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Authors: Hari Kunzru
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nameless liquids. The door itself is strong, banded with iron and studded with thick square nails; the kind of door it would be very difficult to break down. Pran knocks. There is the sound of shuffling footsteps, and an eye appears on the other side of a peephole.
‘We’re closed,’ says a phlegmy voice.
‘I’m hungry,’ says Pran.
‘So?’ says the voice. ‘Why should that get you in out of hours?’
‘I was told if I came here and did what you said, you would feed me.’
A pause.
‘By who?’
It occurs to Pran, uncomfortably, that he never asked the beggar’s name.
‘I don’t know.’
The voice seems to consider this for a moment. There is the sound of coughing, then a jangle of keys and the rasp of a bolt being drawn. The door swings open to reveal a man the size of a bull, dressed only in a chequered loincloth. He has obviously just finished his morning ablutions, and his body shines with oil. His thick hair glistens with it, as does the luxurious black moustache which extends in fantastical war-like curls on either side of his face. The man’s oiled stomach juts ponderously towards Pran. He leans on the door lintel and twirls a moustache tip between thumb and forefinger.
‘Let’s have a look at you, then,’ he says, and breaks off in a fit of coughing.
Pran looks back at him. The man’s gaze darkens.
‘Turn around, you little idiot! Show me what you’ve got!’
Self-consciously, Pran turns to face the other way.
‘Pull them down!’ shouts the man, violently enough to dislodge another chunk of lung-lining. It is only after great effort that this is finally expectorated at Pran’s feet.
Pran fiddles with the string of his trousers, then lets them fall to display an inch or two of bruised buttock.
‘More!’ growls the man. Pran reluctantly complies. The man stands and wheezes and coughs for a while, then makes a grunting noise which sounds more or less positive.
‘Not bad. You’d better come in.’
Pran follows him into a courtyard full of women. There are women washing clothes, women cleaning rice, women chopping vegetables and throwing the waste into a pile. A balcony runs around the upper storey, and it sags with the weight of yet more women, running in and out of rooms and chatting to each other in doorways. A couple of young girls lean over the balustrade and a third hangs huge silk sari squares on a line which stretches from one side of the house to the other. The enormous man picks his way through this termite mound of females with the bored but lordly air of a bullock in a field of heifers.
Pran has never seen so many women in one place. They all seem young and uncommonly beautiful, and several are in states of undress. Perhaps he is light-headed from lack of food, but this place already seems far better than the street. He decides that if nothing better comes up, he will stay here for a while.
He realizes the girls are talking about him. A group on the balcony shouts something uncomplimentary about the size of his procreative organ, and all round the ground floor of the house a general riot of Pran-appraisal is taking place. He blushes furiously and hurries to keep up with the large man, who is heading into a passageway off to one side of the courtyard. Oblivious to the abuse raining down from all angles, the man strides out of view. With a quick glance back at the courtyard, Pran scuttles after him.
To his joy, Pran is placed in a room in front of a thali of rice and dal. While he pushes food rapidly into his mouth, the room’s other occupants discuss him. The conversation takes place in a whispered undertone which, were he less hungry, he would make an effort to overhear. The large man, now dressed in a freshly laundered kurta-pyjama, has been joined by a woman who might be his opposite. Where he is imposing and solid, she is more skeleton than flesh. Her face is all jaw and eyesockets, her arms brittle and twig-like, darting to and fro burdened by a dangerously
‘We’re closed,’ says a phlegmy voice.
‘I’m hungry,’ says Pran.
‘So?’ says the voice. ‘Why should that get you in out of hours?’
‘I was told if I came here and did what you said, you would feed me.’
A pause.
‘By who?’
It occurs to Pran, uncomfortably, that he never asked the beggar’s name.
‘I don’t know.’
The voice seems to consider this for a moment. There is the sound of coughing, then a jangle of keys and the rasp of a bolt being drawn. The door swings open to reveal a man the size of a bull, dressed only in a chequered loincloth. He has obviously just finished his morning ablutions, and his body shines with oil. His thick hair glistens with it, as does the luxurious black moustache which extends in fantastical war-like curls on either side of his face. The man’s oiled stomach juts ponderously towards Pran. He leans on the door lintel and twirls a moustache tip between thumb and forefinger.
‘Let’s have a look at you, then,’ he says, and breaks off in a fit of coughing.
Pran looks back at him. The man’s gaze darkens.
‘Turn around, you little idiot! Show me what you’ve got!’
Self-consciously, Pran turns to face the other way.
‘Pull them down!’ shouts the man, violently enough to dislodge another chunk of lung-lining. It is only after great effort that this is finally expectorated at Pran’s feet.
Pran fiddles with the string of his trousers, then lets them fall to display an inch or two of bruised buttock.
‘More!’ growls the man. Pran reluctantly complies. The man stands and wheezes and coughs for a while, then makes a grunting noise which sounds more or less positive.
‘Not bad. You’d better come in.’
Pran follows him into a courtyard full of women. There are women washing clothes, women cleaning rice, women chopping vegetables and throwing the waste into a pile. A balcony runs around the upper storey, and it sags with the weight of yet more women, running in and out of rooms and chatting to each other in doorways. A couple of young girls lean over the balustrade and a third hangs huge silk sari squares on a line which stretches from one side of the house to the other. The enormous man picks his way through this termite mound of females with the bored but lordly air of a bullock in a field of heifers.
Pran has never seen so many women in one place. They all seem young and uncommonly beautiful, and several are in states of undress. Perhaps he is light-headed from lack of food, but this place already seems far better than the street. He decides that if nothing better comes up, he will stay here for a while.
He realizes the girls are talking about him. A group on the balcony shouts something uncomplimentary about the size of his procreative organ, and all round the ground floor of the house a general riot of Pran-appraisal is taking place. He blushes furiously and hurries to keep up with the large man, who is heading into a passageway off to one side of the courtyard. Oblivious to the abuse raining down from all angles, the man strides out of view. With a quick glance back at the courtyard, Pran scuttles after him.
To his joy, Pran is placed in a room in front of a thali of rice and dal. While he pushes food rapidly into his mouth, the room’s other occupants discuss him. The conversation takes place in a whispered undertone which, were he less hungry, he would make an effort to overhear. The large man, now dressed in a freshly laundered kurta-pyjama, has been joined by a woman who might be his opposite. Where he is imposing and solid, she is more skeleton than flesh. Her face is all jaw and eyesockets, her arms brittle and twig-like, darting to and fro burdened by a dangerously
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