I feel I am surrounded by eunuchs. Am I?
At the time it had seemed like nothing more than a part of her regular barrage of ICU insults. But now it gave Tilo a shiver. How did she know? Once the pot of ashes had been buried and the grave filled with earth, Tilo closed her eyes and recited her mother’s favorite passage from Shakespeare to herself. And at that moment the world, already a strange place, became an even stranger one:
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
She had never understood why her mother had so particularly loved this manly, soldierly, warlike passage. But she had. When Tilo opened her eyes, she was shocked to realize that she was weeping.
—
Zainab and Saddam were married a month later. There was an eclectic gathering of guests—Hijras from all over Delhi (including the new friends they had made at the traffic lights), Zainab’s friends, most of them students of fashion design, some of Ustaniji’s students and their parents, Zakir Mian’s family, and several of Saddam Hussain’s old comrades from his varied career—sweepers, mortuary workers, municipal truck drivers, security guards. Dr. Azad Bhartiya, D. D. Gupta and Roshan Lal were there of course. Anwar Bhai and his women and his son who had outgrown his mauve Crocs came from GB Road, and Ishrat-the-Beautiful—who had played a stellar role in the rescue of Miss Jebeen the Second—came from Indore. Tilo’s and Dr. Azad Bhartiya’s little cobbler friend, who had outlined his father’s lung tumor in the dirt, dropped in briefly. Old Dr. Bhagat came too—still dressed in white, still wearing his watch on a sweatband. Dr. Mukhtar the quack was not invited. Miss Jebeen the Second was dressed as a little queen. She wore a tiara and a frothy dress and shoes that squeaked. Of all the presents the young couple were showered with, their favorite was the goat that Nimmo Gorakhpuri gave them. She had had it specially imported from Iran.
Ustad Hameed and his students sang.
Everybody danced.
Afterwards Anjum took Saddam and Zainab to Hazrat Sarmad. Tilo, Saeeda and Miss Jebeen the Second went too. They made their way past the sellers of ittars and amulets, the custodians of pilgrims’ shoes, the cripples, the beggars, and the goats being fattened for Eid.
Sixty years had gone by since Jahanara Begum had taken her son Aftab to Hazrat Sarmad and asked him to teach her how to love him. Fifteen years had passed since Anjum took the Bandicoot to him to exorcize her sifli jaadu. It was more than a year since Miss Jebeen the Second’s first visit.
Jahanara Begum’s son had become her daughter, and the Bandicoot was now a bride. But other than that, nothing much had changed. The floor was red, the walls were red and the ceiling was red. Hazrat Sarmad’s blood had not been washed away.
A wispy man with a prayer cap striped like a bee’s bottom held out his prayer beads to Sarmad beseechingly. A thin woman in a printed sari tied a red bangle to the grille and then pressed her baby’s forehead to the floor. Tilo did the same with Miss Jebeen the Second, who thought it was a good game and did it many more times than was really necessary. Zainab and Saddam tied bangles to the grille and laid a new velvet chadar trimmed with tinsel on the Hazrat’s grave.
Anjum said a prayer and asked him to bless the young couple.
And Sarmad—Hazrat of Utmost Happiness, Saint of the Unconsoled and Solace of the Indeterminate, Blasphemer among Believers and Believer among Blasphemers—did.
—
Three weeks later there was a third funeral in the old graveyard.
ONE MORNING Dr. Azad Bhartiya arrived at Jannat Guest House with a letter that was addressed to him. It had been hand-delivered by a woman who would not identify herself, but said the letter was from the Bastar forest. Anjum didn’t know what or where that was. Dr. Azad explained briefly about Bastar, the Adivasi tribes that lived there, the mining companies that wanted their land and the Maoist guerrillas who were waging a war against security forces that were trying to clear the land for the companies. The letter was written in English, in tiny, cramped handwriting. There was no date on it. Dr. Azad Bhartiya said it was from Miss Jebeen the Second’s real mother.
“Tear it up!” Anjum roared. “She throws away her baby and then comes back here saying she is the real mother!” Saddam stopped her from lunging for the letter.
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Azad Bhartiya said, “she is not coming back.”
It was a long letter, written on both sides of the pages with whole passages scored out, sentences running into each other as though paper was in limited supply. Between the pages there were a few pressed flowers that had crumbled when the papers had been folded into the pellet that was delivered. Dr. Azad Bhartiya read it out, roughly translating it as best he could as he went along. His audience was Anjum, Tilo and Saddam Hussain. And Miss Jebeen the Second, who did all she could to disrupt the proceedings.
Dear Comrade Azad Bharathiya Garu,
I am writing this to you because in my three days time in Jantar Mantar I observed you carefully. If anybody knows where is my child now, I think it might be you only. I am a Telugu woman and sorry I don’t know Hindi. My English is not good also. Sorry for that. I am Revathy, working as a full-timer with Communist Party of India (Maoist). When you will receive this letter I will be already killed.