The Song of Kahunsha (6 page)

Chamdi feels something wet against his ear. He opens his eyes and sees a dog. It stands in front of him for a moment with a white cloth in its mouth, and then starts running, and on an empty stomach and with sleep in his eyes Chamdi must chase this dog because the only thing that connects him to his father is this piece of cloth.

Even though the dog is not fast, and Chamdi is usually a fast runner, he finds it hard to keep up with the animal. He can see it under a streetlight, the hair on its back standing and shining as it turns a corner. The three drops of blood that
might belong to his father give him strength, and he surges ahead, only to find that the dog is nowhere. Old buildings surround him, two-storey ones, and the dog could have entered any of the alleys—it is impossible to tell at night.

Chamdi bends over and spits out some bile. He makes a sound like a sick animal. He wipes his mouth with his hand and then wipes his hand on the front of his brown shorts. He hears a whimper. The dog stands near a huge garbage container behind a building. It still holds the white cloth between its teeth, but it is trying to climb onto the container, which is too tall for it. Chamdi creeps up behind the dog, but it senses his presence. He stretches his arms out, as wide as he can. The dog tightens its muscles as if it is about to pounce on him and Chamdi looks at how thin and dirty the dog is. He spots a blue plastic bag on the ground. It looks wet as though it contains something. He picks the plastic bag up and offers it to the dog. The dog does not move. Chamdi whistles softly and dangles the plastic bag close to the dog’s mouth. Then he throws the bag high in the air. The dog jumps and drops the white cloth to the ground. Chamdi grabs the white cloth while the dog smells the dirty bag. He
leaves the dog panting in the darkness, its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

I will never take this cloth off my neck until I find my father, he promises himself.

As he ties the cloth around his neck once again, Chamdi feels as though someone is watching him. He whips around only to see a rat entering a sewage pipe. If Dhondu the ghost-boy were here, he would insist a ghost was following Chamdi. Chamdi tightens the knot of the cloth around his neck and starts walking.

He comes across a barrel in the middle of the road. It is full of tar. If he had the strength, he would push it to one side. He ignores the barrel and hopes that no one bangs into it. He hears someone cough. It is a very heavy cough, one that can come only from a sick person. He looks to his left and sees a light on in an apartment. The cough immediately reminds him of Mrs. Sadiq, and he knows that she is not sick, but the loss of the orphanage has made her age so much in the past few weeks. He calls out to Jesus and says a quick prayer for Mrs. Sadiq, but the only response he gets is from the heroine of a Hindi movie as she stares at Chamdi from the poster. Her eyes are the size of moons.

Once again, Chamdi gets the feeling that someone is behind him, but he keeps looking at the poster and notices how, even in the darkness, the heroine’s skin glows. He can read the name of the movie theatre—Dreamland. Large glass windows display posters and photographs of the movie that is playing. He goes and has a look: A man dressed in black rises from the flames of a truck explosion. A mother holds her child tight in her arms and stares angrily at a young man who points a gun at them. A police inspector is a few feet in the air on her motorcycle as she takes it over a jeep. Chamdi is surprised that the police inspector is a woman.

He hears footsteps behind him. He was right: someone is following him. He remembers what Mrs. Sadiq said about Bombay, that it is not safe anymore. But why would anyone harm him? Mrs. Sadiq was just scaring them because she did not want them to leave the orphanage and go out into the streets.

He spots a dangling lightbulb ahead. Steam rises towards the light. It is a food stand. There is an old man steaming something on an iron plate. The old man has no customers, so Chamdi walks towards him. Even though the smell has not yet
reached Chamdi, his stomach turns fierce. The pace of his steps increases, and he reminds himself to have the right approach, to be polite and to ask for food.

Just as he nears the food stand, Chamdi hears a voice from behind him: “It’s no use.”

Chamdi turns around. It is a girl, about the same size as him. She wears a faded brown dress that is too large for her and her feet are bare. Orange plastic bangles circle her wrists, and her hair curls over her forehead as she leans her head to one side.

“It’s no use,” she repeats.

“Were you following me?” Chamdi asks.

It is quiet in the side street. Only the far-off car horn can be heard along with the wheezing of the engine as the car changes gears.

“That old man will not give you any food,” says the girl.

“How did you know I wanted food?”

“Look at you. I’ve never seen anyone so thin in my life. You must not have eaten for weeks.”

Chamdi wants to shoot back that it has not been that long since he ate. He wishes he were not so thin.

“Why were you following me?” he asks.

She looks him over thoroughly, inspects every inch of his body, and suddenly Chamdi feels very awkward, as though he is the only boy in the whole of Bombay. He wants water so that he can drink litres and litres of it and fill himself up to a giant size, but the water tap is far away.

“Come with me,” says the girl.

“Where?”

She turns and starts walking. Chamdi does not know what to do. He wants food, and he looks at the food stand again and wonders if he should ask the old man to share a little of whatever is cooking.

“That old man is mean. He won’t give you anything,” says the girl. “But I will.”

Chamdi believes her. He does not know why he feels this way, but he tells himself that so far no one has been kind to him. Perhaps his luck is about to change. So he follows her as she leads him through a narrow street between two buildings. Chamdi looks up at the sky. He knows there is a moon, but it is covered by the clouds. The inner walls of the buildings around him have a dark blue hue.

“Look down and walk,” says the girl.

“Why?”

“You might step on someone.”

Chamdi looks down and sees that people are asleep under the open sky, and no one tosses and turns. They must be at peace, he thinks. Or perhaps they are too afraid to move because they are in the clutches of a nightmare.

Before he knows it, the girl has led him to the main road once again. He is only a short distance from the Pooja liquor store. As soon as he steps on the footpath, headlights hit his face and he loses his balance. The sudden shot of light in his eyes reminds him of his empty stomach. He had thought the eyes and stomach had no connection, but he was wrong.

“Sit down,” the girl says. “I’ll come back.”

But as soon as she turns to leave, a boy appears. He is shirtless and his skin is very smooth. His hair is short, cut right to the scalp. A deep scar stretches all the way from his right lip to his ear. Chamdi notices in horror that part of the boy’s right ear is missing. The boy must be two or three years older than Chamdi. This boy is thin too, but it looks as though the streets have made him tough. His brown pants are rolled up to his ankles.

“Who’s this?” asks the boy.

The girl whispers something in the boy’s ear, then walks away from them.

“Ah, yes,” says the boy. “He’s perfect. So thin.”

“I’m not thin,” says Chamdi sharply. But he feels stupid the moment he says this. Of course he is thin. The Koyba Boys at the orphanage used to call him a walking stick. But it did not upset Chamdi that much because in his dreams that same walking stick turned into a beating stick and thrashed the Koyba Boys to a pulp.

The boy puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a beedi. He lights it with a match, but does not throw the match away. He puts the used matchstick back in his pocket and blows smoke into the sky just as the men did the night before. Chamdi wonders why this boy smokes and why he puts his chin up and blows smoke upwards as if smoke had a choice about which way it travels.

“So you’re hungry?” the boy asks.

“Yes,” says Chamdi.

“But we have no food. We ate it all.”

The boy inhales the beedi deeply, and as he pulls it away from his mouth, the end of the beedi makes his black eyes glow for a moment. His black eyes are narrow, unlike Chamdi’s.

“So where are you from?” the boy asks.

“Here only.” Chamdi decides not to tell the
boy the truth. He cannot show that he is new to the streets.

“Here only? Meaning …”

“I live on the road. Just like you.”

The boy extends his beedi towards Chamdi.

“No,” says Chamdi. “I don’t smoke.”

“You don’t smoke? Are you a man or what?”

“I’ve stopped smoking.”

“So where are you from?”

“I already told you. I live on this road only.”

“Oh? What’s this road called?”

“I call it by whatever name I like. What does a name matter?”

Chamdi does not like the way the boy smiles. He knows the boy is testing him.

“If you tell me the exact name of this road, I’ll give you something to eat,” says the boy.

“You told me you had no food.”

“I lied.”

He blows smoke once again. His beedi is half done.

“I’m waiting,” says the boy.

“Kutta Gulley,” says Chamdi.

“You know that’s not the name.”

“It’s the name I have given it. Because this gulley is full of stray dogs.”

“You’re smart,” says the boy. But he does not look at Chamdi. He looks at the beedi and watches it get shorter. “Can you run?” the boy asks.

“Anyone can run,” says Chamdi.

“Not me,” says the boy.

“Why not?”

“I’ll show you.”

The boy throws the beedi to the ground and uses his bare foot to stub it out. He then takes the used matchstick out of his pocket and puts it between his teeth. The moment he starts walking, Chamdi understands why the boy cannot run. His right leg is lifeless and it forces him to walk with a limp. He supports the leg with his right hand, and then he tries to run, and he does so with this ridiculous limp, and he smiles with pride as if he is a clown performing for Chamdi. After a few strides he takes the matchstick out of his mouth and asks, “How was that?” Chamdi wants to say it was wonderful, it truly was, but he decides he does not know this boy well enough to laugh at his deformity.

“Don’t you ever smile?” asks the boy. “Or is your face like my leg? Without feeling?”

“I don’t know you well,” says Chamdi.

“But you just said we share the same address, no? So how come you don’t know me?” He stares at Chamdi’s body, just as the girl did.

“My name is Sumdi,” the boy says. “And that was my sister, Guddi.”

“Sumdi and Guddi.”

“That’s right.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“So now you think you can ask me questions just because you know my name?”

“I thought …”

“Yaar, I’m playing with you. I’ll tell you what happened to my leg. Polio. But what difference? It’s only a name.”

“Like Kutta Gulley,” says Chamdi.

“Kutta Gulley!” shouts the boy. “I like that. So what’s your name?”

Before Chamdi can answer, the girl appears again. She holds a steaming glass of chai in her hand. Chamdi can tell from the colour that the chai is very milky. She holds a slice of bread in her other hand, and even though the bread does not look fresh, Chamdi does not care. He gets up and grabs the piece of bread from her. He shoves it into his mouth and relishes the taste, but not for too long because his throat pulls the
piece of bread inwards with great force and sends it to his stomach.

Next, he goes for the chai. His hand shakes as he raises the glass to his mouth. He blows on it a couple of times to cool it down, and takes his first sip. The chai tastes bland, but its warmth enters him readily. He wants to ask for some sugar, but reminds himself that he is not at the orphanage anymore.

Chamdi knows he is being studied by Sumdi, while Guddi stands behind her brother.

“He’s perfect,” says Sumdi again. “He’s so thin.”

“Let’s hope he can run fast,” says Guddi.

“I can run fast,” says Chamdi, although he has no idea why he needs to prove himself.

“Show us,” says Guddi.

“Now?”

“Yes,” she says.

“I don’t have the strength to run now,” says Chamdi.

Chamdi does not like this talk about running. His father was known to be a runner too. He remembers Mrs. Sadiq’s words,
The way he ran from you as if you were a ghost …
Or maybe she did not say that, but that is the sense he got from her, that he made his father run. And now these two are asking
if he can run and it does not look like any good can come of it. But at least they have soothed his stomach.

“Do you need a place to sleep?” asks Sumdi.

“Yes,” says Chamdi.

“Ask him his name,” says Guddi.

Chamdi does not like the fact that she does not talk to him directly anymore. She does not even look at him.

“What’s your name?” asks Sumdi.

“Chamdi.”

“Hah?”

“Chamdi.”

“What a strange name. But I like it. You know why I like it? It sounds like my name. Sumdi. Sumdi and Chamdi. We’ll make a good team.”

Sumdi hobbles over to Chamdi and puts his arm around him.

“We’ll make a great team. I know it.”

“I work alone,” says Chamdi.

He has no idea what he means by this, but he says it to prove to Sumdi that he is a man of the streets. Guddi laughs.

“He talks like a Hindi movie,” she says. “And just look at that scarf he wears around his neck in this heat. It was a bad idea for me to bring him.”

“I will train him,” says Sumdi. “Come with us, Chamdi. Our place is under a tree.”

And Chamdi follows Sumdi because this is the most sensible thing Sumdi has said all night—that their place is under a tree. Chamdi notices that the tree in question is extremely still. Not a single leaf moves. The strange thing about this tree is that it seems to grow from the cement footpath itself. As he gets closer, he can see the earth around the roots of the tree. The tree must be very old, and the footpath has been built around it, he supposes. Attached to the trunk is a makeshift shelter of gunny bags, cardboard, and all sorts of materials that have been pieced together. A few bamboo sticks and ropes hold the gunny bags up. Chamdi can see two steel bowls, a packet of bread with four slices remaining, a rusty tin box, and a small kerosene stove. There is also an old wooden box with “Om” scratched on it.