy manner, peering to see who is causing this disruption. “You will get your chance.”
“Was she asked to come?” persists Zafar. “Who asked her?”
These further interjections Zahreel Khan ignores. Putting aside his notes he begins to talk of that night, how he himself had been in the old city and had been caught in the panic. He speaks of the scenes in the streets and the crush of dying people in the hospitals. He tells how he like so many hundreds of others searched all night for his missing loved ones, and of the terrible scenes in the city as morning broke. The filmi music is still playing up the road, but I reckon people can no longer hear it, it has vanished into a deep silence. For those listening to Zahreel Khan, it’s their own memories they’re hearing. Then there’s one moment, the wind catches that sound in its airy hands and brings it to the tent, one clear phrase, a grave and beautiful voice singing, Kaun Aayaa Méré Mun Ké Dvaaré, who’s this come to the door of my mind? Pandit Somraj gives a terrible sigh, like a groan almost, and goes back into his house. Poor Nisha, standing nearby is torn, she would like to join Zafar, but the duty of a daughter prevails, she disappears after her father.
It’s Zahreel Khan himself who breaks the spell he has woven. “Since the day of disaster itself,” he intones, returning to his notes, “Doctor Barber has yearned to come to Khaufpur to help in the relief work we are doing.”
“That who is doing?” This isn’t Zafar, it’s a voice from the crowd. “Give one example of relief work done by your department in the past year.”
“Two years,” calls another. “Five years,” it’s a third. Scornful laughter there’s, various numbers of years start flying around. I look to see how Elli is taking this, but from this distance I can’t make out her expression. She’s sitting on the dais with her face framed by flowers.
“Question for Doctor Barber,” calls Zafar. “For whose benefit is this clinic?”
Elli stands up, Zahreel Khan steps aside to make room for her at the microphone. “It’s for all who were injured on that night, plus people who are ill as a result of their water being poisoned by the factory. All who come are welcome, for all who come, treatment is free.”
It’s a good answer. I defy even Zafar to find anything wrong in it.
“Will you be gathering medical data? If so, who will have access to it, to what use will it be put?” This is Zafar again.
“We’ll be keeping patient records,” she replies. “But they’ll be confidential. Of course if the patient requests it, we would share their medical history with another doctor.”
“Which institutions are funding this effort?”
“None. My clinic is funded by a person who prefers not to be named.”
“Person or Kampani?” comes a shout. At once there’s hubbub, and a dozen voices start chanting, “Kampani out! Kampani out!”
For the first time Elli looks nonplussed. Zahreel Khan steps back to the podium. “Doctor Barber,” he says, “these ill-mannered types shame Khaufpur. Kindly ignore them. Tomorrow, when your clinic opens, you will see how the poor of this city come in their thousands to bless your good name.”