“It’s a surprise. Something you will like very much.”
Of course I am suspicious. I don’t think there is anything Farouq could give that I would like very much.
He’s looking me up and down. “Have you nothing to wear besides those disgusting shorts?”
“What’s it to you?”
Says he, “I’ve a mind to take you somewhere special.”
“Where?”
“For a special treat. Very special. Trust me.” The weird smile stretches itself like a mask across his face.
“Trust you? What am I, fishguts?” I’m trying to sound like I couldn’t give a damn, but the truth is he’s got me wondering. “What treat?”
“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise,” says he. “It’s supposed to be a surprise. That’s the whole point.”
“When you tell me, won’t that be a surprise?”
“No, no,” says Farouq. “That would spoil everything. Let’s forget it.”
“Okay.” No way am I going show my disappointment.
“Pity. You’d have liked it,” says the salaud. “It’s a thing you’ve always wanted. When you know what it was, you’ll be kicking yourself.”
To this I make no reply, so we sit in silence, listening to the cries of those who are playing Holi in the streets. After some time Farouq says, “Remember when you nearly died, and I saved you from the fire?”
“I’ll never forget it, because you’ll never let me.”
“Don’t be that way. I got to thinking about you, you having a bad time and all, no chance of getting a girl, no chance of darling-mischief.”
“Worry about yourself,” I tell him, but he just shrugs.
“Don’t pretend you’re not always thinking about it.”
Fucker’s got a point there. It’s spring, when the balls grow heavy and the todger leaps to attention like a drunken soldier saluting every woman he sees. At this season, when every male thing wants to ghuss into the nearest puss, Somraj is giving Elli the glad eye, Zafar pills or no is probably having his way, and I’m the only one getting no satisfaction.
“I see lots of girls, can pound puss whenever I want.” Such shameful lies. I’ve been seeing a lot of Elli and Nisha, albeit without them knowing, I want to do it with Nisha but I’d do it with Elli, to be honest I’d do it with anyone.
“What rubbish,” says Farouq. “You’ve never fucked.”
“Course I have. Done it loads. More than you, probably.”
“Well, well,” he says, “and there’s me thinking you were a flute soloist.” He sits staring at me. The stupid grin is back. Then he says, “Animal, yaar, let’s drink some bhang.”
“Well now,” I say, relieved to change the subject, “at last a good idea.”
Farouq’s fetched his bike, I’ve climbed on the carrier, and we’ve bumped away to the government shop in New Market, where they sell hemp balls ten rupees for four. It’s Holi and the streets are lost in clouds of colour. Every stall in the bazaar has put out baskets of yellow, pink, orange, blue pigments. Flings of powder come at us from all directions. We’re hit by rainbow squirts.
Farouq calls over his shoulder, “Hey Animal, later, we can go girl dousing.”
I should explain, Eyes, that Holi is a time when men claim they’re allowed to do whatever they want, get fresh, drench a girl till her blouse clings, give a little grope to her she-bits, she can’t say anything back. This is one reason why a lot of girls stay inside at Holi with their doors locked, at least that’s how it is here in Khaufpur. I can’t speak for the way it’s done in Bombay or New York.
We wobble back to his place, completely streaked in blue and purple and green. The hemp balls are like small round cow cuds, we’ve stirred them into milk, added sugar, plus, because it’s Khaufpur, a flick of salt. Pretty soon I am floating about sixty feet above my own head. Oh how I’m flying. The bhang is roaring ahead, so powerful it’s, must have been grown from seeds spat on by a snake. Eyes, if you ever drink this stuff be careful it can knot your liver round your eyebrows and weld your toes into your eye-sockets. Maybe erotic feelings come with bhang, because I can’t stop thinking about sex, recalling things I’ve witnessed from trees, frangipani and mango, my monster is beginning to stir, swelling it’s, lifting its blunt snout to sniff the air, blame the season, whatever, this troublesome phallus of mine is beginning to be solidly aroused.
Out of the forgotten past comes a voice. “Ouf! Baap re! Don’t point that thing at me.” It’s Farouq, staring goggle-eyed at my kakadus.
Brother, this nasha leaves no room for embarrassment. “You’re just jealous,” I say, convulsed with giggles. “You’d die for one like mine.”
“How should I be jealous of someone who’s never had a girl?”
“Course I have.” My voice sounds like it’s arriving from a far off country.
“Kampani-style lie,” says he, meaning that an untruth endlessly repeated does not become true. After a time, which may have been long or short, there being no way of knowing, he asks, “So which house do you prefer?”
“House?” In this nasha, each word buzzes with a hundred meanings.
“That kind.” Each meaning has a hundred nuances. “Laxmi Talkies.”
“Ah!” He means les sordides maisons de passe of which there are quite a few near that cinema.
“You’ve never been. You lying, fucking toerag,” says Farouq. “Come on, let’s go there. To Laxmi Talkies. Right now. We’ll get you laid by some sultry bitch with tits like jars of honey.”
“You wouldn’t be talking like this if Zafar was here.”
“Well Zafar isn’t here,” says Farouq. “Come on, I’ll pay for you.”
“Why?”
“Fun of it. Come on, this is your big chance to do that.”
“Can do that any time.”
“Kampani-style lie.” He laughs. “Come on. Your first time. You’re feeling good. Let’s go.”
“What will you get from it?”
“Pleasure of making a friend happy.” Then he announces that this is the grand surprise he’s been planning all along. Tonight, this very night, I am to get my heart’s desire, I will get laid.
After this things are a bit hazy. At some point Farouq and I go on a long bicycle trek through the chunter-munter of Holi, the jets of coloured water and powder squalls. Him pedalling me balancing on the carrier, we circle the walls of the old city, we dart back and forth through the Pir Gate, on which is written the message that Abdul Saliq shouts, telling people with dirty souls to fuck off and die. We drink chai at the RTI shop and watch the world go by.
It’s evening, people are out in crowds, on the fruit barrows and cloth stalls bright lamps are burning. The bazaar is aswim with lights and colours and half overheard scraps of conversation which, put together, add up to revelations of great truths. But the real truth is that the nasha has deepened. This nasha is not drunkenness, it opens things up, shows their inner natures. Just by looking at people walking by I know their souls. Here’s one whose face is a history of selfish acts, money he has gorged, and squeezed lives, no mercy or pity is here, but a trap-jowled self-righteousness which is the way the wicked cloak their crimes. Here’s a woman who drowns men in her eyes, and when she looks in the mirror they’re all still there, looking out at her. This walking ditch believes no one loves him, so he in turn neglects the woman who droops at his side. And who’s this tusked swaggerer, sneering lordly down at me over his belly’s swell, fuck him, his dick’s no bigger than a rotten carrot. Kind faces there are too, in the crowd, but so many have that look common among Khaufpuris, tiredness, sickness, futility, their faces drift and dissolve like pools of cloud. Into view floats a girl whose hair falls across one eye, the other delicious as a tray of sweets. “Wah wah,” comes the voice of my forgotten companion, “her I wouldn’t mind.” I look round in amazement. What spoke?