The Song of Kahunsha

by Anosh Irani

  “I make these clay gods,” says the old woman. “Guddi sells them for me. She wanted to learn how to make them herself. I hope …”

  Chamdi notices that the old woman is biting her lip. He turns to look at Guddi, but the old woman puts her hand to his cheek and diverts his attention back to her.

  “She will live, no?” asks Chamdi.

  “Of course she’ll live. With so many gods protecting her, she has to.” The old woman smiles. “Look—so many of them—do you know them all, do you know their powers?”

  Chamdi shakes his head. The old woman picks a god out of the box. How small the god looks, thinks Chamdi. The old woman should not be holding the god in her palm. It should be the other way round. But he does not say this.

  “Do you know who this is?” asks the old woman.

  Chamdi shakes his head again.

  The god holds a sword in one hand and a lotus in the other. She has two extra arms but they are free—they hold nothing. She is painted yellow and her palms are red.

  “That is Durga,” says the old woman. “The Invincible One. That means she can never lose. Do you want me to tell you a story about her?”

  Chamdi is reminded of Mrs. Sadiq and the Chandamama stories she used to tell him.

  “No,” he says firmly. “I don’t like stories.”

  “Then know this—Durga is protecting our little Guddi. That’s why she was saved.”

  As the old woman tells him this, Chamdi is absent-mindedly scratching his body. The dirt and blood stuck on his oily torso are causing him discomfort.

  “What you need more than any god is a bath and some food,” says the old woman. “Why don’t you go wash up? There’s a bathroom.”

  “No, come with me,” says Anand Bhai as he looms in the doorway.

  “Let him stay here,” pleads the old woman.

  “I saved the girl. Now don’t interfere.”

  Anand Bhai’s tone is sharp and the old woman does not argue any further. She gently nudges Chamdi on the shoulder. Chamdi gets up and walks to the door. He says a short prayer for Guddi but it is interrupted by Anand Bhai.

  “Let’s go to my room,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi squints as he follows Anand Bhai out into the sun again. The adda is secluded now. The goat is still tied to a post and it shakes its head, tries to yank the post out of the ground, to no avail. The green curtain that hangs in the doorway of Anand Bhai’s room is still. Anand Bhai’s hand rests on Chamdi’s shoulder as he leads him past the curtain into his room.

  This room is different from Darzi’s. Rani lies on a bed and watches TV. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she loosens the gold bangles on her wrist as Chamdi and Anand Bhai enter. She is watching a black-and-white movie.

  “Switch it off,” says Anand Bhai.

  Rani gets up from the bed and does as she is told. She looks at Anand Bhai, awaits further instructions.

  “Get me some chicken from the Mughlai restaurant. And get it fast. Abdul will have it ready.”

  As Rani leaves the room, she glances at Chamdi. But she does not say a word. Chamdi notices that there are patches of dark blue on her left arm.

  “Get pieces that are not oily,” Anand Bhai says.

  But Rani has already left the room. The green curtain is still once again, as though Rani did not pass through it only seconds ago.

  “Do you like oil in your food?” asks Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi is unsure of what to say. He has never thought about it before. “No,” he decides. “I don’t like oil.”

  “Then why are you carrying it all over your body?”

  Chamdi remains silent.

  “Why is your body covered with oil?” asks Anand Bhai.

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “I was playing … we were playing a game, Sumdi and I.”

  Anand Bhai’s grip tightens on Chamdi’s shoulder. “What were you trying to steal?”

  “Nothing …”

  “The only time a person smears himself in oil is when he wants to be slippery. What did you want to slip away from?”

  Now Chamdi is in pain. Anand Bhai’s hand is pressing a nerve on his shoulder, applying more and more pressure. Chamdi looks at the blank TV screen as pain shoots through him. His mouth is half open, ready to let out a yelp, a cry, anything, but instead he slumps to the floor in agony.

  “The temple …” groans Chamdi.

  Anand Bhai lets go. “The temple?”

  “It was Sumdi’s idea to rob the temple money,” says Chamdi.

  The moment the words come out of his mouth, he is ashamed for blaming his friend. He hopes Sumdi will forgive him. He has no choice left but to tell Anand Bhai the truth.

  “I was going to slip in through the side window of the temple and steal the puja money. Please forgive me.”

  “What about Dabba?”

  “Dabba is dead. I did not lie about him being dead.”

  “The jeweller.”

  Chamdi does not know what to say. It is best to stay silent. He does not have the guts to look Anand Bhai in the face. He stares at the grey, stony floor.

  “I see,” says Anand Bhai.

  The telephone rings in Anand Bhai’s room, but he does not move. Chamdi still has his head down and he shivers, fully expecting a massive blow to the head. The ring of the telephone becomes uncomfortable because Anand Bhai remains still. The moment the phone stops ringing, Anand Bhai speaks.

  “Do you see that drawer?” asks Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi still does not look up. Anand Bhai lightly places his finger under Chamdi’s chin and forces him to look up. Chamdi looks at Anand Bhai’s beard. The two grains of rice are still entangled in the hair. Anand Bhai turns Chamdi’s head to the right, in the direction of an old wooden chest of drawers.

  “Go open the top drawer,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi tries to get up but his legs let him down.

  “Don’t make me say it again,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi wants to tell Anand Bhai that he does not have the strength to get up, but instead he places his palms on the ground and boosts himself. He walks past the blank TV screen to the drawer.

  “Open it,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi holds the rusted brass handle and pulls.

  “You’ll find a map in the drawer,” says Anand Bhai.

  The map is the only thing in the drawer. Chamdi looks at it closely. It is large and folded and there are brown marks on it—like chai stains. The word BOMBAY is printed on it.

  “There’s something beneath the map,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi places his hand on the map. He can feel something beneath it. Something hard. He holds one end of the map and lifts it.

  A knife. It resembles the butcher’s knife Munna stole.

  He looks back at Anand Bhai.

  “Bring it here.”

  Chamdi holds the knife by the handle and he does not like the feel of it in his hand. The black handle does not look new—it is smooth with use. He holds it very lightly and makes sure that the tip of the blade faces the ground. He is now only a foot away from Anand Bhai.

  “Now cut your tongue off,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi is sure he has not heard Anand Bhai’s words correctly.

  “You lied to me,” says Anand Bhai. “So hold your tongue out and slice it off.”

  Anand Bhai’s tone is casual. There is no hatred in it. He stands with his arms folded across his hairy chest.

  “I’m waiting,” says Anand Bhai. “Either you do it, or I’ll do it. The problem with me is that I’m a perfectionist. That means I will work slow and steady and make sure that the cut is in one straight line. If not, I’ll start again.”

  “Please, Anand Bhai,” begs Chamdi. “I’m sorry. I lied to save Guddi.”

  “And she has been saved. But you have to pay. Like Munna. Remember Munna? I caught him with the very knife that you are holding, but I did not harm him until he disrespected me by talking b
ack, when he said that he does not care about the police. Only I abuse the police, no one else. So Munna had to be punished. Same for you because you disrespected me by lying.”

  “Please …”

  “Okay,” says Anand Bhai. “I’ll do it. Give me the knife.” He takes the knife from Chamdi’s hand. He holds it in his right hand and places his left hand on Chamdi’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll still be able to hear. It’s more important to listen than speak.”

  Chamdi tries to move away but Anand Bhai stares him down. Chamdi knows it is foolish to run. By the time he reaches the green curtain, Anand Bhai’s knife will have carved part of Chamdi’s back.

  “Stick your tongue out,” says Anand Bhai.

  “Please …” says Chamdi as he folds his hands and begs.

  “Stick your tongue out!”

  The snarl in Anand Bhai’s voice jolts Chamdi and his tongue slips out of his mouth. Anand Bhai digs his nails into the tip of Chamdi’s tongue.

  “No wonder you lie so much,” he says. “You have a long tongue. Don’t move. If you move even one inch, this knife will enter your eye. Now I will cut your tongue in one stroke, not to worry, hah? On the count of three I’ll do it. Take a deep breath. One-two …”

  Chamdi makes strange desperate sounds. With his tongue out it is hard for him to speak.

  “Stop making sounds. You’re not dumb yet,” says Anand Bhai.

  He makes a small cut on the edge of Chamdi’s tongue. The blood trickles down the blade of the knife.

  “Can you feel it?” he asks. “I’ve started.”

  Tears form in Chamdi’s eyes. Anand Bhai lets go.

  “I’m sorry,” says Chamdi. “Let me go, I’ll …”

  “You’ll what?” asks Anand Bhai. “Talk while you still have a tongue left.”

  “I’ll do anything for you,” says Chamdi.

  “I asked you to cut your tongue off. Such a simple task, but you can’t perform.”

  “Anything else. I’ll beg for you my whole life.”

  “Beg? Who cares about begging?”

  “Whatever you want. I’ll steal.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ll steal, I’ll … do whatever you ask.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I promise,” says Chamdi.

  Anand Bhai runs his index finger along the blade of the knife. He sniffs hard a couple of times, as though there is something irritating his nostrils. He hands Chamdi the knife.

  “Put the knife back in the drawer,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi walks to the drawer. The cut on his tongue burns. The telephone rings again. Rani enters through the green curtain with a white plastic bag in her hand. The thought of eating makes Chamdi ill. In any case, the cut on his tongue will make eating difficult and painful. Rani sees that Anand Bhai is silent. She places the plastic bag on the TV and answers the phone. She begins talking in a hushed tone as though she senses what has just happened in the room.

  “I like you,” Anand Bhai tells Chamdi. “You risked your life to save your friend. I need men like that.”

  Chamdi is confused.

  “You are sharp also,” continues Anand Bhai. “I believed you about Dabba. But I would have taken that out of you in one second if I wanted. It’s just that I have to keep the old woman happy. In her old age she worries too much about me. I saved Guddi for her peace of mind. In the days to come I will be forced to take many lives and God is my witness—I have saved a little girl’s life. So that’s why I did it. Anyway, I like you.”

  Chamdi does not understand why Anand Bhai likes him now. Only moments ago, he was about to slice off Chamdi’s tongue.

  “Let’s eat,” says Anand Bhai. “Get off the phone, Rani.”

  Rani nods her head and whispers goodbye into the phone. She places the black receiver back into its cradle.

  “Do you like chicken?” Anand Bhai asks Chamdi. “It’s Mughlai food. Best in the world. But it’s spicy. No matter how much we tell Abdul, he does not listen. Sorry about the cut. It will burn, but you’re a tough boy.”

  Suddenly, Chamdi is afraid again. Anand Bhai seems even more dangerous when he is friendly.

  “What are you going to do to me?” asks Chamdi.

  “For now, nothing,” says Anand Bhai. “For now, we eat.”

  Chamdi sleeps on the floor of Anand Bhai’s room, his knees tucked into his chest. His mouth is slightly open. Each time the cut on his tongue burns, he opens his eyes a little, but he quickly closes them and tries to sleep. He has been floating in and out of sleep for hours now.

  “Get up,” says Anand Bhai. “Time to go.”

  Dazed, Chamdi looks around the room. The tube light is on and Anand Bhai’s bed is made. Rani is nowhere to be seen. Chamdi glances out the window—it is night.

  “Go wash yourself,” says Anand Bhai. “I’ve cleaned the car. Don’t want you to stain the seat.”

  Mutely, Chamdi gets up and walks to the bathroom. He shuts the door and steps over a small parapet that separates the toilet from the bathing area. As he removes his shorts, a bougainvillea petal slips out of his pocket. It looks old. He lets it remain on the floor. He does not remove the cloth from around his neck. Let it get wet. It will keep him cool.

  He grabs a white plastic mug that floats on water contained in a steel bucket, dips the mug into the water and opens his mouth wide. He grimaces as the water soothes his cut, then takes another mugful and pours it over his head. This will be his first bath since he left the orphanage. He looks around for soap and sees a light blue soapbox. He does not care to ask Anand Bhai’s permission. He scrubs himself until the dust particles and dirt slowly disappear down the drain.

  As he does this, Chamdi thinks about Guddi. Darzi and the old woman are good people—they will take care of her, he reassures himself.

  Soon, Chamdi is clean. There is no towel in the bathroom, but Chamdi spots an orange napkin on the window ledge and uses it to dry himself. He lets his hair stay wet. He thinks of Guddi in Darzi’s room and imagines her walking and laughing. I will enter that room and she will be on her feet, he convinces himself. He puts his shorts back on and steps out of the bathroom. He will have to ask Anand Bhai for a shirt since he no longer has his white vest. He tries not to remember the events that led to the removal of that vest.

  “What happened to your ribs?” asks Anand Bhai. “They are like knives.”

  Chamdi does not respond, though he wants to tell Anand Bhai that they are not ribs, they are tusks, and they will one day be used against the likes of him. Mrs. Sadiq was the only person who did not make him feel conscious of his skinny frame. She always told him that he would gain flesh with age. He is pierced by a sudden longing to be with her.

  “Can you please give me a shirt?” asks Chamdi.

  “What happened to yours?”

  Chamdi remains silent. Anand Bhai goes to the wooden chest of drawers, the one that contains the knife. He opens the bottom drawer, takes out a white T-shirt and throws it at Chamdi.

  “I play cricket in that T-shirt,” says Anand Bhai. “I love India. Good team, but ma ki chud you cannot depend on them. Some days they are dynamite, some days they are hollow.”

  Chamdi finds it strange that even though he is so different from Anand Bhai, the two of them enjoy the same game. Chamdi has not seen a single game of street cricket in Bombay like he imagined he would. He has not even seen a red rubber ball.

  He puts on the T-shirt. It is so big for him that the sleeves come down almost to his wrists. He tucks it into his shorts and it balloons over the top, but he does not care. He wishes he could get fresh shorts too.

  “I want to see Guddi,” says Chamdi.

  “Now now. She’s sleeping.”

  “But …”

  “Darzi and the old woman are also resting. We cannot disturb.”

  Why does Anand Bhai not call Darzi and the old woman Father and Mother? Here is someone who has not one parent but two whole parents, a
nd he never refers to them as Father and Mother.

  Anand Bhai waits for Chamdi at the door. The green curtain has been parted to one side. Chamdi wonders how late it is. He can see that most of the doors of the other rooms in the adda are shut. An oil lamp has been placed at the foot of Darzi’s door, which is also closed. The small flame of the oil lamp flickers.

  As they near the car, Chamdi feels ill. He does not want to sit in the car. Anand Bhai opens the passenger door for him, but Chamdi stalls, looks around the darkness of the adda. At the orphanage, Chamdi had the bougainvilleas to comfort him. Even at night he could use his mind to light them up and any fear or illness he felt was reduced. He wishes he could do the same at the adda, but all he can see are the tomatoes and cucumbers that grow behind Darzi’s room. They fail to soothe him.

  Anand Bhai taps the inside of the car window. Chamdi gets in but does not look at the back seat. He looks straight ahead and does not say a word. The car starts and the headlights shine on the tomatoes and cucumbers. They look horrified by the light, thinks Chamdi. The redness of the tomatoes reminds him of blood. Why did God make blood and flowers and vegetables the same colour?

  The alley behind the adda has no streetlights so only the headlights of the car light the way. There are holes in the road, a few plastic bags are floating along the street, and a man has placed a cot on the footpath. This man uses his shirt as a pillow. Chamdi’s eyes shut as the car hits a stretch of road that he does not recognize. He has no interest in his surroundings, and he wants to shut his ears as well because now he can hear Sumdi breathing onto his neck from the back seat. Chamdi turns his head and looks at the back seat—he is imagining things.

  “Your friend’s in the trunk,” says Anand Bhai.

  Chamdi shuts his eyes again as the car speeds up. He opens his eyes only when the car slows down and enters a short lane lined by trees on either side. The lane opens out into a large clearing. The car comes to a halt.

  Chamdi and Anand Bhai step out of the car, and Chamdi looks up at the night sky. He wonders if Sumdi is already up there or if he is still in his body. But Sumdi was so eager to run that he would not wait in his body if he did not have to.

  Anand Bhai opens the trunk of the car. He looks at Chamdi, who understands that he must help Anand Bhai lift the body. Chamdi does not want to see his friend’s face. He knows that he will forever hold a picture of Sumdi’s face in his brain: teeth slipping out of his mouth and falling onto the cement road.