The city looms large and monstrous before me. With hundreds and thousands of windows for eyes, buildings stretch upwards towards the clouds in the sky, grasping unsuccessfully for a place among the stars. Frustrated, they vent their anger on people that walk the streets and those that reside within them, denying them sunlight and wind, and occasionally water in their taps. The 12-storied one before me, with anger in its bricks, eyed me suspiciously. I’d been thinking of killing past lovers, of plunging knives into their backs and twisting them around, boring into bone. Afraid that the building might have read my murderous thoughts, letter by letter, I shifted uncomfortably on the ledge, from side to side, from foot to foot, turning my eye upwards to search for eagles and other high achievers. It didn’t work.

Angered by my insolence, the red-bricked building lets out a loud yell that reminds me of a fire alarm. Its eyes are ablaze, flickering with fury, and smoke is coming out of its ears: something that reminds me of my childhood when I used to watch the same in cartoons on television. I quite liked those, and on remembering how cats chased mice, I began feeling as if I, myself, was being chased. Down below, someone with a really long nose was pointing an even longer finger in my direction. What was this? Someone with obviously nothing better to do runs into the building on whose rooftop I stand and I can almost sense his footsteps as he pounds the steps, jumping two at a time, on his way up. The building in front of me is now furious and swaying from side to side. Just as the door to the rooftop behind me opens, the building leans over and with one of its red bricks, nudges me over the edge to the cold and icy footpath below.

The city looks at me strangely today. Maybe this has something to do with what I was thinking about, and maybe that I was thinking of sharp objects on soft skin was obvious from my face. I hate it when that happens, when I am not able to hide my thoughts behind a rigid and plastic exterior. Maybe I should try plastic surgery and get myself an expressionless mask to hide behind. The drainpipe next to the ledge is cold because it’s cold and expressionless. Below, there are people walking the streets like they have somewhere to go, and crossing after crossing is opening up and swallowing them into its mechanics. And they keep walking into it, chit-chatting as they step over into the maze of pipes, cables and sewers. There is someone in the room in the red-bricked building across. It’s not a room, no. It’s a bathroom and she is bathing. Nice, nice body, she has: a figure 8 and she is soaping herself all over, all along the lines that form the 8. There’s probably some music playing somewhere, because she is bobbing her head back and forth, soapy golden locks unlocking as they lunge back and forth. The bathtub is filling up with the water from the shower, and spilling on to the floor, and onto the ledge that I stand upon. I want a better view, so I shift a little to the left, but there’s soapy water on the ledge, and I slip and fall over, into the waiting mouth full of pipeworks below.

This city doesn’t seem to like me anymore. Maybe it has read my murderous thoughts; maybe it plans to push me over the edge. A crowd has gathered below, and they seem to be chanting lyrics from U2’s latest album. Maybe they’re expecting the band to be on the rooftop with me. I look behind and there’s Bono with his sunglasses on, but he swishes his index finger about furiously. But just for the crowd, to not disappoint them, I decide to sing a song. . I don’t like disappointing people. One of my many flaws. Placing my hands on my chest and I’m bellow like an opera singer in heat:

I was born a man free
Restrained by my own binds
Until you chose to release me
And came together two hearts and minds.

All because of you
All because of you

As I begin the chorus, they dissipate. Across, on the flagpole protruding from the red brick building, sits a flagpole sitter who was until now debating anarchy and democracy. My singing drowned out his concept of I and individuality, and he jumped off, backed by popular vote, onto the cold and icy footpath. He just misses a couple walking hand in hand. It is Valentine’s Day and there’s a cupid on the card that the girl is holding: a cupid that reads my vengeful thoughts and decides to do something about it. He takes aim and an arrow pierces across the card, tearing their love into two, straight for my heart. I ask the arrow, as it nears me, to stop and listen for a bit. I don’t have the time for love, anymore, I tell it. Even if I do, I don’t have the time for heartbreak, I plead. The arrowhead blinks, and the feathers in its tail curl up to scratch its smooth chin. There’s always time for love, reasons the arrow, and not giving a damn for my views on the subject, plunges through my ribs, into my heart. With the impact, I topple over, falling backwards, staring open mouthed at the wonderful rosy sky.

The city goes about its business in a businesslike manner. People walk the streets, whether in love or in vain. Tall Roarkian structures stand with characteristic aloofness as I contemplate jumping off to put an end to all my suffering. But murder isn’t easy. Below, armies of office goers march with evenly paced steps and stony expressions on their faces. I take a deep breath, and inhale the sweet smoke as it travels across my tongue, down my throat and into my lungs. My lips scald with the heat of burning paper and I pull the bud away Bah, who gives a fuck?, I mutter, and turn around, stepping off the ledge, throwing what’s left of my joint onto the ice covered rooftop.

Honest to God, Mum. I wasn’t on anything while writing this! – Nikhil Pahwa

Silence and darkness,
Eagerness and pain
Eyes held shut,
My search ends in vain.

Suddenly a din
Forces me to hear
The call of freedom,
The end of fear

Shall I tread this path?
I hesitate,
Can I break free, overcome?
Who knows to what end things will precipitate?

He sits inside
His own cocoon,
Surrounded by the gloom.
Pacific air
Makes him stare,
Right through the moon

Beyond, behold, lies an unseen light
Visible only to his eye.
Caressing his vision,
It envelops his canvas,
Painting his picture for him.

Standing by the window, I see
the urgency in your eyes
as you pick up little
pieces of plastic
and try to put them together
unsuccessfully

Plastic crayons
on the red carpet
ache for the touch of paper
and your interest
eyeing you
beseechingly

Up in the sky,
amoral saleable vultures ply
seeking agony, rapture, fame and lies
waiting, baiting
unsuspecting victims
hungrily

Out in the street
damp yellow warnings from the sky
threaten a global downpour
plagued not
little puppets walk, talk, bicker; blinded
democratically

Then I see jubilation
as building blocks combine
To form dimples on your cheeks
I wonder, not aloud
“What’s in store for you?”

There he was – Joe Ceer, sitting alone on a chair in Café Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

After every two and a half minutes (exact), Joe would turn exactly ninety degrees, anti-clockwise, and gaze through that empty glass at those before him. Ever so often, while he was staring through that glass in his hand, Joe’s face would exhibit a peculiar smile, if it could be called a smile- that seemed to hint at a state of inebriation or lunacy (whichever comes first). Then, as he would turn, all expression would be drained from his face, until ninety degrees were traversed, anti-clockwise. He would then proceed to smile that peculiar smile, unless it was Alfredo Disjun that sat in his line of distorted vision; in which case, he looked nauseated.

Alfredo Disjun, with a glass of warm scotch in hand – no ice cubes, no water – looked up from his Playgirl magazine to stare back at Joe Ceer. He smiled. He gave little thought to the fact that Joe looked quite unwell at the moment. ‘He must not be feeling well,’ Alfredo thought to himself, and continued to stare back at Joe. A minute later, Joe turned ninety degrees to his left.

Alfredo looked around the café. There were sixteen tables in the café, and few were empty. All these tables had nice red and white chequered tablecloths, on which was placed a glass tabletop. At the centre of each table was a small white flower vase with a red rose. Four chairs, each white with a red chequered cushion on it, were around each table. Some chairs were occupied, mostly by men. But Alfredo neither noticed the tables, the glass tabletop, the red roses nor the women that sat beside some of the men. He just looked around the café and turned his attention first towards Joe Ceer, and then towards what Joe was looking at.

Near the jukebox danced the petite and curvaceous Lyzzie, long braided hair in hand, and alone. But Alfredo looked just at the jukebox, and back at Joe Ceer sitting alone on a white painted chair Café DV8, with a peculiar smile on his face, staring at Lyzzie through an empty glass. Thirty seconds later, still smiling, Joe turned another ninety degrees.

Alfredo gulped down the last of his warm scotch whiskey, and burped loud enough for Lyzzie to hear him, for she turned around and winked at Alfredo. Alfredo turned towards Hu Wan Ton, the Chinese bartender with unreadable eyes and pastel red lips and said loudly- ‘Gimme another one, Chan. And a martini too.’ Hu Wan Ton picked up the cheap fake crystal glass off the badly scratched bar and filled it without cleaning. He picked out an olive with his soiled fingers from a jar of olives in vinegar and mixed Alfredo a martini. Alfredo had been looking at Joe Ceer. Without a word, Hu turned back to doing nothing.

Alfredo got up, martini and whisky in hand, and gulped in some uneasiness before taking his first step towards Joe. Near the Jukebox, dancing all alone, Lyzzie frowned.

‘Hey you!’ said Alfredo to Joe Ceer, and stopped within three feet of Joe. Joe had just turned another ninety degrees, anti-clockwise. His face was now expressionless and he was looking at the chair in front of him, and at the whitewashed wall beyond it.

Joe raised an eyebrow, turned towards Alfredo and said Yech in disgust. He then turned back, glass in hand, to face the wall. His timing had been messed up. Afredo ignored the reaction and asked suavely ‘How are you, today?’

Joe Ceer turned left again to face Alfredo, the empty glass still in front of his face. ‘Disgusted.’ said Joe. Alfredo, not giving up, persisted ‘Disgusted by what? Maybe I can help. We can talk, no?’

‘No.’ said Joe, simply, and turned back.

‘What do you see in that glass?’ asked Alfredo, as he walked across and sat down across Joe. For the first time in over an hour, Joe turned right, and looked at the women that sat at the far end of Café Sunrise. It seemed to provide him some sort of relief, for his shoulders relaxed, and he smiled that peculiar smile again.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you, man. Tell me now, what do you see in that glass.’

Joe frowned again. He shut his eyes and took a rather deep breath, slowly filling his lungs, and exhaled even more slowly. ‘I see through it. There is nothing in it. It is empty,’ he said slowly, with emphasis on the words ‘through’, ‘in’ and ‘empty’, as much for Alfredo’s benefit, as his own.

‘So what do you see through that glass?’ said Alfredo, mockingly emphasising the word ‘through’.

Joe Soothsayer cringed and closed his eyes. He sighed in resignation and took another deep breath.

Then, he put the glass down on the table and declared rather loudly, with much anger and strain in his voice: “I see you, you disgusting pig. You disgust me with your filth, and your unabashed lecherousness. You disgust me. You have no scruples. You disgust me. You have no morals. You disgust me because I see you for what you are. I see you naked. Through this glass, I see you for what you are. I see you naked.’

Alfredo looked hurt, and the light above shone down on him harder; his eyes squinched. Joe Ceer, still not having calmed down, abruptly got up to leave. The chair he sat on, clattered as it hit the floor behind him. Alfredo, stared at the glass on the table, and repeated to himself ‘You see me naked.’

At a distance, Lyzzie, with her braided hair reaching down to her feet, as low as her desires, smiled as she saw Joe get up to leave. As Joe walked towards the exit, which she stood next to, a warm feeling rose within her, starting from her feet up.

Still sitting on the white painted chair, Alfredo repeated to himself ‘You see me naked.’ He picked up the empty glass from the table, and through it looked at Joe Ceer as he walked out of Café Sunrise. He smiled.

There he was – Alfredo Disjan, staring into an empty glass, sitting alone on a chair in Cafe Sunrise.

There he was – Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a chair in Cafe Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

Alfredo Aberration, with a glass of warm scotch in hand – no ice cubes, no water – looked up from his Playgirl magazine to stare at Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a barstool, staring into the empty glass. Alfredo Aberration looked around him. Near the Jukebox danced the petite and curvacious Lyzzie Short, braided hair in hand, and alone. But Afredo couldn’t but look back at Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a barstool in Cafe Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

Alfredo gulped down the last of his warm scotch whiskey, and burped loud enough for Lyzzie Short to hear him, for she turned around and winked at Alfredo. Alfredo Aberration turned towards Hu Kares, the chinese bartender with unreadable eyes and pastel red lips and said loudly- ‘Gimme another one, Chan. And a martini too.’ Hu Kares picked up the cheap fake crystal glass off the scrached bar and filled it without cleaning. He picked out an olive with his soiled fingers from a jar of olives in vinegar and mixed Alfredo Aberration a martini. Alfredo had been looking at Joe Soothsayer. Without a word, Hu turned back to nothing.

Alfredo Aberration got up, martini and whisky in hand, and gulped in some uneasiness before taking his first step towards Joe. Near the Jukebox, dancing all alone, Lyzzie Short frowned.

‘Hey you!’ said Alfredo Aberration to Joe Soothsayer, as he neared Joe. Joe raised an eyebrow, then said ‘Yech’ in disgust. Afredo ignored the reaction and asked suavely ‘How are you, today?’

Joe Soothsayer, turned left to face Alfredo, the empty glass still in front of his face. ‘Disgusted.’ said Joe. Alfredo Aberration, not giving up, persisted ‘Disgusted by what? Maybe I can help. We can talk, no?’

‘No.’ said Joe, simply, and turned back.

‘What do you see in that glass?’ asked Alfredo, as he walked across and sat down across Joe.

Joe Soothsayer cringed and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then blurted out, in a flurry: “I see you, you disgusting pig. You disgust me with your filth, with you gluttany, with your unabashed necrophilia. You disgust me because I see you for what you are. I see you naked.’

Alfredo Aberration looked hurt, and the light above shone down on him harder. His eyes squinched and he frowned. Leaving the martini on the table, he took his glass of whisky – warm and without ice and went back to the barstool he had been sitting on.

At a distance, Lyzzie Short, with her braided hair reaching down to her feet, as low as her desires, smiled as she saw Alfredo Aberration sit down on the barstool. She turned back to Joe Soothsayer, and a warm feeling rose within her, starting from her feet up.

There he was – Joe Soothsayer, staring into an empty glass, sitting alone on a barstool in Cafe Sunrise, completely naked.

At times like these, little Ram loved the big city. Big buildings, big buses, big cars, big billboards, and big, rich people. He was going to be big and rich one day. Much like Amithabh Bachchan, he was going to fight his way up the ladder through this big bad world of lies and deceit. He was going to wield guns, much the way Amitabh Bachchan did, and usurp all their wealth from corporators. It was a bad world, and Ram was going to have to fight fire with fire. Even as he stepped out of the theatre, he looked back at the larger than life face of his larger than life god looking at him encouragingly from the hoarding above the theatre entrance. You’ll have to work hard it seemed to tell him. You’ll have to be sincere about working hard, much like I am.

Ram did work hard. Somewhere, he identified with the mega-star, who, in one of his movies, started working at a young age, as a shoeshine boy, and worked his way up. Ever since he had arrived in Delhi, Ram had been working. His village was not forgotten, but not always missed either. He still remembered his father sitting by the fire, puffing at a bidi, putting his hand on Ram’s shoulder and saying to him:

“Your brother has sent for you.”
“Gopal Bhaiyya?”
“No. Rakesh. Rakesh has found a job for you in Delhi. A nice family that needs a young boy to look after their house. You will be their friend and will live in the luxury that they live in. You will work in a big house.”
“But Baba who will get fodder for the cows? Who will get wood for Ma?”
“That is easy work. You can make better money in the big city.
“But Baba…”
“Don’t argue. You go there and work hard. If you work hard, you will do well. You work hard and make someone dependent on you, and you will do well.”
“I will go and tell Ma. She will give me daal tonight!”
“No. Tomorrow morning you will leave with me and I will take you to the station. If your Ma finds out, she will not let you go. I will tell her later.”

After a meal of bajra roti, little Ram helped his mother wash the tawa, put out the fire and set his fathers bed on the charpai. He himself lay on a thin chatai on the floor and dreamt of big open spaces of green grass in the city, of big cars driving through these big green open spaces and large kothi’s on the fringes of these spaces. He imagined himself in these big cars, and smiled as he felt the wind pick up and ruffle his hair.

Seven months in the big city, and his dreams had changed. Cities, he now felt, were smaller and bigger at the same time. There was less space to move, fewer and smaller fields to play in, more people to walk around on the crowded streets. People talked less when there were more people to talk to. And still, this compressed village seemed go on forever.

At times Ram dreamt of his village, with vast brown fields and large old trees. Of his mother in her flower-patched blue sari, squatting in the shade outside their small house, sifting for sticks in bajra. Of his father, his thin strong face and large moustache, and the maroon turban around his head, making his face seem non-existent, except for the moustache. Of when his father, holding his dhoti in one hand and his beedi in another, telling him that he must leave for the city because Rakesh Bhaiya had called for him. Of the fifteen rupee journey he had undertaken alone, of being always conscious of the six rupees he carried with him, of the smell from the toilets on the train and the loud incessant chattering that lasted throughout the journey: discussions about the big city that
kept him awake throughout. Of Rakesh Bhaiya who came a fear-ridden ten minutes late to pick him up from the station, and how he cried as he hugged his brother.

Ram had learnt much since then. He had changed jobs twice, but the three months that he spent at the Sharma’s sometimes made him wish he’d spend the rest of his life with them. He thought of Rinku growing up and making him a partner in his business. He dreamt of driving down empty roads in a big car like Babaji’s. Then there were times when he saw movies of that quintessential shoeshine boy working his way to riches. Then he dreamt of going against the big bad world and making his own way up, without any help from anyone. He would practice punches on his pillow when he got up. He would carefully punch and kick walls in slow motion, imagining bad guys falling over. Then he would go and help Mummyji get Rinku and Bunty ready for school.

Ramu beta, Mummyji would tell him, you’re a quick learner. Ram could now make an excellent bhurji, chai and neembu paani, and wash and iron clothes. Both Babaji and Sahib would ask for Ram-ka-neembu-paani or Ram-ki-chai, and that made him feel very proud. Words of his father resonated in his head at times like these, reminding him to work hard and make someone dependent on him.

There were times of fun, of playing games like he had never played in the village. Rinku and Bunty had toys like Ram had never seen before. And every evening, they would all play in the car parking. He always did well at pakadan-pakdai, because he was the biggest among them, but he had also learnt new games like football and cricket. He had hit sixes like Kapil Dev on television. He had gone on drives in the evening with Babaji, shouted at pedestrians and cyclists along with Rinku and Bunty from their grand car. At night, before they went to sleep, they would jump all over Rinku and Bunty’s bed. After Mummyji had turned out the lights, Ram would creep back into their room and they would play hide and seek in the dark. He loved Rinku and Bunty like his own brothers, particularly Rinku. If Rinku fell down playing football in the concrete car park and hurt himself, Ram would feel guilty about not having done anything to prevent it. He would never let other, bigger kids bully Rinku and Bunty. Rinku would beg
Mummyji to let Ram go and play when there was work to be done. Yes, thought Ram, we’re brothers and we’ll be together for ever and ever.

But just as there were times of hope and brash dreaming, there were times of loneliness and fear too. He saw Rakesh Bhaiya only once a week, sometimes just once a month. He was working in a restaurant and didn’t have time. When Ram did something wrong, like spill milk while transferring it from one container to another, or knock over something in the living room, Mummyji would scold him. At times like these, he felt insecure: afraid that he would lose them
forever, that he would be turned out into the street in the middle of the night. That fear would haunt him on and on and he would see himself walking past drunken men lurching for him on lonely streets. He would see himself going from car to car, from person to person, begging for food or money. He decided, one day, that if he were to ever be thrown out of his job, he would become a shoeshine boy like Amitabh Bachchan.

Just three days ago, Sahib had slapped him.

It had been late in the evening, and Ram was returning with tomatoes from the thelas selling provisions around the corner. Bhola, the chowkidar, was standing beside the gate, looking very pleased with himself. He was standing, leaning on the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles, looking up at the sky every time he blew a whiff of beedi-smoke, much like Amitabh Bachchan did when he waited for some goonda.

“Oye, Ramu. Come here,” said Bhola frantically gesturing towards himself with his left hand. “Come here.”
“Haan, Bhola bhaiyya?”
“Come here. Sit.” Bhola squatted partially, and Ram, careful not to place the packet of tomatoes on the ground, squatted in front of him.
“Which village are you from?”
“Sholapur, Bhaiyya.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes. Sometimes. I miss my Baba and Ma.”
“Sholapur is near Vilasnagar?”
“I don’t know, Bhaiya. I have only been to Haldipur, besides Delhi.”
“I’m from Vilasnagar. I have a wife there and I have a son. I miss them. I was thinking about them. You know what I do when I miss them?”
“No Bhaiyya.”
“I drink and I smoke. It makes my time pass more easily. I don’t worry about them when I am smoking.”
“How old are you?”
“I am ten years old,” said Ram, beaming.
“Then you are seven years older than my son. I think you are old enough to start smoking, now.”
“Nahi Bhaiyya. Mummyji will be angry if she finds out.”
“Arre, she is not your mummy. Your Ma is in the village. Do you know what smoke tastes like?”
“No Bhaiyya. Mummyji will be angry.”

Bhola took a deep puff and blew it into Ram’s stunned face and half open mouth. Some of it went into his eyes and Ram dropped the packet of tomatoes onto the flow. A couple spilled out as Ram kneaded his eyes.

“It tastes like this.” Laughing heartily, Bhola stood up.

Ram blinked his eyes, now red as the tomatoes he was picking up. Still blinking, tears forming on the sides, he cleaned those that had dropped to the floor with the shirt Mummyji had given to him. He lifted the packet off the ground and ran inside the building. Throughout the climb up the stairs, and the wait outside the door after he rang the bell, Ram felt a sense of guilt coming over him. What if Mummyji found out? What if Bhola told her I had smoked? What will Babaji say? What will Rakesh Bhaiyya say if Mummyji told him? What will Baba and Ma think?

“How much were they for, beta?” Mummyji asked as she bent down to take the packet from his hands.

“Three rupees, Mummyji” He mumbled, half looking away, immediately thinking about washing his face and his eyes in the bathroom down the hall.

“What is this?” She said, sniffing the air. “Have you been smoking?”

“Nahi Mummyji. I was not smoking. Bhola was smoking”

She bent down and sniffed his shirt.

“You’ve been smoking, Ram. Arvind!”

Hearing Sahib’s name, Ram started seeing visions again, of being out on the street at night, of drunken beggars lurching at him. He tried to pull away, to remove the hand that now gripped his arm.

“Arvind. Ram has been smoking.”

“What?” The voice seemed to thunder down the hallway, bounding off all walls and hitting Rams ears like an avalanche of slaps.

Sahib walked stomped down the hallway like a police inspector in an Amithabh Bachchan movie. He took Ram by the shoulder and bent down to sniff the air around Ram’s head.

“Beedi,” he said. “You’ve been smoking beedi.”

The next minute, Ram found his legs give away under him, and twinkling star-like dots before his eyes as Sahibs hand made contact with his cheek.

“Today you’ve started smoking. Tomorrow you will teach Bunty and Rinku.”

Ram’s already red eyes swelled with tears.

“Nahi Sahib. I did not smoke. It was Bhola. He was smoking”

“Now you’re lying too. One more lie and I will throw you out into the street.”

“I told you,” he said to Mummyji, “I don’t want a rag picker to be in the same house with my kids. All they are, is a bad influence.”

“Nahi Sahib. It was Bhola. He was smoking and he blew smoke into my face… and my mouth and…and my eyes,” stammered Ram, still on the floor.

“Let’s settle this, once and for all.”

With that, Sahib bent down and pulled Ram up off the floor and dragged him down the stairs, to the gate, where Bhola stood, not smoking anymore.

“Sahib” said Bhola, his stance firming up, and his hand clipping his forehead above his right eyebrow.

“Bhola. Were you smoking?”
“Nahi Sahib,” looking straight into Sahib’s eyes.
“You don’t smoke?”
“Nahi Sahib.”

Sahib stepped closer to Bhola, and took a quick, deep breath, like a snort.

“You’re lying. You’ve been smoking. I can’t stop you from smoking, but if I ever catch you lying again, I’ll have you thrown out, one way or another. Do you understand?”
“Ji Sahib” Bhola’s gaze was focused on the ground in front of him.
“Did Ram smoke? Did you teach him?”

Ram looked up at Bhola, in appeal. Bhola, understanding the gravity of the situation, looked up at Sahib.

“Nahi Sahib. I was just joking with him. I just blew some smoke on his face.”
“If I ever, ever, find you doing that to my kids, or to Ram again, I will make sure that you never work here again, or in any of the buildings nearby.”
“Ji Sahib. I’m sorry. This will never happen again.”

Quietly, Sahib walked Ram back to the drawing room and sat him on the
sofa, beside him.

“Ram,” he said, looking straight into Ram’s fear-filled eyes, “we treat you like our own son, but never forget that you are working for us. If I ever, ever, catch you doing something, anything, that is harmful for us or for our kids, that will be the end of your time with us. Won’t allow anything that will harm Rinku and Bunty. Do you understand?”

Ram nodded, and quietly went back to work. Mummyji patted him on the back a couple of times that night, reassuringly, but Ram felt overwhelmed with fear of being left out alone in the street in the middle of the night. He didn’t sleep much, and entered a cycle of depression that seemed never to end. For the next two days, he didn’t chatter incessantly in the kitchen, like he used to. He didn’t eat
much food, or play, with Rinku or Bunty. Mummyji, worried about him, asked the neighbours maid, Shakuntala to take him to see ‘Mukaddar ka Sikandar’ after lunch.

As Ram exited the theatre, all seemed well with the world. He was ready for another beginning, for renewed friendships, for trips around the city, for whizzing around the car park with Bunty and Rinku. Ram loved the city, full of adventures and experiences, full of bad guys to beat up. So, holding onto Shankuntala’s hand, he skipped around back and forth on the way home. He was particularly chirpy in the kitchen, so much so that Mummyji, smiling, told him Bas kar!

After Mummyji and Babaji had had their routine tea, and Rinku, Bunty and Ram had finished their cups of milk, Rinku and Bunty wanted to play. Ram had to clean the dishes, but on Rinku’s insistence, Mummyji let them go out to play in the car park. This time, they took the cycle out, and as always, Ram, being the largest drove it because he drove it fastest. Rinku and Bunty took turns sitting in front of him, on the handlebar. Ram loved the feel of the wind in his face, and this
time, he drove it faster and faster.

Occasionally, he would drop his feet to the ground, and the ground seemed to push them back up. Rinku, sitting in front of him, his head stretched beyond the handlebar, shut his eyes and yelled ‘Yay!’ at the top of his voice. Ram, too, shut his eyes momentarily, before realising that he was closing in on the wall that enveloped the parking area. He swayed a little to avoid the wall, but he was going too fast and drove right into it. Rinku, at the last minute, turned his head and shut his eyes, screaming. Rinku’s head rammed right into the wall, and started bleeding as he lay sprawled, the half under the cycle. He needed attention, fast. Bunty ran up to calling out to his mother. Fear gripped Ram.

Visions of Sahib’s hand coming down on his cheek played over and over again in Ram’s mind, the non-existent pain in his cheek making him forget the pain of the bruises on his elbow and the slight cut on his knee. Ram would be on the street that night. He would never see Rinku and Bunty again, and go home to his village a failure. Who would hire him, after what he did to Rinku? Sahib’s warning to Bhola repeated itself, until Ram could not think of it anymore. Rinku was wailing, and Ram couldn’t see him in such pain. He wished he could do something at that moment to transfer all that pain to himself. Something, some hurt, not only to make himself suffer for causing such pain to Rinku. Something, anything, to take his mind off the rest of his doomed life of failure. Without a word, Ram walked up to the wall and banged his own head hard against it.

The bar was crowded that evening. It was cold outside and the place was just warming up to the expectations of the evening: Already, the air was a potpourri of perfumes and alcohols. And sweat, as bodies on the dance floor gyrated and occasionally collided, somewhat in tune with the variations in the sound that filled every inch of the space. The bar was crowded with people, words, ideas, hopes and opportunities, and desires sifted through masses.

A strange chill entered half open doors of the bar and made its way under chairs, over tables, up walls and around bodies, seeking its target. Silvery steel tables went cold and chairs contemplated frost. Those it touched, those who could feel, got the jitters: their muscles went taut for a moment and shivers fled up their spine. A pretty young thing in a velvety, black dress jumped up and spilled some burgundy just where skin ended and dress began. The dress wasn’t expensive, but it was velvet and she liked black. Refusing enthusiastic offers of help, she excused herself and made her way across the blinking floor, her shapely silhouette carefully avoiding traps, and ignoring loaded glances, whether furtive or steady.

As the end of the long stretch that was the bar neared, she got the strange feeling that she was being watched. Sure, she had felt this way often, but this was different: it gave her the creeps. Bravely, and urged on by the sheer habit of seeming aloof, she turned the corner towards the restroom and straight into Damon Shores.

Damon Shores. He had been feeling a little strange since the sun went down. It was as if he was hearing things, hearing drums beating softly to strange tunes that he couldn’t recognise. He heard them while he spoke, heard them while he talked. He heard them even with the music on. He felt like killing Jones. If nothing else, that would at least get one trouble off his mind. Grip his neck with both hands and choke him to death.

Having sold his last car for the day, Damon had walked around the canary yellow Cadillac he had bought for a steal that morning. Damned Jones missed the fender he thought, as he noticed horizontal red lines across the length of the fender. Damon’s blood boiled and his face reddened as he noticed that the Volvo’s on either side of the Cadillac too had red on their fenders: three cars with three horizontal lines on three fenders. He yelled out to Jones who scurried across the used car lot, heart in mouth. Jones would pay for this. Just as his arm drew back, in preparation of a slap to the back of Jones’ head, Damon thought he noticed something move on the other side of the Volvo. Jones in tow, he moved across the back of the Cadillac and stepped away slightly from the steel gray Volvo. Next to the back door of the Volvo squatted a strange, thin and dark creature in tattered clothes and a patchy green cloth around its forehead. But this was New Orleans and this was not an unfamiliar sight. Nonetheless, Damon’s arteries were already under functioning under severe pressure, and he erupted.

“Yousonuvabitch FREAKS,” went the war cry as Damon let loose a flurry of kicks and blows. Doc Robbins had told him that exercise would do him good, and Damon latched on to the opportunity with both hands and legs. He effortlessly picked up the bruised figure and threw him out the car-lot, while others such creatures standing across the street watched quietly.

“That should teach you freaks,” Damon shouted out to them, waving a finger threateningly. After Jones was told that he was an incompetent dimwit, and put to work, Damon strode back to his office, his arteries still under stress. A couple of hours later, the sun went down and the drums started. They started softly, strange eccentric rhythms from god-knows-where, that sucked him in and dragged him down to the verge of madness. On and on and on. Damon needed a drink. Something, anything, to drown those damn beats.

In the bar, things began to get worse. Two glasses of cheap whiskey down and several stolen glances at pretty young scantily clad things later, things still hadn’t changed. Must be that damned techno music, he decided.

Damon put his glass down and told Bob to hold his drinks for a bit, while he went for a piss. In the john, empty, he filled his palms with water and splashed his face. Another palmful was pushed across his scalp, and yet another cooled his reddening ears. But those damn beats didn’t stop. Damon dried his face and hair, exhaustion suddenly gripping him, and decided to go home. He walked out the john and turned the corner, straight into one of those pretty young things, this one in a rather revealing black dress. Maybe this isn’t such a bad evening after all, he thought. Unfortunately, a suave ‘Hello, there’ for an apology met with ‘Fuck off creep’ as a response. Damon, used to such pleasantries, shook his head, shrugged it off and walked back to the bar, forgetting that he should be heading home.

Up on the ceiling, something searching for Damon found him, and dove straight into the drink that Bob had just poured. It swam about in circles while Damon looked across the room, at the dance floor, until it became one with the liquid. Snake-like liquid heads jumped up from the deep gold surface of the whiskey and took bites of thin air as Damon slowly brought the glass to his lips. The whiskey burnt across his tongue, down his throat, through his stomach and entered his blood stream. Damon, shaken instantly from his ogling, grabbed his burning tonsils, doubled up and fell off the barstool.

A few miles away, in a candle-lit basement of an abandoned building, on a table sat a dark woman, dressed in white with bracelets on her wrists and necklaces with amulets around her neck. In front of her was a young green tree python, and around the table figures clad in loose fitting clothes chanted and danced to beats of drums.

“Death threats shall not be entertained” – Nikhil

There were whispers on the street that evening: whispers that floated from lips on faces that betrayed a great deal of need. Whispers of need; whispers that, as the evening progressed, would become cries of anguish and hunger and later pain. Some would be silenced by relief, if they could afford it. Others would remain till sleep or death silenced them. There were whispers on the street that evening, but no one was there to hear them.

*

Bunty was excited. A nervous energy raced through his veins, energising every muscle and tissue; so much so, that he found it hard to sit still. Trumpet in hand, he paced back and forth while his new colleagues sat around the fire and downed a glass of desi before the show. This was Bunty’s first day with the band and he was loving it. It was his return to showbiz, albeit small, but it still was a small step in the old direction. He had almost had enough of the respectable job that he had been coerced into by his father, and after four years off the stage, he was ready to start building contacts and performing again. It was true that he could no longer dance as he used to, and that the craze for stage shows had died down in the interim, but Bunty loved performing and he hoped Raj Singh would give him a chance. For now, Bunty had to be content with blowing the trumpet at Shirpa Nagar, Janakpuri, a small village near the border that Delhi shares with Haryana.

Bunty was playing Bholu’s trumpet at the akhara situated on the banks of the river Yamuna, near his home. Bholu had been playing with the Panchhi Band since the Memsahib Artists troupe disbanded. Bunty was Memsahib’s star performer, earning up to Rs.6000 a month, before his father decided that he should be doing something respectable, instead of dancing on stage in the evenings. Bunty’s uncle was a head clerk at Tis Hazari courts, and on his reference, Bunty got a job with advocate Khera. Working from 9:30 in the morning to 5:00 in the evening was new to Bunty, but he got used to it. He prepared and typed legal documents for advocate Khera’s signature, and delivered notices. He made new friends and learnt new tricks, but he still missed show business. He missed the cheers and the adulation. He missed the achievement of perfection as step after step was executed as planned. And so, after work, he would sit at the akhara and play the trumpet or drums while Bholu and his friends got ready.

“You have some dum in those lungs, beta,” said the towering figure of Raj Singh, as Bunty’s lungs powered a near perfect rendition of raja ki ayegi barat rangeeli hogi raat magan main nachungi . Raj Singh was huge. Bunty, a mere 5′8″ craned his neck to look the six-footer in the eye and thank him. And Raj Singh was full of gold- he had a sparkling large gold necklace around his neck and gold earring in his pierced ears. Three fingers on his large hands were encircled by a thick and broad twist of gold. If Raj Singh ever lost a tooth, he would probably replace it with a gold one. But he didn’t look like a man who would lose a tooth in a fight.

Raj Singh was very much a Sanhsi, and though Bunty knew they were scum, they gave good money. Sanhsi’s almost always had a well kempt handlebar mustache, and were usually tall and always powerful. Even if one was as short as Bunty, he could probably take him out with one arm tied behind his back- such was the power in their arms, and the skill of their hands. They were hardened by life and their society was governed by their own laws. Drugs, Prostitution, money laundering, alcoholism, gambling were preferred professions. Strolling down Paharganj, in central Delhi, Bunty had often seen Sanhsi’s selling packets and syringes to unkempt shivering foreigners. Sanhsi’s, Bunty had heard, valued each other on the basis of the number of cases filed against their name. A boy with no police case in his name was almost an outcaste, a kayar. Weddings were decided on basis of income, profession and police cases. But Sanhsi’s meant good money, and Bunty was bored with his job. So when Raj Singh offered him Rs. 4000 a month for a coupe of hours of work every evening, Bunty happily acquiesced.

*

There were no Sanhsi’s on the streets that evening. It was cold and whatever desi was available on the streets, was exhausted. And anyway, desi could never ease his pain. The throbbing in his head, the whistle in his ears and the sharpness of the streetlights- it was all just too intense, and he couldn’t take it anymore. It was cold and he felt colder, as if his heart had stopped pumping and his blood had become as cold as the foggy night about to descend on these unforgiving streets. He clutched on to his tattered quilt, and hobbled to where he had taken his first fix. Behind him, exhausted cries of anguish flooded the streets.

*

Bunty sat on the floor in Raj Singh’s brightly painted two-roomed shack with his new colleagues. They sat in a circle and at the center was a pile of fifty and hundred rupee notes amounting to almost Rs.20000 to be shared among the 12 them. And this was just tips; at the end of the month, Bunty would be getting his Rs.4000 as well. As per the custom, as a new member, Bunty would be getting two of the highest denomination notes. Forget show business, forget a respectable job, thought Bunty, as he got up to pull out a bottle of expensive scotch whiskey from Raj Singh’s refrigerator in the other room. I could do this for ever.

Bunty’s day at work had been satisfactory. The Sanhsi’s were a spirited lot and had danced the entire three kilometer distance that the wedding procession traversed through dilapidated and unpainted shack-like houses. So much money and such simple means of living, thought Bunty. It was as if the entire village had attended. There were at least a thousand in the procession, and many more when they reached the girls house. And they danced, danced to his tune. He hadn’t skipped a beat, except while playing Meri pyaari behenia banegi dulhania, when a 9 year old boy with gold on his fingers danced up to him and stuffed a hundred rupee note in his pocket. That’s more than I earn in a day with advocate Khera!.

Bunty opened the refrigerator. A refrigerator in this small little house seemed out of place, but so did a color television. There was only alcohol in the fridge- bottles of beer, whisky and rum. And a couple of bottles of desi. Only alcohol, he thought, as he pulled out a bottle of scotch, he saw a pile of polyethene packets kept behind the whiskey. Some packets were brown, others white. And there were some syringes. Bunty picked up a packet and took a short sniff. There was no smell. The thought of stealing this an selling it in Paharganj did cross his mind, but sensibly, he decided not to. One wouldn’t want to risk stealing from a Sanhsi. The consequences could be deadly, literally. He was just about to place it back when he felt a shooting pain in his back. Again and again, as a crude knife, a Rampuri went in and out of his back at a speed only a desperate madman could achieve. As Bunty fell on the floor, the half dead man tied his Rampuri to his tattered quilt, grabbed all the packets from the fridge that he could hold on to with both hands, and ran.

There were fewer cries of anguish on the streets, the next day, as the Sanhsi’s got back to work again.

*

The Sanhsi’s are a community, it is believed, originally from Rajasthan, India. Newspaper reports and personal accounts suggest that they still sell narcotics in the sleaze infested Paharganj areas, among others, in Delhi. They make a lot of money, but still live within their means in small shack-like houses. They are a benevolent lot, but quick to anger, and quick to kill. In Hindi, the word ‘Sanhsi’ literally means brave. Bands, like stage shows, have seen a steady decline in business. Stage shows are more or less extinct. Only Ramlila’s, during the festive season between Dussehra and Diwali see any kind of business. An Akhara is a traditional gym in India, where men learn how to wrestle. A Rampuri is a thick steel knife, commonly available in India for as little as Rs.40 (less than a dollar). Desi is short for Desi Daaru, or locally brewed contraband liquor. The word ‘Kayar’ means coward.

Nikhil Pahwa knows no sanhsis