—
City Hall
TWENTY DAYS AFTER our victory, here are all the people who go to city hall to welcome Mayor Karate Samuel as he begins his new job. Me, Reeni, Anil. Anil’s grandmother. My parents. Mrs. Rao. Shoba Aunty and Arvind Uncle. Chinna Abdul Sahib, carrying his number two best drum, since the very best one is too precious (and also too big) to carry around. The boy from 2C, his parents and his grandmother, and their yappy dog. The newly-marrieds, the school bus driver, the fruit man and his wife, the istri lady, the istri lady’s daughter-in-law, her son, her grandchildren. Six babies and three donkeys. The donkeys belong to relatives of the istri lady. They have come all the way from where they live by the river on the edge of the city.
Very quietly, making no fuss, Book Uncle comes with us.
In Anil’s hand is the karate book, which I have given to him. He takes it with him wherever he goes. According to him, you never know when a karate book will come in handy, which makes sense to me.
We arrive at city hall and tell the doorman we want to see the mayor. He seems a bit startled, but he runs in and tells someone.
He comes back and asks, “Do you have an appointment?”
“We are voters,” says the istri lady. “Do voters need appointments?”
The doorman disappears once more. Then he returns and tells us to wait.
We wait. Five minutes go by. Ten. Fifteen. Eighteen.
Just in time — that is to say before I explode with impatience — the new mayor himself comes out of city hall.
“My loyal supporters!” he says, flashing his shiny white teeth at us. “Thank you for coming to see me! I have not won this election. You have won this election.”
He waits for applause.
That is exactly what I thought. We won. But now, coming from him, it sounds fake.
There is silence, only breathing, and all of us are waiting, waiting.
I look at Reeni. She looks at Anil. Anil looks at me.
Who is going to take charge?
Anil holds out the karate book. I shake my head in confusion.
“Just take it,” he whispers.
So I take it from him, and somehow just having a book in my hand reminds me why we are all here.
I clutch the book very, very tight. I say, my voice so very small in this very big crowd of people, “Mayor Karate Samuel, sir. My name is Yasmin Kader and … and I want you to meet Book Uncle.”
Mayor Karate Samuel stares at me as if I have just spoken in some foreign language.
At last he smiles brightly.
“Oh. Yes,” he says. “I remember. Something about a library, was it? Yes, yes, Mr. Book Uncle can certainly apply for a non-commercial permit.”
I am speechless. Dumbstruck. You could knock me down with a raintree flower!
What? That’s all he can say? A non-commercial permit? And how long will that take? How much will it cost?
Was the istri lady right? Now that he is elected, Karate Samuel thinks he can brush us all away. He wants to forget all about us.