Someone Else's Garden (39 page)

‘Look, don’t try and deceive us with your oily tongue,’ says the assistant, lashing him with her looks.

‘Champa!’ Nirmala Devi is appalled at her assistant’s rudeness. She releases a long sigh, searching for something that will establish Lokend as a phony in her eyes.

‘You know how I came to be here?’ She feels the need to explain: ‘I used to roam from house to house dancing for food, just like any other hijra, threatening to show my privates at marriages and births if they didn’t pay me enough to leave, and I would have gone on like that forever, if it hadn’t been for one irate father of the bride who beat me hard with a stick and shoved me off his property saying, “Find a suitable job instead of peddling your filth in front of decent folk.” A suitable job for a hijra? What’s a suitable job for me then? I’ll tell you what it is. A politician’s job. The whole political system is emasculated anyway, so I don’t need balls to fit in. No matter how much money I make, it cannot change what I am. I will forever be a hijra, an outcaste, and therefore, best suited to be a politician.’

She has him now. She can establish her legitimacy. ‘You don’t understand, do you? You family folk never do. As an outcaste I have no reason to take bribes. Who would I take the bribes for? For myself? Money won’t buy me one true friend, money won’t make me belong. I will have to earn people’s respect, because I can never earn their love. People are afraid of hijras. They can’t understand someone who willingly gives up his balls to become a she. I could have died during that operation, you know. We perform it amongst ourselves, in secret, with a razor blade and a prayer.’

Mrs Sahai is appalled at the depth and nature of the private information being shared over what should have been a formal, quick cup of tea, but she won’t let on. ‘Do we have to listen to your life history? Lokend Bhai doesn’t have all the time in the world, you know.’ She downs her tea in a single gulp, leaving no reason to stay.

‘What do you think you people are?’ The choice of
what
instead of
who
isn’t lost on Mrs Sahai. ‘At least our life history has been created by ourselves. Look, madam, every day we have to fight women like you and men like him to stay alive, so don’t try and shake us with your words,’ says the assistant.

‘Oho, Champa, you take everything to heart. It’s just a job,’ says Nirmala Devi, but she too has taken things to heart, and the prospect of a win grasps her ever tighter.

‘Look, your time may not be precious, but . . .’

Lokend stays Mrs Sahai with a slight movement of his hand. ‘People must have room to speak.’

‘Oh, I
will
change this city with my work. I will work for these people, so that in time I might affect a miracle and earn their love. I have never felt love in this life and you don’t know how far I’d go for it. Not like you, who have been surrounded by love all your life.’

This time Mrs Sahai points to her watch with a swing of her eyes, like a long-term spouse signalling to her overstaying husband at a Delhi dinner party.

It is a different conversation that leaves the table. ‘I came here prepared to fight him. But I find myself on his side.’ Nirmala Devi turns to her assistant and applies a fresh coat of lipstick. ‘Did you see that something in him? I almost wish I could join him.’

‘Oh, Didi, you can beat any man.’ The assistant lets her voice go, it falls to its natural masculine pitch like a weight on a rope. ‘He is only a man with limited experience. You have created yourself, changed your life in an unimaginable way. Don’t be beguiled now, you have come too far.’ She knows Nirmala Devi isn’t one who shares her words lightly. That Lokend has really got under her skin. The assistant feels molten hatred coursing through her veins; for whom . . . Lokend or Nirmala Devi? The force of her feeling unsettles her, she needs some urgent words. ‘What will we do if you change your mind now? What will
I
do if you change your mind now?’ She is thoroughly invested in Nirmala Devi’s campaign. The prospect of one of her kind ever making it in a defined-sexes world is a dream she will never relinquish. She has known Nirmala Devi since she became a hijra. It was Nirmala Devi herself who performed the illegal operation on her, and it was her face she had awoken to.

After becoming a hijra, her return to the world she’d left as a man had been tragic. Her mother had killed herself and her brother had tried to kill her. If that wasn’t enough, both her sisters were soundly rejected by their husbands. That had been the hardest for her, because she’d had that special connection with her sisters that many men who completely understand the inner workings of a woman’s psyche develop. Eventually, her father had conducted a funeral for her, letting his village know that his son was dead. And now, with victory, respect, and possibly acceptance within her grasp, for the first time in her life she feels like a whole person. And she can’t, she won’t, let that go.

Both eunuchs slide into the waiting ambassador car.

In another ambassador car, Mrs Sahai chivvies Lokend towards a win. ‘You’re not thinking of softening up, are you?’

‘So you thought she was wonderful too?’

Mrs Sahai wrinkles her nose. She is not going to dignify his question with a response.
Thought that hijra was wonderful, my foot.

‘Let me tell you a story, Mrs Sahai. There was an orange seller who used to roam the streets from morning to night in the season selling his oranges. Already an old man, he would complain about pain in his back from carrying the basket on his head and corns on his feet which bled from walking too long. Early one morning the orange seller had the good fortune to meet a gentleman who wanted to buy his entire basket of oranges. The seller was flabbergasted, he’d never been asked to sell his whole basket of oranges before. The gentleman explained that he was late for a wedding and didn’t want to arrive empty-handed, and a big basket of fresh oranges would make the perfect gift. The old orange seller thought hard while the gentleman impatiently waited for an answer. After a few minutes he said, “
All
my oranges, why not just take a few?” “I don’t want a few, I want them all, any less than the whole basket wouldn’t be enough,” replied the buyer, thoroughly irritated. “So make up your mind: how much?” Once again the orange seller thought about what to charge the buyer, and finally, his mind made up, he said, “No, sorry, I can’t sell you all my oranges, take a few kilos.” The buyer became very angry and started shouting at the seller, “I don’t want a few kilos, I will have all your oranges or nothing.” Then the seller said something very surprising, he said, “It has to be nothing then. If I sell my entire basket of oranges this early in the morning, what will I do for the rest of the day?”’ Mrs Sahai looks at Lokend. ‘A true story.’

‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘We are like that sometimes, unwilling to relinquish our burdens. We just drag our thoughts – oranges – around with us on our bent backs and bleeding feet day after day.’

Such a perplexing creature and a most odd human being, naïve too, she thinks.

The Congress Party’s office in Begumpet is an untidy nest of papers. It is just weeks to the elections. Campaigning must go on day or night. Jeeps in camouflage green have been commandeered for the job. The Youth Congress volunteers are busy attaching loudspeakers and searchlights on the tops of their hoods for maximum impact.

Prem and Sneha are waiting at the office.

The boy is wearing pitiful socks that roll wilfully below his ankles, the elastic no longer strong enough to grip his flesh, with a pair of sandals. His hip bones boldly declare themselves through his trousers, which sit uncomfortably on his waist held up by a large safety pin. For the first time, his four-metre dhoti put away, it is easy to see how bony he really is. These accoutrements of city life, given to him by Mrs Sahai, define his standing. His sister has received no newold clothes.

‘How was it? What was the hijra like? Was she strange? How will she give a speech in public? In Gopalpur we would have beaten her off the platform with a stick. I can gather stones, if you like. One stone from me will be enough of a lead,’ Prem says in a rush before dribbling into silence in the assertive presence of Mrs Sahai.

‘No. She is a good person. I wish she was on our side. Forget about the election, the speech. Let us do something constructive. How will we contact your elder sister?’ asks Lokend.

Sneha releases her head from under her pallav. She has been hiding since she came to Begumpet. Mrs Sahai squeezes past her. The village girl breathes in to make way for Importance.

‘I hope Mamta Didi comes to the rally,’ Prem answers.

‘And Sneha? What about Sneha, if she doesn’t come?’ Mrs Sahai points out the foolishness of their hasty pilgrimage.

The boy shrugs. The future has no meaning for him. Sneha’s eyes are dry, she looks from man to boy, searching for some sign of certainty. She finds none. Her mother cried to see her go. Why did she come here? How could her mother think her life would be better here in Begumpet? Life here is a flurry, like the leaves tousled by the Gopalpur wind. Where on earth in this crazy place of people would she find her sister? The Red Bazaar would have been better. Her father will surely kill her if she goes back home.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her. We’ll think of something.’ She reminds him of another girl, shivering and vulnerable. Lokend speaks Sneha in her own dialect. Even her brother has abandoned this mode of communication in favour of sophisticated city Hindi. Her insides are knotted so tightly that she hasn’t passed a motion in two days. The bathroom frightens her. What should she do with the commode, and the chain, and the mug, and the tap? Slogans that she cannot read rant at her from the walls. She is sure they are instructions for other novices, but not for her, they belong only to those who can decipher them. She is tempted to ask Prem what they mean, but she does not see him as her brother any more. He has left her behind. She must seem very small to him, trouser-wearing, I-can-read-and-write Prem.

Prem is thinking his own thoughts. He cannot waste time on Sneha. It is better that she comes to grips with the city sooner rather than later. His worth is still a tenuous commodity, he has to prove it every day to the Party cronies. No one cares that he risked his life to carry messages between the bandits and Lokend Bhai, no one cares that Daku Manmohan treated him like a son. Here he is a guileless villager filled with an eagerness to please. He hasn’t time to think of Mamta or Sneha.

‘Oho, stop wasting time,’ says Mrs Sahai. ‘We need to go over the speeches once again.’ She pulls Lokend into a huddle with twenty of her cronies. Some have eyed Sneha and found her wanting. They won’t look at her again, and if they do, they won’t see her for all the looking they’ve done. Prem brings the men tea. They haven’t that sense of formality that one reserves just for equals with him. He may not be one of them, but it is clear to the group that their leader depends on this village boy, so they tolerate him, exaggerating their compliments. Some try to sound sincere, and others, just the opposite.

That night, lying down on the floor between the olive-green steel tables, Sneha can hardly remember her elder sister Mamta.

*  *  *

‘Didi, you will come tomorrow, won’t you?’ Mamta has rushed all the way to the dispensary to remind her friend of the rally. Eyebrows shrugs, her standard response to most things.

‘Which party are you supporting?’

‘I am with Lokend Bhai.’

‘Yes, but which Party?’

‘Party?’

‘Look at you, so eager to go to a rally, but you don’t even know what your precious Lokend Bhai stands for. Oh, to have such faith in a person must be a wonderful thing.’

You have been helping people for so long that you have lost your humanity.
‘You have been helping people too long . . .’ Mamta says out loud. Her judgement cannot be underestimated, it is not a simple thing that just jumped into her mind. It is a culmination of her newfound self.

‘Yes, you could say that.’

‘Your charity has made you . . .’

Eyebrows doesn’t let Mamta finish, she pounces on her words as quickly as a cat on its prey. ‘You must understand, Mamta, I don’t believe in charity. Yes, it may come as a surprise to you, but really I don’t believe in charity at all. Too many people don’t, won’t or can’t distinguish between charity and giving people an opportunity. I simply create opportunities for people so they can help themselves. Giving charity is cutting their feet from under them.’

Mamta has come to this dispensary precisely twenty-four times to give Eyebrows her fifty for the Post Office Saving Deposit Plan. She has shared countless cups of tea, pouring half of it into a saucer for Eyebrows, retaining the cup for herself. No one else would have simply accepted a saucer of tea from Mamta (let alone insisted on it), this thought used to make her hand tremble as she poured, at first spilling more on to the floor than into the saucer. The saucer was always Eyebrows’, its wide surface offering up the tea for hasty cooling gave her a sense of security, she knew if need be she could get back to work, swallowing the dregs at a moment’s notice.
So many shared cups of tea and yet I know nothing of you.

‘So why do you do this work? I mean . . . I mean is it the money? Can’t be for the money, Didi. Kalu says that if you become a private doctor there is a lot of money in it, but working in a free dispensary . . . Why?’ Suddenly Mamta needs to know.

‘My destiny maybe. Maybe because it was in the stars.’ Eyebrows shakes her head. ‘Look at me, talking about stars. I don’t believe in that bunkum.’

‘It’s not bunkum. The heavenly bodies do govern our lives. What else is there? Our female cycles are synchronised with the phases of the moon. Do you think that is a coincidence? Or that we stay pregnant for exactly nine moons, what do you say to that? The whole world is guided by some star, some planet, some sun. You know there are these people called the Nadiwallas, who can tell your past and future just by looking at your left thumbprint. They came once to Gopalpur, so Bapu brought them home. He showed them his own thumbprint, but not ours. He didn’t think we’d amount to anything. They foretold his future and saw his past, I tell you, absolutely everything. His mother’s name, his father’s names, everything. They said something bad about Bapu’s father and said that Bapu would have to atone for his sins. They said Bapu had married a woman with two names, one starting with La and the other with Ba. My mother’s name is Lata Bai. They said Bapu would be blessed with seven children. Now tell me, how could they have known that? Only I was born at that time. They said he had a daughter with a mark, that’s me, but that her mark would disappear when she became older. I hope so, Didi, I hope so.’