Skinner Read Free Page B

for many years, a Bombay Municipal Corporation man who has something to do with water treatment, the heads of the potters’ and tanners’ guilds, and also men speaking for the welders and recyclers, a smalltime boss from the gangwar, a woman from a Muslim microbank that loans tiny sums to women of all religions to start small businesses, and a young policeman. These, and several other dignitaries and lowlifes of the slum, are packed into Raj’s home, being served tea by this outsider, Naxalite. Not here are any of the water goons or men from the Shiv Sena or the Congress party. The water goons have threatened the entire proceeding and pledged their noncooperation unless they are paid an ungodly sum. The Sena were approached, but communications broke down. And the local Congress man seems most content to pretend nothing is happening.
    Raj has seen all of them here at one time or another, but never all at once. Things are happening, exciting things, but still he only wants to go play with his new ball.
    Sudhir passes the last of the cups, many of them borrowed from neighbors to accommodate such a large gathering.
    “People will tell you, Raj, your whole life, what is real and what is not. What you can believe in and what you can’t.  Don’t let them say, This is something you don’t think it is. You don’t understand, you couldn’t understand. It is what you think it is, you do understand it. Believe me.”
    He smiles.
    “Or don’t believe me. You decide.”
    He sips his chai.
    “Rajiv.”
    A whisper.
    “Rajiv, if I tell you that your father is a very rich man, do you believe me?”
    Raj looks at his father, the educated outcast of Dharavi. Madman of the wires. His quest to bring the wire to every home of the nagar, safely engineered. His family lacks for nothing that can be had in the slum, but rich?
    He shakes his head.
    The man puts a hand on Raj’s father’s shoulder.
    “But he is. He’s rich. He owns a castle, Rajiv, in this wealthy land.”
    He gestures with his other arm, taking in the hut and its contents, drawing some laughter and some discontent from the gathering. This is serious business they are here for, not games.
    Aasif touches Sudhir’s hand with his own, brushing it off his shoulder.
    “Don’t confuse him.”
    The man stares at Raj, brown eyes, jungle green in their depths.
    “I’m not teasing him. I’m telling him the future.”
    Raj’s father looks into his teacup.
    “It is his future. If there are riches, they are not mine. Here.”
    His fingers dip into the breast pocket of his loose orange short-sleeved collared shirt, coming out holding a Nokia 1100. Indestructible brick phone of the slums. He looks at the screen of his laptop, his thumb working the phone’s rubberized buttons. He studies the tiny LED screen, his lips moving as he reads something, reads it over again, and once more.
    “Yes. Correct.”
    He weighs the phone on his palm, looks around the room.
    “This. And then after. I don’t know.”
    Some of them nod, some don’t move.
    Raj’s father looks at his wife and his baby girl, then at his son.
    “Rajiv.”
    He offers the phone.
    “Take it.”
    Raj tucks his ball under one arm, scooping the Nokia from his father’s hand. He looks at the screen. A string of letters, numbers, and symbols. He tries to let it translate itself into something intelligible. Some lengthy equivalent to lol or ;( . Sees only randomness.
    He looks from the screen to the others in the room. More than one set of lips is moving in silent prayer to one of many gods. He looks at the one they call Naxalite, sees the forest in his eyes. Trees, tall and green, creaking in a breeze, footsteps muffled by layered mulch and deadfall, single-file, booted feet. Guns.
    He looks at his mother and sister, his father. The family it will be his job to provide for one day when he is older.
    His father touches his shoulder, light press, then gone.
    “Send it, Rajiv.”
    Raj rests his thumb on the large