The Song of Kahunsha

by Anosh Irani

  Suddenly she grips his hand. “Listen,” she whispers.

  Chamdi can hear nothing. Instead, he looks at Guddi’s hands, at the dirt that is stuck on them, at the way her fingernails are eaten, at the orange bangles she never takes off, and he follows her hand up to the elbow and sees a faint trace of blood, probably the result of an itch she satisfied too well, and then he sees the sleeve of her brown dress, and then he looks at her face, and he tells himself that even if she sang for her father, Chamdi has no doubt that the song will do what he wants it to.

  “The horses are coming,” whispers Guddi.

  She holds Chamdi’s hand, and he finds he cannot look in the direction of the horses. Guddi can tell that he is staring at her, so she places her hands on his head and turns it the other way, and they both peer above the hood of the taxi and see a tall carriage coming their way—two black horses striding, an old man smoking a beedi at the helm, a folded whip in his hand, and the four large wheels of the carriage spinning like worlds, bringing the horses closer and closer. Chamdi and Guddi wait for the carriage to pass and then they both run behind it. There is a hutch in the back, small enough for them to fit in, and Guddi gets on and sits down. She faces him now and stretches her arms out for him, and Chamdi tells himself that he does not want to get on that carriage, no, he will spend his entire life running behind this girl because the moment he steps onto that carriage her arms will no longer be outstretched. No one has ever done this for him, stretched out their arms, although he has dreamt of this moment many times, but in his dreams it has been his mother and father coming to the orphanage as he runs into their arms. He has never pictured a girl his own age with brown hair and yellow teeth, but this is better, so much better. He does not realize that the carriage is moving farther and farther away from him, and he does not care. All he wants is to carry this image in his brain for the rest of his life.

  But Guddi is alarmed. She makes wild gestures with her hands, and Chamdi breaks his reverie and runs as though he is running away forever towards a better place. And soon he is on the carriage with Guddi and they face the city, leave it backwards. The skyscrapers of the city seem very far away but their lights shine brightly. The thick, heavy branches of trees lean towards the centre of the road from either side. Chamdi loves the clip-clop of the horses as they walk briskly through the wide street. If only this carriage would go all the way to the orphanage, what a ride that would be. He wishes the stables never come.

  He wonders what this street is called. There is a movie theatre—Super Cinema, the name says. Opposite Super Cinema is another theatre, The Shalimar. He loves these names and thinks of the theatres as brothers-Super and Shalimar.

  He looks up at the night sky. It is bluish in parts. Moonlight lands on different parts of their bodies—their heads, thighs, noses, knees—and soon every part of their bodies is screaming for more light. Guddi claps her hands, and Chamdi smiles so wide that every tooth is showing. He can see the moonlight fall on the tin roofs of the closed shops, hit the road and wipe out the night’s tiredness. He begs the light to seep into his body until he is completely dripping.

  And Chamdi strains to catch a glimpse of the horses because they too will soon be drenched in light. Their black skin will shine, and the streets will be illuminated by their mighty glow, and he wonders if that glow will wake people from their sleep, if it will make them tear open their windows, to see him and her, two children, mouths open, swallowing light. He hopes this a sight that will inspire grown-ups to run onto the streets and get wet in the maddest manner. He watches Guddi as she flicks his hair off his face and giggles, and he does not know what that giggle means, but it is almost as wonderful as her song, and he suddenly says to her, “Your name is not Guddi. Tonight, I will call you Bulbul. I name you after a nightingale.” The two of them laugh and sputter, and Chamdi feels that the old man who rides the horse carriage must know that they are in the hutch of his carriage but perhaps he does not care, and the horses must know too as they continue to stride onward. And Chamdi wonders if it is possible for only two people in the entire world to be alive, because that is how he feels right now, and that is what he wants to say to her.

  The boys on the handcart have gone. Only Sumdi remains, and he is scratching an itch on his foot. Chamdi cannot tell exactly what time it is, but it must be very late because the street has never looked this deserted. It amazes him how it transforms so quickly in the morning as though the street is an animal that wakes from its slumber.

  “Where were you?” demands Sumdi.

  “We went for a ghoda-gadi ride,” says Guddi.

  “Chamdi, did you see how big the horse’s middle leg is?”

  “Don’t tease him,” says Guddi.

  “Don’t tease him?”

  “Let him be.”

  “Did Chamdi do some magic on you?”

  “Let him be, I said.”

  “Chamdi,” says Sumdi. “What did you do to my sister? Did you take out one of your ribs and use it as a magic wand so that she has changed her feelings? Don’t get too carried away. She’s my sister. If you touch her in any bad way, I’ll cut your third leg, understand?”

  “Where’s Amma?” asks Guddi.

  “She’s sleeping.”

  Chamdi remains silent. Perhaps it is the contrast with the ride soaked in moonlight, but he notices again how dismal this area of the city is. The shops are packed too close to each other, the walls of the buildings are damaged, the windows are cracked in so many apartments, and even when plants grow, they creep along the building walls like thieves. What type of house makes plants feel like criminals?

  “Is the whole of Bombay like this only?” he asks at last. “Old buildings, small shops, stray dogs, and beggars?”

  “No,” says Sumdi. “There’s a huge garbage dump nearby which you have not seen.”

  “There’s much more than this,” says Guddi. “My father always said there’s no place like Bombay.”

  “He was right,” says Sumdi. “No place like this whorehouse.”

  “Shut up,” says Guddi. “There’s Marine Drive, a whole road by the sea lined by coconut trees, and at night you can see the buildings along the shore all lit up.”

  “Are there any gardens?” asks Chamdi. “Where’s the nearest garden?”

  “Hanging Gardens,” says Guddi. “You’ll love the Hanging Gardens. All the trees are cut in the shapes of animals. Tigers, elephants … And it is on a hill so you can see the whole of Bombay.”

  “Yes, Bombay’s hole is very nice,” says Sumdi. “Everyone has free entry but once you enter you cannot leave.”

  “Sumdi!” shouts Guddi.

  Sumdi keeps quiet. Guddi plays with the orange bangles on her wrists. Then she looks up at Chamdi.

  “There’s one more thing,” she says. “My favourite place in Bombay.”

  “What is it?”

  “Apollo Bunder. It’s near the sea. The Gateway of India is there. My father used to take me there. We used to sit on the sea wall and eat chana, and sometimes we would feed the pigeons and he would tell me exactly what they were saying … that if you climbed up and sat on the dome of the Gateway, you could see all the way across the sea to the next country.”

  “Which country is that?”

  “I don’t know … he never told me.”

  Guddi gazes at the ground again. Chamdi assumes she is thinking about her father. He is thrilled with the information he has just received. He wants to go to Marine Drive. He would love to sit by the sea and watch how the sun makes the water sparkle. And a whole line of coconut trees swaying in the wind—he could watch them for hours. Even Apollo Bunder sounds interesting. What country lies on the other side? He would sit on the dome of the Gateway of India with Guddi and look far out to the horizon. They might spot children just like them on the other side, and they would wave out to each other for hours. And the Hanging Gardens … trees in the shapes of animals. Imagine a bougainvillea horse! Chamdi cannot wait to see this place. He was
right about the Bombay that he dreamt. It does exist somewhere.

  “Can we go there now?” he asks.

  “Go where?”

  “Hanging Gardens.”

  “No,” says Sumdi. “Get some rest. Both of you.”

  Guddi lies down on the ground obediently. Her feet accidentally touch Amma’s head, but Amma does not stir. The baby rests on a plastic sheet that is covered by a dirty cloth. A rat crawls past. Chamdi gets up to drive it away, but it disappears into a hole in the footpath before he can reach it. He fears for the baby. He wishes it had a clean place to stay. No wonder it is sick, living alongside rats.

  Guddi places her tin box on the hole that the rat escaped into. Guddi gives Chamdi a quick glance and just before she closes her eyes she says to him, “Tomorrow is the day.”

  Chamdi wishes Mrs. Sadiq were next to him right now, so she could offer him good advice. He knows what she would say, that it is wrong to steal. Jesus would have been of no use right now. Jesus always stayed silent.

  “Go to sleep,” says Sumdi.

  “No, I’ll stay awake for a while.”

  “And do what?”

  “Think.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. I’ll dream.”

  “How can you dream while you’re awake?”

  “That’s the best kind of dream.”

  “You have to be drunk for that to happen. Or on ganja. But you must not even know what ganja is.”

  “No.”

  “Ganja is what poor people use to distract themselves from their miserable lives. But even that costs money.”

  “That’s why I dream. Dreams are free.”

  “Why are you so strange? Why can’t you be normal and spit on the road or shit in your pants?”

  “Tell me, what’s the one thing you really want in your life?” asks Chamdi.

  “I want to leave Bombay.”

  “That’s not a dream.”

  “Why not?”

  “Running away is not a dream. Anyway that is Bulbul’s dream.”

  “Who the hell is Bulbul?”

  Chamdi looks at Guddi. She smiles and then closes her eyes quickly as though a massive bout of sleep has suddenly come over her.

  “She is Bulbul?” asks Sumdi. “That terror, you called her a nightingale? You really are a dreamer. Now go to sleep.”

  “Not before you answer my question.”

  “Why can’t you let me be? Go and talk to the rat if you are lonely. Here, I’ll lift the box and you can enter that hole and dream in the dark.”

  “What’s the one thing you really want?”

  “You won’t let me sleep till I answer your question, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

  “Truthfully.”

  “Yes, truthfully.” Sumdi glances over at his sister. Her eyes stay closed. Amma stirs and then settles. A police jeep rushes past the bus stop. Chamdi quickly imagines three blue-and-yellow-striped tigers roaring behind the jeep, serving as its siren. The police-tigers go to places the jeep cannot. They pick out the scent of thieves much better than any policeman. And they will look after the children of Bombay, treat them as their own cubs.

  “Okay,” says Sumdi, holding his stiff leg. “I’ll tell you.”

  “Good.”

  “But you can never repeat this to anyone. Not even back to me. And after we have had this stupid conversation, you’ll let me sleep in peace. Even if God comes and starts cooking mutton biryani in the middle of the road you’ll not wake me.”

  “I promise.”

  “You see this leg of mine? I’ve never been able to run. Even when I walk, I feel heavy. It’s as though all my anger collects in this leg and it gets heavier and heavier. Even when my father died, I couldn’t run to him. I got there last, after Amma and my sister. Sometimes I just wish that I wouldn’t feel so heavy. So I really wish, you know, a waking dream just like yours in a way, that I will one day … No, it’s stupid. I’m sleeping.”

  “Go on, Sumdi.”

  “What’s the point? What I wish for is impossible.”

  “Why wish for what’s possible?”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it’s like that.”

  “I want to fly,” he whispers. “That’s my dream. I, Sumdi, will one day fly all over Bombay, see every gulley, see all the shops, movie theatres, gambling dens, brothels, cock fights, cricket matches, and once I am done, I will fly over the sea like a champion bird, and never ever stop. I will keep on flying for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s a wonderful dream,” says Chamdi.

  “But it can never come true, so what’s the use?”

  Chamdi does not say anything. He wants to tell Sumdi about Kahunsha. How police-tigers will patrol the streets to keep them safe, how there will be flowers everywhere, how all the water taps will gush forth pure rainwater, and how, most of all, no one will be deformed and people will not hurt each other.

  “Now I have a question for you,” says Sumdi.

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you wear that scarf around your neck all the time? Even when it’s boiling hot you never take it off.”

  “It’s not a scarf,” says Chamdi. “It’s …”

  Chamdi is not sure if he should tell Sumdi the truth about the cloth. Not that he does not trust Sumdi, but Chamdi would like to keep the real meaning of the cloth a secret until it leads him to his father. But he does not want to lie to Sumdi either.

  “This cloth was given to me by Mrs. Sadiq, the lady who looked after me at the orphanage. It reminds me of her,” he says. “It will bring me good luck.”

  “You’re a strange one to believe in luck in a city like Bombay,” says Sumdi. “But we’ll need all the luck we can get to leave this place. So keep it on. We are depending on you. Now get some rest.” He turns his back to Chamdi and lies down.

  A strong wind starts to blow. It gets stronger and stronger, and makes Chamdi uncomfortable. Perhaps the wind is telling him something. Yes, it is telling him not to be a ten-year-old fool and believe in police-tigers or bougainvillea horses. The Hanging Gardens are created by chopping plants down. The plants must scream in agony each time an animal is made.

  He stands up and looks around him. The two coconut trees behind the bus stop sway back and forth because of the heavy wind. Their branches point to the sky in the same way an overturned umbrella does. What a strange night this has been. The horse carriage ride was beautiful. Even the moon was brighter than usual. And now, the sky is angry.

  TEN.

  In the morning, the sky has the gloom of dusk. The doors of the bakery are open, and from where he lies on the street Chamdi can see a woman in the room above the bakery. She wears a pink scarf on her head, holds a small book in her hand, and she is mumbling to herself. Perhaps she is praying, asking for protection from her own husband.

  Chamdi’s back hurts. He is still not used to the uneven stone of the footpath. And it hurts for another reason, too—something has been creeping up his back all night, a thought, and it has finally settled down in his brain: Today is the day I become a thief. But he still hopes for a way out. There has to be.

  After a while, Sumdi stirs and stands up.

  “Going to get food?” asks Chamdi.

  “No,” says Sumdi. “I have to get something else first.”

  “What?”

  “Rat poison.”

  “What for?”

  Sumdi does not answer him, and Chamdi is left to wonder. He knows that rat poison will be of no use at all. It might kill one rat, ten rats at the most, but in a city of countless rats, what good will that do? Still, he does not question Sumdi’s actions. After all, it is Sumdi’s money. Chamdi has his own money, but it makes him uneasy to use any of it.

  For a moment, Chamdi watches the taxis as they roll slowly past. Then he turns his attention to the apartment buildings that look out over the street. Most of the windows in the buildings are closed, perhaps because o
f last night’s heavy wind. Only a few men stand at their windows and peer onto the street. Some wear white vests and scratch their underarms, and some of them have red lips from chewing paan. Even though paan is colourful, Chamdi does not like the way it stains the lips and eventually the streets.

  “Can I come with you?” asks Chamdi, finally.

  “No,” says Sumdi.

  “Why not?”

  “I have work to do.”

  “But I need to talk to you about this afternoon.”

  Sumdi walks away from the tree. Only when he is a fair distance away from the bakery does he cross the road. Chamdi follows in Sumdi’s footsteps.

  “The oil you’ll need this afternoon is with us,” explains Sumdi as he blows his nose. “I’ll give you the bottle when we get back.”

  “Where did you get the oil?” asks Chamdi.

  “I stole it from the beediwala near the temple.”

  Chamdi remembers the beediwala shutting the lid of the biscuit jar hard on his wrist on his first day in the city. In a way, Chamdi deserved it. After all, it is Chamdi who is going to use the stolen oil.

  “The plan is simple,” says Sumdi. “Guddi will sit outside the temple and sell the gods. I will be with her. You stay out of sight, behind the beediwala’s shop. But make sure you can see us, okay? When Namdeo Girhe makes his entry, that’s your signal to smear yourself with oil. As soon as his puja is done, he will leave with the priest. The temple will then be closed for a while. You slip in from a side window. This side window can’t be seen from the street. Its bars are very close to each other, but you will be able to go through them. You’ll also need a hammer. I’ll place it on the ground just below the side window.”

  “What is it for?”

  “The money is kept in a large plastic box. First throw the hammer in through the window, then enter, then smash the box.”

  “Where do I meet you after I get the money?” asks Chamdi.

  “Grant Road Station,” says Sumdi. “Walk through the school playground. Turn right, cross the street, and you will come to Grant Road Station. Go to Platform 1 and stand near the ticket window. We will bring Amma and the baby there. And wait there only. Even if we take time, you have to wait.”