The Cripple and His Talismans (13 page)

I finally spoke to the doctor, the one who had done the cutting. He offered me his condolences and confirmed the orderly’s story. He said I could see my arm if I wished to. The hospital did not keep the amputated limb itself, only a photograph of it. I would probably find it in a medical journal in the coming years, he said. I did not ask why. I told him I would very much like to see the photograph. He scooped it out of his pocket as if he was performing a magic trick for a dying child. Even in its mangled state, I recognized my arm. It had my burn mark.

The burn had been self-inflicted at age ten, one night when Mother was underneath the judge. Hungry, I had walked from my bedroom into the kitchen. I had put the stove on, for that was all I knew how to do, and let some water boil. I meant to burn them both — they were screaming and shouting so much anyway. As I watched the water boil, I thought of Father, and I understood why he never smiled, why he kept cutting himself with the razor blade even though he had finished shaving. I got Father’s razor blade, dipped it in the boiling water and made a deep gash near the bicep of my left arm. Now Father and I shared the same sorrow. But unlike Father, I did not want to remind myself of Mother each day when I looked in the mirror. So I used my arm instead of my face. When Father came home, he dressed the wound. I told him I had no idea why I did it. He did not say much. Years later, the mark still remained in the shape of a crescent moon. I called it my burn mark because I was burning more than the water itself. But it was only in hospital that I realized its true worth. Without it, I would not have been able to identify my arm. Mother helped me without even knowing it.

Even with so much morphine in me, I was still able to think straight. Each day I floated above the hospital grounds, where everything was normal. An old man shot his wife in the temple then collected the blood in a bedpan. A blind woman scooped her eyes out of their sockets with a spoon. She offered them to me but I told her I was on a strict liquid diet. So she mashed them for me. Besides me, these were the only two human patients in the hospital. The rest were all rabbits.

The day I was discharged, I looked into the other rooms on my way out. I kept seeing the rabbits. They were sad, as if they had lost their burrows. But I knew they would walk out whole and without shawls, unlike me. Why are these hospital corridors so long, I wondered. They never end. But I was happy. Unlike the sad rabbits, I was happy. The orderly stopped me just as I was about to step out.

He told me I could not take what I was carrying. He did not mean the shawl. Instead he looked down at what I held in my right hand. I told him that it was mine and I was taking it. Without it, what would I do? He said it wasn’t mine. It belonged to the doctor and it wasn’t even raining outside. I explained that rain had nothing to do with it. Then why was I carrying the doctor’s umbrella, the orderly asked. He was mad. That was my arm I was carrying; it had been left hanging on a rack with a small note for me. I had to take it. But when the orderly took it from my hand, it
was
an umbrella. The small note was the manufacturer’s label — export quality, “Made in Bhayandar.”

The shawl kept slipping so I held it between my teeth and walked out on the street. If it slipped even once, everyone would be able to see my deformity. Then I would become a beggar, too. How would I hold my head high and look down upon them? I walked and walked and prided myself on having strong legs. If the arms were temporarily sick, at least the legs were still well. I would walk straight to my tree, a large tree with fat, deep roots. I would retrace my steps to find out what had happened. It was at the tree that I remembered having had two arms for the last time.

The tree was only a short distance from the hospital. That is the beauty of this city. Everything is close by. If you die, a cemetery is just around the corner. If you want to have someone killed, a contract killer is ready with a neatly typed contract. If you need a taxi, all you have to do is put your arm out and a taxi will run straight into it. I could go on and on. So I will. If you need to eat, ten hungry mouths are always open.

The tree was close to the egg man’s stand, just below the Grant Road Bridge. I had eaten boiled eggs under it, drunk under it, made paid-for love under it, and from beneath its leaves I had looked at this city and wondered about its people. I had always laughed at their struggles. I had seen a man beating his wife on the bridge. He pulled her by the hair and she fell to the ground, and trains kept rumbling along below. I drank and wondered if the woman would ever strike back. She lay on the road with her head hung, unable to look at the man. She felt she deserved it. The man stood above her and waited for words to come out of her mouth so that he could shut them up forever.

When I went back to the tree after leaving the hospital, I saw everything in pairs. Stars clustered in twos, paper boats in the gutter-stream floated like couples. Even the trees were growing closer to each other, taunting me. My empty whiskey bottle was still there. I had drunk it full. Now it lay on a fat root and collected dust. What had I been doing here? I simply could not remember.

I decided that both the orderly and the doctor were lying about my arm. I started to dig the earth around the tree. My arm could have mistaken itself for a root and grown downward. I held my shawl between my teeth and dug with my hand. No, I thought, I must convince myself I am digging with my
hands
. I tore away at the soil and cursed it for luring my arm away. Stray dogs walked toward me, leaving their warm spots in the earth. They came slowly and stayed while I dug. I found eggshells, an empty packet of bread and a silver earring. There was blood all over it.

My fingers were bleeding and the skin had come off, so the pink of my flesh mixed with the red of blood and brown of earth. The dogs moved closer to me, and as I sat on the ground with the shawl between my teeth, they licked the blood off my fingers. Soon their hot tongues were satisfied. They sat by my feet as I looked up at the tree. It was then that I saw my arm.

It was in the tree. I pointed my arm out to the dogs but they were not surprised. I looked at the bridge to see if I could spot any night boys. I would pay them to climb the tree and lower my arm down. But then I saw another arm on the bridge. And another in a dog’s mouth. Everyone had an arm, except me. I stared at the bark of the fat tree. A dog tugged at my shawl and tried to pull it down.

I let it.

I never went to the hospital again. Nor did I file a complaint with the police. I did not speak a word about my arm — not to myself even. I stayed silent for two whole months. I sold my apartment by the sea and moved into the sinking building. Since I did not speak, and only communicated in writing, the tenants assumed I was dumb. That way I did not have to answer anyone’s questions. I convinced myself I had no idea how I had lost my arm.

And today, despite my efforts, I still do not know the story of my lost arm. After the giant pointed to my heart, I walked back up Love Lane, turned right, crossed the street, stepped on many dead vegetables, smelt them as well and went toward Palace Cinema for the seven p.m. show. That is where I am now.

This cinema is a true palace. It looks very old. A group of old women is huddled outside — they must be the harem. One of them bends down to pick something up from the street. Perhaps she is trying to pick up the years that have fallen.

Thinking about the hospital has not been easy for me. In fact, the past two days have affected my brain. All these hints and clues, riddles and widdles have confused me. I need to think less.
What better way to completely numb the brain than to watch that stupendous, magnificent, astounding, life-altering creation called The Hindi Movie?

Hindi movies are nothing more than our mothers shouting at us for not being good. They can also be used to sleep well. A lecture can be extremely soothing if you ignore it. I have not slept in two days. This hard seat with the crumbs of masala wafer on it will serve me well.

Life is full of melodrama. Talk from the heart, follow the light, respect the old and help others. We insist that we are tired of sermons, but let me tell you, that is an extra large lie. There is enough sap in each of us to fill a thousand trees. We deserve all the melodrama we get. We are always greedy for more. Look at our movies. They are melodrama dipped in a tub full of honey, evil, stupidity, golden skin and happy endings. From goods to gods, we buy anything so long as the packing is earthy, preachy and full of dance.

The seats next to me are empty. The movie is not a hit. I did not read its name but it could very well be:

• a) Love Prevails
  
• b) Memories
  
• c) Lovers
  

There is a musty smell in the air. It could be due to:

• a) Socks being removed
  
• b) A dead rat
  
• c) A live rat
  

I see the heads of people. That is all you see in cinemas. Bald heads, oily heads, heads larger than domes or smaller than marbles, and heads that should be on beds because they are asleep. Lovers lean against each other, whispering into each other’s ears, and little boys watch the screen, wanting to be like the hero. There is always one little boy who wants to be the heroine. I put my feet on the row of seats in front of me, but there is a loud hiss from behind. People will just not let me be.

I love the blackness, the loud filmi voices and the smell of sweat and old flowers. I do not know if it is with courage or with a lack of spine that I confess my love of Hindi movies. It is like loving a brother everybody hates. Even though you know your brother has faults, he is still your brother. When an outside person says bad things about him, you will kill that person. You are allowed to complain because he is yours. You can tell him that he is sad and good for nothing, but let anyone else say that and you will drink their khoon straight from the heart.

The movie has not started yet. First there is a mandatory announcement from the fire department: “In case of fire you will notice smoke. Do not panic. People seated on the left side of the theatre please use the exit on the left. People on the right side of the theatre please use the exit on the right.” It is simple and full of common sense. I think there should also be an announcement from the director of the film: “This is a terrible movie. You know what will happen. Good will triumph over evil. The father-in-law will reform and accept the hero in the end. But what you do not know is that by mistake the heroine’s nipple can be seen — twice.”

I wish for a fire, tall and strong, to burn us all. The fire department does not want me to panic so I will watch the screen and let the monster flames eat me. I will not move until I have finished the movie, unless the fire finishes me first. I will be like the prophets of old, swallowed by fire and sent back to their homes far away from this earth and its Hindi movies.

I close my eyes and imagine my place in history. I will be the world’s first crippled prophet. Even though I will heal and cure everyone else, I will remain without an arm. If my disciples ask me why, the answer will be because I wish to suffer. If I end my suffering, I will lose the power to heal. I have no teachings to offer, I will say. All I have is this terrible absence, this long draft of air that makes even God go cold.

When I think of it, I
have
suffered as a prophet would. Aren’t all prophets beaten as children for being different? If the prophets of old believed in God too much, I did not believe in him at all. I was lashed for it by my school principal.

Mr. Old’s cane is very long and thick. I have seen horses in hill stations being whipped with these canes. I can tell from the way it cuts air that even the air hurts. These canes are meant for animals. I stand in Mr. Old’s office with my hands behind my back and my back very straight. Our school principal does not like boys who slouch.

“That boy is a good student,” he says. “I am told he is a
very
good student.”

“Yes, Sir,” I say.

“I am told he got the highest mark in English.”

The entire school is obsessed with English. They must all go back to Britain then. Play cricket with the Englishmen, fetch their balls when they reach the beautiful white fence, and serve tea to them on the lawn.

“So you agree that he is good.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then what in God’s name were you thinking when you brought that desk down on him?”

I do not answer. I want to ask questions of my own. What
is
God’s name? Is he Indian or British? Does he play kabbaddi like Indians do, or is he a football hooligan?

“There
is
no God,” I say.

“What?”

He does not even ask me to lean on the table. He strikes hard and I can see the hate in his face. I am sure there is no God now. If Mr. Old believes in him, God will stop existing out of sheer shame. There will be at least twenty hits. Mr. Old has a terrible magic cane. I see all his certificates on the wall. I find them very hard to read. Not because I am stupid, but because of the pain.