The Song of Kahunsha (8 page)

She looks at Chamdi with her big brown eyes, and he is reminded of the kindness that he saw in them last night. But that kindness was so brief, he is confused.

“Why are you silent?” asks Sumdi. “If I could run, I would not ask for your help. Look at me, how can I run? If I run they will catch me and beat me till my skin peels off.”

“But I can’t run fast,” says Chamdi.

“All this time you kept boasting that you could run fast,” says Guddi. “So either you are a liar or you can run fast.”

Chamdi knows he can run fast. When he was little, he heard a story from
Chandamama
about a boy who screamed so hard that he lost his voice, and then a djinn appeared and told the boy that if he ran fast enough he might be able to catch the voice. So Chamdi used to try doing this in the courtyard of the orphanage until he realized that it was impossible. But at least the story had made him fast on his feet.

“Please help us,” begs Sumdi.

Guddi is about to speak, but at that moment the child in Amma’s arms begins to cry. Amma moves back and forth, speaking—loudly this time—but she emits only strange painful sounds.
The child’s cries mixed with the mother’s slow wails make Chamdi uncomfortable. Sumdi rubs his temples as if a pain has developed there, and Guddi tries her best to calm the baby.

Chamdi cannot stop himself from staring at Amma. Her eyes roll upwards as though she is trying to look at the sky without raising her head. He believes that Amma hates the sound of car horns because it was a car that killed her husband. Maybe each time she hears a car horn, she feels something terrible is going to happen and it frightens her. He wishes Amma would say a word or two that might make her sound human, but all she does is howl.

Chamdi tells himself that he does not care if his father is poor, if he cleans toilets like Raman at the orphanage. All he wants is for his father to be in one piece. But there is one more thing. His father must remember that he has a son, unlike Amma, who has forgotten hers.

The sun has come out now and Chamdi stares at Amma’s scalp. The parts where the hair has fallen out, or has been pulled out, are pink. He imagines her hands pulling out strands in clumps,
doing all this work that her brain is not even aware of. He grimaces at the thought of this, then feels Guddi’s gaze upon him. In the distance, he sees Sumdi perched on the three steps of the burnt building. He wonders if Sumdi also uses a stone to clean himself.

“So will you help us?” asks Guddi.

Chamdi knows that if he tells her he will not steal, she will call him a coward again, so he keeps quiet.

“We will steal puja money from the mandir. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” says Chamdi. “The one around the corner?”

“Hah, that one. Ahead of it there’s a doctor’s dispensary.”

“Why is there money in that mandir? It’s so small.”

“In two days they will do a puja for Lord Ganesha. There is a politician, Namdeo Girhe his name is. The story is that when his mother was carrying him, she was very poor. She had no place to stay. She used to sleep outside the door of the temple. People saw that she was going to have a child so they gave her money. She gave birth just outside the temple and the young priest in the
temple told her that because her child was a son of the temple, blessed by Ganesha, her son would one day be a big man. And it’s come true. So lots of people believe in this temple. Every year, on his birthday, Namdeo Girhe comes here to pray and places money near Ganesha’s feet to make him happy. The money is collected in a plastic box and the priest lets the money remain there until night to show everyone how much Namdeo Girhe cares about God, and what a magical temple it is. That way more and more people come to the temple all year round and the priest gets fat.”

“I can’t steal God’s money.”

“We are his children. He won’t mind.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m fatter than you.”

“So?”

“Look,” she says. “You know why I spoke to you? You’re as thin as a stick.”

“So what?”

“You’ll have to slip in through the bars of the temple window.”

“What?”

“Do you think the door is going to be open for you? We’ll put oil all over your body so that you can slip in through the bars of the window. If you
get caught, no one will be able to hold on to you because you’ll be so slippery.”

“Have you done this many times?”

“Never.”

“Then how do you know all this?”

“My father … my father used to steal. He would talk with Amma and we would hear. It was his idea to rob the temple. But he died on the day of the puja only.”

“I’m sorry,” says Chamdi. “I cannot steal.”

“Why not?”

“It’s wrong.”

“It’s wrong? What about my father dying? And what about Amma going mad and not having any milk in her body to feed her own child? That’s also wrong, no?”

“Yes …”

“Then it’s right to steal. We just want to get out of here. We are doing nothing wrong. If my brother could run, we would not be asking you.”

Guddi looks into Chamdi’s eyes. A strange feeling wells up inside Chamdi, as though he has known her before. He tries to look away but he cannot. Guddi rubs her nose and the orange bangles she wears catch the morning sun. Everything seems perfect.

Except that she is asking him to steal. Mrs. Sadiq always warned all the children:
Remember, once a thief, always a thief
. She used to wave her hand back and forth as she said this and Chamdi is shocked to see Mrs. Sadiq’s hand in front of him right now.

But he quickly realizes that it is Amma’s hand and she is bringing something to her mouth. Guddi lets out a small “oh,” and she reaches out to prevent Amma from eating, because Amma has found a clump of her own hair on the ground and has mistaken it for food.

Rather than look at Amma, Chamdi gazes up at the tree he slept under. It is as though this tree is afraid to reach far out into the sky, or perhaps its branches do not know the way to heaven. If only he could climb this tree, he might be able to catch a glimpse of the orphanage and talk to Jesus. He would ask if it is okay to steal to help someone.

“What are you looking up for?” asks Sumdi. “Waiting for food to fall from the sky?”

Chamdi smiles. It is strange being with this brother-sister. Even though he met them only last night, he feels as though he knows them better than most of the children at the orphanage. Apart from Pushpa, he did not feel close to any of
the children. He wonders how Pushpa is. He feels guilty that he promised to read her the story of the Hunger Princess but he ran away instead. He hopes Mrs. Sadiq explains to Pushpa why he had to leave.

“Come with me,” says Sumdi.

Chamdi follows Sumdi down the road. He spots a cow lazing on the footpath. A man walks past the cow carrying an air conditioner in his hand. The cow is in this man’s way and he tries to shoo it away, but it does not budge.

“Where are we going?” asks Chamdi.

“To beg.”

“To beg?”

“Maharaj, don’t be so surprised. You are a man of the streets, no? So why is begging bad? It’s the family business.”

“I … but what do we do?”

“First, you tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“About where you are from. Otherwise I will beat you on the head with my polio leg.”

Chamdi knows that there is no point in carrying on with his act. He needs Sumdi’s help in a city like this. If they become friends, he can tell Sumdi about his plans to find his father. But what
if they both laugh at him—especially her? But if a car had not crushed her father, if he was lost but living, she too would hope the way he does.

“Do I have to beg you to tell me?” asks Sumdi. “We must not beg from each other. The enemy is out there, sitting in taxis.”

“I’m from an orphanage.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know what an orphanage is?”

“Hah yaar, I don’t know.”

“An orphanage is where they keep children without parents.”

“There’s another name for such a place.”

“What?”

“Bombay,” says Sumdi. “You’re smiling, but it’s true. This city is our home and it looks after us. Very badly. Bombay is a whore.”

Chamdi has never enjoyed strong language like this. The Koyba Boys spoke like that and he never found it helpful.

“What’s the matter?” asks Sumdi. “You don’t like me abusing Bombay?”

“No, I just …”

“Or you don’t like swearing?”

“That.”

“Few more days with me and you’ll be shouting
gaalis like ’Pimp!’ and ’Son of a Pimp!’ from the rooftops. Anyway, at least you admitted that you’re not from the road.”

“How did you know?”

“So many clues. Just look at your teeth. All clean, in one line, so well mannered. That means you brush them.”

“Yes.”

“See
my
teeth.”

Sumdi opens his mouth wide and Chamdi can see that his teeth are chipped and jagged, and they seem to grow on top of one another as if they are fighting for space. Chamdi turns away because Sumdi’s breath is so strong.

“Not a single day I have brushed my teeth. But don’t be fooled. They might be yellow and eaten up but I could snap your forearm into two if I wanted. Not that I would bite your forearm, but I would crack it if you challenged me.”

“No, I believe you …”

“But more than your teeth, your style gave you away.”

“My style of what?”

“You act like a prince. You think and then you speak. When I speak, the words just come out … like vomit.”

As they walk and talk, a juicewala’s cart catches Chamdi’s eye. A plastic mixer containing orange juice rests on a glass case in which the oranges and mosambis are stored. Some of the oranges are arranged on top of the glass case. Chamdi marvels at the manner in which these oranges stay balanced in the shape of a pyramid, as if the juicewala is some sort of juggler or circus man. Chamdi would love to see the juicewala’s cart at night. Surely the oranges and mosambis would shine brilliantly when the bulb in the glass case is switched on.

“Hope for a solid traffic jam,” Sumdi tells Chamdi.

“Why a jam?”

“So that cars are stuck and we have more time at the signals. Do I have to explain everything to you? Can’t you think for yourself?”

“But it’s still morning.”

“So?”

“So no traffic jam. In the orphanage we could hear the sound of cars only in the afternoon.”

“What sort of place was this orphanage? What rubbish did they teach you there?”

“I learned how to read and write.”

“You can read and write?”

“Yes.”

“And are you proud of that?”

“Very proud.”

“That’s of no use at all, you fool! When you go to the taxis to beg, they are not going to ask you, ’Excuse me, can you spell your name, please?’”

“What do I do?”

“You must act like you are really suffering.”

“But we are suffering.”

“Hero, this is Bombay. No one cares about the truth. The people want emotion. Tears! Can you cry real tears?”

“On demand?”

“Yaar, I’m just playing with you.”

Sumdi places his hand on Chamdi’s shoulder, and Chamdi stops walking. In front of them, an old man opens the shutters to a small watch repair shop.

“Now listen,” says Sumdi. “There should be no shame in begging. We are smart boys. If life had been good to us, we would not be begging. No one will give us work, so we have to do this. No shame in begging.”

Chamdi notices that Sumdi’s tone has suddenly changed. His voice is softer, but firmer.

“The tears will come anyway, trust me,” Sumdi continues. “I think of my father and that car
going over him, and Amma screaming and running towards him … and I had to hold my sister because I was more afraid than she was. Neither of us went near the body. I think of Amma now, how she sits in the darkness every night and pulls out her hair, and even though I think about this every day, the tears still come.”

Then he spits onto his palm, greases his hair with it, even though he hardly has any hair. In the sunlight, the scar on his face seems even darker, as though the skin has been removed inch by inch.

“Even with this face, I can still look chickna,” says Sumdi. “Understand? You know how many movie offers I get when I go begging? But I always refuse. Who wants fame? Look around you—I can pull my pants down and let it all go like a waterfall anytime I want, and no one will stop me. How many movie stars can do that?”

Chamdi still stares at the scar. He knows it must make Sumdi uneasy. The edges of the ear are jagged, like torn paper.

“I must look handsome for the aunties,” continues Sumdi. “Fat aunties have lots of money.”

With that, Sumdi steps off the sidewalk and onto the main road. Chamdi watches his new friend trail a black-and-yellow taxi as it slows
down for the red light. The taxi has no passenger. Chamdi notices that the buildings on this street are much taller than the ones near their kholi. TV antennas line the terraces of these buildings.

“Bhaiya, please give something,” says Sumdi to the taxiwala.

“Don’t eat my brains early in the morning,” says the taxiwala.

“But if I have no food then naturally I will eat your brains, no?”

“Your tongue is sharp. Be careful or you will cut yourself.”

“That’s the problem. My tongue is so sharp that food is afraid to enter my mouth. Look how skinny I am.”

“You don’t look skinny to me.”

“Look at what polio did to my leg.”

“What other sickness do you have?”

“I’m in
love
. Biggest illness …”

“Hah!” says the taxiwala. He reaches into the pocket of his khaki shirt and takes out a one-rupee coin. He gives it to Sumdi.

“For one rupee what will I get?”

“You can get lost,” says the driver. “I don’t want to see your face again.”

“Is next week okay?” asks Sumdi.

The taxiwala smiles. As the light turns green, Sumdi steps on the sidewalk again.

“That was very good,” says Chamdi.

“Stop congratulating me and make some money.”

“But I wanted to watch you first.”

“You wanted to watch
me?
Me, who cannot read or write?”