“Well, madam doctress? What are you waiting for?”
This big smile appears on her face. She runs up and gives me a hug, for which she’s got to get down on her knees, she kisses me on both cheeks, I’m thinking how I love being hugged by women, also I’m thinking stop, stop, stop, because I’ve got Monsieur Méchant living in my pants.
“Forget your doctress’s bag, forget you know Hindi, people will be shy to speak if they know you can understand. Make out you’re some dumb fucking jarnalis. Look around with big eyes. Sigh a lot, ask stupid questions in Inglis. Then you can see for yourself how things are.”
“Do we need an auto?” she asks, “your friend is probably outside.”
“No more autos for you, Elli. You cannot enter the Kingdom of the Poor except on foot. Come on, I’ll show you. Full tour. Everything. Follow me.”
I’ve run à quatre pattes into the Claw up past Nekchalan’s shop, where his spoony mates are gathered. She’s following some way behind. “Good morning,” she says, polite as a pot of ghee, hypocrite bastards, they don’t reply. The lane’s crowded, hard for her to keep me in sight so I lig on slowly, Jara the dog keeps stopping and looking round as if to say, come on Elli, hurry up. Once or twice I check back that she’s there. She’s not happy. Quite a few low-lifes there are in the Claw, their eyes glued to those bluesy melons, sweet-sweet noises they’re making like you’d tempt a dog. At last she’s followed me out of the Claw through a gulli to the main road. At the city end this same road is smarter, there’s more money, big shops there are, families with fat children licking ice creams, in our part it’s a filthy chute with truck exhaust for air.
Across the big road we come to the corner of Kali Parade and take the road that runs past the Kampani’s factory. On our left now is the wall, high as a man, covered with writing, some of it’s by Zafar and friends, who paint at night when the police are asleep. Zafar’s lot never write what they really feel which is FUCK YOU WICKED CUNTS I HOPE YOU DIE PAINFULLY FOR THE HORRIBLE THINGS YOU DID TO US AND THE ARROGANT FUCKING CRUELTY YOU’VE DISPLAYED EVER SINCE. They write high-sounding shit like JUSTICE FOR KHAUFPUR and KAMPANI MEET YOUR LIABILITIES but in a few places freer spirits have been at work. HANG PETERSON and DEATH TO AMRIKA. These are the bits the munsipal scrubs out which need repainting more often than any other.
“Aiwa! Aiwa! Aiwa!” No sooner do we enter the Nutcracker, that place assembled by an earthquake, than there’s a gang of kids on our trail.
“Animal, Animal,” comes a little voice I know well. Someone’s running along behind us. “Animal, who’s this? Where are you going?”
“Hi Aliya, this is a very important jarnalis. Don’t make her cross because she eats small children. It’s what they do in her country. They roast them with yogurt and mint leaves.”
“Don’t be silly,” says the child. “Can I come too?”
“Where do you think we’re going?”
“How should I know? But you always do interesting things.”
“What do you think we’re doing today?”
“Going fishing?” she asks hopefully.
“I’m taking her to meet your granny and grandpa.”
“Then I won’t come,” she says, making a face, and runs off.
Low are the doorways we come to now, perfect for a four-foot animal. I know a lot of people here, so I’m in and out, calling greetings to those inside. People come stooping to their thresholds. Some stare. Others beckon us in but I tell them we can’t stop.
It’s old Huriya’s house I’m heading for, an earthquake-erected room with a floor of bare earth. The air is made delicious by the smell of wood burning in the hearth. I love the scent, plus these people, Aliya’s grandparents, Hanif and Huriya, she’s squatting kneading dough on a board.
“Hello Dadi, what’s cooking?”
“Hello Animal, I’m making rotis for his lordship’s meal.”
Hanif’s bent in front of the cage in which are his two green and purple parakeets. His fingers feel for gaps between the wires, when he finds one he feeds in a seed, one seed at a time. He’s looking not at the beautiful birds, but up into a corner. Hanif hasn’t seen a thing since that night.
“Who’s this you’ve brought with you?” the old lady asks.
“Oh no one, just a jarnalis.”
“Another one?”
“Well you know, Chunaram collects them.”
“Will she have tea?”
“She’s Amrikan, there’s no way to ask her.”
“Well, if she can’t talk, she can’t refuse,” says Huriya, reaching for the pot in which they store water.
“Don’t waste it, Dadi.” Huriya’s old, the pump’s a long way off. “We’re not stopping long. We’ve just come from the Chicken Claw.”
“A guest in the house and you talk of waste!” She starts unscrewing a paper containing some black tea leaves. “I’ll send the child for more later. So what’s the latest from the Claw?”
“Haven’t you heard? Yesterday the foreign-waali doctress was trying to entice people into her clinic. But still no one’s going.”
“Yes, we know about that,” comes the gruff voice of the old man, Hanif Ali. “I don’t agree with it.”
“As if that Kampani has not done enough wickedness,” Huriya says. “Make your friend comfortable. Ask her to sit.”
“She’s not my friend, she’s a jarnalis.” Elli pulls a face, useless jamispond she’d make. “So why don’t you agree with the clinic, baba?”
“You’re hearing me wrong,” says the old boy, giving a harsh cough. “I don’t agree with what’s going on. A clinic is a clinic. So what if it’s paid for by the sisterfuck Kampani? Don’t they owe us for the harm they’ve done? Isn’t our own granddaughter sick and needing good treatment?”
Elli says to me in Inglis, “Call the child. I’ll look at her.”
“Not a word of Hindi does this fool jarnalis speak,” I’m shaking my head sadly. “Aliya’s out there somewhere. Let me call her.”
“Leave the child be, we have a guest. Will she take something with her tea?” Huriya gives Elli an encouraging smile. “These rotis are nice and hot.”
Elli’s looking as if she wants to say something, but she mimes no thank you, and returns the smile.
“She seems almost to understand,” says Huriya. “Her eyes are a little close set, but she’s quite pretty really, isn’t she? In that bizarre way that foreigners are. It’s a pity her clothes are so indecent.”
“Hah! Fine thing is this,” says the old bugger. “An indecent woman in my own house and I haven’t the eyes to see her. What a cruel fate. Her voice is sweet, does she have good tarboozas?”
Ouf! Shot, sir! I’m creased up laughing. Elli is impassive, which makes it even funnier.
“You be quiet,” says his wife. “Don’t go embarrassing yourself.”
“Baba, you were saying about this clinic?” Good idea to turn the talk away from Elli’s melons.
“Well, I want to talk to Zafar about it,” Hanif grumbles. “If it is a good clinic why shouldn’t we take Aliya there, poor child? Animal, when will Zafar brother come?”
“I don’t know, baba. Zafar brother is an important guy. Everyone wants him. I guess he’ll come soon.”
“Inshallah. Where are you taking the foreigner?”
“Round and about. To hear people’s stories. You could tell her yours.”
“Mine? Who’d want to hear my story?” But you can see the idea tickles him, I guess he’s never been asked before. Then he remembers. “What’s the good? She doesn’t speak our language.”
“Never mind, did you ever read anything good a jarnalis wrote?”
“Me read?” He points at his eyes. “What, like you ride a bike?”
“I can ride a bike bloody,” says I. “Arse to handlebars, hands on pedals, look between legs to see where you’re going. Easy. One day I’ll show you.”