“Doctors aren’t always right. That’s why we ask a second opinion.”
“My case you need a seventh opinion.”
“Then we get it,” says she, putting away the dangly disc.
“The seventh opinion, what if it’s the same as the first?”
“Well, it might be,” she says, prodding my shoulders. “Or it might not. There’s also such a thing as a ninth opinion. I can assure you that if you had been born in Amrika, you would not be running around on all fours.”
She grasps my chin and says, “You have to trust me.”
It’s now that the unbelievable and amazing thing happens.
I’m growling, grabbing at the dog. Elli doctress is startled. “What are you feeling? Are you in pain?”
No reply there’s except this pretend grappling with the dog, rrrrrr’ing and baring of teeth, until Jara herself gets fed up. She stands up, gives me a look as if to say, “What the fuck are you doing?” then stalks off out of my reach, lies down again with her tongue lolling. Fuck all to do now, except go fully crazy, so I’ve rolled on the ground, scratched myself, screeched, grabbed stuff. Elli’s run for help, I’ve quickly re-worn my kakadus.
On the way out, Dayanand stops me. “What’s your game?”
“What’s it look like?” I am still trembling.
He’s holding a mop, for a moment I think he’ll hit me, but he says, “Take your dog outside now.”
Then he adds, casual as you like, “I know who’s stopping people coming here, you should tell Somraj Pandit and all his lot that Elli madam hates that Kampani worse than they do. I have heard her say so.”
Nice try, Dayanand, but I am not going to give anything away. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
Why? Because of the unbelievable thing that has just happened, which I cannot speak about, hardly dare admit to myself. When Elli spoke of a ninth opinion, missing out the eighth, when she said I must trust her, this terrifying thought struck like a hurricane, surged up my spine like electricity, changed everything, the wild, stupid, unforgivable hope that she might cure me.
TAPE ELEVEN
A boy’s come racing on a bike, too small’s he to use the seat, he rides one leg through the frame standing on the pedals, this is the way it’s done.
“Animal! Animal, he’s here!” This kid, he’s one of those who keep their ears and eyes open for me, something useful flies in, they earn a rupee. “Animal, the foreign priest has come!”
What? How? When?
“He arrived last night, I heard the nuns talking, this morning itself he’s coming here for Ma Franci.”
When she’s heard the news, Ma beckons me close, ruffles my hair, which is as usual tangled. “Chheee, as much dust here as a donkey.”
Few people in the world I love, this old lady is one of them. Thinking of when she’s gone, what a wound it will leave in my life, sky rent apart, light falling so bright you can hardly look, great sheet of light lying on an ocean. What’s this got to do with Ma leaving I don’t know, never have I seen the sea, it’s what comes to me. Ma kisses my head, then presses her lips to my ear and whispers three things.
“Don’t be rude to the padré.”
“I’m worried about Aliya’s cough.”
“We’ll meet in Paradise.”
When the padré shows up, wearing a long black robe, turns out he’s not a français he’s espagnol but he speaks la langue humaine.
“Bonjour Mère Ambrosine,” says he in that tongue, “it is a privilege to meet you at last.”
There’s respect in his face and voice, when I look inside his head at his thoughts, they are mostly made of amazement. This old lady, more lines has her face than our lord’s fishing net, her whole life she has given to the poor of this city. With what tenderness he delivers greetings from the head of her order and all the sisters in France, tells her how much they are looking forward to having her back with them.
“Don’t see why they want me,” says Ma. “I’m all right here, I have my son Animal to look after me.”
So Père Bernard, that’s his name, says, “Mother Ambrosine, it’s all decided. The superior wants you to go to our house near Toulouse, it’s nice and warm there.” He explains that an old house it’s, with a garden that touches the bank of a river. She will find it pleasant to chat with other old nuns like herself, who have spent their lives in parts of the world such as Congo, Vietnam, Brazil, plus Tuamotu which, says Père Bernard, is an island in the Pacific where the order has a leper colony.
“These Tuamotu nuns, do they have leprosy?” I ask, afraid for Ma. It starts with dry skin, before you know it you’re ripping off fingers like Chunaram, although only he has the genius to do it for money.
“I don’t want to leave,” says mulish Ma.
“Truly I’m sorry,” says Père Bernard, “I know how unsettling this must be. Animal, would you like to visit Mother Ambrosine in France one day?”
“Best be soon,” retorts Ma, “I shan’t be around much longer. Who’s going to look after my people? Don’t you know that the Apokalis has begun? It started here and it’s coming back again.”
I’ve tried to explain to Père Bernard that far’s Ma’s concerned she has to be in Khaufpur for the big event, otherwise it’s fillum khatam, end of movie.
Says he, looking puzzled, “I am sure the Apokalis will also reach Toulouse. That’s near your family home, isn’t it, Mother Ambrosine?”
“My home is right here,” says Ma. “My only family is this boy. But since you won’t change your mind so there’s no more to say, I’ll start packing.”
She opens a cloth bag. All she owns after fifty-five years in Khaufpur is two sets of old clothing, one she wears while the other’s washed, plus her specs, plus book of Sanjo, also a small Isa nailed on a cross. Ma hands it to me and says, “For you my dear son. Excuse me, father, I would like a little time to pray. Animal, take father to the parlour, entertain him nicely. Make him some tea.”
So I’ve lit the fire, put on a pan to boil, and led Père Bernard outside to sit on the log under the tamarind tree, for so fine-leaved a tree it gives a cool shade. Ma calls it our parlour. Here I sat with the jarnalis français who taught me to swear, later also with the Kakadu jarnalis. Eyes, if you ever come to Khaufpur it’s where I’ll sit with you.
I think Père Bernard finds it hard to talk to me, I’ve asked him what sort of movies they have in France, he says he does not see many movies. Next I ask whether Ma will be able to get her favourite baingan bharta, but he does not know what this may be. I’m just explaining about bedding the aubergine into hot ashes, etcetera, when little Aliya arrives with her granny Huriya and other old women from the basti. Ma’s cronies, they have come with garlands and sweets to say goodbye.
“She’s inside,” I tell them. “Please go in.”
Père Bernard is charmed that these old ladies, among whom are Muslim women in burqas plus Hindu women in saris, are so fond of the old nun. Says he, “Such friendships are the fruit of a lifetime’s work. All in France will be moved to know how much Mother Ambrosine was loved.”
After maybe ten minutes, the guests emerge and stand in the door crying, waving to Ma within. Sorrowfully, they go away. Watching the slowly retreating figures of those old hunched women, I feel desolate because in the end we are condemned to lose everyone we love.