The Cripple and His Talismans (19 page)

I throw some hundred-rupee notes on the bed and kiss her softly on the head. It is the first time I have kissed her head. Her skin is hot and her face is turning red. We are already having husband–wife arguments. I love it. We will be so happy.

I climb down the wooden stairs and hope that someone is selling flowers at this time of night. I walk out in the street and things are dead. I am not referring only to the rats. The air is dead, the cars are still and a few beggars stir in their sleep. Only the music from the temple streams softly into the night. I walk toward it. It is a Sai Baba mandir. As the bhajans play, Sai’s face looks serene. The music comes from an inner room — a midnight aarti must be in progress. I wish I had been born in Shirdi during Sai’s time. He cared for dogs and people alike, and shared his wisdom with all men. I hope he will shed some light on me tonight.

There is too much alcohol in me. But I am not the kind to stammer and stagger. There is only one way to know that I am drunk:
You swim in my bloodstream and realize that it is not blood that you are swimming in. Maybe it is not a good idea for me to have another drink. I want Malaika to know that I am completely in control of my emotions.

Right under Sai’s idol is a garland of flowers. White and yellow petals tied to a string. They smell fresh. Someone must have placed them here not too long ago. It is a sure sign that I must marry her.

After we get married, Malaika and I will go to Shirdi and take Sai’s blessings. She will give up prostitution and I will give up drinking. We will not live in this city, though. I am not willing to have her spotted on the street by the hundreds of men who have taken her. The very thought makes me burn. Maybe marrying her is not such a good idea after all. What will she do? Does she know how to cook?

We could buy a house by the sea in a village somewhere. What if she has hidden talents? She could be a gifted artist and she may not be aware of it. I will buy her all the colours of this world. She will paint our house, the grass and bougainvillea around it, and even the sea. Then she will swim naked in freshly painted water, and I will join her. We will get a dog. A stray dog. We will live in Goa. We will drink feni (I cannot abstain completely) and dance till the sun comes up. I cannot believe I am thinking about dancing. How dreadful. I am in love. Children. Yes, four or five. I have finally lost my mind. Lots of children, so that they all shout and scream and fall down and we hear more shouts from the ones inside her belly, waiting in line, trying hard to burst out because we are such good parents. Then we will grow old and watch them get married. But they will leave us someday. Malaika and I will stare at the sea as it darkens, as the last of our children leave. We will be terribly sad, and I will ask her to paint the sea but she will ignore me and stare at the sea in silence. I am already sad. Life just does not allow us humans to breathe.

As I stare at Sai’s idol, I ask him to forgive me as I am about to take the flowers that are meant for him. But what will he do with flowers, anyway? He is probably in another universe, blessing galaxies, turning planets on his palm, bending down every now and then to whisper bits of wisdom into the ears of this earth. I take the garland and walk out of the mandir before someone spots me.

I walk back to the brothel. The night does not seem dead anymore. Everyone is sleeping but their dreams are wide awake. People are laughing, singing, bouncing off the buildings, flying into each other’s arms and kissing their own hands, because for the first time in their lives, they love themselves. Tonight I am able to love myself only because I love another.

As I climb up the old wooden stairs that lead to Malaika’s room, a rat escapes into a hole in the wall. I can still see its tail; it makes no effort to go in fast. I must be like this rat, and stay shameless and rooted even if I am spotted trying to escape. I look at the garland in my hand and know that I will have to convince Malaika that this is not just the hotness of a mood, or the desire of a spineless swan.

I expect to see her seated by the mirror, looking as if she has just created the earth. But she is not. Nor is she sprawled on the bed, ready to allow passage to all of man. I take the green sheet off the bed, knowing that no man will ever lie on it again. I walk to her mirror and throw water over it, straight from the steel glass on her dressing table. She will prepare herself only for me from now on, in front of a mirror that only I pay for. I pull down the calendar that has initials and times neatly written under dates. Then I hear the sound of her moaning from the kitchen.

The garland withers on its own. One by one, white and yellow petals break off the string. Malaika’s voice breaks as well. It trembles, it soars, and then it careens out of control like a drunken car. All I can do is stare in the mirror. I thank myself for throwing water over it so I do not have to see my face. Finally, I leave the room.

Outside, the rat is still trying to get into the hole. Its tail is shorter. It has moved in a little, and I realize then that it is not shameless. It is begging the walls to let it in so that it can turn its back on this world.

On the street, it starts to rain. I walk till my feet ache, but I know it is not really my feet that are hurting. I throw the garland to the ground and walk toward a parked taxi. I want to get home as fast as possible. I see a small boy seated under the roof of a ration shop, trying to escape from the rain. He holds the ends of his shirt out before him so that it serves as a bowl. In it I see a few coins. I stand in the rain and watch him. I cannot walk an inch farther — my heart does not allow it. Every minute or so the boy walks out into the rain and lets water collect in his shirt bowl. Then he sits down and stares at the wet coins. I do not know what it means, but it is horrible.

I stay there in the rain with the little boy and at first I want to give him money. I have plenty of it in my pocket. But it is of no use. It is raining and it is of no use. So I want this boy to die. No one must use a shirt as a bowl. I no longer feel sorry for the boy; instead I feel a sincere disgust. It is the most honest feeling I have ever had.

I imagine the man back at Malaika’s place pounding into her again and again as if she is not real, as if she makes sounds on demand. Her moans are not real. They
cannot
be real. She must be acting. It is part of her job. She did not use the bed. She was in the kitchen. Perhaps the bed is only for me. But how can she moan like that? I want to tear my ears off. She enjoys herself only with me. With other men … how can there be other men if we have already bought a house in Goa? What about our children? I cannot let them hear her moan. No wonder she was sad and staring at the sea when they left. They left because of her. They heard her shouts for help and mistook them for cries of pleasure. I must save her. The only way to do that is to ask her to be honest. She will give me her truth and I will give her mine.

I run up the stairs. If her visitor is still there, he is a dead man. His body will be floating in the sea. Not in Goa.

I do not see the rat. There is the smell of beedis. He must smoke beedis. She cannot love a man who smokes beedis. I climb two stairs at a time, my heart losing count of how it hurts. I want to know who it is that makes her voice soar.

When I enter, she is sleeping on the bed with one hand over her face to block the light from the street. When she hears me, she lifts her arm away but does not get up. She looks at me as though nothing has happened, as if the night has not been torn apart. Although I had removed the green sheet, she has put it back on.

In my head I keep hearing her voice rise, as if I mean nothing, as if the counting games we played were just games. I should have stayed and heard her climax again and again, so that with each sunrise I could go sick and yellow with fever.

“I took the green sheet off your bed,” I say.

“It’s time I increase my rate.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“No.”

“I threw water on your mirror, also.”

She looks outside, across the street to where clothes hang and movie posters have heroes with thick, black hair and full hearts.

“Say something,” I say. “Please.”

“There is nothing.”

“Malaika.”

“That’s not my name.”

“What?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Malaika is not your name?”

“It’s my prostitute name.”

“You have never told anyone your real name?”

“Not you.”

When the heart leaves, the hands take over. At that moment, all these hands can do is transfer defeat to someone else. They pound again and again, upon that woman with no name.

The small boy I met on the train turned out to be a wise old man. He told me that sometimes trains do not know when to stop. They get confused and keep going round in circles. Finally tracks come loose on their own and all passengers, like it or not, must wander off. So when morning came and the train was still moving, I got off at the next station and wandered off toward Chor Bazaar, of all places.

At Chor Bazaar you can get anything and everything. After all, it is created by thievery. You will say it is wrong to buy from here, it is encouraging robbery, that if you do not patronize this place, thieves will have no one to steal for. This attitude of white light continues until you find the one thing you have wanted all your life. You stare at it until every drop of water leaves your body. Then you buy it. Everyone buys it, you will say to yourself. As if one person can make a difference.

At Chor Bazaar you get bibles that are two hundred years old, paintings of the Rani of Jhansi in the blood of her husband, and Gandhi’s first pair of glasses. And if you know the right people, you can get elves, black magical witches and Jesus trapped in a wine bottle. It is not stupid to hope that I will find the arm Baba threw away. After all, he told me to retrieve my lost arm.

It is Friday today, the day thieves rest or branch out into salesmanship. They have worked hard all week, including Sunday, and now have the goods to show for it. Chor Bazaar is where they can display their credentials.

I walk through the silverware section. Bowls, spoons, knives, forks and ladles are laid out on an old maroon carpet. The owner rests his elbow on a silver coffee table. The owner’s beard is dark red. He watches me intently and strokes his beard, pulls it lower and lower, and fine-tunes it into a sharp point.

“Silver like this is not to be found even in Saudi,” he says.

“Saudi is known for oil, not silver,” I say.

It is important to be chatty, to portray learnedness, otherwise bargaining can be hard. The tongue must be oiled and ready to go, prepared to slip in that last-minute halfhearted offer. If the tongue is dry, it will halt after every word, and you will end up buying manure.

“Oil?” he says loudly. “Ha!”

“How much?” I ask.

“For what?”

I do not know. I ask out of nervousness. The redness in his beard is too forceful. It makes me speak without thinking. “This table?” he prompts.

He taps the silver with his knuckles.

“That table looks good,” I say.

“It is original.”

Original what? What does it mean when they say that? This table is original. This pencil is an original pencil. This horse is an original horse. How can there be any other kind?

I look around me and see people on their way to the mosque. Perhaps the mullah has made the call; the prayer will start soon. The mullah’s voice will rise, and with it, the mosque. It will float in the sky and emit colours — shades of moons, tamarinds, horses, swords — all praising the glory of God. It is said that a mullah’s prayer can reach the ends of the earth. Light can travel with all its mighty speed, but a mullah’s call will walk and still get there faster.

“No,” I say. “Let the table be.”

“I have something else,” he says.

The mosque is light green, and sunlight hits its dome and sets it on fire. People have collected at the entrance and are exchanging greetings. They are polite and quiet. This busy street becomes a flower bed during prayer time. Then it resumes its quiet murders and nonchalant rapes. It is the way the world is now. When God is watching, love all men. When he is not, love the woman by your side, even if you do not know her. Force your love upon her like a constitutional law.

“I have a silver spittoon,” he says.

“I don’t chew paan.”

“But you will still want the spittoon.”

“For what? Show?”

“And what a show it will be.”

He fine-tunes his red beard again. A man selling foreign underwear shouts at the top of his voice that he has only one more unused pair left.

The owner of the silver crawls on his knees toward me. He can only come a short distance, as the silver forks, lined according to size, operate as a fence between us.

“This spittoon was owned by …”

He bows his head down. Darts his eyes from left to right like a cat.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Quiet.”

“Sorry.”

“This spittoon was owned by …”

“Yes?”

“It was owned by …”

Once more he says it was owned by. and stops to admire the scenery, I will drain all the red out of his beard.

“Emperor Akbar!”

Even the owner is confused. He did not utter this name. Did the words come from the mosque? No. I look behind me and even the mosque-goers are looking our way. They have heard it, too.

“Emperor Akbar!”

The shout is getting louder, but I cannot see who is chanting the name of Emperor Akbar. I notice a line of scooters parked against a shop selling fireworks. The owner’s beard is now candle-wisp thin, such is his concern.

A form tears through the men in white outside the mosque. Long hair wild, sweat on a face of dull, dark earth, and orange bangles on thin wrists. The sari is old and blue.

“Emperor Akbar!” he exclaims.

The stranger bows before me. It is not good that he thinks I am the Emperor. Mosque-goers do not like amusement during the slot reserved for the one and only. I agree with them. Religion is not funny.