The path was rough: dusty earth and stones. To the right, a long wire fence cordoned off the gleaming windows of showcased goods in the World Trade Centre. To the left was a wide field where women and children found a place to relieve themselves among the weeds, and shrubs, and piles of other people’s relief.
A woman was squatting in the darkness, obscured by scrubby plants. Some kids were squatting in the stony grass beside the path. As Diva passed, the kids smiled, and said,
When the path began to descend toward the sea we caught our first glimpse of the slum: a tattered cloak, thrown over a fragment of coast beside the gleaming towers of the rich, across the little bay.
‘Holy fuck,’ Diva said.
The slum, at night, was its own dark age. The light in the houses came from kerosene wick-lamps. There was no electricity, and no running water. Rats swept through the lanes in black waves every night, devouring piles of garbage left like dark offerings.
That smell of kerosene, and mustard oil almost-burnt, and incense, and salt-wind from the sea close by, and the soap of desperate cleanliness, and honest sweat, and the scent of horses, goats, dogs, cats, monkeys and snakes: all those aromas assaulted Diva as we wound our way by torchlight to Johnny Cigar’s house.
Her eyes were wide, but her lips were pressed into a determined frown. She held Naveen’s arm, but her high-heeled shoes staked out a sure path on the uneven ground.
Johnny Cigar was waiting for us, dressed in his temple best.
‘Welcome, Aanu,’ he said, pressing his palms together, and bowing to Diva. ‘My name is Johnny Cigar. I hope you don’t mind it, that I’m calling you Aanu. I have told everyone that you are my cousin Aanu, visiting from London.’
‘Okay,’ Diva said uncertainly.
‘To help you settle in peacefully here,’ Johnny added, ‘I told them that you are a little bit mad. That should explain your angry temperament.’
‘My angry temperament?’
‘Well, Shantaram said . . . ’
‘Shantaram, huh?’
‘I have also told everyone that some people are searching for you, because you stole something from them, so we must keep your stay with us a secret.’
‘Okay . . . I guess.’
‘Oh, yes. This is the safest place for thieves outside the parliament building.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Diva replied, smiling. ‘I think.’
‘You may be surprised how many famous people hide in the slum with us. We had a cricket player hiding here, once. I can’t tell you his name, but when we played together, he told me –’
‘Shut up, Johnny!’
Johnny’s wife, Sita, emerged from the house, her red and gold sari whirling sails around her slim figure.
‘You don’t even know what I was talking about,’ Johnny said, his feelings hurt.
‘Shut up anyway,’ Sita snapped. ‘And leave the poor girl alone.’
Two other women joined her, and they led Diva to the hut reserved for her, a few paces away. Naveen and Didier followed. I looked at Johnny.
‘Coming along, Johnny?’
‘I’m . . . I’m going to give Sita a minute,’ he said.
‘Trouble in paradise?’ I asked, opening my big mouth.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said, wiping a hand through his thick, brown hair. ‘Sita is driving me nuts.’
‘Listen, I’m gonna roll some joints. For Diva. I think she’ll need them more than blankets, if she sleeps here tonight. Why don’t we sit inside, and I’ll get to work, while you talk.’
He talked. I learned more about Sita, in half an hour, than any man should know about another man’s wife. I tried to take her side, once, in fairness, but he cried, so I had to stop.
It was all Johnny, after that. His suffering was measured in Stations of the Cross Wife, each one with a scolding image. In the end, it came down to one thing.
‘Contraception,’ I said, rolling joints for Diva’s slum orientation.
‘What are you saying?’
‘She wants another kid, and you don’t. Contraception.’
‘I’m
‘That’s not contraception, Johnny, that’s disconception. No wonder she’s cranky.’
‘Sita believes that sex is for making children. I think sex is for making children, and for making love, sometimes. She won’t accept any birth control. When I tried to talk to her about condoms, she called me a pervert.’
‘That’s a little harsh.’
‘What am I going to do? You see how beautiful she is,
Sita was named after a kindly, self-sacrificing Goddess, and for the most part she lived up to the name. But she also had a temper, and a tongue that whipped it into shape. We thought about it, for a while, as Diva’s joints accumulated.
‘You could do the girl thing,’ I suggested, ‘and talk it out.’
‘Not . . . safe,’ he said. ‘Or?’
‘Or you could do the guy thing.’
‘The guy thing?’ he asked, his eyes squinting suspiciously.
‘The guy thing is to ignore it, and hope she gives in before you do.’
‘I’m going with the guy thing,’ Johnny said, punching his palm. ‘It’s so much safer than the truth.’
