“Good, I’ll take two,” says I, who’s not supposed to be there.
Next thing, a loud music starts up. Eyes, it’s Hillélé Jhakjor Duniya, which is always sung at our Khaufpuri demos, kids in the bidonvilles learn it in their mothers’ arms. The music’s coming from a loudspeaker van, so loud it hurts my ears, plus never have I liked this song because it’s about marching, upright and tall, towards freedom. I will give you a verse or two so you can see the sort of thing which brings tears to Zafar’s eyes.
janata ké chalé paltaniya, hillélé jhakjor duniya
the people’s platoons are on the march
the earth trembles, mountains quake,
the motion ripples rivers and lakes
huge waves rush across the ocean
the whole world shakes, when the people march
Outside the main gate of the CM’s house stands General Zafar, hemmed in by his henchies, Brigadier Nisha and Lance-Corporal Farouq. In his strength is our hero, leading the chant, bellowing through a loudhailer, causing the earth to tremble by the power of nothing.
ASIA, AFRIKA, AMRIKA SHAKE,
THRONES AND KINGS FALL DOWN, QUEENS’ CROWNS
SET WITH JEWEL STONES GO ROLLING IN THE DUST
WHEN THE PEOPLE WAKE
Police are arriving, wearing metal helmets and carrying staves, they line up outside the gates of the CM’s house. Someone shouts “CM’s car is coming!” Under the trees people stir, the crowd’s getting to its feet, it surges forward under a forest of waving placards.
POLITICIANS QUIVER, KAMPANI TREMBLES
RIP-OFF LAWS BEGIN TO TOTTER
AND THE CM, DIRTY ROTTER, SHIVERS WHEN THE PEOPLE WAKE
A couple of cops standing near me, their lips are moving silently. Like the rest of us they are murmuring the familiar words, one’s even tapping time with his staff. “See these fuckers, how they’ve made their fucking bellies,” says a man in the crowd, but so amused am I that the police are singing, that I call, “Let them be, cunts that they are, they’re also sons of ordinary folk.”
A new shout tells that the CM’s car is arriving. As usual I can’t get a view, so I’ve climbed onto the roof of the loudspeaker van, song’s rumbling out from the speaker right by my head. As the CM’s car passes, its flag is the only thing waving, occupant is wearing a fuck-you look. I know that look, I used to know the CM quite well. Faqri and I took to going to his house after we heard that he gave free meals to people from his home town, Sitapur. We did not know where Sitapur was, but nobody questioned us when we said we were from there. Mutton curry we’d get and roast chicken hot from the tandoor. The CM would sometimes come and question us about life back home, so we would invent whatever it would please him to hear. This happy state of affairs lasted until the CM went back to Sitapur where some idiot accused him of breaking a promise to his brother. The CM took the speaker by the arm, dragged him to the village temple and called on the gods to witness that this allegation was untrue, plus on the spot he swore to give up alcohol and never again touch meat, so after that Faqri and me stopped going.
The pandus have formed two lines, a kind of tunnel through which the car moves. At the last minute the big gates swing open, CM’s in, cops reform in front of the rapidly closing gate. A second line of police forms in front of the first.
“Come out,” Zafar shouts, and the crowd chants, “Out! Out! Out!”
The CM has not the slightest intention of coming out. He’s in and that’s that. Lights go on all over. Master’s home. The servants will be running round, there’s dinner to be served. So what’s he be doing now? Accepting a cup of tea from his loving wife, patting his kids on the head, asking how the homework’s going, or if there’s anything worth watching on the tele tonight?
With a blip and a twang the loudhailer hurls Zafar’s voice across the crowd, the music from the loudspeaker van is meanwhile blaring, so Zafar’s comments are clashing with the song.
“COME OUT, CHIEF MINISTER. WE WANT A WORD.”
“COME OUT, DON’T SELL OUT!” yells the crowd.
Zafar walks forward, stands right in front of the line of police.
“COME OUT CHIEF MINISTER, TALK TO YOUR PEOPLE!”
The crowd’s mood has changed, no longer’s festive, full purple darkness is upon us, only a few lights glitter on the black waters of the lake. Abruptly the song cuts out and there’s only Zafar’s voice repeating his call over and over.
“COME OUT CHIEF MINISTER, WE ARE WAITING FOR YOU!”
Cries of fear go up from the crowd, great bats are swooping out of the dark and flitting in circles and complex figures above our heads, the ghosts of that night are with us, that’s what people are saying.
“WE WILL STAY HERE UNTIL YOU COME OUT!”
Dark vans are drawing up, police are jumping out, wicker shields they carry, and rifles. Among them, I swear, is my old enemy Fatlu Inspector. These new cops right away begin to force their way towards where Zafar stands. The crowd, sensing their intent, presses more closely about him.
At that moment a man comes from inside, speaks urgently through the gate to the senior cop who’s standing with arms stretched gripping the gates as if he alone is preventing the crowd ripping them down. The message is relayed to Zafar.
“CHIEF MINISTER, YOU CANNOT MEET JUST OUR LEADERS, YOU MUST FACE US ALL.”
The emissary goes back inside.
“CHIEF MINISTER, IF YOU WON’T COME TO MEET US, WE’LL COME IN TO MEET YOU.”
The cops begin a new push for Zafar & Co. They grab a man and drag him off struggling, the enraged crowd grabs him back. Now the mood is nasty. Stones and half bricks start flying through the air, the police are forced to lift their shields against this hard rain. The small victory is greeted by ironic cheers. Without warning the loudspeaker van begins to move. I have to scramble off as best as I can, the driver leans out to curse me as I slide down his front glass.
At that same moment I’ve spotted Fatlu Inspector with a group of cops trying to sneak round the back of the crowd. A devil of mischief enters me, badly I want revenge for all the blows and insults Fatlu has heaped on me. I grope on the ground for a good-sized stone. Here’s one the size of a guava, hard it’s, with sharp edges. Sitting to free my shoulders, I’ve hurled it with all my strength at Fatlu’s back, it catches the cunt square, spins him down, he’s on the ground yelling in pain. Shot sir! His men are looking to see whence the stone came, but I’ve dodged behind a tree. Three of them start towards me, dogmeat I’d have been for sure, but at that moment a new commotion kicks up. The CM has come out on a balcony with a loudhailer of his own. People now begin calling for quiet to hear what he has to say.
“I WILL NOT YIELD TO THREATS,” booms the CM, the loudhailer makes him sound like his mouth is full of razor blades. A huge shout of anger greets these words. “NO DECISION WILL BE TAKEN THAT IS NOT IN YOUR BEST INTERESTS.”
“WHO DECIDES WHAT ARE OUR BEST INTERESTS?” replies the metallic voice of Zafar.
“YOU HAVE NO CAUSE TO WORRY. THIS I PROMISE.”
“HAHAHA!” goes Zafar’s loudhailer. “PEOPLE, TELL THE CM WHAT WE THINK OF HIS PROMISE.”
“Yes, of what use are your promises?” people call. “Was it three or four years ago you promised us clean water?” “What do you make from the pollution board, 50 lakhs a month is it?” “Have fun shagging your friend’s wife?” “Your father was as bad who got his servant pregnant.” More join in, and more. “How much has the Kampani paid you?” “Won any lotteries recently?” “How’s the transport business?” which is a dig at a scam which involves Farouq’s gangster uncle. Thus do the enraged Khaufpuris dredge up twenty years of grievances and gossip and scandals to hurl in the face of the CM and the anger of the crowd is turned to mocking laughter. Truly in the scam game the politicians make us street performers seem like amateurs.