The Song of Kahunsha (11 page)

Although Sumdi’s cigarette is burnt almost all the way down, he has not taken a single puff. His mouth is slightly open and he stares at Chamdi.
But Chamdi is silent because he is catching his breath, and hoping that such a thing is possible, that his ribs can indeed become weapons that protect the good.

“Your cigarette is over,” Chamdi says after a long pause.

“I … what?” Sumdi looks at his cigarette. “No, it’s not over.”

“I want my money.”

“Where the hell did you come up with a story like that?”

“The mind can do anything.”

“You are a champion. If you tell this story at night, it will be more deadly and I will feel as if a tusk is up my gand.”

“Now give me my money.”

“I can’t, you beggar. The rule is, no matter what, we have to give Anand Bhai twenty rupees minimum. Per person.”

“What if I don’t make twenty?”

“It’s your first day. It should be okay.”

Chamdi wonders if Sumdi is inventing Anand Bhai. But Sumdi has been kind to him. He may want to steal, but he is not a liar. A liar is worse than a thief.

Chamdi looks at his ribs and the skin that
covers them, and how they gleam in the sun as though they are tusks. What if he is the biggest fool in the universe for inventing magic where none exists, in a city where he has only heard cries of pain and not a single cry of joy? Before he can answer his own question, Amma walks towards them from behind the rubble of the burnt building. The baby is in her arms. Guddi follows Amma, holding a small brown package in one hand, and by the stains on the brown paper Chamdi guesses that the bag contains food. In her other hand, Guddi holds the wooden box that Chamdi saw at night, the one with “Om” scratched on it.

“So did you make anything?” Guddi asks.

“Twenty in total,” says Sumdi.

“I made fifteen,” says the girl. “I sold one Laxmi and one Hanuman.”

She places the brown paper package and the wooden box on the ground. The moment she opens the box, Chamdi cannot believe the colours that assault him. He feels he is back at the orphanage again, staring at the bougainvilleas. The box contains miniature gods, sculpted out of clay, painted in yellow, pink, red, blue, green, orange, and purple. There is Hanuman, the
monkey god with his powerful legs and mace, Shiva with cobras twined in his matlocks, Ganesha with his elephant ears, and Krishna holding an imaginary flute. These are the ones Chamdi recognizes. He wonders why there is no Jesus.

“Did you make these?” he asks Guddi.

“No,” says the girl. “An old woman makes them. I sell these for her. She gives me half.”

“So you don’t beg?”

“No. I work.”

“Sumdi, why don’t you also work?” he asks.

“I told you. I’m not allowed by Anand Bhai. You have to be allowed. And I do have a job. I am his eyes.”

Amma enters the kholi, sits down, and lays the baby on the ground.

“What’s in the bag?” asks Sumdi.

“Vada-pav,” says Guddi.

“Aah!”

“A woman gave us some. I already ate.”

“Is there enough for all?”

“One each. Amma has not eaten. I think the baby might die soon.”

The matter-of-fact manner in which Guddi says this shocks Chamdi. He can feel his desire to eat leaving him.

“Why do you say that?” asks Sumdi.

“The lips have become all white like a ghost. Even Amma’s lips.”

“Let’s eat,” says Sumdi.

Chamdi picks up his white vest and puts it back on. Sumdi quietly takes the food from Guddi’s hands and inspects it. Then he turns to look at Amma, who stares back at him as though Sumdi is not her son but a stone statue. Guddi lies down on the hot footpath. She closes her eyes and squints as the sun hits her face.

Sumdi offers Chamdi some food. Chamdi has lost his appetite now, but he takes the vada-pav anyway. The potato, placed between a single slab of bread, is still warm. There is green chutney as well and a generous dose of spicy red masala.

Sumdi quickly puts the whole vada-pav in his mouth, swallows it as fast as possible. Then he removes another vada-pav from the brown paper bag and crumples the bag and throws it away. He puts the vada-pav to Amma’s lips, but Amma does not open her mouth. Instead, she slowly raises both her hands to accept the food like an offering. Sumdi places the vada-pav in her palms. Amma thrusts the vada-pav into the ground, and rubs it in dirt before raising it to her mouth.

As night encroaches over the tree, Sumdi counts the earnings of the day. Chamdi and he begged all evening. Sumdi now has twenty-five rupees of his own. Chamdi has only seven. Still, they cannot buy anything with the money. Anand Bhai must be given the entire amount. He will take his share and hand over whatever money remains. More importantly, Chamdi must be introduced to Anand Bhai, for if Anand Bhai finds out that someone new is begging in his area without permission, he might cut off a thumb or toe.

Chamdi watches Sumdi walk over to the burnt building to relieve himself. Although Chamdi is
now alone with Guddi, Guddi does not even look his way. He wants to ask her where Amma is, but decides against it. He thinks about what he would do if Amma were his mother. He would never let go of her, no matter if she were mad.

He sniffs the white cloth that is around his neck. It smells more of himself than of his father. He cannot understand how this small piece of fabric once held his entire body.

“Stop playing with your scarf,” says Guddi. “Why do you wear that stupid scarf around your neck in this heat?” She holds a tin can in her hand, looks into it—it probably contains a little money. “The puja is tomorrow,” she says, looking Chamdi’s way at last.

“Tomorrow?”

“So don’t eat anything until then.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t put on any weight. You need to be thin enough to slip through the bars.”

“I’m not going to steal. I did not say yes to robbing the temple.”

“Then why are you still here? Get out.”

Chamdi is struck by Guddi’s harsh words. He hates that she takes for granted that he will steal. But then why
is
he still with Sumdi and Guddi? He
should leave. His real job is to find his father. He notices that the cloth around his neck is damp with sweat. If only a gust of wind would whisk that cloth off his neck and take it far into the sky. Over chimneys and tall buildings it would float, and he would make good use of his fast feet by following the cloth. When it would land and touch his father’s feet, Chamdi would do the same. But instead of a strong wind, he gets Guddi’s words: “I saw your ribs this afternoon. They might get you stuck between the bars. Learn to pull them in.”

“I don’t want to,” he answers.

“Do as I say and you’ll be happy,” she orders. “Suck your stomach in. Pull your chest in and hold your breath for as long as you can. Practise from this moment on until the time you come out of that temple with the money.”

Chamdi looks at her: a little girl in a brown dress that is too large for her, orange bangles on her wrists, dark circles under her brown eyes. He notes the way her sunburnt hair curls, covers her right eye, and how, even though it is night, she stands apart from the rest of the scene. It is only natural, he says to himself, that she stands apart because she is surrounded by a burnt building and small, dimly lit shops. But even if she were to
stand in the middle of a forest, she would still stand apart, just like a ferocious baby tigress would in the middle of wind and grass and swaying trees.

“What are you staring at?” she asks.

“I … nothing. I was listening to you.”

“Even after I stopped talking?”

Just in time, Sumdi appears. His eyebrows are wet. Chamdi thinks, approvingly, that he must have just washed his face. Perhaps Sumdi uses the same water tap that Chamdi does.

“Are we ready?” Sumdi asks.

“For what?” asks Chamdi.

“Our visit to Anand Bhai.”

“Our
visit?”

“You’re the newcomer. You must meet him. If you don’t, parts of your body will mysteriously start disappearing.”

“As it is he has so little,” murmurs Guddi.

“Ah, so the two of you have become friends,” says Sumdi. “Guddi, do you know that he can read and write?”

Guddi’s eyes widen, but she says nothing. She hides the tin can she has been holding in a hole in the ground and places a thick slab of stone over it. “Let’s go,” she says.

“She’s also coming?” whispers Chamdi to Sumdi. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“What are you whispering?” Guddi asks.

“He’s saying what an angel you are,” says Sumdi.

“Especially when she speaks,” says Chamdi, loud enough for Guddi to hear.

“If you don’t like the way I speak, cover your ears,” she says. “Or better still, ask Anand Bhai to cut them off.”

“She doesn’t mean it,” says Sumdi. “She’s in love with you, that’s all. She saw your ribs this afternoon and it has made her so passionate that all these love-words are coming out of her mouth.”

“Just be quiet,” says Chamdi to Sumdi. “Can you do that for the rest of the walk?”

“Walk?” says Guddi. “You think we’re going for a walk? Oh we’re going for a walk to Anand Bhai’s adda and on the way we’ll see pretty flowers …”

“Guddi, he’s new to this,” says Sumdi. “Now let’s be quiet otherwise our little thief will throw a fit and leave for good.”

Remember, once a thief, always a thief
. Chamdi wishes Mrs. Sadiq’s words would not keep ringing in his ears.

The three of them walk past the burnt building and approach a grey wall. There is a hole in the wall, large enough for them to slip through. On the other side is a school playground, a small one. As they cross the playground, Chamdi sees three holes in the gravel. Perhaps cricket stumps were hammered into the ground here, he thinks. The thought of cricket energizes him. He knows he does not have the height to be a fast bowler, nor the strength to lift a heavy bat and hit the ball out of a stadium, but he can run fast. He will be the world’s best fielder. If the opposing batsman sends the ball crashing towards the boundary line, Chamdi will run and dive, he will do anything necessary to stop the ball. Then he will throw the ball back to the wicket keeper with such force that the whole stadium will erupt. With the applause ringing in his ears, he walks across the school playground.

The three of them reach another wall that marks the end of the school property. There is no hole in the wall this time. Instead, there is a small iron gate. A stray dog lies next to the gate, asleep on its side. It breathes heavily. There is saliva around its mouth and fallen leaves on its body. As they approach, the dog opens an eye, then closes
it and goes back to sleep. Guddi bends down, rubs the dog’s stomach, and says, “My Moti is not well.” Chamdi watches her move her face closer to its head, as if she is talking to the dog, but he cannot hear what she is saying. She dusts the leaves off the dog’s body, places her palm on the dog’s forehead, and closes her eyes for a few seconds. Then she walks through the gate into a square.

In the darkness, Chamdi can see a few human shapes illuminated in the windows that overlook the square, sitting in what appear to be one-room homes. The smell of beedis is overpowering, there is the loud cry of an infant, and a goat is tied to a small wooden post in a far corner. The area is unusually calm-it makes him uneasy.

“Is this it?” asks Chamdi.

“Yes,” says Sumdi.

“Where’s Anand Bhai?”

“Underground,” whispers Guddi. “The ground will open up and he will rise like a bhoot.”

“Stop fooling. Anand Bhai has sharp ears,” says Sumdi. “Chamdi, do you see that goat there?”

“Yes,” answers Chamdi.

“That’s Anand Bhai.”

Brother and sister try hard to stifle their laughter. An old man totters past, smoking a beedi. He
points his fingers towards Sumdi and is about to say something when he is seized by a coughing fit. He holds his chest as he coughs, but makes sure he does not drop the beedi. When he has stopped coughing, he spits in their direction and walks off to where the goat is. He sits on the ground next to the goat.

“That old man hated my father,” says Sumdi.

“Why?” asks Chamdi.

“Because the old man tried to touch our Amma. Amma was pretty at one time, you know.”

It is hard for Chamdi to think of Amma as pretty. All he can picture is her scalp.

“My father did not like anyone looking at Amma,” continues Sumdi, “so when this old man tried to touch her, my father beat the hell out of him. I will do that to Anand Bhai someday.”

“No, you won’t,” says Guddi. “We won’t be in Bombay anymore.”

“I’ll come back for him,” shoots Sumdi.

The three of them stand in silence. Chamdi watches the light of the old man’s beedi get sharper and sharper as he sucks on the beedi.

“Now be careful what you say,” warns Sumdi. “Anand Bhai will show up any moment.”

“Look, there’s Chottu and Munna,” says Guddi.

Two boys approach them. They carry something in their hands, but Chamdi cannot make out what it is. These two boys do not look like beggars. They are dressed in blue jeans and shirts and plastic sandals.

“Who are they?” asks Chamdi. He feels envious when he sees how clean their clothes are.

“The fat one is Munna. He sells newspapers,” answers Sumdi. “The thin one, Chottu, is blind. He sells movie magazines. But they are both trained thieves. We all collect here at night. This place will fill up in no time.”

And true to his word, four other boys appear. Chamdi has not seen such deformity before, and to see it all in one place is too much for him. So he tries not to look at the boys who are much younger than him, one of whom is without an arm, one whose nose is eaten up.

Handsome appears as well. Chamdi tries to get rid of the image of flies filling the deep gash above Handsome’s eye.

The air is still. The baby’s cries have subsided. From the corner where the goat stands comes a legless boy who wears slippers on his palms and sits on a wooden trolley. A rope is tied to his waist. A girl, maybe a couple of years older than
him, tugs the rope, carts him forward. From time to time, the boy places his slipper-palms on the ground and gives himself a hard push.