The Cripple and His Talismans (23 page)

“Sorry?”

“Tell Madam that human existence is pointless. I could tell you that the oil is over, but that would be too specific.”

I lie on the floor. The tiles are cold and dirty.

“Look here, I do not know why you are talking nonsense, but Madam is not at home.”

“Can you help me?” I stare up at her.

“With what?”

“I’m depressed. Life is too hard to bear.”

I hear the door being chained again.

I notice a crack in the ceiling. It forks like a serpent’s tongue. I recollect what most men recollect when they stand at a serpent’s tongue: two roads, A and B. A leads to a dark woman with one tooth. B leads to a dark woman with one tooth missing. Since A and B are at the ends of the fork, the two women do not know of each other’s existence. They live in isolation. Since they live in isolation, they do not know the norm for teeth. I surmise: if the serpent’s tongue was not forked, the two women would have known each other. If the two women had known each other, they would have known the norm for teeth. But would the dark woman with one tooth have given hers to the dark woman with one tooth missing? That is what makes everything so bleak. Added to that, the oil is over.

I hear the sound of a person climbing stairs. I assume it is a man because otherwise it would be a woman. It is impossible to decide whether I should get up.

“Hello.” It is a man.

“Same to you,” I reply.

“It’s good to see that you are aware of things, lying down like that. Not many people know the importance of lying down.”

“That’s the kindest thing anyone has said to me all day.”

“Naturally. I’m mankind.”

“Then you will understand the bleakness. The bleakness.”

“Get up and face mankind,” he orders.

It is an ordinary face, quite featureless, like an unimportant plain on a map. A white cloth shopping bag is strung around his wrist; he wears blue rubber slippers. Their straps fork like a serpent’s tongue.

He leads me to a third door. I am surprised to see it since I thought there were only two doors on each floor. There is no keyhole. He pushes the door open with two fingers, using the same hand to which the shopping bag is attached. The shape of a small bottle is evident through the bag. The room is completely bare, as though it does not exist.

“Your slipper straps fork like a serpent’s tongue,” I say.

“They are roads that lead to two women,” he replies.

“You know about the two women?”

“I do. It’s very sad.”

“Why?”

“The woman with one tooth did not give hers to the woman with one tooth missing.”

“I must lie on the floor again.”

“It’s what dejected people do.”

“Lie with me,” I plead.

“I must not.”

“Please. Lie with me.”

We both lie with our backs on the floor and stare at the ceiling. There is no ceiling — no concrete, no sky, nothing. Mankind does not say anything. He places the shopping bag on his stomach. It clearly contains a bottle. He removes it, leaving the bag dangling from the wrist. Inside the bottle is a thick yellow liquid. Very little remains.

“Is that oil?” I ask.

“It is.”

“So it’s not over, then.”

“This is all that’s left,” he says as he turns a little my way.

If there is little oil left, the lamp is still burning. I must act fast. I have found my logician. It is not a good thing. I once walked into a room full of people who were smiling. They sat on chairs, on sofas, on the floor, and there was a disturbing sense of group joy in the room. I stood there fixated. They were brilliant magicians all of them. I asked, why is everyone so happy? One man coughed, a young girl bit her nails, and the remaining dismissed my query as though it was an inopportune request for ice cream. But they did not know why they were happy. When the magician meets the logician, the first crack in the sidewalk is formed.

If Viren cannot forgive me, at least Malaika can. For I know she loved me.

The last she will remember of me is the beating, almost a year ago, but probably still fresh on her body. I will tell her that it is only fitting that I do not have an arm. I will tell her it was not her beauty that I loved. It was the counting games we played, the way she insulted me and laughed, the way her hips moved toward me each time I kissed them, until I wanted to die between their flesh.

I take a taxi back to Sai’s mandir, near to where I last saw Malaika. There are many garlands around his idol today. At his feet there are rose petals, and someone has left a photograph of a little boy. I can tell from the picture that the boy is no longer on earth — he looks happy. When we die and go to the spirit world, our photographs on earth change; they acquire the peace of blue skies. It is still early for the evening aarti, so there is no music. The man who looks after the temple is in a corner, cleaning the pictures of Sai on the wall. I have come here to seek blessings so that I can win back my love.

It is not the right thing to do, visit a temple and then a brothel, but today I go to the brothel for unusual reasons. I go to save Malaika and myself. Even if she does not want to be with me, I shall convince her to leave the brothel. I will give her money to buy a small house somewhere and paint. Why do I keep thinking she can paint? It must be her love of colours.

I do not know what else to tell Sai. I never loved Mother because she did not love me. Father, the shaving expert, was too well-mannered to say anything to Mother. Each time Mother made love to the judge, Father became weaker. In the end he was afraid of his own voice, and he died without a sound. He called me the night he died. He did not say anything over the phone but I knew it was him. The lines were never that quiet.

Mother, on the other hand, went out in style, shouting and screaming, telling the judge that he had ruined her life, that he was fat and stupid. How could he judge people when he could not even judge his own weight? She died shortly after Father, alone and unhappy just like him, but loud. The neighbours used to tell me when I would visit that she spoke a lot to the walls and furniture during her illness. She spoke to Father a lot, and she knew he was listening because when it was his turn to speak, everything would go silent. Even the clocks.

I think Sai understands. From what I have heard, he never lets anyone down. This street has not changed at all. Same rusty roofs, ration shops, old taxis and people who walk slowly because they do not wish to reach wherever it is they are heading. Just like me. Even though I have walked slowly, I eventually stand at the bottom of the wooden stairs that lead to Malaika’s room.

I do not spot the rat today. Maybe it died, or found a permanent home in the walls. The stairs have not aged a bit; how could they when they were already old and creaking? Perhaps this is a bad idea. What if she is with a man? The door will be closed then. But why did she leave it open the night I last saw her? Did she want me to see her being consumed by someone else? I hear a crunching sound. My thoughts are eating my brain.

The door is open, but a white curtain covers the entrance. It is new and spotless. It looks out of place. I stand before it and prepare myself for her. The heart lets you down when you need it most. It starts crying for help; it begs me to get out. I tell it to shut up. It is spoilt and rotten and has been pumping too much blood to all my body parts. It needs to calm down.

I part the curtain to one side.

That
is not Malaika. It cannot be. This woman looks like her, but it cannot be. The woman looks at least ten years older. Malaika’s black hair was never this thin. The woman looks startled as I enter. Malaika, what has happened to you? You challenged men as they entered; you did not cower in the bedsheets like an old forgotten doll.

“Malaika?”

“I’m not Malaika,” the woman says.

“Thank God.” I should not have said it out loud.

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Malaika.”

“Who are you?”

“Her … friend.”

“Then you must be a real useless one.”

“Sorry?”

“She’s dead.”

“What?”

“Like I said, you are a useless friend.”

I look at this woman and want to pull out her hair, strand by strand, for lying.

“What are you staring at my face for? Either get your body on this bed, or get out.”

“Where’s Malaika?”

I run toward the kitchen to see if she is in there. Even if she is under another man, I do not care. I will watch her make love to a hundred men, but please do not let her be dead. Why is this woman lying to me? If she knew about our plans, about Goa, the house by the sea, the children, us painting the sea together, she would lead me to Malaika right now. But the kitchen is lying, too. It hides Malaika.

“Tell me where she is,” I say.

“I told you.”

“If you want money, I will give it to you.”

“Malaika is dead.”

“It can’t be.”

“I’m her sister. I should know.”

No wonder she looks like Malaika. An older, defeated Malaika.

“How did she die?”

My heart starts thumping again, beating its head against the walls of my chest. She was alive a year ago. A year ago, her flesh was in my mouth. How can she be reduced to ashes so soon? All those nights of lovemaking scattered over the sea.

“She was beaten.”

The woman’s lips tremble when she says this. I understand now. My heart was shouting and crying outside because it did not want me to come in here and find out the truth. I turn around to leave.

“It happened a year ago. We suspect it was a regular client, a rich young fellow. She used to tell me about him. But we have no proof. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Are you sure?” The words come out cracked.

“He was drunk and hit her too hard. She died a day later. She used to love the bastard because he called her name all the time. It was a game they played.”

By now, the only hand I have shakes so furiously I have to hide it behind my back. The heart is pounding as if it wants to tear out of my chest and throw itself on the bed, next to this woman, so she can see how black it is. She continues to talk, but I am not listening anymore. I do not even know if I am crying. It is hard to tell. I do not see anything, except my hand coming down on Malaika again and again like a hammer that just will not stop. I must have hit her a lot. I must have beaten her till she stopped fighting. I do not even remember if she fought. All I know is that she was breathing when I left her.

I spend the next few hours floating from one corner of this city to another. Even though it is night now, the sun beats down on me. People take off their clothes and burn their skin on purpose. God says it is my fault. I must apologize to all burn victims. I can hear his voice so clearly, it is that of an old, battered woman. I talk to the first person I set eyes upon. He does not respond, just looks to the sun as it eats up his skin. No one cares. In minutes we will all be reduced to smouldering ashes.

Little boys and girls sit in a row on the street and pluck out their teeth one by one. They strongly believe in the tooth demon. They have not eaten for days and he has told them he will exchange teeth for bread. The children seem quite happy with this barter. But then a girl, no more than two years old, breaks out of the line and tells the others that they must not trust the tooth demon. His plan is to buy
all
their teeth. Without teeth, they will not be able to eat. They will die. That is the tooth demon’s plan. They all point to me and tell me my plan has failed. They collect the teeth they have plucked out and fit them back into their mouths.

I see Mother and Father sipping tea at the tea stall. They look like they are in love. Mother holds a razor blade in her hand and cuts Father’s face again and again. Father stays very calm and reads the newspaper. His blood stains the paper, but Father says it is all right, the headlines are always bloody. After every cut, Mother dips the blade into the tea. Don’t look so disturbed my son, she says. We’re having your favourite — cutting. Father laughs. For the first time in his life, Father laughs.