Harbart Read online

  Surapati Marik closes his eyes. “Good, good,” he says, “All that small talk I also do not like. The point is this—I am going take you to the top level. Take myself with you too. Or I wouldn’t have got you this whisky for free. Whatever else you think, don’t think me a fool. I’ve thrown heaps and handfuls of Harbarts into the water. Then reeled them in again.”

  Surapati Marik opens his eyes. “A gleaming glass office,” he continues, “AC-cool and classy. Pictures on the walls. A girl at a computer. The shelves shining with rows of pricey books on the subject. Music playing, softly-softly. Dim lights. Carpets. Five hundred rupees a visit. Minimum. Much more for special cases. Then Bombay, then Delhi. What message a dead politician is sending—to whisper it just once into the ears of a live politician. And thus to capture a few king-pins and big-bulls. Alongside, detachment, indifference. Then Dubai. Bahrain. Dead sheikhs, live sheikhs. Air India. Tata Sierra. RSVP. RIP … Oh, I can’t go on. Hang on, let me pour another. This stuff’s smooth—no?”

  Harbart tried to pluck some courage from his swiftly soaring high, but somewhere inside him lurked a can’t-do-it, just-can’t-do-it feeling. “Can’t do anything without English. That’s where they’ve all beat me to it.”

  “English will get you fuck-all. You’ll have an interpreter, you idiot—you’ll speak, he’ll satin-smooth translate. Any client gets hitchy-twitchy, he’ll clench his teeth and call them names: Fuck you! Tit! Cunt! Prick!”

  “So you think this will work? That I can make it work? I’m just scared I’ll screw it all up.”

  “Rubbish. You’re too scarefull for your own good. I, on the other hand—I’m carefree, scarefree. It’ll be my setup, after all. Fifty-fifty. Marik–Sarkar Enterprise.”

  A pint in the tummy

  Makes the bait seem very yummy …

  And Harbart agrees, am I right?

  “So, dear sir, when will you be back?”

  “Aha. When I’ll come, which day, what time—that’s my business. Marik alone will decide. My mission is now to hold you aloft. Spread your scent from nose to nose. Washing powder Nirma!”

  “Eh?’

  “This bastard’s a spastic, I tell you. Those kids who call you Titface, Titface—I support them. Now, my Number One task is to organize some publicity for you. Tong-prong strategy. On one side, a whisper campaign … hush-hush, low-buzz. On the other side, a couple of articles thrown into the English papers. Now, our collaboration has commenced. And I’m off. Oh, yes, you can keep the cigarettes. But you’d better stop ruining your liver drinking with those local loafers. From now on, it’ll be you and me, AC rooms and dim lights, and only Black Dog.”

  Surapati Marik pinched Harbart’s cheeks. “Coochy coochy coochy coochy,” he cooed.

  And left.

  *

  Evening thickens into night. In the dark, Harbart lights a Classic cigarette. Buki, lady doctor, fairy … the sadness will always swell, and yet, on the other side, little by little, the gates of heaven are opening.

  In the dark, Harbart sings softly to himself:

  Cat, bat, water, dog, fish …

  Cat, bat, water, dog, fish …

  Cat, bat, water, dog, fish …

  Cat, bat, water, dog, fish …

  The smoke from his cigarette draws pictures in the dark, even though no one can see.

  The fire at its tip merely blows big, glows small.

  Seven

  Oh listen to the chorus

  say, that this land

  Is no land for lamentation.

  —Hironmoyee Devi

  April is the cruelest month, when clusters of virulent viruses run riot through the streets of Calcutta.

  Street-dwellers, slum-dwellers, had waged heroic wars against these viruses and somehow succeeded, through stubborn skullduggery, to develop resistant antibodies, or else so many of them wouldn’t have lived to die under the slab of the Stoneman—the viruses would have wiped them out, every he and she and their family tree.

  Unlike the slum-dwellers, these virus vampires have no trouble slaying the middle classes flat: during the change-of-season, the middle classes inevitably suffer from a lack of Vitamin C. Those adolescent girls whose thoughts of spring revelry, of blissful grazes against macho manes and manly fuzz, set their tender-tendril bodies aflame with acid desire—in the middle of their dirty dreams, they cry out “oh yes, oh yes” to these viruses and then wake up from their siestas engulfed in phlegm. And the adolescent boys—no sooner do they awaken—hardly opening their eyes—than they’re choking in the viral wrestler’s spiral armpit-hold.

  It was just such a viral clusterfuck that found Harbart a sitting duck. As everyone knows, usually it is the higher-ups who hog the eggs hatched by the indefatigable fucking of the ducks. In these cases, however, it’s the doctors who relish them. For the virus-warfare weapons are entirely and only in their control.

  It started with an ache in his back and waist and shoulder, and a streaming nose. He’d thought a plateful of deep-fried chilli-fat balls and a concentrated dose of local liquor (“Returning the empty bottles in unbroken condition will result in a Rs 2.05 refund per bottle”) would force the fidge-fidge-nanny of a fever to flee his veins—but the result was the opposite. The fever reared its ugly head and roared. Scorched his senses. Made him vomit. Two days later, when Jyathaima found him unconscious, she shouted for Dhanna-dada. Dhanna grumbled his way to Dr. Shetal, the homeopath, in his chamber beside the saloon, although the outcome of that visit was not very clear. Because the fever soared higher. Made Harbart delirious.

  “Got a brick! Got a brick!” he’d scream, and then fall back unconscious again. The fever took him far away. Somewhere else. He was stuck there—he didn’t know where. At a dead end. Full of filth. The ground slippery and wet. But he couldn’t turn back, couldn’t get out. Because on the trash mountain sat a one-eyed mangy cat. Waiting to pounce if he dared move an inch. So Harbart picked up a bit of brick, mustering up courage to throw it at the cat in case he twitched. And screamed: “Just you try and bite me, you mangy cat you, I’ve got a brick. Got a brick.”

  The doctor and Somnath silently exchange glances. Koka puts a cold compress on his forehead. So good that feels. Upstairs, up the wooden stairs, up in a room somewhere, the one who had drawn nearer, leaned closer to blow out the candle, that someone was leaning over him now, looking into his eyes but his eyes cannot see … and the one-eyed mangy cat pounces …

  “Got a brick! Brick! Bri …”

  Once, he opened his eyes. Saw the room from deep underwater. Jyathaima, Somnath, Bulan, Koka … window …

  “Jyathaima! Jyathaima!”

  “Yes, dear. I’m right here.”

  “So weak.”

  “It’s the fever, son. You’ll be better soon.”

  “That mangy cat keeps trying to bite me.”

  “It won’t come anymore. I’ll shoo it away.”

  “Won’t come?”

  “No, it won’t come.”

  The mangy cat didn’t come anymore. But that same night, across Harbart’s eyes came screaming and lurching a crowd of people of whom only the lower halves remained. Nothing but air above their legs. Somnath was dozing in a chair by his side. Harbart’s whimpers woke him up and he quickly switched on a light. Harbart’s eyes were shunting left and right, up and down. Then a little later he broke out in a sweat. Then fell asleep. Then Somnath fell asleep too.

  For the rest of that night, only Shobharani stayed awake, cooling and caressing Harbart’s forehead.

  Oh, how soothing the scent of foreign eau de cologne.

  The next day, they sent for Dr. Sudhir. When he came to the house, it was twenty rupees a visit. He spent a long time examining Harbart. Then: “Beastly form of dengue,” he announced, “the air’s full of it these days. Obscure viral origin. It’ll go, but it’ll take time. I’m giving him antibiotic cap
sules. Three times a day for at least ten days. And a vitamin. Otherwise he’ll grow more weak. Light food. Maximum rest.”

  “When can he have rice again, Doctor-babu?” asked Dhanna.

  “He can have it right now. Just make a paste and give it to him. And any light food … soup …”

  It was another week before Harbart felt a little better. Still slept most of the day, his cheeks and chin dark with stubble. The medicines, the special fish, the citrus fruits—Jyathaima paid for it all. Harbart’s trunk hadn’t been touched.

  One day, when Harbart was lying unconscious, Surapati Marik paid a visit. To let him know that he had made some progress. He talked to the boys and got all the details of Harbart’s illness. Expressed relief that a good doctor was in place. Told them: “Never mind. When he’s a bit better, tell him absolutely no need to worry. Everything is proceeding according to plan. There should be two English pieces on him out soon. I’m off to the South for a few days. In case they come out when I’m gone, tell him I’ll come back and visit him with the cuttings. You fellows have done a lot. It’s hard to see things like this, these days. This whole community thing is almost gone from the city. So nice to see that that’s not true. Don’t forget to tell him, please. Goodnight. Goodnight.”

  He’d treated them all to Classic cigarettes. And his words had not been fake-faltu either. For the second-last Saturday of April and the Sunday the week after, two separate English newspapers published two separate articles indeed. “Dead Speak in the Divine Supermarket” and “Messages from the Other Side.”

  The right people did not fail to notice the write-ups.

  And the offices of both the newspapers were flooded with letters from the United States—from journals such as Fate and Zetetic Scholar—and from England—from Fortean Times and Unexplained—all making inquiries about Harbart.

  Harbart spent all his days in sleep, undreaming, unbroken sleep. Should he wake up and feel like reading, the doctor had left for him a copy of Kanti P. Dutta’s Gopal Bhaar and the Spooks’ Soiree. But he would read only a few lines and fall asleep again. And wake up again and see the half-dead evening light smeared upon the windowpane. The darkening room grows darker still. From a house down the lane, a song from a radio wafts and wanes. The shalik birds return to their cornice nests. Someone comes and switches on the light. And he falls asleep again. And wakes up again, and sees three or four of the boys sitting silently by his side.

  “No more money coming in, boys. What the fuck fever is this! Bone and blood, it’s sucking everything dry.”

  “Just a few days more, Harbart-da, and you’ll be well again. And we’re always here for you anyway.”

  “Harbart-da, we were wondering … first say you won’t get angry?”

  Harbart knew what they were wondering. So he said, “Just open the trunk and take some. But don’t you dare give any to the lawyer’s son.”

  “No, no, boss. We’ll just take twenty for us.”

  “Twenty, twenty-five, take whatever you need. Oh, I feel so cold!”

  “Wait, we’ll pull your sheet up for you.”

  “And one of you will be here?”

  “But of course, boss. Only one of us is going, getting, and coming back.”

  “Going and coming. That’s better, yes. That’s good. Going and coming … going … and …”

  Harbart fell asleep again.

  Those who are masters of astrology, they contend that every man is born with a record of his responsibilities and duties in the new life and a detailed description of the consequences that await him due to his actions in the last. A list drawn up according to their past deeds and doings, a list drawn up by the hand of God or the fingers of Fate. And who may say what that list holds?

  —Mysteries of the Afterlife

  The sleeping Harbart is a sleeping beauty. Even when he sank into sleep waters, across those watery skies the sun still rose, the moon still shone. The stars opened wide their eyes and sent their light from a million light years away. Where even those who had no eyes felt its warmth upon them and shook with pleasure.

  Just as man is one kind, with many subordinate kinds, so too are ghosts one kind, with many subordinate kinds. Moreover, it would be erroneous to assume that all ghost kinds are comparable by disposition or by comportment. Among them too is displayed a great specificity of difference and distinction. Among them too may be observed variations such as wise ghost and foolish ghost, tranquil ghost and turbulent ghost, as the masters and maestros of spirit knowledge know only too well.

  —Op. cit.

  The ship lights shine bright. The turned-away wooden elephant turns around and swings his trunk. The one-eyed mangy cat tries to come in but flees from a kick of the elephant’s foot. Gopal had a meeting with a mamdo ghost. Harbart licks clear the stick of colored glass candy. “ ‘Who are you?’ asked Gopal, shivering in his shoes. ‘A mamdo!’ came the instant reply.” The marble table, the marble chair, they swirl and twirl up in the air. The fairy like a butterfly flutters about the room of glass. Harbart kept starting awake. May Day, 1992. In Russia, Boris Yeltsin had organized a sensational soiree of ghosts. Lakhs of Communists were confronted with the spirit of Capitalism. Rasputin was coming back, disguised as Solzhenitsyn. Yugoslavia was crumbling. Croatian tennis player Goran Ivanišević was dreaming of a deadly serve that would wipe out Jim Courier and Andre Agassi. For the last time, the Commonwealth of Independent States (the Soviet Union) was preparing to go off for the games in Sweden. United Germany was confused about whom to include in its team—East? Or West? A man called Harshad Mehta was sitting in Bombay, waiting for a phone call from Delhi, waiting for permission to proceed with his plans. Poland, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Romania, Albania—all engulfed in hubbub, hullabaloo. Communism was close to collapse … It was at just such a time that, in Calcutta, Harbart heard the rallying cries of May Day 1992 and thought for a moment that riots had broken out or that the country was finally free or that the thirteen horsemen had come so easily and effortlessly …

  On May 16, feeling much better, Harbart climbed up to his top-terrace but later when evening fell he was overcome with exhaustion and slid into a stupor. By then, Saptarshi the Great Bear, Mrigashira the Pole Star, quasars, pulsars, black holes, white dwarfs, red giants—each and every sodding one had gathered in the sky. When some sense returned, Harbart saw that he was kneeling before ten enormous toenails growing out of someone’s two enormous feet, someone’s legs as high as the third floor, someone’s colossal penis hanging higher, someone’s swaying testicles, someone’s jumbo curls of pubic hair—all so much higher in the sky that they were barely visible, hazy to the eye.

  Then someone spoke to him, in a voice loud and deep enough to split the sky in two: “Ha, ha, Harbart! Fruit of Lalitkumar’s sperm and Shobharani’s womb, scoundrel, damned despicable sisterfucker Harbart, bow low, bow low.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Son of a bitch! Who am I? I am Dhui.”

  “You are Dhui? You?”

  “Quiet! One more word and I’ll kick your teeth in. Look, there’s my father Lambodar. That’s not a cloud, that’s my father. And there, see, Nishapati. And behind him, the one that’s yelling, that’s Sridhar.”

  “Please—why is he yelling?”

  “Karmic kickback has given him fistulas forever. Should he be singing instead? No matter. You’re doing well, you little shit, kicking goal after goal in their goolies. Bloody rascal!”

  Dhui let out another roar. Harbart flung himself flat but saw, one after another, hitherto family-photos-only assuming all three dimensions and becoming people who then tossed him from hand to hand, as though playing ball. Heirless Keshab and Harinath, engrossed in an endless blood-barfing contest. “If this one wants one barrel of booze scented with jasmine juice,” grumbled Dhui, “then that one wants two barrels with a banana bouquet. Their booze used to come from Chandernagore. Liberty, Equa
lity, Fraternity!”

  “Then?”

  “Quiet! Once the booze competition starts, it never stops. Runs on and on till time runs out. Glug!”

  “I beg you, please, please don’t go away at glug.”

  “Want to know more, eh? Alright then—see that fellow over there, the one with the iron ring round his cock, jumping up and down? Do you know who he is?”

  “Please, no, my lord.”

  “Why would you? You only know that dirty debauched lady doctor. He is the great renunciate, Gopallal. Do you have any questions?”

  “Why did he renounce?”

  “Why? Why? You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Because the cook’s shelter-given daughter began a belly.”

  A headless creature came wailing up to them and then proceeded to break wind and shit.

  “Who’s that man?”

  “Not man. Say, who’s that sisterfucker. That’s the adopted son, Jhulanlal. He’s the one whose throat was slashed by Biharilal to give birth to Peeyu Kahaan and your father. And there, in the distance, see that man playing ludo with Queen Victoria? Go, go touch your head to his toenails once. He is Banarasilal. Ran a roaring trade with the foreigners. Supplied native whores to horny Englishmen.”

  “Then?”

  “Then? Then came a long line of buffoons. But yes, our wives were good wives. Not too many that were fairy-like and fine, one or two at most, mainly elephantine. But them I’ll show you another day.”

  Suddenly, Lambodar leapt down before Harbart—nothing to him but a behemoth belly. Harbart reverently flung himself to the ground again.

  “Want to be free? Harbart! Loser! Lose your soul! Pray to Shyama or Dakshina Kalika. Kring kring kring hu hu hring hring—”

  “Cut the crap,” said Sridhar, “The only one to pray to is the Adyakali, the original and only Kali, no one else. Haru, dear, dear Haradhan …”

  Hring kring kring parameshwari swaha!