The Song of Kahunsha (10 page)

“Then why don’t you do that?”

“With a face like mine, who will give me work? Even you stare at my face so much.”

“I’m sorry, I …”

“It’s okay. In any case, I’m not allowed to work. Sometimes I think I will have to spend the rest of my life working as Anand Bhai’s eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“A spy. I watch. I listen. Give him tips.”

“Tips? What’s that?”

“In a city like Bombay, information is everything. I stand outside tea stalls, jeweller’s shops, at taxi stands, any place where conversations happen. And if I see something interesting, I report to Anand Bhai. You’ll understand later.”

Sumdi jingles the change in his pocket. “We need more money,” he says. “We’ll beg again in the evening.”

Chamdi wants to ask Sumdi about Bombay—why Chamdi has seen no colours, no songs, no smiling faces, no exchanges of love. But he tells himself that he has hardly seen the city. He is
bound to come across something that matches his imagined city.

“Can’t we spend a little money?” he asks Sumdi.

“Not a paisa. I have to give Anand Bhai at least twenty rupees a day. No matter what. He doesn’t need the money, but he’ll do it to make me suffer, so that I remain his dog.”

“But can’t I spend my share at least? Anand Bhai doesn’t even know I am here.”

“By tonight, he will know.”

“How?”

“Handsome will tell him.”

“Handsome?”

“Did you notice a legless beggar with a hole above his eye and a big lump on his neck?”

“Yes …”

“That’s Handsome. He begs in this area. He’s also in charge of informing Anand Bhai about newcomers. So you are already registered, my friend.”

Sumdi checks both his pockets again. He clicks his tongue. He grumbles to himself, and Chamdi can tell that the words he is spewing are abusive, but he has never heard them before. Sumdi is like one of the Koyba Boys. But then Chamdi quickly corrects himself. Sumdi’s heart is clean.

The afternoon has proved to be a hot one, their palms are empty even though they made money, and Chamdi’s stomach speaks again. Sumdi absentmindedly lifts his fingers to his mouth as if he is holding a beedi.

They pass a row of cycles, and shops that sell metal pipes and fixtures for toilets. Outside one shop, a man is hitting a piece of metal with a hammer. A little farther along is a cobbler, but this man has fallen asleep while sitting on his haunches with his chin in his hands.

Soon, Chamdi can see their tree. They are close. He feels ashamed that Amma and Guddi will remain hungry. They walk a little farther and come to a udipi restaurant. The woman at the counter talks on the phone in a language Chamdi does not understand. He loves the sound of this language. It is as though the woman is scolding someone, but there is no real anger in her voice. Her tone is playful, the kind of tone used on a friend who might have removed air from her cycle or tied up her ponytails.

Chamdi wonders how many languages exist in this world. One day he will create his own language. This thought makes him happy. He will invent words that are positive, that can only
soothe, never hurt. But he asks himself if people on earth have the strength to speak with beauty. He will create a language that does not have the word “No” in it. Then his request for food will always have the desired outcome.

“Do you know the man who owns the bakery?” asks Chamdi.

“Muchhad?”

“Is that his name?”

“I call him that because he has a huge moustache. Why do you ask?”

“Maybe he will give us bread?”

“Hah! That miser did not give us anything even when my father died. He’s a mean bastard who hits his own wife.”

“How do you know?”

“He lives on top of the bakery. At night we can hear the beating and his wife crying. How can such a man give us bread?”

“Want me to try?”

“No use.”

“There’s no harm in trying.” Chamdi is about to cross the road to the bakery, but Sumdi stops him.

“We have to try,” says Chamdi. “Amma and your sister must be hungry.”

“I never walk on that side of the road.”

“Why not?”

“After my father died, we don’t go near the bakery. Amma made us promise never to go there again. She said it was a place with bad luck. I think she was worried that something might happen to us. But see—she only went mad.”

“Then why do you continue to live here?”

“Amma didn’t want to leave. She would just stare at the road, and … my father’s blood is still there. Somehow it has stuck on the road. It has refused to leave.”

“We must try to get food,” says Chamdi.

“Food is not the problem. There’s a restaurant called Gopala a short distance from the tree. My father used to run small errands for the owner. Sometimes he gives us leftovers after lunchtime. Food is not the problem. We are not suffering from hunger.”

“Then what?”

“The problem is that we live. We find just enough food to stay alive, and we are forced to live on and on in this hell.”

As Sumdi says this, Chamdi spots the old beggar he saw the day before near the liquor store. The old beggar has changed locations but
the flies have followed him, and continue to buzz around his face. The beggar’s eyes are closed, but he is talking to himself. Even Amma talks to herself, thinks Chamdi. A city of so many people and they cannot bring themselves to talk to anyone else.

Chamdi’s eyes are on the sweet breads displayed in the bakery. He looks at the small room above the bakery, at its tiny window, and feels sorry for Muchhad’s wife, who must spend her days there like a trapped animal. Then Chamdi’s eyes move to a spot on the road. Although he cannot see the blood, he feels that this is the exact spot where Sumdi’s father was run over by a car. He tells himself that it is a good thing sound cannot stain the road. It would be painful if the sound of the car hitting Sumdi’s father was stuck on the road—and Amma’s screams as well. People on the street would be forced to hear those sounds every morning.

Sumdi takes his cream shirt off and wipes his sweaty chest with it. He uses the shirt to wipe his underarms as well and then throws the shirt inside the kholi. Sumdi is strong. He is not well
built, but his body has muscular lines and it seems as though these muscles are alive and breathing. Sumdi sits on the ground with his polio leg stiff in front of him.

“Take your vest off,” he tells Chamdi. “It’s hot.”

“No, it’s okay,” says Chamdi.

“Be a man. Take it off.”

Chamdi wants to take off his vest because he is indeed boiling, but he is ashamed of how his ribs stick out of his chest—even the boy in the taxi seemed appalled and gave Chamdi money. “No, I like it this way,” he says.

“You like to have sweat dripping over your entire body? Were you a pig in your last life? Just take off the vest. Do it fast otherwise I will rip it off.”

In one swift move that surprises even himself, Chamdi takes his vest off. No one has ever seen him bare chested, and now he has suddenly removed his vest on the footpath in front of people.

“Oh my God,” exclaims Sumdi. “You’re thinner than the temple bars! No problem you’ll have entering.”

“I told you, my ribs …”

“I’m teasing, yaar. You’re too sensitive. In this city you have to be a harami.”

“What’s a harami?”

“A shameless bastard! Look at me, I have polio. Do I try and hide my leg or pretend that it’s a walking stick?”

“How can you hide your leg?”

“That’s another thing. You don’t have any imagination.”

“I do, I do.”

“Prove it. Prove that you are not sensitive and that you have an imagination.”

“If I do, then I get to keep the money I made from begging.”

“Gambling already! You’re learning fast.”

“Okay, so here I am walking with my chest out. So it means I’m not sensitive.”

“That means nothing. Do a little show.”

“What type of show?”

“Watch.”

Sumdi looks behind him, and sees two men on the other side of the tree, an old man and a young one, talking to each other and smoking. The young man holds the front of his white shirt with the tips of his fingers and blows onto his chest to cool himself.

“Look at me,” Sumdi calls out to the two men. “I will give you a riddle. Whoever solves it will win a prize!”

The smoke drifting out of the old man’s mouth bothers Chamdi. He feels sorry for the sky. Not only does it have to inhale smoke but it also has to look down upon a place that has beggars instead of flowers. It is a sky that has to hear the cries of Muchhad’s wife.

The old man seems to be in a good mood, but the young man does not look amused. He clears this throat and lets out a glob of phlegm.

“How many legs do I have?” asks Sumdi.

The old man does not respond. He continues to puff smoke.

“What, you think it’s simple?” taunts Sumdi.

“Two,” answers the old man.

“Wrong!” shouts Sumdi. “I’ll ask your friend. How many legs do I have?”

The young man does not answer. He motions Sumdi away.

“He’s not in a good mood. Did his wife leave him? Did his girlfriend not like his lovemaking?”

“Get out of here before I slap your face,” says the young man.

“You’ll hit an innocent child who can’t even walk? Are you a man or what?”

The old man laughs. His eyes are small and green, and Chamdi tells himself that this
man must be from Nepal, like Kaichi at the orphanage.

“Okay, kaka, I will talk to you only,” Sumdi addresses the old man again. “Last time I’m asking. How many legs do I have? Before you answer, I’ll give you a hint. One leg is not working. Which is it?”

Sumdi takes a few clownish steps.

“Right leg,” says the old man.

“Correct.”

“Now which is the other leg?”

“Left leg.”

“Now where is the most powerful leg? The hidden leg? The most important leg, your friend’s leg which is probably
not
working, which is why he’s in a bad mood?”

“Bhadwa, get the hell out of here,” the young man says to Sumdi.

“Your middle leg is in trouble and you are calling me a pimp? Anyway, kaka, you did not guess, you do not get the prize. Now you have to pay.”

“I’m not giving you any money,” says the old man.

“Money? Is that all there is to give? What about
love?
Is no one a lover anymore? How about giving me some
love?
Or if you can’t give love, then give me a cigarette, no?”

The old man reaches into the pocket of his grey shirt, takes out a cigarette, and throws it at Sumdi. Sumdi is unable to catch it. It falls to the ground. He picks it up and turns to Chamdi again.

“The work you need to do to get a cigarette,” he mutters. “So you see? That’s how you do it. Now your turn.”

Chamdi is quiet.

“What are you thinking about?” says Sumdi.

“I … what’s the answer to the riddle?”

“Hah?”

“What’s the hidden leg?”

“Oh, you idiot. You unfortunate fool who spent his whole life in an orphanage, you poor boy, you know how to read and write but no one told you about your hidden leg. It shames me to share the same sun as you. But don’t worry, tonight you will discover your third leg, and what a magical night it will be for you, chamatkaar! You will never take your hand off your leg. But first, you have to complete your part of the bargain. Now put on a show for me, entertain me while I smoke so I feel like a king. Hurry up, do something.”

“I will tell you a story,” says Chamdi.

“I spit on stories!”

“My
story.”

“It will be a boring, well-mannered story. Forget it, just sit down next to me.”

Sumdi looks for his box of matches. The cigarette is already in his mouth.

At first Chamdi wonders if he should pick a
Chandamama
story, but then he decides to invent his own story because it hurts him when Sumdi accuses him of having no imagination. Imagination is a private thing, but perhaps it is time to share his with his friend. Chamdi will tell his own story, but add and subtract a few minor details to make it worth a king’s time.

“This is my story,” Chamdi begins. “It is called ’The Boy Whose Ribs Became Tusks and Left His Body.’”

Sumdi almost drops his match.

Chamdi continues, “By the time you finish smoking that cigarette, the story will be over, and if you like it you’ll have to give me the money that I made.”

“I accept the challenge, you poor fool who has no knowledge of his third leg.”

“There once lived a boy who was very thin. Whenever he ate, his imagination used up all the
food because his mind was the strongest muscle, and he thought thoughts that no one else had the courage to think.”

“Like what?”

“Once more you interrupt me I will turn your stiff leg into a hard whip that will give you a hundred lashes.”

“Shabash!” shouts Sumdi. “I like you like this!”

“The boy dreamt of many things even though he was poor and had no parents. He dreamt of Bombay and how wonderful it was and how people help each other and do not fight or steal. Each time he saw something horrible on the road, some act of cruelty, his ribs would stick out more, and at first the boy did not understand this at all. Why are my ribs sticking out? he would ask himself. But one day his ribs spoke to him. His ribs said,
We are not ribs, we are tusks, and we are here to change the world
. And the boy told his ribs to shut up because what if someone were to notice his ribs talking? But he had no control over his ribs in the same way people seemed to have no control over their cruel actions. One day when the boy was walking on the road, he saw another boy who had polio. And that wasn’t the only thing wrong with the boy. It seemed as if the polio boy had no
brains at all because he was smoking too, but he was good at heart. And just then a horrible man called Anand Bhai came to this polio boy and took out a knife and said, ’Whatever money you make is mine,’ and this brave polio boy tried to put up a fight, he fought like a tiger with one bad leg, but still Anand Bhai was winning, and then suddenly the boy of the ribs noticed that his ribs were starting to tear out of his body. They became sharp like elephant tusks and shot out through his chest but the boy felt no pain, and a tusk flew out and plunged itself in Anand Bhai’s back and told him,
Leave this polio boy alone, he is a friend of the tusks
. And Anand Bhai ran away like a mad man with a tusk in his back. After that, all the horrible people were chased by tusks. Like that Muchhad who owns the bakery, a tusk came straight at him and smashed through the glass of his bakery and said,
Give bread to the beggars otherwise next time I will land in your throat
. And this continued until the bad people realized their mistakes. And then finally the tusks flew back into the owner-boy’s body, satisfied that the people had changed.”