Not half the road have I crossed and I’m snarling at Zafar, ohé Zafar brother, with all your doing good plus doing without, you’re a hero in these bidonvilles, no hero are you to me. You who are so fucking noble, so modest, above all, so powerful, at your one word the people of the Apokalis put aside their suffering. You say, do not go to this clinic and even though these people are full of pain, can’t breathe, are burning with fevers, even though the flesh is melting from their bones in flakes of fire, still they do not go. You say to them, without any proof, this clinic is owned by the Kampani, so they spit on its shadow, curse its name. Zafar brother, you’re a fool. You’re making the people suffer for nothing. The Kampani is stronger and cleverer than you. Go ahead, block the clinic, march, stop the traffic, shout all the slogans you like. Nothing changes. The people go on suffering, the Kampani does what it wants and no one can say anything to it. It’s the fucking Kampani I admire.
Manager Dayanand appears in the door where Elli’s blue legs and bum have vanished. “Animals not allowed. Leave your dog, he’ll be fine out here.”
“This dog is not a he but a she and unless you have forgotten I too am an animal.”
“Nevertheless.”
I whistle to Jara. “Come, we’re off.”
Elli reappears, asks what’s going on.
“Madam, the dog.” It’s Dayanand.
“It’s okay, no problem, we’re on our way.” This is me.
“Don’t be silly,” says Elli, whether to me or Dayanand I am not sure. Those moments are unclear in my memory because so shocking and unexpected is what follows that even now the thought of it leaves me shaking.
Elli doctress leads me through her waiting room where are the chairs, newspapers and etcetera into an office. “Wait here, I’ll just be a moment.”
Now I’m looking round this room, at the books in shelves on the wall. On the back of one I can make out the letters KHAUFPUR, on another’s written LUNG PATHOLOGY, a third says VETERANS AND AGENT ORANGE.
“Oi, Animal!”
Jara is sitting on the floor with a hind leg in the air, head’s tucked into her crotch, Elli’s still elsewhere.
“Over here,” says the voice.
On a table nearby is a kind of dome draped with a dark cloth. I give it a twitch, Jara’s stopped licking herself and is staring at me. Bordel de merde! It’s my little two-headed friend. Now, Eyes, since I first met the Khã-in-the-Jar I had seen him a few times in dreams, but this is no dream, his jar, which was in that big doctor’s office, is now here in Elli’s. It’s the first time since that day I’ve seen him in the flesh, he looks the worse for wear, body seems furry, like he’s starting to fall apart, but he still has that shit-eating grin.
“Kyoñ Khã?” he says. “How’s life treating you?”
“Okay Khã.” Far from fucking true is this, it’s just what you say. “How’s it treating you?”
“Call this life?” says he with steep bitterness. “This world for me is all angles and shadows and swimmery shapes. Of news I hear none, when I want to discuss, I must talk to myself. Anyway, good you’re here, I’ve been waiting for you to come.”
Eyes, I don’t know why, but this doesn’t surprise me.
“Hospital decided to chuck us out. After twenty fucking years nothing did they learn from us except that when you poison people bad things happen. No longer wanted we’re, to the incinerator we’d have gone, except your doctress heard about it, asked if she could bring us here.”
“Elli saved you?”
“Saved? You cretin, if she’d kept out of it by now we’d be free.” His two heads glug at each other, then he’s back to me. “It’s up to you now, Khã. You’re our only hope. Get us out of here. Break the jar, with fire destroy us.”
These are the same words he speaks to me in dreams. Now I’m confused. This little bugger is real, I can tap his glass jar and he’ll curse me, but is he also real in my dreams? If so what are we to make of this world that seems so solid? Is it too nil but lights and dancing shadows?
“Who are you,” I ask, “to order me about?”
There’s gurgling in the jar, the sound of mirth bubbling through poison. Who am I? So tragic you have to ask. Don’t you know?
chairman of the board I’m
a rusty sword I’m
by the world ignored I’m
the dragon’s hoard I’m
I am the egg of nature, which ignorant and arrogant men have spoiled. I can be a friend to humans, especially the poor, for money doesn’t interest me. Your Khaufpuri politician who recently celebrated his birthday with camels and elephants and dancing horses and a cake of fifty-three kilos, he does not know his gold jewellery is worthless, people like him should fear me, I’m a fire that will burn up his five senses. As for you, poor fuckwit, you think you’re an animal, I am your mother and father, I was you in your childhood, I’ll be you when you’re old. Dead am I who never lived, wasn’t buried, waits to burn. Tough I’m and tender, now you see me now you don’t, I go down into the earth and leap up to the sky, I am full of the natural light, yet those who meet me think I’m worthless, nothing, less than fuck all.
“You’re an unusual fellow,” says I. “Never before have I met a one like you.”
At this the contents of his jar churn, little gunky bits that must have come off the Khã are swept by currents of laughter into mazy dances.
“Brother Animal,” says he, “you and I are not so different. Doublers both, we’re. Two of me there’s, two also of you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not best pleased by this comparison.
“My two heads rise from one neck. From your hips, at the point where your back bends, rises a second you who’s straight, stands upright and tall. This second you’s there all the time, has been there all along, thinks, speaks and acts, but it’s invisible—”
Before he can finish, Elli doctress has whirled back into the room and started doing stuff with that cold metal cup. “Nothing wrong with your heart.”
“Four parts of me are strong, head, arms, chest…”
“Shut,” says she, “I know you love to yap, but the time’s not now.” Her Hindi is really excellent. Way she talks, you can tell she’s not from here, but her accent is better than for example a Bombay-wallah’s, which is said to cause pus in the ears. She’s so near I can smell her scent, while she’s touching me, I can’t help it, bad thoughts start up again. I’ve seen you naked, I’ve seen you washing your breasts, I’ve seen your cunt. This is shameful, for she’s a good person plus I’ve strong reason to fear such thoughts, which are stretching my kakadus.
“Take off your pants.”
“No please.”
“Don’t be shy, I’ve seen it all before.”
“I think not.”
“If it makes you more comfortable, Dayanand can step in.”
“No!”
“Great shorts,” she says as they come off, proceeds to examine my back, the place where the spine is welded to my hips. She’s probing with her fingertips.
“What do you feel? Tell me as I press.”
“Fingers.”
“Here?”
“Fingers.”
She’s at the exact place where my back twists forward, where my invisible other self is supposed to be. That one’s nowhere standing tall but the same can’t be said for the thing below, it has become huge and hard, reared up it’s, feels like a log, with each beat of the heart it’s battering my belly. If Elli’s seen this lund of mine, she gives no sign, but’s started questioning me about what other doctors have said, so I tell her about the great expert in the hospital, etcetera and etcetera, it’s a complete waste of time, there’s nothing to be done.