We find the old man with his granddaughter lying in his lap. Aliya’s face looks strange. She has rouge on her cheeks, her eyes are ringed with kohl, her mouth is smeared with lipstick. She is wearing a fancy new dress. Old Hanif’s fingers are moving over her face, as if he is trying to memorise its details.
Huriya is sobbing. “Save her, doctress sahiba,” she says. “God bless you, I don’t believe what they are saying about you. Save this child. She is all we care for in this life.”
Elli gently lifts the old man’s fingers from the child’s face.
“Why have you dressed her like this?”
“The angel of death is here in this city. When he comes for Aliya, he will see her looking well, healthy. Death will believe he’s made a mistake, he will not want to take her and he will go away.” He turns his eyes to the doctor he can’t see. “Won’t he?”
The doctress on her knees, bent over the child, listening for her heart, stands, but does not reply.
“Non Elli, non!” I’ve cried in français so the old ones won’t understand, may the anguish in my voice not give me away. “Pas possible! Fais quelque chose, je t’implore!”
Eyes, I won’t translate, there’s not a language in this world can describe what’s in my soul. Oh my poor friend, why did I never take you fishing? Come back and you shall ride daily on my back, my ribs you may kick as much as you like. Poor child, so sudden your going that your grandparents are still pleading with Elli to save your life. Oh dear old folk, a rupee’s worth of rouge, a street-corner lipstick, the angel of death is not so cheaply bought.
Now the old bugger too is crying, I cannot watch. There is something so cruel about eyes which may not see, but may yet shed tears. My own breath is coming in sobs, in gluts like the lungs are refusing it, and why should I live? No longer is there love, nor hope, it’s the death of everything good. Gone is Zafar, gone Farouq, hard enough is that grief to bear, plus I am aching from being beaten, but worse is the agony that now fills my body, wants to leak from my eyes, out of my mouth. O god if really you exist, how wicked you must be, how you must hate us folk to torture us so, while in the gardens of Jehannum the evil men are eating well and drinking wine, them you save while the poor go to the dogs, are you in heaven so starved of joy that you must take our best, our most precious, already you have my friends, call off your dark angel from this child, spare her life and I, Animal, who’s servant to no one, will be your slave.
Says at last Elli doctress in the language of humans, “C’est plus à moi.” It’s no longer in my hands. The child I loved is gone.
A weird keening cry comes from beyond.
“God be merciful!” says the old lady, Huriya, and Hanif lifts his blind eyes to the sound.
“Zafar bhai is dead!”
Again that voice calls, others answer in the name of god in whom Zafar refused to believe. So at last the news has broken. Like dogs howling, first one, then another and another, voices from afar are wailing, the eerie sound floats up over the Nutcracker, from all sides it seems the echoes are arriving.
“Farouq bhaiya is dead! God save us! Our Zafar bhai has died!”
A voice from inside me says, “Animal, this is the end of your carefree days.”
Another warns, “Do not let them see you cry.”
I run outside, never has any Khaufpuri heard me howl. The heartless stars glitter like knives above the city.
“Zafar bhai is dead! Farouq bhaiya is dead!”
“Bhoora, quick, we must go to Ma, then you must take us back to Nisha.”
“Come,” he says, “Ma is alone, let’s go.”
I tell Elli ten minutes, we will be back, then it’s the alley narrowing to a dirt track, the crossing over the rails, Bhoora knows the way well, so many times has he dropped me, finally we are bumping across rough ground with weeds glaring white in the auto’s beam. There’s light flickering inside the tower, outlining its opening. So she is there. The strange cries are still echoing over Khaufpur, drifting up into the night, where clouds are lit by a half moon. Like a tear, they said the moon was on that night, and is again on this night of tears. Poor Aliya, nobody shall miss her like I shall.
The dog comes running to meet me. She’s jumped and licked my face. This alone, which has happened a thousand times before, makes me want to weep. Animals keep faith. Inside, I find Ma sitting by the oil lamp, in her hand is Sanjo’s book, but she is not looking at the pages. By heart she knows this book. You could tear it to pieces, or burn it, and still she will remember every line, each word. She looks at me and says, “It has come, Animal my dear, this is the night of Qayamat, the end of all things.”
“Ma, don’t go out tonight. Tonight, you stay here, stay put. Keep the dog with you. Don’t set foot outside tonight.”
She laughs at me, it’s a horrible old woman’s laugh that sucks and gurgles from lack of teeth, like a witch she looks, a haadal, a wild-eyed spirit of the night, her hair is tangled like the roots of a tree, incredibly old is her face, the lamp making shadows of its every line, of each wrinkle, as if indeed she’s been hanging around since the dawn of time. “Shouldn’t I go out tonight? This is my night, it’s the night for which I’ve waited so many years. Tonight Animal, it’s me who’s dangerous. Let the world beware.”
Well, I have no idea what she means by this, but I don’t like the sound of it. “Ma, Zafar bhai has died, the whole place will go mad. It’s not safe for you outside.” I’m thinking that maybe in their fury people may turn on foreigners. Ma is well known in the Nutcracker, but who knows where her madness might take her?
“I don’t want to be safe,” says she with that mad cackle. “What do I care if I die? On this night of all nights, to die will be a blessing. Animal, the angels are here, thousands and thousands of them, they’ve come to make an end of this sinning, sorrowful world, tonight it will go up in flames, it will burn and shrivel into ashes and become dust. Who will mourn it? Will you? Tonight to this city, do you know who has come?”
“I don’t know.” In my misery I am thinking that maybe some big politician has come from Delhi, or some fillum star. It couldn’t be a nobody, could it?
“Tell me Ma, who has come? Is it the President of India?”
She lets out peals of laughter like the carillons rung by Jacotin of the nàs superbe. “You are so silly, Animal. Guess again.”
“Jacotin, avec son nas superbe,” I say, who feels like howling.
“Right you are to speak the language of the angels on this night, Animal, they’re coming for souls, mine maybe, and also yours.” It makes me shudder the way she has started saying this night, in the same way we always say that night.
“Isa has come,” says she, “and Sanjo. I reckon they’re here already. Long have I waited to see their faces, I must surely go to meet them. And do you know why they’re here, mon pauvre petit? Because on this night the dead are going to come up out of the earth, like big mushrooms their skulls will push up out of the soil. Their bones will come up too, with a clickety noise like a train on the level crossing, and then all the bones will join together and they will walk again. Tonight, mark my words, this city will be full of the dead.”
“What of those who were burned?”
“Rain will fall, their ashes will get glued together and then the people they came from will gradually reappear. God made Adam of dust, ashes will be no problem for Him. Animal, why do you think this is happening here in Khaufpur? It’s because there are thousands upon thousands of dead here ready and waiting. God wants the Resurrection to get off to a good start.”