by Anosh Irani
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.
“Welcome to our little kholi,” says Sumdi.
Guddi lies on the ground under the shelter of the gunny bags. She scratches her toes and grimaces as she does this. Sumdi lies down on the footpath too. He crosses his arms behind his neck and stares at the sky.
Chamdi carefully copies Sumdi’s actions. The problem is that Sumdi’s eyes are now closed and it seems as though he will be fast asleep in a few minutes. Chamdi knows he will find it hard to sleep tonight. The orphanage offered him a bed and clean sheets. Here, the footpath is uneven, and stones and dirt poke his back. All he can do is stare at the sky and hope that its blackness will bring him sleep.
Then he asks himself if the sky is where his mother lives.
This thought has come to him before, but tonight he truly believes it. That is the only reason my father left me, he thinks. I reminded him of my mother. She lives in the sky now. Someday, she will show herself to me.
Chamdi stares into the darkness and traces the shape of his mother’s body. From one star to the next he draws lines, connects them with skin and flesh. He picks the largest star to be his mother’s head and attaches to it tresses of black hair, as he has always imagined she had. He does not use stars as her eyes because he has dreamt of his mother in the past and in his dreams he has seen her eyes: they are exactly like his, large and black, and he holds this image of his mother in the sky.
Soon his eyes close and he can hear Bombay breathe—car horns, the panting of dogs, and something else: the sound of a woman moaning.
Yes, it is quite clear to him that he can hear a woman moan.
He sits up on his elbows and sees a form on the floor, leaning against the wall of the building opposite him. It is too dark to tell who it is, but there is no doubt that the person is in pain. He glances at Sumdi and Guddi. Should he wake them?
If I wake them they might think I am scared, he tells himself.
But Chamdi cannot ignore the moaning. He gets up and slowly walks towards the person. He winces as he steps on something sharp and hopes it is not glass because there is enough glass in him already. He looks down—it is the red cork of a soda bottle. As he approaches the woman he notices that her eyes are closed and she leans her head against the wall. She talks to herself, but Chamdi cannot understand what she is saying.
Just as he is about to touch her shoulder to calm her, he freezes. There is a baby in her lap, only a few months old, and completely still. The woman’s face is lined with dirt, and when Chamdi looks closely, he finds that clumps of her hair are missing. She continues to moan with her eyes closed.
Chamdi is so close to the woman that he can feel her breath upon him. There are creases near her eyes and lines of age have been darkened with sweat and dirt. Her mouth is dry and pale. Chamdi looks at the naked child. He touches the child’s face with his forefinger. It does not move. Go back to sleep, he tells himself. His shaking finger pokes the child again, this time in the belly. Nothing.
“What are you doing?” asks Sumdi.
Chamdi spins around.
“Don’t be scared, it’s only me.”
“I’m not scared.”
“What are you doing?”
“I was just … I think this baby is … not well.”
Sumdi does not seem alarmed by the sight of the woman or the baby in her lap. “Go back to sleep,” he says.
“But the baby’s not breathing.”
Sumdi puts his finger near the baby’s mouth. “I can feel its breath,” he says. “It’s sleeping. Don’t worry.”
Sumdi then holds the woman’s face in his hands. “Amma,” he says to her.
He gently shakes the woman’s face a few times and she stops moaning.
“You know her?” asks Chamdi.
Sumdi puts his hand on Chamdi’s shoulder and leads Chamdi towards their kholi. Chamdi wonders if Sumdi does this to support himself because of his afflicted leg, or if it is a sign of friendship.
“Go to sleep. We have work to do tomorrow,” says Sumdi.
“What work?”
“I’ll show you tomorrow.”
They both lie down on the footpath again.
“Chamdi,” says Sumdi.
“Say.”
“You can run fast, no?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Just answer me. Please.”
“Yes. I can run fast.”
“Good,” says Sumdi.
And Sumdi closes his eyes. His hand touches that of his sister, who is still sleeping, and she stirs in her sleep a little, but the touch does not wake her. And Chamdi’s thoughts are still with the woman—he wonders why she is moaning and what she is talking to herself about so he raises his head and takes a look at her again. She bares her t
eeth to the moon and the child remains a statue in her lap.
Chamdi looks up at the sky once more and begs his mother to show herself, but maybe that is impossible, so he tells her to arrange the stars in such a way that the name of his father will be revealed, for if Chamdi is to find one man in this city of a thousand-thousand-thousand people, then the least the heavens can do is reveal his father’s name.
FIVE.
The street comes to life early in the morning. Crows sit in the trees and atop roofs and wake Chamdi. He is surprised to find that a lot of people sleep on the streets. A young man yawns and stretches as he lies on a handcart. He sits up, runs his fingers through his hair, and opens his eyes wide. Two men pass him by with small buckets of water in their hands. They smile at each other as though one of them has cracked a joke. A man dressed in khaki shorts uses a long broom to sweep the garbage that has collected on the footpath. An old woman sits on her haunches and brushes her teeth with her fingers. There is a thick black paste around her lips and she pours water into her mouth from a blue-and-white-striped mug and spits onto the street. She does so in front of the sweeper and does not seem to care that he has just cleaned that part of the footpath. A bald man in white robes walks barefoot across the street. He holds a steel cup with a long handle in one hand and carries loose marigolds in the other. From the red tikka on his forehead, Chamdi can tell that the man is on his way to the temple.
Chamdi hears Guddi clear her throat. She spits on the street too, just like the old woman. Guddi’s face looks dirtier than it did last night, but her cheeks are surprisingly full. Chamdi notices that she went to sleep with her orange bangles on. The brown dress she wears has small holes in it, and she wipes her hands on the dress, uses it as a towel.
“Look at him,” says Guddi. “He went to sleep with his scarf on. I told you he’s a complete idiot.”
“Let him be,” says Sumdi.
Sumdi must have been the first to rise, thinks Chamdi. He seems wide awake. He opens a rusty tin can and picks a matchbox from it. He lights a fire on a small kerosene stove and places a steel bowl on it. It is hard for Chamdi to take his eyes off the scar on Sumdi’s face. It is deep and jagged, as though the skin had been torn apart. Chamdi wonders how Sumdi lost part of his right ear. If they sleep on the street, maybe a rat bit it off. Chamdi is grateful that this thought did not come to him last night. He tries not to stare at the ear.