The Song of Kahunsha

by Anosh Irani

  Guddi is not dead, he tells himself. She cannot be. He knew no good could come from robbing a temple. He looks at the gash in her forehead—it is similar to Munna’s gash. With this thought, he stands up. There is only one person who can help Guddi.

  If Darzi fixed Munna, he can fix Guddi.

  The adda is not far, he tells himself. I can reach it. He jumps down the steps of the doctor’s dispensary and runs, runs faster than when he fled the orphanage. This is as fast as he would have run had he robbed the temple, but now something more precious than money is at stake. But even though he runs faster than he ever has before, his vision begins to fade. The shops around him spin and his knees buckle, and soon he is flat on the ground. The last thing he sees is the sky—a black sky in the middle of the afternoon.

  As Chamdi regains consciousness, he is gripped by fear. But it takes him only a second to remember why he is afraid. An old man reaches out and touches him. Chamdi takes the old man’s hand and stands up. Satisfied that none of the shops are spinning, he starts walking fast. Soon the walk turns into a run, and once again his silver body is streaming through the street. He wonders if he is running in the right direction and is relieved when he sees Pushpam Collections—the air-conditioned clothing store—and the New Café Shirin Restaurant. In the distance, he can spot the tree he sleeps under. People pass him by, moving swiftly away from the temple. A man who runs a pharmacy slams the shutter down. When Chamdi hears the siren of an ambulance, worry grips him.

  Chamdi finds it very hard to breathe, and he is surprised because he has run only a short distance. But he soon tastes the dirt in his mouth and realizes that his nostrils are blocked by grit. There is nothing he can do about it. He cannot afford to stop. He tells himself that he does not need air to run. He needs fast feet.

  He cuts across the lane in front of his tree and runs past the burnt building. He sprints through the hole in the wall, enters the playground. He is surprised to find boys in white shirts and khaki shorts, and girls with blue ribbons in their hair. They are running too, a game of sakli, hands held together to form a chain, trying to catch a boy who is just out of reach. It is as though they are not aware of the blast. Their game temporarily stops as Chamdi tears through them.

  He soon comes to Anand Bhai’s adda. He rushes towards Darzi’s room and bangs on the closed door. There is no answer. He continues to bang. The door opens suddenly. It is Anand Bhai. Chamdi does not know what to say. He did not expect Anand Bhai to open the door. He is shirtless and hairy.

  “Madarchod, who is it?” he asks, as he stares down at Chamdi.

  “It’s me, Chamdi …”

  Chamdi realizes he must be unrecognizable—he has white dust all over him. His eyelashes stick together and he blinks rapidly. He sticks one finger in his eye and rubs hard. “I’m Sumdi’s friend,” he explains.

  “What do you want?”

  “There was a blast in the temple,” says Chamdi.

  “I know. Now get out.”

  Chamdi can hear moans of pain from inside the room, but he focuses on Anand Bhai.

  “Guddi is hurt,” says Chamdi. “Please save her.”

  “Everyone’s hurt,” says Anand Bhai. “Now get out.”

  “Please ask Darzi …”

  Anand Bhai slams the door shut. Chamdi cannot believe it. His chest heaves up and down and he notices there is some blood on it. It must be Guddi’s blood. Perhaps he should not have left Guddi alone. What if someone mistakes her for dead and takes her body away? If only Sumdi were with him, Sumdi would find a way to save Guddi. He must get Darzi’s attention. Perhaps he is a kind man and will have pity on Chamdi. He bangs on the door again with great might. He is worried that Anand Bhai might slash him with a knife as he did Munna. But Guddi’s life is worth any risk. This time Chamdi knows he has to somehow get Anand Bhai’s attention so the door is open long enough for Darzi to notice Chamdi. But what should he say?

  Anand Bhai opens the door again.

  “I told you to leave!”

  “I have information for you,” says Chamdi.

  “What information?”

  Before Chamdi has time to think, a name jumps out of his mouth: “Dabba.”

  “What about Dabba?”

  “Dabba is dead. He ate rat poison.”

  “He killed himself?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “So?”

  “Dabba told me a secret.”

  For a moment, Anand Bhai stands still. He holds on to the door of the room and looks hard at Chamdi.

  “Dabba told me a secret about the jeweller.” Chamdi tries to remember the name of the jeweller’s shop, but his memory fails him. “The jeweller who is selling the shop. I know on what day and exactly at what time he will be moving the jewellery.”

  “Listen to me, Chamdi. If you are lying, I will strangle you right here, right now.”

  Anand Bhai’s mouth is very close to Chamdi’s. There are two grains of white rice stuck in Anand Bhai’s beard as though he was eating in a hurry, or had to abandon his meal.

  “Please,” begs Chamdi. “Ask Darzi to save Guddi. I will tell you everything.”

  “First tell me what Dabba said.”

  “Dabba said that the jeweller will move the jewels tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “That I will tell you only after you save Guddi.”

  Anand Bhai slaps Chamdi hard across the face. His hand lands on Chamdi’s ear and there is a ringing sound that rises and seems to enter Chamdi’s brain.

  “No one bargains with me, understand?” snaps Anand Bhai.

  “What’s wrong with Guddi?” says a woman’s voice.

  The voice comes from inside Darzi’s room. An old woman grips the open door for support. There are folds on her face, as though it is made of leather, and her eyes are narrow slits.

  “Go inside,” Anand Bhai tells her.

  “What’s wrong with Guddi?” she asks again.

  “She’s hurt very badly,” says Chamdi. “She’ll die if you don’t help her. There was a blast …”

  “We know,” she says. “Anand, go get Guddi.”

  “Do you want me to save the bloody world?” yells Anand Bhai. “Your own son is bleeding in that room. Why don’t you look after him?”

  “Navin will be fine. He’s being looked after. You get Guddi.”

  “What do you care about Guddi?”

  “Anand. Get her. Now.”

  Anand Bhai goes inside Darzi’s room and comes back with a white shirt in his hand.

  “Do you have a mother?” Anand Bhai asks Chamdi.

  “No,” says Chamdi.

  “Good,” says Anand Bhai. He looks at the old woman as he says this. Then he turns his attention to Chamdi. “I’ll deal with you later. Let’s get Guddi.”

  “But Darzi …”

  “Darzi is looking after my brother. Now do you want to save Guddi or not?”

  “We’ll have to run fast,” says Chamdi.

  “No running.”

  Anand Bhai takes out car keys from the pocket of his black trousers. He puts on the white shirt but does not bother closing the buttons. They walk to the white car parked behind Darzi’s room. Anand Bhai does not hurry. Chamdi swallows his anger and looks at the ground, noticing how tomatoes and cucumbers have been planted in the small space directly under Darzi’s window. He forces himself to breathe. Then he reaches out and tries to open the door of the car, but it is locked.

  “Hurry up!” explodes Chamdi. “She’ll die.”

  “If she is meant to die, she will. But let me explain something to you. If you are lying about Dabba …”

  “I’m not lying,” says Chamdi. “I swear.” For once in his life, he does not feel bad about lying, even though he gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about what Anand Bhai will do when he finds out.

  Anand Bhai starts the car and opens the passenger door. Chamdi gets in, and before he can close the door, they speed off. They race
along the road behind the adda, past a vegetable seller who carts his vegetables on wheels. Anand Bhai takes the bend, turns left. His right hand is on the steering wheel and his left hand is on the horn. He keeps the horn pressed, giving it the urgency of a siren. But there is no need. The street is deserted. The bomb has scared everyone into their homes. Chamdi is relieved. “Keep breathing, Guddi, keep breathing,” he mutters. He does not care if Anand Bhai can hear him.

  Anand Bhai wipes his hands on his trousers, then glances over at Chamdi, noticing the oil on Chamdi’s body. Soon Anand Bhai’s eyes are back on the road again. They pass the New Café Shirin Restaurant. Chamdi is surprised to see that the glass in most of the apartment building windows is shattered. An ambulance is parked near the temple, plus three police jeeps. Anand Bhai stops the car.

  “Get out,” he says. “The car can’t go any further.”

  Chamdi and Anand Bhai run past the ambulance. Two men carry a body on a stretcher—that of a middle-aged man dressed in a white shirt and trousers. The skin on his face melts like wax and his eyes are closed. The two men dump him into the ambulance and rush back for more bodies.

  They are near the temple now and Chamdi can see the old woman who sold garlands. She is still on the ground. Blood is splattered on the walls of the building opposite the temple. There is glass all around and loud moans of pain from every direction.

  Guddi lies where Chamdi left her, motionless on the steps of the dispensary. Anand Bhai puts his finger against her mouth.

  “She’s alive,” he says.

  For the first time Chamdi appreciates the words that come out of Anand Bhai’s mouth. He almost forgets his fear.

  Anand Bhai hoists Guddi on his shoulders and walks towards the car.

  “Sumdi is also here,” Chamdi says.

  “Hah? Sumdi also? Bhenchode … is he hurt?”

  He goes towards the spot where Sumdi lies. He passes a small boy, a few years younger than Chamdi, trapped under a cement slab. Three men, including one policeman, are trying to lift the slab. The boy has passed out.

  Now Chamdi can see Sumdi’s torn-open back.

  “He’s gone,” says Anand Bhai behind him.

  “I won’t leave him here,” says Chamdi.

  “No use. He’s finished.”

  “We must take him also.”

  “I’m not wasting time on dead bodies.”

  Anand Bhai runs towards the ambulance with Guddi slung over his shoulder. Chamdi looks down at Sumdi. It is as though Sumdi is playing a prank. He has painted himself red and has somehow torn open his back. Chamdi looks around to see if anyone can help him carry his friend, but there is no one. He does not want to ask the men with the ambulance. The ambulance people do not save lives, he thinks. They only collect the dead.

  He yanks Sumdi by the arms and drags him. Sumdi’s neck is limp and his face almost touches the ground. Chamdi cannot bear to look at his friend’s face. Teeth fall out of Sumdi’s mouth.

  “I told you to leave him,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi continues to pull his friend’s body until he loses his grip and Sumdi’s body lands with a thud. Chamdi lifts Sumdi by his wrists once again.

  The next minute Anand Bhai lifts Sumdi and hoists him over his shoulder. The ambulance men stare for a second and then move about their business. A policeman looks at Anand Bhai as well, but does nothing. He thumps the ambulance on the back twice and sends it on its way.

  The back door of the car is open. Guddi lies in the back seat. Anand Bhai throws Sumdi to the floor of the car, and Chamdi wonders if the fall will break any of Sumdi’s bones. He cannot bring himself to admit that it does not matter anymore.

  He sneezes hard as the dust tickles his nostrils. The street is still empty of traffic, as if it is early in the morning. Most of the shops have closed, and few people walk on the street or look out from apartment windows.

  Chamdi wonders why he does not feel like crying. He still feels this might be a game—all that red paint, and Sumdi and Guddi still as statues, pretending they are dead.

  ELEVEN.

  Chamdi strains his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Grey cement walls make the room feel smaller than it is. There is a bathroom in one corner with a wooden door, slightly ajar, and Chamdi sees a red bucket on the bathroom floor. On one side of the room is the kitchen sink, which is rough and stony and old. Cement shelves protrude from the wall above the sink. Chamdi makes out a sack of rice on one of the shelves. It hangs precariously and he is sure that it will soon fall on the small wooden table below it. A pack of Gold Flake cigarettes lies on the table along with a half-open box of matches. A single tube light flickers on and off, sending strange shocks of light all over Guddi’s body. There is little sunlight in this room.

  Guddi lies motionless on the floor. Darzi sits on his haunches and presses a white cloth against the wound on her forehead to stop the bleeding. There is some blood on the floor already, but Chamdi knows that it is not from Guddi. It probably belonged to Anand Bhai’s brother, Navin. Chamdi wonders where Navin has gone. He was in this room only a short while ago—his moans could be heard.

  Darzi might be old, but he sits on his haunches with ease. He has very thin eyebrows and his forehead looks swollen. His white hair is oiled back and it glistens. He gives Chamdi a yellow smile. Chamdi smiles back, but his mind is on the scissors, needle, and thread that are placed on the ground beside Guddi on a piece of white gauze. One hand still on Guddi’s wound, Darzi uses the other hand to pull up his checkered lungi. He scratches his right shin. In the heat, he has pulled his white vest halfway up his stomach, which is hairy, just like Anand Bhai’s.

  “Where’s the old woman?” asks Anand Bhai. He takes off his white shirt and wipes his face with it. Then he throws the shirt in a corner. It lands next to a pair of kolhapuri chappals.

  “She’s put Navin in his room,” replies Darzi.

  “Is he okay?” asks Anand Bhai.

  “In two-three days he’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll make those bastards pay.”

  “I see,” says Darzi softly as he lifts the rag off Guddi’s forehead. The blood still seeps out. He lets out a isle and places the rag back on her forehead.

  “The Muslims have done this,” says Anand Bhai. “They will pay.”

  “What will killing accomplish, Anand?”

  “To save a life, you have to take a life. No Hindu is safe until the Muslims are out of this country.”

  “So now you want to kill any Muslims you can find?”

  “I’ll start with a few. I’ll start with a few Muslim heads. Then I’ll show them to Navin—was he the one who bombed the temple? Or was it this one here?”

  “What was Navin doing at the temple in the first place? Why was he not at his job?”

  “Working for the telephone company is not a job. It is slavery, understand? Anyway I wanted Navin to meet Namdeo Girhe. Show respect, take his blessings, so that Navin will go up in life.”

  “Instead Namdeo Girhe went up,” says Darzi. “But it would be wise to keep seeking Girhe’s blessings.”

  “What for?”

  “Now that he’s dead, he has a direct connection with God.”

  “Joke all you want. The truth is, Bombay will burn now. You watch.”

  “Even if the Muslims have done this, it’s a handful of them,” Darzi says. “Why should the rest suffer? We have lived peacefully with Muslims for years. They are our brothers. Only a handful of them have done this. The rest are innocent.”

  “No one is innocent.”

  “We almost lost a son today. Don’t forget that. And why were you not at the temple? Why send your younger brother?”

  Anand Bhai is silent. He looks around the room as though he did not hear Darzi’s words. He places his right hand against the doorway and lets out a soft burp. The old woman appears, moves his hand out of her way and enters the room.

  “Tell your mother why you did not go to the temple today,” says Darzi.

  The old wo
man does not glance at either of them. To Chamdi, she seems much older than Darzi. She looks up at the flickering tube light as if it irritates her.

  “Our son was busy getting pleasure from Rani, his whore,” says Darzi. “That’s why he could not go. But he bravely sent his younger brother instead. His younger brother, who has an honest job.”

  “Navin will be okay,” says the old woman. “I have kept him in his room. He’s sleeping. Now tell me, how is Guddi?”

  “Yes, will Guddi be okay?” Chamdi asks, brave enough to speak for the first time since he entered Darzi’s room.

  “Yes,” replies Darzi. “But she’s weak.”

  Although Chamdi is relieved to hear this, he knows he has more dangerous matters at hand. He must think of what to tell Anand Bhai about Dabba. And what about Amma—how will he tell her that she has lost her son? Will she even understand what Chamdi is saying? As he thinks about this, his gaze rests on a wooden box in the corner where Anand Bhai threw his shirt. The box has an “Om” on it.

  “What are you looking at?” asks the old woman.

  “That box,” says Chamdi. “It’s Guddi’s, no?”

  “Yes,” says the old woman. “She left it here this morning.”

  Darzi gives a quick nod to the old woman. She walks to the corner with the box and sits down facing the wall. She motions for Chamdi to join her. Chamdi goes to the old woman and sits down beside her. They both have their backs to Darzi, but then Chamdi turns to watch Darzi, who puts a thread through the needle. He reaches for a bottle that contains a colourless liquid. He puts the rag to the mouth of the bottle and wets it a little. He places the cloth over Guddi’s nose for a few seconds and then starts stitching her up. That is when Chamdi turns away.

  The old woman opens the wooden box. Once again, Chamdi is assaulted by colours, but there is no lift in his heart when he sees the painted gods. Why did the gods not protect Sumdi and Guddi? He thinks of Jesus too and wonders why Jesus let this happen. Perhaps it is best Chamdi left Jesus at the orphanage.