Authors: Anita Nair
The vendor exhaled loudly. It was the first day of Ramzan and Mohammed and his wife too had kept the fast. Only the little ones had been fed. ‘Why do you do it, Abba?’ Tasneem, his girl, had asked him.
‘Because Allah wants us to,’ he had said. The truth was
they did it for their children. So Allah’s dua would shower down on the little ones.
Soon everyone would come out of their homes after the Iftar meal. Through the night they would wander the streets, picking up a treat here, a bargain there … Many things were bought for the year ahead. Saeed’s daughter was buying her wedding clothes and accessories though the nikah was four months away. He had heard that the rent for a pushcart this year during the Ramzan month had gone up to Rs 15,000. But it would be worth it, Yusuf, one of the men, had told him. They would make a clear profit!
Mohammed had his spot and stand all year round in the same place. And the Ramzan business would spill over to where he was. He smiled. Everyone profited during this month. So would he.
It was late in the night but the Shivaji Nagar bus stand area was simmering with activity. On Saturday nights the streets were more alive than they were during the weekdays. And this was the first night of Ramzan. A certain excitement resonated through the alleys and lanes.
The vendors had their carts edged along the roads, which buzzed with life. The smell of meat cooking on charcoal mingled with the aroma of samosas being fried in giant vats of hissing oil. Chopped onions and coriander leaves, pakodas and jalebis, strings of marigold and jasmine buds, rotting garbage and cow dung. The high notes of attar. The animal scent of sweat and unwashed bodies.
Men of all sizes and shapes trawled the alleys. Some seeking a hot kebab to sink their teeth into; some seeking a laugh, a suleimani in a glass and a smoke. Men returning home from work. Policemen on the beat. Autorickshaw
drivers and labourers. Whores. Eunuchs. Urchins. Beggars. Tourists. Regulars.
A composite cloud of a thousand fragrances and desires in that shadowed underbelly of the city.
Mohammed pummelled the dough for the roomali roti. ‘Stay by my side and help me with these. We’ll go home when I am done. You can stay with us tonight. Shama will be pleased to see you. She’s cooked some haleem. You like that, don’t you?’
Liaquat swallowed. He hated being alone. He was tempted by the thought of spending the night in Mohammed Bhai’s house. Shama-bi would serve him food that tasted of his mother’s cooking. Not the rubbish Mohammed and the other vendors dished up to feed these fools who came to Shivaji Nagar looking for what they thought was Muslim cuisine.
He would sleep in the hall with the children. He would sing songs and tell jokes and make them laugh. Everyone thought he was a scream. Most of all, his big-bearded Razak.
He thought of how those fierce eyes softened when they fell upon him. Of how gentle his caresses were as he turned him over and murmured into his ear, ‘My Leila. The sweetness of my Leila … you make me forget it all.’
A deep pang of longing seared through him.
‘No one calls me Leila any more,’ he said. ‘Ever since my Razak mia…’
‘He’ll be back soon,’ Mohammed said quietly. ‘Go home,’ he urged again, seeing Liaquat’s dilated pupils. The boy had been shooting up again. Allah knew what he would get up to in a little while.
‘See that…’ he said, his eyes following the two police constables ambling lazily down the road, ‘the thollas are
out in full force tonight. If they catch you…’ Then unable to help himself, he demanded, ‘Why do you get into this state? Why do you do it, Liaquat? It’s not good for you…’
‘What state?’ Liaquat shrieked. ‘Don’t lecture me. I am fine. Do you hear me? I am fine. I am horny. I want to get fucked. That’s what I want. That’s the state I am in,’ he said, rising and weaving his way through the stalls.
‘I want to fuck … I want to fuck all night…’ He laughed as he slid into the shadows. His white kurta pajama cut a swath through the darkness.
Mohammed turned back to his skewers of chicken cubes. In the distance he could hear Liaquat’s falsetto shrill, ‘Tonight … Leila will fuck all night tonight!’
10.04 p.m.
They had set out together and she had to wait for almost half an hour for a moment to escape her companions’ gaze, which dogged her every gesture and step. She didn’t particularly want to be with them but the one she called Akka wouldn’t allow it any other way. ‘You have to be careful. We have to be careful. If someone saw you…’ Akka said.
She hadn’t responded to Akka’s words of caution. But resentment simmered within her. It was like being four all over again. When her mother would take her to see the sights at the trade fair but she wasn’t allowed to touch a thing. ‘It has a price attached to it,’ her mother would say. ‘If it breaks, how do we pay for it?’
Everything has a price attached to it, she knew. But now she could afford it. It was hers if she wanted it. Anything and everything she wanted.
Akka touched her elbow. ‘I am not so sure you should take such risks!’
She tossed her head with the hauteur only beautiful women can affect and get away with. The pearl in her earring swung against her cheek. ‘Don’t I need some fun too?’
Her mouth curled in an almost wolfish way as she turned away. Akka thought she knew all her secrets. But the best secret of all, she kept close to her heart. No one knew. No one knew how powerful it made her feel. She giggled. Akka shot her a look, but said nothing.
The market that had sprung up for Ramzan was on the other side. Akka wouldn’t let them go that way. ‘They won’t like it,’ she said. ‘Why invite trouble to sit in our laps?’ she told one of the others who claimed the bargains were better there.
‘Besides, even our best customers will pretend they don’t know us. It’s their holy month. And they bring their families with them to see the shops … We’ll stay here near the bus stand and go towards Cubbon Road. The others will be there as well,’ Akka said, leading them in that direction.
The crowds pressed against her as she and her companions wove their way through. She felt a hand caress her waist and cup her arse. She leaned into the caress but it was over even before it had begun. Leaving her feel used. Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.
A nerve snapped. A pulse throbbed. She saw Akka sneak a look at her. But she didn’t let any of what she felt show on her face. And when the moment arrived, as they all stood near a bangle vendor, flirting with him, trying on bangles, scouting for prospects, she slipped away.
She felt him follow her down the dark alleyway. She swung her hips, leading him on. He knew. He knew what she could
offer him. She smiled and suddenly paused. She turned her head to smile at him. Her smile froze. There was another man following him. A man who laughed when he caught her eye.
‘Go away,’ she snarled.
The interloper laughed. A high, shrill laugh. ‘He thinks you are a woman.’
Tears welled up in her eyes. Then she pulled herself together and said through clenched teeth, ‘Why do you say that? I am a woman, can’t you see?’
The interloper giggled. ‘In which case, I am the prime minister of India.’
He tapped the puzzled man on his shoulder. ‘She’s not a woman. She’s a chhakka … Didn’t you see a group of them near the bus stand?’
The man’s face fell. Disgust replaced lust. He walked towards her and scrutinized her carefully. ‘He’s right. You are a fucking eunuch.’
The interloped smirked. ‘But if that’s what you like … Mia, come to me, I can do better…’
The man hawked and spat on the street. ‘Fuck off. I don’t want you sucking my cock either. As for you,’ he turned to her, ‘I am not desperate enough to fuck a man in woman’s clothes. Go find some fool who’ll be taken in by this…’ He gestured at the fullness of her bosom and the curve of her hip. He flicked a pearl drop with a forefinger, watching it swing like a pendulum. ‘Nice earrings, but you know something, they don’t suit you. You are not pretty enough … or woman enough to wear them.’
She stared at her feet where the blob of saliva had come to rest. She heard his footsteps as he hurried from the alley. She was nothing. She was filth. She was scum. She had been so happy this evening and then…
She raised her eyes and saw the mocking expression on the other man’s face. If only this fucking cocksucker hadn’t followed her. If only … As the rage gathered in her, she forgot all about who she was.
She hurled herself forward and sank her fist into the fool’s belly. He bent over double with the impact, the pain, the breath knocked out of him, and as he tried to find his feet, his hands flailed in the air, grabbing for anything they could find to support him. It was her loosely woven plait of hair that he clutched at. The wig came away in his hand.
His eyes widened as he saw who stood before him. The face, even under all the layers of make-up, was one he recognized. Through pain and disbelief, he felt a grin stretch his lips. ‘I don’t believe this … you … it’s you…’
She flicked the small switchblade she kept in her bra and held it to his throat. ‘Quiet,’ she said coldly.
He stared at her, suddenly afraid. ‘Let me go.’ He fell to his knees. ‘I won’t tell anyone … I promise by everything I hold precious. I won’t. You must believe me … please.’
She hummed under her breath as she moved behind him, still holding the knife to his throat. He heard the snap of a bag open and shut. What was she doing?
Then the steel edge of the blade no longer pressed against his throat. He relaxed his clenched muscles. But before he could turn his head to look at her, he felt something descend on the back of his head.
He felt his skull crack. He screamed. Through the blinding pain, he felt something tighten around his throat.
‘No, no,’ he whispered, trying to snap the string, and felt a million particles of glass pierce his hands. Flashes of light burnt his eyelids and hissing serpents filled his ears. He felt unable to resist any more.
‘Are you here?’Akka called out as she entered the mouth of the cul-de-sac. The elderly eunuch was shocked into silence by what she saw. The man on his knees and she standing behind him with her disguise in disarray. As Akka watched, the man crumpled to the floor. He hadn’t even felt the string cut the skin of his throat and press down into his jugular vein.
Akka saw her take a tissue from her bag and wipe her fingers clean. She threw it on his face. The line of blood on his throat grew with every beat of his heart.
Akka ran towards her.
She didn’t speak for a while.
‘He recognized me. I had no option but this…’ she said in an even voice.
Akka felt a chill seep into her. Who was this person who stood before her?
‘Anyway, he is just a lowlife. No one’s going to miss him. So don’t waste your emotion on him,’ she said, arranging her hair carefully. ‘Give me your mobile.’ She opened her palm out to Akka.
Akka handed it over silently and watched as she pressed a few keys.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I’ve left a thing in the alley near Siddiq’s garage. Deal with it. No leftovers.’
Akka’s eyes darted to the man on the floor. But he was still alive…
‘Let’s go,’ she said, handing the phone back to Akka.
As they turned into the street ahead, she suddenly stopped. She turned and walked briskly back to where he lay on the ground. She bent over and peered at him for a moment. Then she stood up and kicked him on his face with
the heel of her sandal. ‘Scum,’ she muttered as the pointed tip split the skin on his cheek.
11.42 p.m.
Samuel rubbed the cuff of his biking jacket across his eyes. He was tired and sleepy as he rode his bike home. It had begun to drizzle. A fine stinging rain. What kind of a life was this where a man had to ride thirty kilometres across the city in the middle of a wet night after a whole evening of watching models cavort in their underwear and society types toss free alcohol down their throats?
How they wooed him. All of them. The models, the hosts, the sponsors, the party goers, the gatecrashers; Sam here, Sam there, Sam this, Sam that … Sammy, Sammy … and then they would want to see the frames he had shot, what they looked like as they held their pert poses with pasted-on smiles …
It disgusted him, this job he did as a photographer of the society pages for the
Bangalore Messenger
. Some days at least. Most days it was just a job, and one he was good at. He knew how to capture the right poses and intersperse the familiar faces with new ones. And he knew who was who. So he aimed his camera at the butterflies, leaving the moths and caterpillars for the photographers from the rival papers.
‘You have the eye,’ his editor said. ‘You are good. You don’t miss a thing. That’s why the readers prefer our page three to the others’!’
This was still better than working for the news pages as he had once. Prowling outside the house where a child had been mauled and torn to death by a tiger during a visit
to Bannerghatta National Park. Crowding at the gates of Golden Palms for a glimpse of a Bollywood actor when he arrived for his nuptials. Sneaking on a politician’s tryst with a TV actress. On the day he was asked to get an unusual shot of the grieving family of a former Miss India who had killed herself, he decided to make the move. It had shamed him that he had to prey on people’s vulnerabilities and privacy to fill space. He preferred to capture images of people pretending to have a good time rather than impinge on naked emotion.