Part 5
With his arm still raised, he almost jumps out of his skin. He looks toward the bathroom where Hita is standing in the doorway. "Master, master," she says, "please don't beat her ... you want her for the party tonight ... right ... I won't be able to find you another girl quick enough if this one is injured." He thinks about the plea for clemency and then lowers his arm, looks at me with revulsion, and says nothing. He walks into the bathroom, brushing Hita out of the way, and slams the door behind him.
Hita does not look at me or say a word; a moment later the main door locks behind her. Iftikhar runs a bath. I am still staring ahead into the s.p.a.ce where Iftkhar's damp patch was a minute ago.
Suffice it to say, I am looking forward to the "party" tonight with the same excitement as one of our pigs who sees Father approaching with his decapitation knife.
Iftikhar bathes for at least an hour before dressing. He dresses in English clothes: jeans, white shirt, and tennis shoes. When he comes into the main room where I am waiting at the table, his mood is difficult to read. His revulsion and anger with me seem to have disappeared. However, he too does not seem to be excited by the party. Tiger, as if a storm is rumbling a jungle away, is also edgy.
Iftikhar calls on the telephone for an a.s.sortment of beverages and foods before switching the television on. Thankfully, I have disappeared to him. After a little longer than half an hour, there is a knock at the door and three rolling tables of food and drink are wheeled in. The men in white trousers and black jackets lay it out. There are savory dishes suspended on metal cradles over heating candles; two cakes, one decked in cream and another in chocolate; plates of cold vegetable salads; and fried foods. There is a large tureen of dahl and a tray of breads. There are bottles of different drinks and beers in a tub of ice. For a moment I feel like a hostess and thank the food men, only to receive blank stares in response.
I go and sit perched on one of my favorite armchairs (facing Tiger). Iftikhar has not spoken to me since the moment he was about to hit me and I am thankful for this. I sit there watching him but I am careful that the random glances he directs toward me do not find me staring back at him. I see an angry little man without backbone but there is also an attractive helplessness about him. There is something quite calming about watching a dog flail hopelessly in a fast river before it inevitably drowns. He is powerless in the face of his inadequacy such that it has taken control of him. Instead of being an engine driven by petrol, Iftikhar is an engine trying to drive on vinegar and desperate to understand why he cannot move.
There are loud, young voices outside the room and a rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat. rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat. Two men swagger into the Tiger Suite with the bounding energy of the young. In contrast, I catch the gentle movement of the elderly doorman drawing the door closed behind them. Iftikhar smiles sincerely at the visitors and gets off the sofa. He hugs them separately with affection. I edge over to the table and stand watching them. Tiger growls momentarily but quickly falls back asleep. Two men swagger into the Tiger Suite with the bounding energy of the young. In contrast, I catch the gentle movement of the elderly doorman drawing the door closed behind them. Iftikhar smiles sincerely at the visitors and gets off the sofa. He hugs them separately with affection. I edge over to the table and stand watching them. Tiger growls momentarily but quickly falls back asleep.
One of the young men is beautiful. He is a head taller than Iftikhar and twice as broad. His body is lean and muscular; his face captivates me. If I were to imagine a modern deity I would not be able to conjure up a figure as well carved as this youth. His cheekbones fall away from his eye line abruptly casting shadows over his cheeks, which are devoid of the plumpness of boyhood. His nose rises from his brow like an albatross and is perfectly straight and narrow. It drops away to form an urgent invitation to his mouth. I want to reach up and kiss his mouth and feel it press on mine; his lips have the fullness and softness of a young woman's. His hair is dark and carefully swept to frame the top of his face with a hint of chaos. His eyes are perfect. They are shaped like headlights in motion, unflawed circles of fire with blazon tails. Fire pours from the hazel-brown wells of his eyes-full of promises never to be kept. Since most of the time he is talking or laughing, there is a gaiety in the dancing to-and-fro movements that his eyes make; I am hypnotized by them. Iftikhar watches me watching him, but I cannot pull my gaze from his. He is delicious and he knows it. His name is Jay-Boy Jay-Boy is the man of the group to whom the other two defer-he savors this. You would not plunge your hand into a furnace; men like this are dangerous.
The second visitor is called Andy. It is clear that this is the Andy whom Iftikhar spoke to earlier. There is a conspiratorial feel between them that does not so much resemble the love of brothers as the mutual respect of thieves. Andy is round in every way. His face is round, his body is round, his arms, legs, and fingers are round. Even when he smiles, the shape of his mouth forms a curve that parallels the roundness of his face and runs parallel with a neat little mustache that curls over his mouth. He has little round evil green eyes. You could easily miss the darkness hidden in his eyes because when he laughs or even speaks, he squeezes them shut to hide his intent. But as I watch him, I see.
There is high praise for the table full of food and drink. But once this formality is out of the way, they turn to me. Even with the makeup that was necessary to hide my bruises I know I am lovely. I immediately sense that Jay-Boy and Andy want me in different ways. Jay-Boy must possess me as a testament to his manhood whereas Round-Boy must have me as an affirmation of his. I am another food item on the table.
It is clear that the party is not yet complete. They are waiting for someone called Bhim. Although beautiful Jay-Boy may be the focus of attention now, Bhim is the master the others obey. They speak of him as soldiers speak of their captain. They constantly refer to his victories as if they were theirs. They describe with pa.s.sion how Bhim beat this one or tricked that one. The mode of reference is similar to the way Wolf was described at the Orphanage; he says-you do. In fact, I get the sense that the party tonight was precipitated by Bhim and certainly the celebrations cannot start without him.
As the three boys sit on the sofa together and watch television, there is warmth and a palpable connection between them. Whether it is the herding of lambs or the affinity of boys, I do not know. The three of them sit on the sofa, jostling their bodies against one another, nudging one another's shoulders, and slapping one another's legs and arms. They entangle their voices in the same way, laughing and talking; one is always trying to outdo another. In an instant I am drawn back to the dining table with my brothers, who were always poking one another, fighting, and laughing. You could not help smiling as you watched them. Tiger and I watch these three boys and we both smile. I am puzzled by our ability to connect distant moments of time as one. I pull the laughter from so many years ago to the present and feel the happiness that I understand only now that I miss.
The three boys watch cricket, princ.i.p.ally at Jay-Boy's request (I know that Iftikhar hates cricket). Jay-Boy and Iftikhar sit drinking beer straight from tall green cans and Andy is drinking a tea-colored drink poured from one of the bottles at the table. Their words are already slurring and their laughter is somewhat uncontrolled; they are not seasoned drinkers.
The laughter is silenced by the telephone. "Father," Iftikhar says with excessive and insincere enthusiasm, "it is wonderful you called ... I am." Iftikhar is obviously interrupted and his tone changes. "He is here," Iftikhar says seriously and indicates with his hand to Jay-Boy and Andy that they need to be silent. "I agree, Father," Iftikhar says. He is looking at Andy as he speaks and now he is smiling at his co-conspirator. "I did not want to tell you at all, but I thought it was my duty ... to me, Mr. Vas is like an uncle ... I know, I know ... he used to rock me on his knee. Father, may I ask you, now that you have discovered that Mr. Vas has been stealing, what will you do?" He raises his eyebrows and smirks at Andy, who grins in response. "Father," Iftikhar protests, "I beg of you, please, please do not sack him. I am sure there is another job he could do, say in one of the warehouses ... He has a lovely wife and they have children ... oh, I understand ... I have a lot to learn from you. You are right, of course. If others saw you being lenient with a thief, there would be no stopping them. I will be sorry to see him go, though. Father, when will you tell him? Right now, are you serious? ... I understand. I have so much to learn. Goodbye, Father ... really it is Andy you should thank ... yes, I will ... he feels sad too as he knows how much I love Mr. Vas." They smile again. Iftikhar carries on. "A few other friends are coming over too ... yes, Father. Yes, she is. She is working out fine. Thank you ... we will. Goodbye."
As he hangs up, Iftikhar punches repeatedly in the air with his right arm and Andy starts clapping like an imbecile. Jay-Boy is eyeing me. Iftikhar and Andy jump up and perform a little jig in front of the sofa. They toast each other. "Ifti," Jay-Boy says, interrupting the jubilation, "can I take your little toy here for a quick test run in the bedroom." Iftikhar's guard is down and he hesitates. Jay-Boy gets up and advances toward me but Iftikhar stops him. "Jay-Boy you'd better wait until Bhim gets here. He is bringing over some girls too ... you know what he's like." Almost immediately, there is a loud knock at the door, from the other side of which I can hear giggling.
Enter Bhim, enter Bhim's attendant, and enter two girls.
Bhim is of medium height and has unremarkable features, neither attractive nor ugly. You would walk past him in the street without noticing him except for the sense he emits of being in charge. He does not use extravagant mannerisms or a loud voice, but you can sense his authority. He wears a smart black cotton jacket, a white T-shirt, and jeans, and he is followed by a dog. His dog is a head shorter and broader than he is and is dark skinned, with a somewhat squashed face. The dog's eyes are hooked on Bhim and he says nothing; short of a wagging tail, he would actually be a dog. As Bhim takes a seat on the armchair nearest the door, his dog takes a seemingly natural position standing behind his left shoulder.
The two girls are much older than I am and clearly are attending the party on hire. Their paymaster is Bhim and they accord him the attention he has paid for. One girl, wearing an orange T-shirt, is very full-busted; this is her princ.i.p.al attribute. Her T-shirt is dramatically stretched over her bosom and has the word "Bebe" written across it in shiny stones. Each gigantic breast is larger than my head. I am impressed that the parchment-thin material retains her b.r.e.a.s.t.s at all, as they are poised like wild cats to leap from it. Her face is ugly and you can see where she plucks her chin hairs. She is wearing tight blue jeans that cover her generous bottom, and her black-heeled shoes are similar to the ones I am wearing. Her overall appearance is of a ma.s.sive pair of orange b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
The other girl is quite lovely; she has long, flowing, shiny black hair, a well-proportioned body, and beautifully painted lips. She has a black spot on her left cheek just above her mouth, which I suspect is from ink. She is probably a little too beautiful, as this intimidates men even when money has already been exchanged. She is wearing a rippling silver top that falls away completely at her back so that her skin is revealed. Her back is so smooth and without blemish that you just want to touch it to see if it is real or porcelain. She is wearing tight white trousers, no underwear, and brown leather boots to her mid-calf.
The girls, like me, are not introduced by name. When I was in my nest I often used to think that I had lost my name altogether. I had become an anonymous unit without any function; who names a broom or a table? The girls and I were objects and as such unnamed.
The pet dog is dismissed and leaves. He is the only one to address Tiger, who reciprocally bids him farewell.
The beautiful girl serves Bhim the same drink that Andy has and then the women help themselves. They do not acknowledge me. The party is beginning. Jay-Boy is still eyeing me and now that Iftikhar's authority to deny him is muted, he takes me into the bedroom. He is easy to please and I am easy to possess.
He returns to the group and I wash myself quickly in the bathroom so that I can steal a little time to write. As I leave the bathroom, the ugly girl is reminding Bhim of long-forgotten days of feeding from his mother's teat. He is lying on his back on the bed as she straddles him. She is feeding him her left breast by pushing its nipple into his mouth using both of her hands. He is clothed and she is naked. He watches me walk through the bedroom. She, again, does not acknowledge me.
In the main room, Jay-Boy is sitting in the armchair with the pretty girl on his lap. Iftikhar and Andy are together on the sofa. They are watching a music show on television. Iftikhar and Jay-Boy are smoking. Jay-Boy smiles when he sees me and calls over to Iftikhar, "You lucky man, she is quite a fox." Iftikhar answers in kind, looking at me fleetingly as he speaks. "I rammed her the whole weekend. She cries for more all the time; she really loves it." Jay-Boy interjects into the stream of fiction, "I think Andy should take her for a turn." The pretty girl says, looking playfully saddened, "Oh, come on, Jay-Boy, I told you I want Andy." The pretty girl is smart as she knows how hesitant and obedient Andy would be; an easy student. Andy blushes visibly and Iftikhar's goading makes him blush more. "Andy wouldn't know which end to start. I'll tell you one thing, Sheenah, his princess wife, doesn't give him head-that's for sure. Right, Andy?" Andy meekly responds, "Ifti, she's your sister." There is an uncomfortable hush broken only by Tiger's laughter.
Bhim enters from the bedroom. "What, Andy gets no head? We'd better put that right, right, Andy?" Iftikhar adds, "That's if he can get it up." Iftikhar, Bhim, and Jay-Boy burst into raucous laughter at Andy's expense. Andy reddens from embarra.s.sment. Jay-Boy calls over the laughter (I sense with a sprinkling of malice), "Ifti, take Gee-Gee to the bedroom, she really wants you." The beautiful one, obviously called Gee-Gee, interjects. "No! I told you I want Andy," she says, playfully pouting her lips at a still red-faced Andy. Iftikhar responds, "I had the little b.i.t.c.h there," pointing at me, "twice before you got here. I also want to see Gee-Gee on Andy." I am not sure whether Bhim sees through Iftikhar's front and so speaks mockingly or whether he believes him, but he says, "Ifti, I knew you had the rocks ... I'm going to try your dolly, then ... if she can handle it." You see: "your toy," "your dolly," "the little b.i.t.c.h;" that is how they refer to me, but never as Batuk.
As Bhim beckons me to experience "the roller coaster," as he refers to himself, I glance over my shoulder at Iftikhar. There is such a delicious flood of dejection emanating from him that I hold his sad stare for a second longer than I intended-just to relish it. Suddenly, though, I feel a p.r.i.c.k of sadness because I remember the moment that Wolf took me from Shahalad. The difference is that then I longed for Shahalad in a way I had never experienced before. Iftikhar's humiliation is my yearning now.
In the bedroom, Bhim is surprisingly gentle. Young men generally use physical strength to communicate their potency. I appreciated long ago that this reflects a lack of confidence and immaturity. The overreliance on the physical renders them poor lovers, which is why, I suppose, their wives reject them. Bhim is different. He wishes to emulate an exchange of fondness between us. I see this more commonly in an older man, who oftentimes I suspect is married to a woman no longer capable or interested in providing affection. I can become a daughter to these men and provide them with the forbidden love of the powerless. It is rare for a young man to want affection from me, and it is tiresome because I have to extend my dramatic skills beyond the most simple of dances.
As we lie opposite each other, Bhim smiles and strokes my hair. He wriggles closer to me so that he is a handbreadth from me. He strokes my bare arm and smiles. "So," he says, "Master Iftikhar is wearing you out." I smile back at him and respond, "Yes, I am tired," which is true. I have nothing to gain by affronting Iftikhar. It strikes me that I have not gained anything by being brought here; I miss the sounds of the city, the others, and even the heat. As I lie here on the soft bed in the cooled bedroom, I feel the tiredness for the first time and I want to fall asleep. Bhim smiles at me in a way I cannot decode; at its most simple it is a polite smile. He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him and now strokes my bottom and my thigh. He rubs my dress higher up my thigh so that my entire leg is exposed and I feign pleasure; if I had my choice I would slice his hand from his body. His grip is a mixture of strength and boniness, and with his hand now on my exposed b.u.t.tock, he leans over me to kiss my neck. This is standard for many cooks. I coo for him and think about how sweet the mango was yesterday. He leaves saliva on my neck, which feels cold as it dries. I love being able to be clean. I will wash him off very soon. "Your lips are very gentle," I say.
"Why don't you get that pretty dress off?" he whispers in my ear. I oblige. He then fiddles a little to remove the bra and I feel a little depleted, remembering the huge offerings of the ugly girl. I realize that I am still young but know that I will never become that generous in my body. He starts to kiss my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and then he pushes his hand between my legs. I lie and stare at the bathroom door. I am thinking to myself that one day I would like to write a story about the tiger. I call out "Tiger" with my under-voice. Bhim's teeth nip my left nipple and I flinch; I wince in feigned pain, as many cooks love to hurt me. He carries on kissing my breast. I think of Tiger asleep in the next room.
Bhim says, "Oh, you are all wet for me, baby," as he wedges a hand between my legs. "Yes. You are very handsome," I say. Has he forgotten that I have Jay-Boy's spill in me?
"Wake up, Tiger. I am going to write a story about you one day. I need you to tell me about your mummy and daddy and the other cubs. Tell me about the jungles you ran through and all the deer you hunted. Wake up, Tiger!"
Bhim is kissing me between my legs on Bunny Rabbit's mouth. Can he taste Jay-Boy? I find this thought pleasing and rub his hair as he licks and partakes of Jay-Boy. He wants me to roll on top of him. He wants me to stare down at him as I move on him. I oblige. The bhunnas is not excessive in size and I pitch to and fro. He closes his eyes, only to open them to ensure that I am looking at him, which I am. How you pace a man is important; too fast and he deflates (Iftikhar's limitations were not by my design), too long and he burns out. It is like baking a cake. I am concerned that since Ugly Girl has just worked him, Bhim will take forever. I need not have worried; with seven or eight twists of my hips as I descend on him, Bhim gives himself to me. He is delighted with his sweet-cake. I smile at him amorously and politely excuse myself. I close the bathroom door shut, pull my bundle of paper from behind the sink, turn on the bathtub faucets, and write. I feel a growing desperation to melt within my ink.
The room is steaming up. There is a violent knocking at the door which then flies open.
Plain white paper
I will never be able to explain exactly how this sheet follows the last. Words come to me with far greater effort both mentally and physically. I sit in bed with my back against a steel frame. On awakening, I did not immediately realize that I was in a hospital, probably because of the medication, which I think is also making me feel woozy and sick. The pain is returning and so the medication must be weakening.
My memories of the events that brought me here are, like my words, only sketchy. It has taken me a couple of days to patch together the events that took me from the bathroom to this hospital bed.
The police sergeant is interested in my account of what happened and has asked me to write down everything I can remember. He was dumbfounded when he learned that I could write. He went and got my blue notebook from under the mattress in the Tiger Suite and took away all my other writings. Lying here, I have been told that I have nothing to fear from the police. I think that I may have much to gain by aiding them; the doctors will certainly not forget me with the police coming every day to talk to me.
As best as I can recollect, here is what happened.
The urgent knocking on the bathroom door was only Gee-Gee, the pretty girl, who had to clean out Jay-Boy from inside her. He had apparently dealt with her on the armchair in the main room while I had been baking with Bhim. She agreed with me that he was easy to please. I remember we giggled like schoolgirls after I told her how amazingly beautiful I thought she was. She was naked below the waist, which made the moment between us even more sisterly. "So what are you doing in here?" she asked. "I am writing," I answered after some hesitation. "What are you writing?" I showed her the sheet of paper I was writing on and the whole pile of my writing that rested on my lap. She took hold of the pile and fanned through it in silence. The sheets of blue script blurred into one; I knew she could not read but did not want to offend her. "It is just my silly thoughts," I say. She looks at me with a pure smile of sunshine and says, "You are so pretty and so clever ..." She fans the pile of paper again, looking at it in awe. She asks, "How old are you?" "Fifteen," I answer. "Did you come from a brothel or are you private?" "Brothel," I say. I am ashamed to tell her that I come from the Common Street, as it is the lowest level. Girls from brothels are far higher, and private girls the best. "How about you?" I ask. "Private," she says. I am not surprised as she is so beautiful and poised. She would have known the foreigner hotels well. "You make good money?" she asks. "Mamaki keeps my share for me for when I am older." Gee-Gee bursts out laughing. "Oh darling, are you being serious?" "My name is Batuk," I say. She looks at me, pauses a second, and she understands, for she too is nameless. She says, "Batuk, you will never see a rupee of that money! You need to get out while ..." She is interrupted by Bhim, who has silently appeared at the bathroom doorway. "Get your a.s.ses in the main room," he says.
After issuing his command, Bhim halts. He looks at the pile of papers in Gee-Gee's hand and pries them from her. I watch him and hold my breath. The second I see his eyes scanning the lines I know he can read. "No," I scream and instinctively throw myself at him, grasping for the papers. What a terrible mistake. He pushes me back. I come at him again but he kicks me to the floor with savage thrusts of his right leg (not so gentle now). He takes a couple of steps backward out of the bathroom, brandishing the papers high above his head. "Now what is this?" he asks. "It is just my silly scribbling," I say beseechingly to him. "Please give them back to me. They are just my silly stories." I run at him for the third time but he sees me coming and swats me away with the back of his left hand. He shouts, "Jay-Boy get in here right now." Jay-Boy runs into the bedroom and Bhim tells him with a huge grin on his face, "Hold her back." Bhim is the beggar who was just handed a gla.s.s of water to find it full of diamonds. Jay-Boy grabs me round the waist, twists me away from Bhim, and I start kicking. Gee-Gee slinks into the main room. Jay-Boy takes my wrists and pins them against the bedroom wall; he presses his body into mine so that I am stuck. I stop struggling altogether.
Bhim sits on the bed and reads. I can hear the television in the main room but nothing else. Bhim starts to laugh. "You have got to hear this," he says to no one in particular. He starts reading to Jay-Boy in a melodramatic voice and I start to cry.
I placed my palms on the outside of his thighs again and gently started to stroke up and down. I lowered my head and started to kiss the inside of his right knee. I could taste the remnants of soap on his skin. I heard him moan and then felt his thighs contract on my head. He cried out. I looked up and saw that he was emitting his essence skyward. It had taken seconds. They were short little white squirts, six of them. His bhunnas must have been slightly angled to the right, as some of the juice splashed onto his right thigh and then slid downward. The remainder was in my hair. I hesitated and then drove my head deep between his thighs and started hungrily kissing both his legs. I pushed my head into him so that his thighs divided and I started to kiss his s.c.r.o.t.u.m. I moaned, "Oh master ... oh master ... thank you." out. I looked up and saw that he was emitting his essence skyward. It had taken seconds. They were short little white squirts, six of them. His bhunnas must have been slightly angled to the right, as some of the juice splashed onto his right thigh and then slid downward. The remainder was in my hair. I hesitated and then drove my head deep between his thighs and started hungrily kissing both his legs. I pushed my head into him so that his thighs divided and I started to kiss his s.c.r.o.t.u.m. I moaned, "Oh master ... oh master ... thank you."
Jay-Boy hoots like a baboon. "How about this?" Bhim says, and reads aloud, I sense that intellectual pursuit arouses Iftikhar.
"Wait until his father hears that. Iftikhar failed so many exams this year that even Bubba can't afford him anymore." He and Jay-Boy burst out laughing. I feel Jay-Boy's body bounce against mine as he laughs.
Bhim carries on and says, "You have got to hear this ..."
I shuffle and sit on the edge of the bed and open my legs. He steps between them. His little candy stick winks at me through the cotton. I start to slide his briefs off over his hips. I only get them a few inches down when I see the first tiny pulsation and then the throbbing as he empties. A dark, wet patch spreads before my eyes into the cotton of his underwear. He stares down as if there were a foreign object taped to his groin.
"It looks as though math and chemistry aren't the only things our friend Iftikhar fails at." They are doubled up with laughter. Jay-Boy repeats "little candy stick" "little candy stick" in hysterics. in hysterics.
Bhim walks into the main room brandishing my papers. Jay-Boy follows, half dragging me; he has me tightly gripped around the waist. I am kicking and screaming, "No, no, no." As we enter the main room, Iftikhar looks around. Initially, Ugly Girl was concealed by the back of the sofa but now I can see her kneeling in front of Andy, who has his trousers crumpled around his ankles and his underpants stretched across his knees. Her head is bobbing up and down on Andy's groin. She does not miss a beat even when the three of us enter (she is a professional). Bhim starts to read the same pa.s.sages with the same theatrical tone. Ugly Girl now stops and resorts to swirling hand actions on Andy; she is all ears. As Bhim finishes the first excerpt, Iftikhar looks over at me; I am now flaccid in Jay-Boy's arms. Even though I cannot think of anything to say, I know it will not make a difference. What is more, I feel no regret. The second piece that Bhim reads out roots Iftikhar to the spot and the third piece annihilates him. I see his entire being tighten like a drawn bow. Then he snaps. Tw.a.n.g! Tw.a.n.g! He leaps for me. Jay-Boy sees him move and spins me away from Iftikhar but does not release me. Bhim is doubled with laughter and Andy is smiling. He leaps for me. Jay-Boy sees him move and spins me away from Iftikhar but does not release me. Bhim is doubled with laughter and Andy is smiling.
Iftikhar has spun to the other side of the room and screams so loudly that Ugly Girl drops Andy's bhunnas, which flops down like a fallen battle standard. Iftikhar yells, "Shut up. b.l.o.o.d.y shut up, Bhim." Bhim turns to him. "Heh, Ifti, don't shoot off your mouth at me." There is a moment's silence before Jay-Boy and Andy get the joke and burst out laughing; Ugly Girl got it right away but knew better than to laugh. I watch Iftikhar implode. Then he turns his gaze to me, half shielded by Jay-Boy's body. Iftikhar says, looking straight at me, "So you all want to see me f.u.c.k her, and hear the b.i.t.c.h scream as I do it? Is that what you all want?" Bhim answers, "Will I miss it if I blink?" Iftikhar turns to him and in naked hatred spits the words, "I said, do you want to see me f.u.c.k her? Yes or no?" "Iftikhar, I would love to see it-perhaps during a TV advert," Bhim says.
Iftikhar's voice is loud but controlled as he speaks over his friends' laughter. "Boys, pin her down on the floor for me. She is going to scream to h.e.l.l when I am through with her. b.i.t.c.h," he says as he looks over to me, "you will feel my love for eternity." Iftikhar is past the point where he can regain himself. He topples the low gla.s.s table aside from where it was located in the center of the sofas and chairs. The sound of the gla.s.s breaking is deafening, as if to invoke silence from the onlookers, who no longer speak or laugh. Iftikhar says to Jay-Boy "Bring her over here." Jay-Boy hesitates and Iftikhar tosses his head and screams, "I said bring that little wh.o.r.e over here." He obeys and pushes me toward Iftikhar, who stands where the table has been. I do not resist. I look within Iftikhar's eyes and see where the rats have gnawed away at his inner remnants. He walks up to me, holding my gaze, and in one action punches me across the face. I do not lose consciousness but the impact and the pain disorient me. I shake my head, look within, and laugh.
I feel the happiness that the insane feel when they are released from the confines of the ordinary world. "Get her on the ground," Iftikhar says. "Andy, sit on her chest." Andy replies, "Ifti ... this isn't a great idea. We all know the little wh.o.r.e made it up. You told me you f.u.c.ked her crazy, like ten times ... we don't need to see you ... right, Bhim?" he asks Bhim, almost begging. There is silence. I notice that the girls have disappeared. Bhim is silent for several seconds. He eventually says, "Actually, Andy, I do want to see Iftikhar f.u.c.k her. I just hope I don't sneeze and miss it." Bhim continues with a soft smile on his face, "Andy, sit your a.s.s on her chest like he told you." I start kicking like a crazed animal as Jay-Boy pushes me down, in part by kicking me at the back of my right knee. Andy lowers his globular ma.s.s onto my chest so that all I can see is his back; there is sweat soaking through his shirt and glistening on the back of his neck. These boys are now a herd.
Iftikhar says, "Jay-Boy, Bhim, take a leg and spread her wide." Jay-Boy kneels below my feet, grasps my ankles, and spreads my legs apart. I start clawing at Andy's back. He cries out. Bhim grasps my wrists, drags them over my head, and sits on my arms. I feel my dress pushed up my legs. Then I see Iftikhar standing between my legs. I feel him pushing his shoe onto Bunny Rabbit's mouth. Eyeing me, he says, "So, little wh.o.r.e, you think Iftikhar can't f.u.c.k you, huh?" I say loud enough for Tiger to hear, "Ifti baby, you couldn't f.u.c.k a cabbage."
I see Iftikhar's leg go back and I know what is coming. Nothing could have prepared me for the feeling as he kicks Rabbit's mouth. My body explodes. I am barely conscious; noise fills my head. One of the boys, although I cannot tell which, says, "Well, you still haven't f.u.c.ked her." In seconds that traverse many planes of time, I see Iftikhar walk over to Tiger and lift one of the ornamental swords off the bracket below Tiger's face. He carries it over to me. Iftikhar wears the same expression on his face as he did the first moment I saw him: steel resolve.
I feel the tip of the shining sword against Rabbit's mouth. Just as the steel touches me, showers of electricity flood through me. I spasm in pain, and arch against Andy's weight. The boys are screaming at him but Iftikhar yells them to silence. I see his face stare down at me over Andy's back. I see him place the top of the sword handle against his stomach. The tip pushes against Rabbit's mouth and the pain alone rips me apart. He stares at me and says, "Now who's f.u.c.ked, Batuk." It is the first time he has spoken my name. Tiger roars for the heavens to come to earth and then I feel nothing.
The nurse told me I was in the newspaper, which amazed me, and I asked her to read what was written in the article as I do not speak English (except for a few choice phrases). I could hear the hesitation in her voice as she held up the newspaper. I was pleased for the company anyway. The actors around me appeared to be the hopeless, the moaning, the wailing, and the half dead. This hospital was more crowded and decrepit than the chicken coop I had been in when I was a child, and these patients were older and more helpless. The place reminded me more of the Orphanage, a receptacle for human garbage.
The stage was colorful: the deep red of blood-stained mattress covers and towels, the yellow of urine, some fresh and some years old, the shades of gray of my fellow patients, the orange of iodine, and the pale blue-brown mixture on the walls where there was less paint than more. There was an opera of sound too: the jingle-jangle of the steel carts, the rustling of the uniforms, the voices of medical hierarchy, and the sublime chorus of the patient choir, some singing their finales. The smell was an invisible but essential part of the atmosphere, a blend of ammonia, decaying human flesh, and unclean mouths all simmering together to form the distinct odor of death.
The nurse started by clearing her throat. She read slowly, as she was translating the English for me.
Carnage in luxury hotel. Today police are investigating the ma.s.sacre of four young men found slaughtered in the penthouse suite of the Royal Imperial Hotel, Mumbai. One of them is the eighteen-year-old son of Delhi billionaire Purah "Bubba" Singh. Chief Repaul stated that all available leads are being explored to find the guilty ones.
She cleared her throat again.
Bubba Singh was not available for comment, although a source close to the family stated that Mr. Singh's son was having a party after successfully completing his school exams. He was planning to enter the family business. The tragedy for Bubba Singh was compounded because another of the victims was his son-in-law, Oojam "Andy" Tandor, who leaves a young widow. Sources close to the prominent family revealed that she is pregnant and expecting in the spring. There was only one survivor. A maid, Hita Randohl, discovered the bodies and called hotel security. She is currently being questioned intensively by the police.
The nurse looked up at me. "That's you they're talking about." I smiled. Here in this newspaper, just as when all my bakers return to their wives, I had become anonymous, "one survivor." She continued: Police were called to the luxury hotel, which has hosted many celebrities and stars such as Mahendra Singh Dhoni, Margaret Thatcher, U.S. senators, and the Police rock music group. There were reports by hotel guests of loud music and boisterous behavior during the entire evening. A major disturbance was first reported to hotel security around midnight. Mr. Ghundra-Chapur, the manager of the hotel, reported that hotel security guards responded immediately to the maid's emergency call. He said that when the guards entered the luxury suite and found the bodies, the police were immediately called. "This is a terrible tragedy, and our thoughts and prayers are with the families," Ghundra-Chapur said.In Chief Repaul's statement, he reported that "the four young men were killed by violent means." Although he denied gunshots, he would not reveal the cause of death at this time. Hotel guests confirmed that they did not hear gunshots. "Just loud music," one of the guests, Mr. Peter Seville from Connecticut in the USA, said.The deaths have already rocked the Mumbai business community. "No resources will be spared to find the guilty" Chief Repaul stated.
It was obvious that there was more in the paper, but the nurse shut it. She shouted for an elderly orderly to bring her a towel, and she wiped my sweating brow with a damp cloth and disappeared.
The last few days have not gone well. Whenever they withdraw the pain medications, the pain becomes excruciating. I can still feel Iftikhar's shoe and the sword's steel, but when the medications are given back to me, I see gray and sleep. I am having more fevers today. The nurse pushes several types of cream into my bottom to make me go brown, but I cannot go. The doctor in his white coat shook his head while writing on my board earlier; his silent gaggle of attendants looked downward. I even sense that the nurses are giving me less attention, as if their time would be better invested elsewhere. During my high fevers they make sure the old attendant wipes my brow, and when the fevers subside they say, "Try to drink some broth." I feel tired all the time. When I am not feverish, I must write. All that is left of me is ink.
The policeman has come to see me twice more to ask if I remember anything else about that night-but I do not. The policeman is nice. He has read my writings and looks at me with pity. I never asked for his pity but he gives it freely. I sense he is desperate because today he was asking me the same questions as before but with greater intensity. He asks me a lot about Mr. Vas. "Was he there?" "Did you see him at all that night?" I have already said no many times to these questions. Now I just shake my head to save the energy of speech. I smile and remember his light blue suit. I know the policeman wants me to say that I saw Mr. Vas that night but I did not. Mr. Vas brought me here to the hospital, he tells me.
Why did Mr. Vas pluck me off the street, clasp me in his arms, and gently lay me on this hospital bed? I have no idea. He has not been to visit me.
The policeman asks me again if I know who carried out the attacks and again I explain that Tiger did.
In my fever I see circles of different colors and different sizes moving forward and backward and to the side-zooming around and sometimes still. The world is circles-or are they hats?-that connect this to that in invisible moving patterns.
Last night was the worst but I will not write of it. There is only a little ink left.
Today there is great excitement in the hospital room because the senior professor is coming to inspect all the patients. The linens are changed; my face and body are washed. I am propped up in bed, cushioned by two pillows. The fevers are worse. The professor enters, followed by an entourage of doctors in white coats and nurses. He is a gray, slim man dressed in a smart suit, and he wears gla.s.ses. He parades from bed to bed as one of the younger doctors in a white coat talks before him. The professor asks a few questions, nods his head in a scholarly way, writes for a second on the board at the end of the bed, and then goes to the next patient. He is getting nearer to me and I feel quite anxious. He comes to me. The young doctor is nervous too. The pockets of his white coat bulge, full of pamphlets and papers, and he has his listening tube hung from his neck like a scarf. The young doctor starts to talk about me but is interrupted. "Oh, here she is," the professor says, and looks over his gla.s.ses at me. I try to smile. The professor continues in a voice that echoes his station in life, "Yes, I have had calls about her ... carry on," he says to the junior doctor, who starts babbling in medical words. The professor listens and asks several questions of the young doctor that sound like a knife stabbing cheese. The young doctor is pouring sweat; it is as though he is being interrogated. "Oh, terrible, terrible," the professor says, slowly shaking his head. He then says in a voice that will be obeyed, "I would give her maximum doses of the antibiotics ... she is young. Her kidneys will be fine ... what choice is there?"
He scribbles in the chart and is about to walk on when he halts and comes to stand next to my bed. He reaches his hand down and touches my arm. "What is your name?" he asks in a kindly tone. "Batuk," I say. "Batuk, that is a lovely name. Now, how are you feeling today?" "Good ... Professor ... thank you," I answer. "Well, that is a good girl," he says. "I want you to do your best to get better." He smiles at me, a large empty smile, takes his hand off my arm, and walks on to the next patient.
Even though there is a stack of paper next to my bed, I have not written for days. The policeman seems to have lost interest in my writing too. The times I am in high fever now exceed those in which I am cool. The bent-over old orderly somehow keeps up with my demand for dry towels to wipe my soaking head and body. When I reach my hand across to the little square wooden table that is next to my bed, there is always a dry towel there. The nurses check my temperature all the time but have stopped trying to make me drink the soup.
On top of the intense pain between my legs and the never-ceasing fevers, I start coughing. The trouble is, I am too weak to cough up the thick slime in my lungs. The nurse sits me forward, pounds on my back for a while, waits for me to spit up what looks like congealed yogurt, and off she goes. With each bout of fever, my strength, or what remains, is sapped a little more. I try so hard to cough. Last night I had a terrible incident-I coughed and coughed; some other patient told me to be quiet, but I could not. So I concentrated all my strength and did one huge cough. As the slime trickled out of my mouth I also did brown and p.i.s.sed in the bed. I was too ashamed to tell anyone and lay in its warmth. The nurse scolded me only gently in the morning before she cleaned me.
The doctor today asked if I'd had TB. I told him I had it when I was little. "I think it has come back," said the doctor. "Oh," I said.
They have given me more pain medication with a needle, for which I thank them. The nurse cleans Bunny Rabbit and tries not to show emotion, but I can see white, smelly cream on the dressings. I look at my p.i.s.s-bag and there is brown in that. I can also see that the skin of my thighs is bright red. The nurse cleans me up and waits. She is patient and the room is no longer that noisy. The orderly still delivers clean towels but I no longer have the strength to say thank you. I try to mouth to him. He pads my head with a cool towel and pushes a cold gla.s.s to my lips. As I sip, I taste sherbet. It is cool and sweet but a flood of warmth courses through my body like the river does in the monsoon, flooding her banks. The black ink starts to dissolve and I feel it seeping away from me. I am a child back on my father's lap. I smell perfumes and food and sweat on him. He pushes more sherbet in my mouth and I hear my tiny, naughty voice, "Daddy, Daddy ... please, please. Go on, tell me." "No," he says like a wisp of breeze against my ear. But I know he will bend to my will. "Daddy, please tell me my story." Then, as his soft voice unfolds, his chest rumbles with each beloved syllable and I inhale not only him, but also the essence of the river that connects us all.
THE SILVER-EYED LEOPARD.
In a land far away from here lived a queen. She was prized for her extraordinary beauty. But as beautiful as she was, she was also wise. She ruled her vast kingdom in peace and prosperity. No one in the kingdom went without food or shelter and no one could remember the last war. The queen was loved by all.
She had become queen at the age of nine after her mother and father died from the plague that had swept through the kingdom years before. Her parents had caught the plague as they had tended their sick subjects in the sanitarium on the outskirts of the city. They had fallen prey to the terrible illness together and died in each other's embrace, eternally bonded by their love of each other and for their people.
The nine-year-old child princess was appointed queen after seven weeks of mourning. Since the day of her enthronement, Gahil had been by her side as her devoted advisor. Gahil had been the king's sword bearer and there was no one in the kingdom the king had trusted more. The king had asked Gahil on his deathbed to be the child queen's guardian. He had made Gahil swear an oath to serve her always and to never let her leave the confines of the palace grounds for fear of her befalling the same fate that befell himself and his beloved queen. Gahil had fulfilled his oath from that day onward. From the day the crown had been placed on the nine-year-old princess's head, Gahil had loved the princess queen as if she were his own daughter. The princess queen had come to love Gahil as a father. Even as the queen entered adulthood and became a mighty, strong, and independent ruler, Gahil remained at her side. The queen never left the palace grounds and the chronicles recorded her name as the Queen of the Great Palace.
Every day the queen would attend to the affairs of state in the morning, and after her daily walk in the palace gardens she would lunch on bread, mango, and a.s.s's milk. After the second chime, she would meet with her subjects, one and then another, resolving disputes and listening to requests. She received subjects late into the evening and often would ask her attendants to carry the aging Gahil to his chamber, as he would fall asleep from the length of his days.
The queen had completed twenty years of rule; the land prospered like never before and the people were at peace. One day, after many weeks of meditation, Gahil took the queen aside and said, "Mighty queen and beloved ruler" (this is how he addressed his queen however many times she told him not to), "may I please speak privately and frankly with you?" "Of course, oh wisest of all the wise" (this is how the queen addressed Gahil, even though he begged her not to). The queen was antic.i.p.ating a long debate regarding a legal ruling she had made. Often, she would debate Gahil on matters of the law until deep into the night; she enjoyed pitting her razor-sharp mind against Gahil's gentle logic. They of en disagreed, but how they loved to argue and joust in debate. However, on this occasion, Gahil's concern was not the law. of meditation, Gahil took the queen aside and said, "Mighty queen and beloved ruler" (this is how he addressed his queen however many times she told him not to), "may I please speak privately and frankly with you?" "Of course, oh wisest of all the wise" (this is how the queen addressed Gahil, even though he begged her not to). The queen was antic.i.p.ating a long debate regarding a legal ruling she had made. Often, she would debate Gahil on matters of the law until deep into the night; she enjoyed pitting her razor-sharp mind against Gahil's gentle logic. They of en disagreed, but how they loved to argue and joust in debate. However, on this occasion, Gahil's concern was not the law.
He said, "Your Majesty, you have ruled your land with wisdom and kindness for twenty years, and the people are at peace and the children are well fed. Have you thought of the future?" The queen knew exactly what Gahil was getting at but played ignorant. "Wisest advisor, what is it you mean?" "Your Majesty, have you considered marriage so that your kingdom may have an heir? Without an heir, the kingdom could become unstable. I beg of you, mighty and most beautiful of queens, please, at least consider taking suitors. My queen cannot age alone." The queen laughed in response to Gahil's prodding. It was not the first time that the issue of her marriage had been raised. Secretly she agreed with Gahil. She knew her kingdom could only be secure with an heir apparent. Also, in secret, despite the love of Gahil and all her people, she was lonely for a companion. "Learned and wisest master, what would you suggest? I was planning to grow old alongside you." Gahil was ready for this opening. "Your Majesty, let your government send forth a proclamation that their beloved queen will consider suitors for the sixty days after the third moon." The queen thought, looked at her beloved Gahil, and said, "Let it be so."
The kingdom buzzed with gossip of the queen taking a suitor. "Will it be the king of Bohemia?" one person asked. "No, surely it will be the prince of Jerusalem," said another. "Rubbish," said a third, "it will be the royal prince of Persia." The only thing that was clear was that no one could agree. It soon became the only topic people spoke of in the taverns and the village squares. prince of Jerusalem," said another. "Rubbish," said a third, "it will be the royal prince of Persia." The only thing that was clear was that no one could agree. It soon became the only topic people spoke of in the taverns and the village squares.
When the proclamation went forth across the far reaches of the earth that the legendary Queen of the Great Palace would consider suitors, hundreds of men arrived. They came on horses, in chariots, and on elephants. Every day more suitors rode into the city and the queen met with them all. One brought gold, another brought jewels; some brought furs and some brought magical silks. They all received the sincerest of thanks from the queen but none left with her hand in marriage. Gahil would say of one, "He is a wonderful warrior," but the queen would answer, "But he has no appreciation for music-how could I marry such a man?" Gahil would say of another suitor, "How beautiful are his features," and the queen would answer, "He is not skilled in mathematics-how will he help manage our grain stores?" And so it went on. Whenever Gahil found an attribute, his beloved queen would find a fault. Soon the sixty days would be up and Gahil realized he was fighting a losing battle. The queen, on the other hand, was irritated that so much time had been taken away from the affairs of state and her people by Gahil's scheme to find her a husband. But her loneliness started to grow within her. At first, this was a tiny seed of a feeling, but soon it became a forest of emptiness.
There was only one day left of the sixty-day proclamation and the queen (and even Gahil) looked forward to the return of normalcy. However, in the dead of night there rode into the city a prince. He rode on a horse that was so white and so glistening you could see the stars and the moon reflected in the sheen of its fur. The horse was magnificent but the prince who rode upon him more magnificent still. The prince was kept warm by a coat made from the furs of Russia. He wore a shirt and pants woven from the silk of China and boots cobbled from the leather of Turkey inlaid with pearl from Abyssinia. The man himself was tall and broad. He had eyes of ebony hair of jet, and skin browned by the sun. pants woven from the silk of China and boots cobbled from the leather of Turkey inlaid with pearl from Abyssinia. The man himself was tall and broad. He had eyes of ebony hair of jet, and skin browned by the sun.
In the middle of the night, the prince began to pound on the outer gate to the palace. "What is it?" the night guard called out. "Tell your queen that the Prince of Princes is here to seek her hand in marriage." "Sire," the guard replied, for he could see that this handsome man was a n.o.bleman, "I cannot admit you in the middle of the night, for the queen and her attendants are asleep. I would ask that you return in the morning to seek an audience." "Guard," the prince responded, "I must see the queen immediately, for I have a gift for her that is more precious than all eternity." The guard was intrigued. "Can I see this gift, sire?" The prince held up a small box of red wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones of many colors. "Guard, it is in here. But I may show its contents only to the queen herself. No other person may see it," said the prince. "Sire, I must still ask that you return morning hence. I a.s.sure you that the queen will grant you an audience then."
Gahil had been unable to sleep and was walking through the palace grounds in the dead of night. He was troubled. He was getting old and knew that soon he would die and there would be no one left to care for his queen. He heard the commotion at the palace gate and listened in the shadows. The words of the prince impressed him but if the truth were told, he was growing desperate to see his queen wed. He stepped from the shadows before the guard. The guard bowed. "Lord Chancellor," he said, calling Gahil by his official t.i.tle, "this prince wishes to see our queen immediately" The prince turned to the elderly man from whom every breath was wisdom and said, "Honored Lord Chancellor, I am the Prince of Princes and I have come to seek the queen's hand. I have a gift for her drawn from the heavens"-he held up the jeweled box-"but I must give it to Her Majesty immediately." Gahil was about to deny the prince his request and suggest that he return in the morning just as the guard had done, but the elderly advisor had the power of inner sight. The Lord Chancellor stared into the depth of the prince's soul and all he saw there was beauty. Gahil used his magical powers, mastered through years of meditation and learning, to look in the crevices and corners of the prince's heart, and all he saw there was purity. Gahil said, to the astonishment of the guard, "Come into the palace, Prince of Princes. I will inquire of the queen whether she will give you an audience at this extraordinary hour." request and suggest that he return in the morning just as the guard had done, but the elderly advisor had the power of inner sight. The Lord Chancellor stared into the depth of the prince's soul and all he saw there was beauty. Gahil used his magical powers, mastered through years of meditation and learning, to look in the crevices and corners of the prince's heart, and all he saw there was purity. Gahil said, to the astonishment of the guard, "Come into the palace, Prince of Princes. I will inquire of the queen whether she will give you an audience at this extraordinary hour."
The prince and his horse entered the palace confines behind the slow, stooping gait of the old advisor. Gahil awoke messengers and sent them to the queen's chamber to ask whether she would take an audience for an urgent matter of state. The queen was gently awakened by her lady-in-waiting, who had served her from childhood. The lady-in-waiting was almost as old as Gahil, whom she had secretly loved all of her life. "My queen," her lady said in a gentle whisper, "the Lord Chancellor seeks an urgent audience with you." In all her reign the queen had never been awakened by Gahil even once in the middle of the night and so she knew that this must be a matter of the utmost urgency.
The queen put on a simple gown of raw white cotton and ran barefoot, with haste, to the audience chamber. She feared a catastrophe in her kingdom or that her beloved Gahil had fallen ill. As she entered the chamber, the queen said, panting, "Beloved wise of the wise, what brings your call for an audience with me in the dead of night?" Gahil replied, eyes downcast, "The queen of my heart, I beg your forgiveness, but please, I beg of you, give audience to the Prince of Princes who has come to see you urgently"
Out of the corner of the room stepped the Prince of Princes, bearing the red wooden box. He bowed to the queen, who even without her jewels and finery was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. "What is this?" the queen asked of Gahil. "The Prince of Princes has come to seek your hand," Gahil answered in his slow, gentle voice. The queen's wisdom became veiled by a sheet of anger. "What ... in the dead of night, I am called from my chamber to see another suitor ... Chancellor Gahil, I am so angered by this foolishness." The old man fell to the floor. "Oh Queen of Queens, I would rather be thrown into a pit of fire than anger you. I beg you to forgive me." The queen rushed to the old man and helped him to his feet. "You foolish old man," she said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, "this prince of yours must be special indeed that you would awaken your queen for him." "Oh my queen," Gahil responded, "he is." The queen turned her attention to the prince standing before her. "Oh prince from distant lands, what I pray brings you to my palace so late in the night and what cannot wait that you keep my learned chancellor from his bed?" this?" the queen asked of Gahil. "The Prince of Princes has come to seek your hand," Gahil answered in his slow, gentle voice. The queen's wisdom became veiled by a sheet of anger. "What ... in the dead of night, I am called from my chamber to see another suitor ... Chancellor Gahil, I am so angered by this foolishness." The old man fell to the floor. "Oh Queen of Queens, I would rather be thrown into a pit of fire than anger you. I beg you to forgive me." The queen rushed to the old man and helped him to his feet. "You foolish old man," she said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, "this prince of yours must be special indeed that you would awaken your queen for him." "Oh my queen," Gahil responded, "he is." The queen turned her attention to the prince standing before her. "Oh prince from distant lands, what I pray brings you to my palace so late in the night and what cannot wait that you keep my learned chancellor from his bed?"
The Prince of Princes looked upon the Queen of Queens and loved her with all his heart. So too the queen looked upon the prince and loved him in return. She however remained veiled by anger and by the fear of opening her heart to another. "Oh queen," the prince said, "I have a gift for you that you must receive immediately, for it cannot wait. May I so beg your indulgence?" His voice possessed its own music. "So what gift do you bring me, oh prince, that could not wait until the morning?" said the queen with a voice that was falsely aloof and irritated (old Gahil chuckled to himself, since he had never heard his queen speak in this way and so he knew that she was in love-at last).
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