The Song of Kahunsha (21 page)

The mention of God once again reminds Chamdi of the gaping hole in the temple, of
Ganesha’s trunk lying helpless on the street, unable to rise and spray water on the flames. Chamdi has seen the gods that the old woman makes too and they are so small, they fit in a wooden box. He has seen Jesus, who is life-sized, but even Jesus is powerless.

“What do you think?” asks Anand Bhai.

“I … about what?”

“What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know,” says Chamdi. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Your friend died and you want to just sit there? You don’t want revenge? If anyone harms my Hindu brothers, I will rip that person to shreds.”

Anand Bhai flicks his cigarette to the ground. Chamdi looks at the sparking butt of the cigarette.

“We will replicate Radhabai Chawl for the Muslims,” says Anand Bhai. “And it will happen in many parts of the city at the same time, not only here.”

Chamdi does not understand exactly what Anand Bhai means. Anand Bhai scratches his chest, grits his teeth as he does this.

“You will come along. Be part of our gang. It will be training for you. I want my men to see you,
that even though you are so small you are not scared in the face of danger. They will be impressed. That’s how you earn your place in the gang. The future is in you young boys. If I have fifty Chamdis, then think of how much power I will have in a few years.”

“But …”

“You will do as I say, Chamdi. You work for me now,” says Anand Bhai.

Anand Bhai stands up and throws away the tea that remains in his glass. It lands on the gravel. He smoothes his beard and looks down at the map the spilt tea has made.

“I own you,” says Anand Bhai. “Remember that.”

Chamdi does not know what to do. He understands now why Mrs. Sadiq was so against the children going out into the city, why she wanted everyone to leave Bombay.

More than ever, he yearns for Mrs. Sadiq, for her long, bony hands.

It is very late at night. Even though all the doors and windows of the one-room homes are closed, Anand Bhai’s adda is busy. About fifteen men have gathered, and Chamdi watches as some of them smoke cigarettes, others stretch their limbs, and a couple pace about outside Anand Bhai’s room. Most of the men are short and thin. They are dressed plainly: dark shirts, jeans or trousers, and chappals. Munna is present too. Munna has a white bandage around his eye. He too shall carry Anand Bhai’s signature for the rest of his life. Chamdi looks for Jackpot and Handsome, but they are nowhere to be seen. It makes sense—they
are of no use tonight. Chamdi feels Munna’s stern gaze upon him as if Munna does not approve of Chamdi being here.

Tonight, Anand Bhai wears a black shirt instead of his usual white shirt. His trousers are black too. It is like a uniform. Anand Bhai holds a large piece of folded paper and a flashlight in his left hand as he walks towards his men. He greets each man individually and Chamdi hears some of their names: Rathore, Vishnu, and Sitaram.

Anand Bhai walks to the car, which is parked at the back of the adda outside Darzi’s room, near the tomatoes and cucumbers. Anand Bhai gets in and drives the car to the centre of the adda where the men have gathered. The headlights shine on the walls of the one-room homes and make the cracks stand out.

Anand Bhai gets out of the car and opens the trunk. As it swings up, Chamdi remembers Sumdi, lifeless under the white cloth. Anand Bhai uses a flashlight to display the contents of the trunk. There are knives, like the one Anand Bhai used on Chamdi’s tongue, there are long curving swords, their handles in bad condition, and there is a solid iron rod. There is also a large padlock,
the kind Chamdi has seen on shop shutters. And there are two cricket bats.

Anand Bhai faces his men and speaks in a strong voice.

“This city has become dangerous,” he says. “The Muslims are warriors too, just like us. That much I will give them. They are also tigers. But the rule is that every jungle must have only one tiger. And in an Indian jungle, there is place for a Hindu tiger only. I appreciate that you are all doing your duty as Hindus. Now pick your weapons. Except Munna and Chamdi.”

Hands reach out and grab knives and swords. There is the clink of blades as the weapons graze each other. When all the knives and swords are gone, a man picks the iron rod. He feels its surface and kisses it.

“Come on,” says Anand Bhai. “No cricketers here? These bats have smashed a few heads. Take the bats. Let’s enjoy some night cricket.”

Two men reach for the bats. Their blades are thick and the wood looks old but solid. The rubber around the wooden handles is used, yet intact.

“What about me?” asks Munna.

“You get the iron lock,” says Anand Bhai. “You get to lock the family in.”

Munna reaches into the corner of the trunk and lifts the iron lock.

“Don’t shut it,” says Anand Bhai. “I don’t have a key.”

“Yes, Anand Bhai,” replies Munna. His tongue comes out of his mouth a little, as if he is holding food that he likes.

Anand Bhai slams the trunk shut. Chamdi is relieved that he has not been asked to pick a weapon. Perhaps all Anand Bhai wants him to do is watch. Anand Bhai places a large folded piece of paper on the trunk of the car. Chamdi sees it is the map of Bombay that was in Anand Bhai’s drawer. Anand Bhai unfolds the map and shines the flashlight on it. Even though Chamdi is scared, the map fascinates him. He has never seen Bombay before. It has such an odd shape, and from where Chamdi stands it seems as though Bombay has a huge mouth, the yawn of a terrible
Chandamama
creature. There are lines along its body and he guesses they are roads, but he cannot help but think of them as cracks in the creature’s skin. It looks as if Bombay is cut and bruised.

“There will be multiple strikes,” says Anand Bhai. “That is what I have been told.”

“By whom?” asks the man with the iron rod.

“The order has come from top. That’s all I can say. As we speak, something is happening in Byculla.”

Anand Bhai’s forefinger points to Byculla on the map. It is deep in the throat of the creature, only a few inches away from its screaming mouth.

“Tonight, there will be trouble in Byculla, Parel, and Dadar,” says Anand Bhai. “I know that none of you need this map, you all know the city well, but I brought it here for a reason. See the name on the map. What does it say?”

“Bombay,” comes the answer.

“From now on, we are never to utter that name again. This island belongs to the goddess Mumbadevi, and we must reclaim it as a Hindu city. Jai Maharashtra!”

Chamdi recognizes the name Maharashtra as the state that Bombay is in. Mrs. Sadiq taught him that. Anand Bhai uses his gold lighter to set the map on fire. “We will cremate Bombay so that Mumbai can be born.”

There is silence amongst the men.

“We will leave the Muslim areas alone tonight until we have more men,” warns Anand Bhai. “For now, there will be no attacks near Dongri, Madanpura, Agripada, J.J. Hospital, Bhendi
Bazaar. Tonight, we shall start with one family. And before we go, I want to introduce someone.”

Anand Bhai shines the flashlight on Chamdi’s face, directly into his eyes. Chamdi raises his hand to prevent the glare from hurting him.

“This is Chamdi,” says Anand Bhai. “He’s my boy. He’ll be joining us tonight. It’s his initiation in our gang.”

“This chintu?” asks someone.

“He may be small, but he has guts,” says Anand Bhai. “His friend Sumdi was killed in the blast that killed Namdeo Girhe. Now Chamdi wants to avenge his friend’s death. He wants Muslim blood.”

Munna looks shocked when he hears this. Chamdi wonders if it is because Munna was not aware of Sumdi’s death, or if it is because Anand Bhai has asked Chamdi to be part of the gang. Either way, it does not matter.

“There’s a Muslim family in Shaan Gulley. You know Abdul who owns Café Arabia, the Mughlai restaurant round the corner?”

“Spicy chicken Abdul,” says the man with the iron rod.

“Yes, that Abdul. His nephew lives in Shaan Gulley.”

“Hanif—the taxiwala?”

“Hah, Hanif the taxiwala. He lives with his wife and newborn child. Tonight, we will cremate the three of them at home. Without prayers.”

Chamdi’s heart stops when he hears this.

Then a thought strikes: What if this is also a trick, like when Anand Bhai made a cut on Chamdi’s tongue to teach him a lesson? Anand Bhai might let me go if I tell him I have learned my lesson, thinks Chamdi. Anand Bhai cannot expect me to watch something so terrible.

The man with the iron rod speaks: “I don’t see any petrol here.”

“It will be made available on site,” says Anand Bhai.

“Shaan Gulley is a Hindu area. Why are we so heavily armed to burn down one family?”

“If any of our Hindu brothers have sympathy for Hanif, then our weapons will remind them that duty comes before friendship. The family is well liked in the mohalla—Hanif’s wife teaches children how to read and write, and whenever there’s an emergency, Hanif lets his neighbours use his taxi free of charge.”

The door of Darzi’s room opens and the old woman staggers out and stares at the assembled group. Some of the men greet her respectfully, but
from afar. No one goes towards her. Chamdi looks at the old woman and wishes with all his heart that she will call him in. He knows that if he runs to her, Anand Bhai will be livid. So he closes his eyes and thinks of the small wooden box that contains the old woman’s gods. He begs all the gods to help him.

He cannot believe it when the old woman responds: “Anand, send the boy back in.”

Anand Bhai does not answer her. He turns to his men and says, “Let’s go.”

“How are we going there?” someone asks.

“Luxury bus,” says Anand Bhai.

The men laugh as they stride in the direction of the cucumbers and tomatoes.

“Anand,” the old woman says again. “Let the boy in. Please.”

“Old woman, go back in,” he fires.

Darzi emerges from the darkness of the room behind the old woman and places his hands on her shoulders. He leads her back in.

“Anand Bhai,” says Chamdi softly, careful to ensure that his words do not reach the ears of any of Anand Bhai’s men. “I have learned my lesson. I will never lie again. Please forgive me.”

“I forgave long back. This is business. One day, you will be feared and respected just like I am. I
see the future in you. You are brave and your heart is good. Don’t worry, even I felt like this the first time I did something daring. But the sick feeling from the heart goes away, you become free. You kill someone, you eat a hot meal, you take a hot woman, and you go to sleep.”

“But Anand Bhai …”

“It’s your duty,” says Anand Bhai. “If you don’t do your duty, something might happen to Guddi. You don’t want Guddi to be harmed, do you?”

It is quiet in the narrow lane that is Shaan Gulley, except for a faint song that crackles on a radio somewhere. The lights are off in each small shack. Big barrels sit outside most of the shacks, and Chamdi can see that these barrels contain water. Some of the rooms are made from wooden planks and bamboo poles, and they have thatched floors, while others look more solid. Some of the kholis are painted green, and clothes and towels hang from small windowsills.

Anand Bhai’s men take swift steps and carry swords, knives, and cricket bats. None of the men seem to care that they might be spotted. Anand Bhai has his hand on Chamdi’s shoulder.
Munna’s fierce stare is upon Chamdi again. Chamdi tucks his T-shirt deep into his shorts.

The moon shines on the tin roofs of the homes and catches the blades of the knives and swords. Chamdi wonders if he should run and warn Hanif’s family that they are going to be attacked. He is a fast runner, and of what use are his feet if he does not use them well? But he does not know where Hanif lives, and even if he did and were to run to Hanif and warn him, Anand Bhai would harm Guddi.

The gang soon arrives at a dead end. They stop, facing a larger shack, painted blue, which stands apart from the rest of the shacks. Small plants grow from clay pots placed next to the door. A plastic Bisleri bottle sprouts a withered creeper. The closed door looks heavy, unlike the doors of most of the shacks. There is a window, its wooden shutters closed. A black cycle rests against the wall, both its tires flat. Beside the blue shack is a black-and-yellow taxi with a silver carrier on top. Chamdi wishes that Hanif the taxiwala would wake up and drive away from this place.

Anand Bhai raises his right hand and his men stop.

He goes to the shack on his right and taps lightly on the door. A bare-chested man in a
white lungi opens the door and hands Anand Bhai a large plastic can. It is three-quarters full of liquid. Chamdi assumes it contains petrol. Anand Bhai motions to one of his men to collect it. The man in the lungi hands out one more plastic can. Finally, he gives Anand Bhai a brown bottle. A white rag droops over the mouth of the bottle. There is liquid in this bottle too. The man in the lungi slips back into his shack and quietly shuts the door. Chamdi is confused. How can this man harm his own neighbour?

“Two of you go to the back,” whispers Anand Bhai. “There’s no door, but there is a small window. No one should escape.”

Two men scamper to the back of the blue shack.

Anand Bhai issues orders to two other men. “Pour petrol on the walls, but be careful. We don’t want to burn the whole mohalla.”

The two men take one can each and start pouring petrol on the side walls. Some of the petrol falls on their jeans and chappals.

“Munna,” says Anand Bhai. “Lock up.”

Munna stealthily makes his way to the door. He slides the latch closed and then hooks the iron padlock in. He does not bind the lock yet. Perhaps it will make noise and wake Hanif.

“Do you know why I chose this house?” whispers Anand Bhai to Chamdi.

“It’s a Muslim house … that’s why,” answers Chamdi, feebly.

“That’s the main reason,” says Anand Bhai. “But remember this: To truly enjoy your work, there has to be more than one reason. A
bonus
. You see, my childhood sweetheart lives here. Her name is Farhana. She was in love with me and I was in love with her. But she’s Muslim. Even though she was mine, she married Hanif. Tonight I get my revenge on the man who stole her. It makes our work extra special.”