The Hungry Edge

Reddy peered over his thick glasses, palms down on the table as if he were at a board meeting. ‘But it never did, did it?’ ‘Well, no. But how was I to know that? As the evening wore on his mood changed; so did mine. He was sinking into gloom, muttering darkly about bondage and I was hopeful. Only later did I recall the terror in his eyes.’ Arvind shook Mahesh’s hand heartily. ‘Great chapter Vats! So what if it’s an arranged marriage. They work! I can tell you, a man with two years experience!’ ‘Sure they do, Arvind and we have a thirty year testimonial to that, don’t we?’ In the dull wash of the halogen lights, Ranjan looked jaundiced. The heavy jowls, puffy eyelids and the bulbous nose held Mahesh spellbound. Arvind left with a cheerful wave; none responded. Reddy stood under the awning of a cigarette stall, watching them. Ranjan smiled at Mahesh, his face a death mask. ‘The fun begins now doesn’t it? See you next weekend.’ He walked towards Lion’s Gate. Reddy scurried after him. ‘You’re not off to your jaunts again, are you Ranjan . . . because I am coming with you!’ Ranjan burst out laughing. ‘Reddy, my good friend,’ he clapped him on the back. ‘Mahesh has put us in good spirits hasn’t he? But, I am tired, and I need some rest. I need something else; I don’t know what . . . perhaps a life less replete with memories of . . .’ Ranjan gulped. ‘Such a painful thing . . . to be saddled with ancient hatreds, futile nostalgia.’ Reddy had never heard Ranjan speak like this, he of all people, so, so positive! Suddenly Reddy felt a shiver even though it was hot and humid. They shuffled along uprooted pavements, skirting mounds of garbage and shit, over darkened rivulets of piss, in the shadowed arcades of Edwardian stone buildings with nameplates pock-marking dimly-lit corridors in which naked electrical wiring hung slack along grimy walls, like blackened guts of unknown beasts. Ranjan was panting; a thin sliver of saliva glittering in the pale wash of the streetlights trickled down his various chins. ‘You should be thankful . . . born a south Indian, away from the horrors of abrupt loss. A man takes generations to dig roots and claim the fruits. And you have done that Reddy, even the peasant in that fucking revolution you blabber so much about. You know why?’ He did not wait for an answer; Reddy had none. ‘They fought for stable geography not an arbitrary one. No tectonic shifts like the Partition, all we children of those miserable refugees uprooted from their watan, homelands, left with treacherous memory and all for what? Derelict in humanity and their landscapes, brimming with bitterness . . . what could they pass on but hatred posing as folk tales?’ He wheezed like a leaky pipe. ‘But I fought; I found humanity in . . . Money! The great agent of inversion! Marx was right, my friend Reddy, but not for the reasons you think. He understood the power of commerce. But you know what? You cannot force your dream down people’s throats. They have to suffer despair, monumental loss . . . to start dreaming . . . their own dream.’ Ranjan almost fell into a half-open drain; he had not seen the black ooze so much as smelt its foul stench. He grunted, rested a heavy paw on Reddy’s thin shoulder. The dull blue of the solitary fluorescent bulb, dangling precariously above the arched entrance illuminated their faces. They were just a short distance from the brightly lit and busy Shahid Bhagat Singh Road. ‘Partition, my friend! Division! Genocide! That is what I am talking of, in case your fucking dimwit mind hadn’t understood! Loss; recovery! Not revolution! Not the airy-fairy yearning for collective orgasms by lonely masturbators like you; as for me, it’s hatred for the haters, understand? Self-Interest! Watch your back! No Credit without Commission! The three weapons of democracy!’ Frightened yet unwilling to leave him, Reddy nudged his friend along.