A Burning(44)

He is putting his neck forward, like a rooster. “What else are you wanting to know about me?

“Ask,” he is saying. “Ask!”

He is looking mad. His arms are trembling. Kalu the neighbor is standing at his side, holding two fingers at the top of his nose, like his eyes are hurting.

“Why you are not asking me anything?” father of Jivan is saying.

The reporters are standing there quietly, for one minute.

Then they are shouting questions. “How do you feel about the ruling?”

“Does your daughter plan to appeal?”

“How is Jivan’s mother’s health?”

To get his attention they are saying, “Sir! Sir!”

“This way!” they are shouting for a picture.



* * *



*

THEN THE REPORTERS are going, leaving behind a trail of crushed cigarettes. At night, I am going out with a broom and sweeping the butts into a corner. The dust is rising at my feet like a little storm.





INTERLUDE


BIMALA PAL’S ASSISTANT HAS A SIDE HUSTLE


WHO DOES NOT HAVE a side job? Bimala Pal is good to me, but even so, I am just an assistant. I have a family. Wife, school-going children. Have you seen how much school fees are these days? Besides, when they come home, tired, they don’t want rice and egg every day. They don’t want a tiny TV. We all want something nice. So I am a middleman, you can say.

Imagine you are a Muslim. One day what happens? Your neighbors, good people, suddenly form a mob over some rumor and break your door, threaten your wife, frighten your crippled mother. They set fire to your house. Thankfully, they do it while you are all out. That is their kindness. You run. You leave your damaged house, your property, and you run. Life becomes so precious, so precious! For a few months, okay, there is refugee camp, some donated rice, some tin house.

But one day the government announces, no more this ugly refugee camp! You all get five lakh rupees, now go somewhere else and live. Shoo.

    Immediately, who comes? Vultures.

You have your broker, your landlord, your town council, your water man, your electricity man, even your school man—what will your small children do, sit at home and grow up illiterate like you? So they all come and say, sir, there is a good plot here, you buy and build your own home. Most important you have your own piece of land in your name. There will be a water connection, and electricity cables are already laid, you come and see just. So you look at the plot. The land looks fine. You give most of your compensation money to buy this plot.

Then one day everyone disappears—your broker who called you five times a day? Vanished. The electricity man, the water supply man? Vanished.

Then you go to the address given on your deed and feel confused when you arrive somewhere different from where you went the first time. You have never seen this plot! All the neighborhood boys nod and chew their twigs and nod and then they laugh. When they laugh, you realize—you have bought a patch of this swamp.

So this is the riot economy. In this economy, I am a broker, nothing more.





LOVELY


IN THE MORNING, MY heart restless, I am calling the casting director, Mr. Jhunjhunwala. The phone is still charging, so I am bending my head close to the plug.

“Hello?” he is saying.

“Hello, me Lovely,” I am saying, “good morning to you!”

Mr. Jhunjhunwala is quiet, only breathing, and I am feeling his irritation on the line. Now I am realizing, maybe he is always getting such calls from aspiring actors. Maybe they are not missing any opportunity to wish him good morning, happy Holi, good night, blessed Diwali.

So he is sighing and saying, “Yes, Lovely.”

“Are you seeing,” I am saying, “my demo CD yet? What are you thinking? Are you having a role for me?”

“Lovely,” he is saying, “please do not call me like this. I am in a meeting, so, I will call you later, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Jhunjhunwala, but it has been some weeks, and you keep saying—”

    “I am in a meeting, Lovely,” Mr. Jhunjhunwala is saying, and cutting the line.



* * *



*

AFTER CLASS ONE SUNDAY, I am asking Mr. Debnath, with some nervousness in my throat, “Are you still keeping me for that role? I was making a demo video, like you were saying—”

He is sitting in his usual chair. He is sighing. I am seeing his belly rise and fall. He is putting his saucer of tea on a side table, and crossing his fingers over his chest. The whole time I am standing before him with my hands crossed behind my back. Mother and father of Mr. Debnath are looking at me from their portraits on the wall. This time their portraits are having some red rose flowers in the garland, as if they are starring in a romance.

“Lovely,” he is starting, “do you know how long it can take to make an epic movie like I am making? It can take one and a half years just to cast a film like that. You know in one fight scene I need seventy-two extras? Just one scene. Seventy-two extras. Imagine. Do you think this happens quickly?”

I am hanging my head low like a scolded child.

“On top of that,” Mr. Debnath is mumbling, “you have gone and said all these things in court.”

“Mr. Debnath,” I am saying straightaway, “are you upset with my testimony for Jivan?”