Across the road it’s shaking of hands, goodbyes, wishes for the morning. People drift off. Elli, still wreathed in flowers is wandering around the tent, picking up a thing here, shifting something there. Her staff take their leave. At last she goes into the clinic and shuts the doors.
Much later, as I’m perched in the frangipani, there comes music drifting across the road, she must be sitting at her piano. In threes her notes sound, like far bells, repeating over and over. Somraj comes out of his house and’s stood listening, like a pale statue he’s, on his face is an expression even I can’t read. Later still, the piano’s still playing, almost asleep I’m, when from much closer comes the hum of a sitar. Sounds at first like it’s accompanying the piano, but soon the two musics move apart. In the small hours a glow of light moves out onto her roof, she must be sleeping up there. A light breeze stirs the leaves of the frangipani. The light goes out. I imagine Elli, thrilled and terrified by what’s ahead, lying awake watching stars slide down the sky.
TAPE TEN
I wake with head’s singing. Still dark it’s but can’t sleep. I get up, step outside. Outrageous things are going on in my skull. The morning’s curled like a leaf, wind tastes like a bee’s banana. With merly music springing in my brain, I climb the stones of our tower, sit on the roof slope like a monkey waiting for dawn. One by one stars fade, behind the palm trees and flags of the Siva temple, sky reddens. I call to Jara. Early, early it’s, how early I do not know, hardly a soul awake, but I can’t wait to be on my way. Call me a cunt if you want, I’m curious.
I see a bird circling above, wonder what it’s seeing below. Up high and early, my eye dreams the start of this Khaufpuri day. I see the world and me in it. So high I’m, the earth curves away from me, the upper air’s full of brilliance. I see the world spread like a map, roads from all sides coming to the city. Over Khaufpur hangs haze like stale breath round the mouth of a drunk. The tips of the minars of the Taj-ul-masjid are touching the sun, below all’s dark, the lanes of Chowk are a nest of snakes.
Bird that I am sees all, white palace of gone rulers on hill, lake looks pale green from up here, eye slides along a road lined with dirty buildings, snarling away in dust and truck smoke, till it reaches a place where the city’s turned to jungle, railway tracks come running up and vanish, beyond is terrain harder to interpret, mottling of brown, a pimpliness which on looking closer resolves to the innumerable roofs of the very poor. Smoke is beginning to rise among the huts as inhabitants light fires for tea and whatever meal they can grab before another day of work.
Far below, an animal is moving slowly along a lane. What kind of creature is this, arse canted steeply into the air? dromedary? centaur? Short way behind a smaller, also non-human being strolls, stopping now and again to stretch sleepy jaws. These two pass slowly through the Nutcracker, past the jungle inside the factory walls, they are heading for a far bazaar where a lane splits in three. The middle way is a stony alley where cows with ribs like harpstrings pick at old paper bags, here’s Bhoora Khan curled asleep in his auto-rickshaw, nearby is a building shaded by a mango tree, above its door a sign says CLINIC, an empty tent stands outside, last night’s flowers have been thrown into the street, they are lying in a heap, a goat’s picking roses off the garlands. On the roof of the building a small figure stands. She looks up, sees the bird circling. Not yet within her view, a boy is coming up the road, followed by a dog.
A little while later, in the alley recline two lolling figures, a boy who goes à quatre pattes, beside him a yellow dog.
Later still. Elli, dressed in shalwar kameez, will be giving her last-minute instructions. Downstairs she will be, fussing over magazines in her reception. “Waste of money, madam,” the manager Dayanand had advised, “most people round here can’t read.” This is what he told the crowd at Nekchalan’s. Elli sent him out anyway to buy magazines in Hindi, Urdu and Inglis, plus crayons and paper for the children.
Almost time. Elli will be going to the doors. Light will come gleaming through cracks in the wood. She’ll make a joke of pressing her eye to them. Her manager, compounder and receptionist will join her.
“Madam, it is eight o’clock.”
She’ll take a deep breath, throw open her doors.
Elli steps out smiling, the breath for her welcome speech already in her lungs. Man, how slowly that smile fades. Last night, didn’t we all hear Zahreel Khan promising crowds? She must have expected to see people filling the street, clapping when the doors opened, but there’s no crowd, no queue waiting outside, apart from me and a few onlookers, the lane is empty.
She’s puzzled. She’s looked up, down, checked her watch, again looked. It is taking a long time to sink in. She calls, Dayanand appears in the door beside her. He’s not surprised, just scared, bloody, knew what was going to happen, didn’t have the guts to warn her. Ever since the democracy word has been going round the bastis, no one is to knock on that door. That clinic, avoid. Go there you’re helping the Kampani. Not everyone agrees with this, plus it’s well known that Somraj and his committee think the boycotting is unfair. All over the Claw, Nutcracker and beyond people are muttering we need this clinic, hope Zafar brother knows what he is doing, only out of love for him will we stay away. Dayanand says a thing, I’m not close enough to hear what, but all of a sudden Elli’s face seems to fold up, the light and happiness goes out of it.
Now, Eyes, part of me’s a nasty fucker. A cruel little thrill went through me as I saw the doors open and knew what was coming, but now I’m looking at the miserable face of this woman I barely know, every bit of that pleasure turns to anger against Zafar and his mad paranoia.
Each morning at eight she appears dressed in shalwar kameez and all, opens her doors, stands staring out at the street in which no one is waiting. Three days go by, not a single person comes to the clinic. Fourth day Elli opens her doors wearing the famous blue legs like she’s thought, well, what the fuck difference does it make?
On that day I’ve dropped by as usual, found some shade under a tree, Jara the dog’s watching with me. I’m tired maybe I’ve closed my eyes, or perhaps I’m studying that morning’s history in the dirt, which is a thing I do. From a height of eighteen inches you get to know a place pretty well, every crack in the road, every stone, every dropped, not-picked-up coin.
Blue legs appear. I look up. She says to me, “Animal, you’re here every day. The clinic’s open. Do you want to come in?”
I shake my head. Angry I’m with Zafar, I like Elli doctress, but I guess as things are I should not be seen talking to her.
“You know, I want to take a good look at your back,” she says. “I’d like to give you an examination, do some tests.”
“Please Elli doctress, leave me alone.”
She turns and walks away.
Taste of own medicine. Oh well, that’s that, I’m just thinking it’s time I got off to my errands when the blue legs reappear, marching towards me. She’s got this doctor thing round her neck, couple of tubes with a metal disc on the end, can’t recall the name. Legs stop right in front, She squats down, applies the disc to my back.
“Okay, you’re my first patient.”
“Not here, god’s sake.”
“Why not?” She presses the disc to my ribs. It feels cold.
“People will see.”
She fucking laughs.
“What’s funny?”
“You,” she says. “Scared of people. Deep breath take, hold.”
“I am not scared of anything.”
“Yeah, sure.” She stands, turns and heads back across the road. One moment I’m watching her walk away, then without really knowing why, I’m on my feet following her, Jara’s following me. Nobody owns me, I’m no one’s servant. Such thoughts pass through my head as I follow the swaying blue moons of madam Elli’s backside. Fuck you, Zafar, I’ll go my own way. This is how guilt infects, if you’re afraid that someone will be angry with you, you immediately start feeling angry with them.