The Cripple and His Talismans

by Anosh Irani

  As the peacock raced at the foot of Baya, he thought he heard a wind. He stopped to open his fan. It had been days since he had felt the wind and he wanted to remind himself what victory tasted like. As he waited, he knew his eyes would soon close with that first rush of air, the blue of his feathers trapping the wind, storing it for future use.

  But the wind came from another direction, for the first time ever, with such great force that he was plunged into the river. He had never touched Baya before, and to fall upon her, like some cheap rock, brought him great shame. Even greater shame than when he lost his races.

  Baya liked the warmth of the peacock’s feathers, the melting of his colours with her liquid skin. She slowed down and raised him to her mouth in the darkness. She kept him there, swirled around him, until she seeped into his every pore. The peacock put his head inside her and drank her. In this manner, they carried each other in themselves until the darkness lifted. As the first drops of light fell, the peacock opened. Balanced on Baya, the fringes of his blue and red fan glowed as the sun rose behind him. The two stopped racing forever; instead they vowed to carry each other to heaven.

  For giants to be born, a special seed must be sown. Or a tangle of weeds must come loose on their own. Giants are special, like secret recipes. They are not born by or of. They are born because.

  After the racing stopped, Baya and the peacock were entwined, it seemed forever. Wherever Baya went, the peacock followed. He loved how long her reach was, how she would sometimes rise from behind him, and, at other times come toward him in a playful rage. Their world was complete and each day as the darkness left, the peacock would dip his head into Baya and let her enter him.

  But there are some days when the sun does not rise. Or even if it does, the darkness is so thick you cannot see it. When such darkness comes, your eyes record a false light, one that you have created out of fear. On one such day, Baya expressed her dread. She grew cold, even though the peacock tried hard to keep her warm. His skin was not enough so he bent down low into her belly to take her in. He had never gone so deep before, and Baya thought it was someone else — another lover. Like a fool, she called this other lover’s name.

  The peacock felt a burning in his heart. It grew so strong that Baya tried to move away from him. This time, the peacock needed no wind. His heart drove him to tearful rage and he rose up out of Baya and followed her, his fan, black as a bad dream, spun over the sky in evil might. The closer he came to her, the farther away Baya went. They raced, gathering speed with every drop of hate and fear. As the peacock’s heat grew, Baya tried harder to escape. She flung herself far and wide, much farther than she knew, and finally lashed the peacock against a tree.

  Blue and red filled the air. Before Baya could regain her calm, the song of the peacock’s death began. It cut through her centre and she parted. She took over land that was not hers. She took over flowers and grass and herbs and small fruit trees. It was not her fault, but she could not stop her grieving. Finally, unable to bear the sight of the peacock fallen, she swallowed him whole and hid him in the folds of her skin.

  A vow had been broken. Baya and the peacock had promised each other heaven and gave each other death instead. But they gave each other something else, too: a special seed that the peacock’s death had left behind. Because the peacock had been jealous, Gardulla was born. Thus, he was born not by or of, he was born because. The wind chanted his name like a favourite season. “Gardulla,” said the wind. And Gardulla popped his little head out of the water and got his first taste of sun. The wind, unable to see his feet, thought that the little boy was tall enough to stand on his mother’s bed. “Why,” said the wind, “is this Gardulla a giant?” And for a second time, he was born because — because the wind could not see.

  It is absurd that a river and a peacock could give birth to a little boy. It is absurd that upon being told by the wind that he was a giant, Gardulla simply stretched his legs out and became one. By the same token, I ask you, why is the wind allowed to talk? We cannot see it, but we listen to it more clearly than to the words of men. And why is it that while we are made of water, only the clouds can give it to us? We could be trees. Or we could be alive only because trees breathe us in.

  Gardulla could never leave the water. He thought of Baya as water and not as his mother because she was too distant. Although she lay against him all the time, not once did she coil around him. She was cold and silent and Gardulla did not know why. His only joy was watching the world around him. By now Baya had stopped crying and had shrunk to her old size once more. The grass, flowers, herbs and fruit trees grew along her banks again.

  Time passed in this manner. Days repeated themselves with such monotony that new days were a thing long forgotten. Until a little girl, her hair brown as a haystack, came to play alongside Baya. Baya liked the little girl; whenever the little girl came, Baya sang. At first Gardulla thought nothing of this. But then he felt the warmth of his mother, and he knew it was not for him. The warmth reached toward the little girl — it changed its path like a treacherous arrow. Unable to bear the sight of the little girl, Gardulla put his head inside the water for the first time.

  He was horrified by what he saw. Feathers of blue and red were scattered across the folds of his mother’s skin. When Baya sensed that Gardulla saw the peacock, she tried to hide his feathers. And when you hide something, it means your heart is halved. The other half is buried under your lips.

  The next time the little girl came to play, Gardulla’s eyes shot blood. But he lowered them so she would not see his anger. The little girl ran through the grass and became thirsty. She bent toward Baya to quench her thirst. Baya could not help it. She felt warm again. The little girl reminded Baya of her lover. Gardulla, on the other hand, was like a carving on a tombstone for Baya, synonymous with her husband’s death. Gardulla was a record of all that she wished to forget.

  Now Gardulla was sure. The girl was his stepsister and his mother’s favourite. As the little girl drank, he reached his arm out and caught her. When he lifted the little girl, Baya became fast and young again. She raged against him with all her might. She crushed him, telling him that she was killing him with the force of her love. Gardulla’s life poured out of his eyes. He could not believe Baya was doing this, and yet it made no difference. He could have fought back, but he simply let go of the little girl. In time, the force of Baya crushed his head. Not wishing to keep him close, she sent him to her feet, where he was taken away by the earth.

  There are always flowers for the dead. Baya placed a white lotus in the large palm of her dead son. The lotus sank with Gardulla. Thus, whenever you see a sinking lotus, it is because the giant who lives underwater pulls it down from below.

  LOVE LANE

  So here I am in Love Lane ready to mourn the death of lovers. It is hot and I am worried that the finger I carry will melt. I must find its use fast. It will come to me like rain when I least expect it.

  I walked this road many times as a boy, from Lucky Moon to Love Lane. It is a ten-minute walk. During those ten minutes, I would think of how eating dinner at home would make me sick. The silence between Mother and Father as they let the clink and scratch of forks and spoons speak instead of their own voices, the razor cuts on Father’s face increasing as their love decreased, while I stared at the mangoes on the table, the fish, the bread, how it all was cut up and open, just like Father.

  During the ten-minute walk, I also thought of never going home again. What if I kept on walking? I would cross the outer limits of the city, then the suburbs, the towns, the villages, until I would stand before a vast expanse of water. A large white bird would pick me up, fly me to the land of my choice, and I would ask it to go where everyone is always talking, where there are no spoons and forks, where boys play cricket and girls have pretty brown hair, and where mothers do not sleep with supreme court judges and fathers have no razor marks on their faces.

  But I never saw a large white bird. There were only sparrows pickin
g on crumbs that beggars had left behind. So I would go back to Lucky Moon, where my worried driver would be searching for me. He would cage me in my black Mercedes and take me home just in time for the silence of dinner.

  This road is called Love Lane for a reason. When you walk through it, you ignore the loud noise of schoolgirls. You do not hear the religious discourse of the old man with a long beard who is spitting wisdom into a megaphone. The month-old puddle from the leaking sewage pipe does not affect you. You ignore the swarm of flies that fuss over it like women. For when two hands meet in Love Lane, they can make deserts wet.

  Today I see another breed of lovers. They are seated on wooden chairs under a long white canopy, staring at the bearded wise man. They are lovers of religion. If the lovers of the flesh are absent, these will do. The wise man speaks to at least forty people, all of whom hang on his every word as if he is the world’s next prophet. He holds the megaphone to his lips with his right hand, and directs world prosperity with the other.

  “Even kings take help from beggars,” he shouts. “So why not you?”

  The canopy is hung outside an all girls’ school. By the time the girls grow up to be women, they shall be pure and helpful. There is nothing like religion for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  “So why not you?” repeats the wise man.

  No one answers. It would be disrespectful to do so.

  “I will tell you why,” he says.

  By the manner in which they shake their heads, I can tell a few of the listeners are already ashamed.

  “You are too proud to ask for God’s help,” he says. “Too proud.”

  There are three women seated in the last row. They could not agree more. They would cook for this wise man; such is their awe for the saver of us all.

  “The mountain will not come to you,” he says. “You must walk to it.”

  A man wearing a white bush shirt and black trousers has fallen asleep in the first row.

  “Look at this man!” shouts the wise one. “He does not even have the manners to listen to the word of God.”

  If God had one word to tell us, what would it be? He has created too much for one word to explain.

  “You know what this man is?” asks the prophet.

  Once more, they do not answer because they are not meant to.

  “This man is proud,” he shouts. “Pride is what allowed the evil spirit to conquer good.”

  I think the poor man is simply asleep. He is probably trying to rest after a hot afternoon of fixing a telephone line or selling combs out of a torn suitcase.

  “This man is a peacock!” says the old man. “Too proud!”

  For once, I must admit, religion has saved me.

  In this world there is no such thing as coincidence. Hospitals are real and jails are real. Believing in chance is like saying the opening of flowers happens by mistake. If there is a peacock here, a river and a giant are close by.

  The wise man takes his megaphone close to the sleeping peacock. “God wants us all to rise!” he shouts.

  Everyone slowly gets up from their chairs. The creak of their backs indicates that this has been one long afternoon of enlightenment.

  The man still sleeps. It is quite superb.

  The wise man will not tolerate defiance. After all, he is not selling onions at a high price. His claims cannot be dismissed with such apathy. He is offering the Fruit of God. It is free, but can cost us the universe if we do not eat it.

  “We must not only get up from our seats,” he says. “We must rise as human beings!”

  The man’s sleep breaks. Maybe he has sold his last comb or there are no more telephone wires to be fixed. Everyone looks at him. His eyes have the red blur of sleep and confusion. He looks at his arms, which are already folded. All he has to do is stand up and he is a gentleman again.

  “I fear for your soul,” says the wise man. “We all fear for his soul,” he adds. He looks at the others, who are thankful that they slept well at home and did not doze off during the wise man’s edict.

  “Brothers, don’t we fear for his soul?” he asks. “We must teach him a lesson. God wants it so.”

  The waking man’s hands are not folded anymore. They are by his side as he looks around at the faces. They are young and old, but mostly old. The young seek religion only after they have collected enough sin. Ask me; I know. The crowd starts moving toward the man who was asleep. In a second faster than light, the man runs.

  Brown paper bag in hand, I bolt after him. He is my racing peacock. I look for rivers on either side of the street. There are bullock carts trudging along, cycles lined against the side wall of a ration shop, and a circle of men in white shirts smoking cigarettes during their tea break.

  The peacock does not stop running. He darts through a taxi and a handcart and enters a small passage that separates two buildings. I must not lose my peacock. Try running without an arm. It is a circus act. It is like stirring soup without a ladle.

  Residents of both buildings are outside. One man brushes his teeth, perched like an eagle on his outside landing. A woman beats her yellow sari with a wet cloth again and again as if she is lashing a woman who hides inside. She sees the peacock rush past. Then she sees me.

  “Thief!” she shouts. “Stop that thief!”

  I am not sure who she thinks the thief is. I am the chaser, but then again I am carrying a brown paper packet in my hand. The peacock is empty-handed.

  A short man leaning against huge drums of water decides to be heroic. It is his little lane, and he will be talked about in the days to come. So he puffs and heaves and overturns a drum. Water gushes out. It is not the least bit dangerous, but the runner stops.

  The sari-lasher has come up behind me with the tooth-brusher. The tooth-brusher tries to speak and spits black paste onto me instead.

  “What did he steal?” asks the sari-lasher.

  “I … nothing,” I say.

  “Stop that man!” she shouts.

  But the man is not going anywhere. He walks toward us, his chest heaving. The water from the drum seeps through my sandals and wets my feet. It feels dirty, as though truckloads of children with runny noses have bathed in it.

  “He is not … a thief,” I say.

  “Not a chor?” asks the tooth-brusher. “Then why were you following him?”

  “I was not following,” I say.

  “What, you were exercising?” he snaps. “Tell the truth, cripple. Why you were following?”

  “I was following him to return this bag.”

  The peacock looks at the brown paper bag in my hand.

  “You must have left it inside God’s tent,” I say. I extend the bag toward the peacock. The water has soaked my feet now and rushes past on a downward slope.

  “It’s not mine,” he says. “I had to meet my wife half an hour ago. I’m late. That’s why I was running.”

  You were running from God, so you could get to your wife. Woman is truly powerful.

  “I have to go,” he says.

  The drum-turner, the sari-lasher and the tooth-brusher are most disappointed that no confrontation will take place. So I try.

  “But you might know what to do with it,” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  I feel something nibbling against my foot. I know what it is, but I refuse to look down. I simply stare at the peacock.

  “Do with what?” he asks.

  “This bag,” I reply.

  A small rat is feasting on my toes. I try to stamp on it but it escapes. In the water, it is a black prune running.

  “Saala rat,” says the drum-turner. “This gully has too many rats. I’ll show them.”

  Perhaps he says this because his bravery did not pay off. No thief was caught and he will not be talked about in the days to come. “I will drown all those rats,” he says.

  He walks to a drum and empties it in our direction. Dried flowers that must have been part of a garland wash past me.

  “Ay!” shouts the sari-la
sher. “Don’t waste water!”

  “Saala rats!” he shouts.

  He overturns a third drum. It is the last one. Empty cigarette packs, matchboxes, torn balloons and two more rats come toward me. The water rushes past like a river.

  “My wife!” says the peacock with the suddenness of a traffic signal coming on.

  He flees from strife, toward his wife, where he will beg for his life for being late. The water follows him, curling at his feet. In that moment, I know I must start running again. Love and history are repeating themselves for me. The peacock is racing with the river. I see the river part as it breaks into two thin streams.

  FLAME AND FORTUNE

  Will the peacock be lashed against a tree after slipping? Will his wife push him into oncoming traffic for being late? It does not concern me. I was never after the peacock. I want the giant. As the river forks into Love Lane again, I stand and survey the street. In front of me there is a shop that sells cooking utensils. Next to it is a cycle shop. At one time these cycles were parrot green, ink blue and sun orange. Now they look a beaten-down black. Cycling. One more thing I cannot do. So I look at the cars that trickle past. Driving. One more thing I cannot do.

  I think of one-armed gems: stabbing with a knife, using a gun, picking flowers, snapping your fingers, waving goodbye. There is a place in this world for cripples. We cannot ride cycles, we cannot drive cars, but we can kill. It is hard to swallow the fact that I failed at suicide. If I had succeeded, I would not be staring at this large man reading a young girl’s palm near the cycle shop.

  I have found my giant. Yes, it has been too easy. But this only means that what lies ahead will be disastrous.

  I quickly cross the street toward the giant, but in my haste I drop the brown paper bag. I raise both my arms to the skies to stop the oncoming black Fiat from crushing it. There is no harm in me thinking that I have raised two arms. In my mind I have raised two arms and it is the thought that counts.