Narcopolis

The khana was back in business the next day. Late in the afternoon, she put on a dress and went to Salim’s to buy Chemical. Bits of rubble and the shell of a burned taxi lay strewn on the street. She noticed there were no dogs to be seen, not a single one. Where had they gone? There were no cattle or birds either. Salim told her he was out of cocaine and to give Rashid his apologies and to tell him that garad was available and would continue to be available. Chemical, in particular, was available in plenty. Why was that, she asked him, where did it come from that it wasn’t affected by what was going on in the city? Salim smiled at her with sudden affection. It had been a long time since he’d had sex with anyone, he thought, much less a woman, and a hijra-woman at that. What the Lala did to him wasn’t sex, it was payment. The Lala took his ass in return for the job opportunity he provided and the pleasure in the exchange was entirely one-sided. Salim could barely remember what an erection felt like, but at that moment he felt affection for Dimple and he would have liked to fuck her, a friendly or nostalgic or tender fuck. Sit down, he said, and I’ll explain it to you. Garad comes from Pakistan. Garad, you know what it means in Urdu? Waste. This is the unrefined shit they throw away when they make good-quality maal for junkies in rich countries. Even the worst junkie in America-Shamerica wouldn’t touch garad. That’s why the Pakis send it here. We buy it happily and ask for more. And to give it a special kick we add more shit to it and call it Chemical. Now you might say this is some kind of special ingenuity, a skill, to take bad shit and make it worse. But I’ll tell you what it really is, we’re katharnak sisterfuckers, all of us on Shuklaji Street, we deserve to die, we’re only happy when our heads are touching the floor and we’re praying to the god of garad. We deserve to die. Dimple told him to speak for himself. I don’t want to die, she said, not today. I’ve got things to do. Tell me why Chemical is freely available when there are no tomatoes in the market. Because, Dimpy dear, the city belongs to the politicians and the crooks and some of the politicians are more crooked than the most crooked of the crooks. Garad sales are protected, it doesn’t matter that it comes from Pakistan. They’ll make speeches about Mussulmans and burn our homes and shops but this is a multi-crore business and in Bumbai money is the only religion. They’re not stupid. Now you tell me something, what are you doing here? Dimple nodded. The world is ending, she said, anything can happen to anyone at any time.

*