by Anosh Irani
It surprised Chamdi that Mrs. Sadiq’s life story could be told in only a few sentences. So he made up his mind to achieve something so wonderful that if he were to tell anyone his life story, it would take days to tell, even weeks, and the ending would be a happy one, unlike Mrs. Sadiq’s. He wanted to tell Mrs. Sadiq about his plans, but she would have shouted at him for spying on her.
Mrs. Sadiq looks at the clock again. She runs her hands over her white hair, which is tied in a bun. She wears a blue sari and matching rubber chappals. Chamdi can always tell which room of the orphanage she is in from the flip-flop of her chappals. When she steps out of the orphanage, she wears leather sandals. The rubber chappals had made her slip in the rain once, and that is when she hurt her back. The bottle of Ayurvedic oil that she rubs on her back sits on the table next to a blue glass paperweight. Mrs. Sadiq holds the blue paperweight in her fist and then looks at the clock. Chamdi wonders if she thinks the clock and paperweight are connected.
She finally sees Chamdi standing in the corridor.
As she gets up from her wooden chair, the small green cushion that supports her lower back falls to the floor. She slowly bends to pick it up, but Chamdi can tell from the strain on her face that her back hurts. So she lets the cushion remain on the floor. Chamdi enters the room, picks the cushion up, and places it against the back of Mrs. Sadiq’s chair.
Mrs. Sadiq smiles at Chamdi, but he knows she is worried about something because a smile is not supposed to make a person look older. She walks to the window and rests her elbows on the sill. Chamdi looks out the window too, sees the well, and warns himself never to go near it again.
Chamdi and Mrs. Sadiq stand in silence and listen to the occasional car horn. He wonders what would happen if the orphanage were in the heart of Bombay. He would have to hear buses rumble in a mighty manner all day long. Jyoti has told him that the buses of Bombay have no respect for human beings. His own eyes have marked how cruel buses are to humans—they prevent people from getting on, and the people who do get on are forced to hang from the buses in the most dangerous manner. Jyoti also told him that when she came to Bombay from her village, there was no seat for her inside the bus, so she sat on the roof along with five men and travelled that way for a whole day. At the time Chamdi thought that he would love to sit on the roof of a bus and see all the villages of India.
But right now he wants to know what troubles Mrs. Sadiq because she has not said a word to him. Chamdi has noticed that in the last three months Mrs. Sadiq has grown quieter and quieter, and he wonders if it is a sign that she is dying. He is afraid to ask her. But he must make her talk because the more she speaks, the longer she will live.
Before Chamdi can ask her anything, Mrs. Sadiq pats him on the head, walks back to her table, and reads the letter again. She picks up the black telephone receiver and puts it to her ear as if to check whether it is working. Then she puts the receiver back in its cradle, takes her silver glasses off, and rubs her eyes.
Maybe she did not sleep last night, thinks Chamdi. Her eyes are red. But they could also be red from crying. He finds it strange that although tears are colourless, they make the eyes turn red. He has often wondered about his own eyes. If he stares at the bougainvilleas for days and days at a time, will his eyes acquire their colour? Then he would be the only boy in Bombay, or even the world, to have pink or red pupils.
The ring of the telephone snaps him out of his thoughts. Mrs. Sadiq does not answer it immediately. She lets it ring, and Chamdi knows that she wants him to leave. If she were his mother, he would have clung on to her leg and refused to go.
Before Chamdi leaves the room, he glimpses the bougainvilleas through the window and is pleased that the breeze makes them dance. It is a sign that Mrs. Sadiq will be okay.
TWO.
Mrs. Sadiq scratches her right eyebrow with her thumbnail. After a few seconds, she moves on to the left. This is a habit Chamdi has noticed over the years. Whenever she is worried, she does this. But he has never seen her worry so much about a simple telephone call. He knows she is holding something from him, just as she holds something from him when she refuses to tell him about his mother and father. But no matter how many times she tells him she knows nothing about his parents, he is determined to find out the truth. After all, it was Mrs. Sadiq who named him Chamdi—“a boy of thick skin.”
Today Chamdi does thank Lady Cama as he passes her in the corridor. Chamdi knows it is not possible, but he feels her ears have grown larger. It could be because her ears are constantly filled with so many thank-yous. If this is true, then God must have the largest ears in the world.
Sonal, the oldest girl in the orphanage, stands looking out the window in the sleeping room. She wears a faded green dress that came with a set of old clothes donated by a Christian family that was moving to Madras. The brown shorts and white vest that Chamdi wears came from the same family. Chamdi envies the Christian boy whose waistline is wider than his. It means the boy eats much more than a ball of rice and vegetables. Chamdi wants to become a man fast. He wants to be strong. He knows that Sonal wants to grow up quickly too. She is hurt by the way she looks right now. Chamdi heard Mrs. Sadiq telling Sonal that girls take time to show their beauty. So Sonal now believes that she will be a beauty when she grows up. She is not sure at what age she will become beautiful, but she is willing to wait patiently.
In a corner of the room, three boys stand in a group and play koyba, the game of three white stones. Even though they are not brothers, these boys resemble each other. They are stout of chest but their legs are thin. Chamdi believes they look similar because they are always together. They do not talk much with the other children. One of the boys lifts his right leg as he releases the small round stone from his hand. It hits the stone on the floor with precision.
Now Chamdi sees Jyoti walk out the main door. It is still too early for her to go home, so he assumes she must be off to the market to buy vegetables or cooking oil for Mrs. Sadiq. Chamdi wonders what Mrs. Sadiq would do without Jyoti because Mrs. Sadiq does not have the strength to squat on the ground and scrub floors, or cook food for twenty children. Even though Jyoti’s work is shoddy, she has not left the orphanage to work in someone’s private home for a larger sum. Perhaps this is because of her husband, Raman. Chamdi knows that no household would employ a drunkard. At least here Raman cleans the toilets and then he is out of everyone’s way. On some days he passes out in the courtyard and all the children gather around him and wonder if he is dead.
Just as Chamdi is about to walk down the steps and into the courtyard, he feels someone tug his hand. It is Pushpa. She holds in her hand an old, tattered copy of Chandamama, a children’s storybook that contains fabulous tales like “The Child Who Ate a Mountain” and “The Flying Rhinoceros with Morals.” Pushpa wants to speak, but she waits till she has enough air. Chamdi knows what she wants anyway. He takes the book from Pushpa’s hand and walks with her to a corner of the room near a large wooden cupboard that contains the children’s clothes and toys. The cupboard has a long mirror on one door and a pink flower tree painted in the wood on the other. There is a bird in one of the tree’s branches. Chamdi loves this painting because it looks as though the bird’s mouth is open and it is sending out a song that travels miles and miles.
They sit on the floor as far away as possible from the Koyba Boys. One of the boys has just won three games in a row and he is walking around with his chest out. The other two are upset that they are not winning, so they rub all three white stones together and kiss them for luck.
Chamdi likes it when Pushpa wants him to read a story to her. He never starts reading at the beginning of the book because he believes that he needs to open the book to the story that is meant to be read. As he looks at Pushpa, he notices again that even though she is tiny, and the youngest child in the orphanage, her eyes are large and round, much like the koyba stones.
Chamdi closes his eyes and opens the book to “The Hunger Princess.” He knows this story a
nd is happy it has been chosen. “The Hunger Princess” is a love story about a beautiful princess in ancient India who was not allowed to marry the boy of her choice, a poor farmer’s son. So she decided to starve herself to death. The king did not think his daughter would do such a thing, but she bravely refused to eat, and such was the effect of her devotion that crops stopped growing and the whole kingdom starved until the king finally agreed to give his daughter to the poor farmer’s son.
It was Mrs. Sadiq who first read this story to all the children. As Chamdi thinks back, he understands why the story gave Mrs. Sadiq no joy when she told it. Perhaps it made her realize how differently her own story had turned out, and even though the tone of her voice was gentle, Chamdi could tell that Mrs. Sadiq did not believe a word of what she was reading. He is sure of that now. But he is pleased that Pushpa is ready to wholeheartedly believe whatever she is told. After he reads her the story, he might reveal to her the power of colours. But just as he is about to start reading, Mrs. Sadiq steps into the room.
“I want all of you to sit on the floor,” she says. “I have something important to tell you.”
Chamdi closes the storybook and tells Pushpa that as soon as Mrs. Sadiq makes her announcement, he will start the tale. Pushpa takes the copy of Chandamama from Chamdi’s hand and admires the illustration of the Hunger Princess, whose long black hair covers her face as she weeps for the poor farmer’s son. Dhondu the ghost-boy sits down next to the two of them.
It is hard for the Koyba Boys to stop their game because one boy has now won four games in a row. He tells the others that he wants to set a record of five. But at a look from Mrs. Sadiq, they pick up one stone each and sit down next to Sonal, who is already waiting, her hand on her chin.
Chamdi catches Mrs. Sadiq’s reflection in the mirror on the wooden cupboard. Her body is frail and the veins on her forehead are visible. She looks even more tired now than she did a while ago in her office. This means the news cannot be good.
He recalls the last time she made an announcement. It was regarding the Babri Masjid. The mosque had been destroyed on December sixth, the same day as Pushpa’s birthday. She told them about it a couple of days later, when riots had broken out in Bombay.
Over the next few days, Chamdi overheard Raman tell Jyoti that it was unsafe for Mrs. Sadiq to go out of the orphanage as well because she was Muslim. Muslim-owned shops were being looted and set ablaze. Muslim men, women and children were being harmed, and the police offered no protection at all. It was Raman who suggested that Mrs. Sadiq wear a sari instead of the traditional salwar kameez. If she did step out, she might be able to pretend that she is Hindu. But Chamdi did not want to believe any of this. After all, Raman drank so much. It made him tell lies.
Mrs. Sadiq’s words bring Chamdi back to the present.
“I have watched some of you come here as babies, and now you are so heavy that I cannot even lift you,” she begins.
Her mouth breaks into a faint smile. She looks at Sonal, who plays with the frills of her green dress. Sonal often wanders off into Dreamland. It irritates Chamdi that Sonal is not paying attention.
“Sonal, you came here when you were two years old,” says Mrs. Sadiq. “How old are you now?”
Sonal hears her name and looks up at Mrs. Sadiq. She raises her hand to answer. Mrs. Sadiq has taught them that when they are in a group they must raise their hand if they wish to speak.
“How old are you?” repeats Mrs. Sadiq.
“I’m nine years old,” replies Sonal.
“We have one boy who will soon be a man,” says Mrs. Sadiq. “Can anyone tell me who that is?”
Pushpa points to Chamdi. Chamdi looks down because he does not like the attention. What is so great about being born before the others? He has done nothing to achieve it.
“As you all know, this orphanage used to be owned by a Parsi lady,” says Mrs. Sadiq. “H.P. Cama died thirty years ago. It is said that she had no husband, no children. She decided that after she died her home would be a home for little children like you.”
Why is she telling us what we already know? thinks Chamdi. He is now sure that the news is bad because Mrs. Sadiq is wasting time and she looks at her feet as she talks.
“But there is a problem now.”
Mrs. Sadiq straightens her back and head when she says this, but Chamdi knows this will not change the nature of her words.
“Three months ago, I received a letter. It was from the trustees of this orphanage … the people who are in charge of this place. A man showed up and he was able to prove to the trustees that he is H.P. Cama’s grandson.”
Mrs. Sadiq stares at her feet again. Then she crosses her arms and scratches her elbows.
“So the trustees are being forced to hand over the place to him, and they hear that he is going to construct a building in place of this orphanage. I begged them to provide some sort of shelter, even a smaller shelter would do, anywhere … They gave me a final answer at three o’clock today.”
Beside Chamdi, Pushpa opens Chandamama and flips through the pages. She stops at an illustration of a young boy who holds a mountain in his hand and is ready to eat it. Pushpa looks at Chamdi, points to the boy’s gaping mouth, and giggles. But Chamdi is concentrating hard on Mrs. Sadiq’s words.
“The thing is, the trustees have asked us to leave this orphanage. We have one month to leave. This orphanage will be broken down and a tall building will come in its place.”
Suddenly, Chamdi is filled with anger at Mrs. Sadiq. She knew about this three months ago. Why did she not tell him? All she did was grow quieter and quieter as if her silence would help them. And what kind of people are these trustees? How can they choose a building over children?
“Tell them we will not leave,” says Chamdi.
“We have no choice, Chamdi.”
“This is our home.”
“But they own it. There’s nothing we can do. There are times in your life when you cannot do anything. We are lucky that we were allowed to stay in this place for so many years. There are people who are worse off on the streets.”
“But that’s where you are sending us.”
“I’m not sending you anywhere. It’s not up to me. But I’m doing all I can to find another place for you all.”
“Where?”
“Pune.”
“Where is that?”
“Pune is three hours from here by train. I know a priest there. His name is Father Braganza. He runs an orphanage too. I have written to him.”
“We are leaving Bombay?”
“I have tried to find a place in Bombay but there is nothing. And I feel that the farther away you are from this city, the safer it is. These are dangerous times. You know how bad the month of December was. Some people say the riots are not over, that more fighting and looting will take place.”
Chamdi does not like it when Mrs. Sadiq says this. Just because her life took a wrong turn does not mean theirs will too. And he has not seen any riots. He has seen Bombay in his mind and it is wonderful.
“What if Father Braganza says no?” asks Chamdi.
“He won’t,” she says. “Look—there’s no point in talking about this now. We will find another place. For now, all we can do is pray.”
Mrs. Sadiq runs her hands over her white hair and leads all the children to the prayer room. Pushpa leaves the storybook on the floor. Pushpa and Chamdi are the last to enter the prayer room.
Chamdi can tell that Mrs. Sadiq is scared. She usually stands just below Jesus and talks to the children before the prayer, but today she kneels alongside them. With her head bent down, she softly says, “Tell Jesus everything.”
Chamdi loses track of how long they stay silent, but by the end of the prayer it feels as if all the children have moved a little closer to each other.
Mrs. Sadiq is the first to stand up. All the children walk past her out of the prayer room. No one says a word. As Pushpa passes Mrs. Sadiq, she pulls on Mrs. Sadiq’s hand, as though she does
not want to go to the next room alone. But Mrs. Sadiq does not leave. Chamdi is last in line and he has been looking at her. Mrs. Sadiq tells Pushpa to carry on.
Chamdi is burning with anger because he has heard the truth. And he has decided that if Mrs. Sadiq can speak the truth with such ease today, she will tell him what she has been hiding from him for all these years.
“You have to tell me the truth,” he says.
“I did tell you the truth,” Mrs. Sadiq replies. “We have no home now.”
“Not about the orphanage. I want the truth about me.”
“Chamdi, I’ve told you many times. I know nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“I know nothing. I promise.”
“Swear by Jesus,” insists Chamdi.
“I have done that for you also. Many times.” Mrs. Sadiq sighs.
“Put your hand on Jesus. Then say it.”
Chamdi knows that in the past Mrs. Sadiq has lied to him. She has sworn by Jesus that she knows nothing about his mother or father, but she has never placed her hand on Jesus and lied. Mrs. Sadiq touches Jesus’ feet.
“I know nothing about your mother and father,” she says.
“You’re still lying.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You removed your hand from Jesus’ feet while you were saying it.”
“Chamdi … you must stop asking about your parents.”
“Then I will ask you something else.”
“That’s better.”
“Do you remember when you asked me if I kicked one of the Koyba Boys while he was sleeping?”
“I remember.”
“What did I tell you?”
“You told me you did kick one of them.”
“And you know why I told you? Because I’m a bad liar. Just like you. Tell me, please. Please, Mrs. Sadiq, I need to know about my parents.”