The Song of Kahunsha

by Anosh Irani

  He is relieved to see that Sumdi’s body is covered in a white cloth. Anand Bhai holds one end of the body, and Chamdi the other. With one hand, Anand Bhai quickly slams the trunk shut.

  Chamdi sees a number of sheds with tin roofs in the clearing. Below each roof is a cement slab and on the slab are logs for the dead body. There are at least seven to eight fires roaring at the same time. At a tap near the sheds, an old man washes his hands under streaming water. He then uses the bottom of his kurta to wipe his hands and face. Men, dressed mainly in white, gather near the bodies of the dead. The women sit on benches away from the funeral pyre. A young woman’s wails pierce the dusty air. An older woman dressed in a cream salwar kameez rubs the younger woman’s back to soothe her, but it seems to make no difference. The young woman’s cries mix with the sound of crackling wood. A group of men walk past Chamdi carrying a body on a stretcher. They do not utter a word and simply take in the sobs that come from some of the sheds. The sobs make Chamdi think of just one thing: how to tell Guddi that her brother is dead. He knows that she is a brave girl, but how she will bear the news? What he fears most is that there will be no crying. What if she simply closes her eyes and never wakes up again?

  Anand Bhai leads Chamdi to one of the sheds with a funeral pyre, the wood neatly stacked up. They place the body on the ground. Chamdi does not want to take the cloth off Sumdi’s body.

  But Anand Bhai whips it off.

  Chamdi forces himself to look. Sumdi’s face is even more destroyed than Chamdi remembers.

  A man comes towards them. Chamdi can tell that the man is a priest because of the red tikka on his forehead. A young boy, perhaps two or three years older than Chamdi, follows the priest. Anand Bhai lifts Sumdi’s body and places it over the wood. The logs are arranged very neatly and covered in oil. Chamdi stares at Sumdi’s body—it is unclean and bloody. He wonders if he should burn the white cloth with the three drops of blood on it right here, right now, along with Sumdi’s body. It is of no use, he tells himself. I am foolish to think that it will lead me to my father. Look at what it has done for me so far.

  The priest begins chanting prayers, but Anand Bhai stops him. The priest then sprinkles a liquid over the body. The young boy holds a flaming log in his hand and he looks at Anand Bhai, who turns to Chamdi. The flame is a yellow shiver in the wind. The priest places a few small logs on the body, and Sumdi’s face is no longer visible. Chamdi wants to take the logs off, he wants to have one last look, a word perhaps, a whisper in Sumdi’s ear. If Sumdi had a choice about going, he would like to go with a beedi in his mouth.

  The young boy hands Chamdi the flaming log.

  Chamdi wants to say a prayer, but when he tries to think of God or heaven, prayer is replaced by flashes of the gaping hole in the temple.

  Chamdi touches the end of the flaming log to Sumdi’s feet.

  He cannot bear to start with the face.

  What angers him is that Anand Bhai is watching Sumdi burn. It should be the other way round.

  As Chamdi hears the people at the funeral pyres around him wail, he wonders why he is not crying too. What if Sumdi were to see him right now? Sumdi would be surprised that Chamdi is just as lifeless and unaffected as Anand Bhai is. Chamdi does not know what to do, so he releases the flaming log and watches in silence as the flames travel along Sumdi’s body.

  Chamdi stands outside the closed door of Darzi’s room. The white cloth is no longer around his neck. It is a bundle in his hand. He took it off at the cremation site, and it now contains Sumdi’s ashes.

  He taps on the door. Anand Bhai had asked him not to, but Chamdi no longer cares. He looks towards Anand Bhai’s room. The light is off. Anand Bhai must be asleep by now. Just as Chamdi is about to tap a little harder, the old woman opens the door. She does not say a word as she lets him in.

  Darzi is asleep on the ground, snoring loudly. His hands are clasped across his stomach and his head faces the ceiling. The old woman goes back to her place beside Darzi. Chamdi asks himself why Anand Bhai does not give his parents a bed. But perhaps they prefer to sleep on the hard floor, just like Mrs. Sadiq.

  Chamdi approaches Guddi in the darkness of the room. He places the white bundle on the floor. Guddi lies on the floor in a position similar to that of Darzi. Her forehead is bandaged, and as Chamdi bends down he can hear her breathe lightly. He wonders again how he will tell Guddi about Sumdi’s death. Maybe she knows already. What should he say to her? What should his exact words be?

  Your brother is dead.

  Sumdi died.

  Sumdi did not live.

  Sumdi.

  Yes, that is all he needs to say. He only needs to utter her brother’s name. She will know.

  Chamdi takes Guddi’s hand in his, anxious for her to wake up. He knows it is better if she rests, but she has to face Sumdi’s death as soon as possible, for he cannot bear it alone. Not that he feels too much. In fact, he is repeatedly surprised at himself that he feels so little. Sumdi could have been like a brother to me, he thinks, but that would have taken time.

  As Chamdi thinks this, Guddi stirs. Perhaps Guddi has read his mind. Or perhaps Sumdi is talking to her already, telling her that he has finally reached their village, except that it is slightly different than expected, but it is their village no doubt because he recognizes some of the other people around, and, of course, he knows the village head as well, and he will soon meet him, but he has no fear, for he has lived as clean a life as the streets of Bombay allowed him and he is sure that the village head will understand.

  Chamdi places his hand on Guddi’s forehead. She looks at him and says nothing, and three thoughts flash through his brain: I hope she is not blind. I hope she is not deaf. I hope she has not lost her voice. Any of these could be possible, he knows, because he has been spared completely and one person always bears an unfair burden.

  But Guddi looks into his eyes and Chamdi’s first doubt is cleared. He wants to say something so that she can respond and the second and third fears can vanish as well, but he does not know what to say. He could tell her it was a bomb, or that the politician died, or that Anand Bhai has promised there will be more riots—he could tell her all this, but she would not care at all.

  And that is when Guddi opens her mouth and says softly, “Sumdi.”

  Now Chamdi knows that he does not need to explain a thing because his hand betrays him as it clutches Guddi’s tightly. The sick feeling of a while ago returns to him like the very heat of the flames. He can feel the flames all over him, especially on his face, and he is ashamed of how he is shaking while Guddi is completely still, staring at him for what seems to be a long time, and then she trembles, her grip on his hand tightens, as though a bomb of pain has exploded in her as well.

  In the early morning, Chamdi and Guddi walk to Grant Road Bridge. Even though Guddi was too weak to leave the house, Chamdi explained that they needed to fulfill Sumdi’s dream. That was all he said.

  As they climb up the steps that lead to the bridge, Chamdi can sense that Guddi is worried about Amma—he went back to the kholi to fetch her, but she was not there. He imagines Amma wandering aimlessly through the streets with a baby in her arms, not knowing that her son is dead.

  Chamdi remembers the night he and Guddi rode in the horse carriage. It was the only time he experienced happiness, and he is grateful for that feeling. His mind returns to the white bundle that he holds in his hand. How strange life is, he thinks. I was once wrapped in this white cloth, and now my friend is in it.

  They climb the final step and onto the bridge itself. Guddi leans on Chamdi for support. The walk, even though it was very short, has tired her. It is still early so the bridge is clear, but a few street hawkers are setting up their temporary stalls near the entrance to the railway station. A man who sells lime juice washes his glasses. A man who sells combs, mirrors, and small diaries places a blue plastic sheet on the ground and arranges his wares, as do two women who sell travel bags and clothes.

  Guddi is
shaking with fever. A striped shawl covers her dress. The old woman gave it to Guddi to prevent her from shivering. Darzi said fever was to be expected because of the stitches. It was nothing to worry about.

  Railway commuters cross the street and wait for an oncoming bus. A local train rumbles below the bridge, and Chamdi sees a few faces peering out of the windows of the buildings along the railway tracks. Crows perch on the electric lines above the tracks.

  Chamdi and Guddi stand in the middle of the bridge, against a dark stone wall. A man relieves himself on the wall, but he zips up quickly and crosses the street. Chamdi looks down at the tracks. A small boy places an empty coconut shell on the tracks and waits for the train to crush it. A little farther ahead, a man staggers alongside the tracks, clutching a bottle. The sound of the train fades, clears the way for Chamdi’s words. But Guddi speaks first.

  “I can’t stand for long,” she says. “I’m feeling very weak.”

  “I know,” he replies softly.

  Chamdi places the white bundle on the railing of the bridge.

  “Do you know what your brother dreamt of?” he asks.

  “Many things,” she says. “We both dreamt of going to our village.”

  “What else? What was his secret wish?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m very tired.”

  “Your brother wanted to fly. He said that his leg made him heavy and it was his dream to fly. That’s why we are here.”

  Chamdi carefully opens the knot of the white cloth.

  “I can’t believe that’s him,” says Chamdi at last.

  Guddi simply stares at the ashes. The sun casts light on the surrounding buildings and makes them seem less desolate. In the distance, the high-rises of Bombay loom over the city and stare down at its slums.

  “I want to say this and I don’t know how,” says Chamdi. “But I loved your brother even though I knew him for only three days.”

  “I loved him too. So did Amma.”

  “I hope we can find Amma,” Chamdi says. “She’s not at the kholi. I hope she comes back.”

  Guddi looks at the tracks, and Chamdi can tell from the tremble of her lips that she is trying hard not to cry.

  “We must help him fly,” Chamdi tells her.

  They carefully lift Sumdi together, release him over the bridge and into the sky.

  Sumdi breaks into a thousand different parts, bits of grey that shine in the sunlight as they soar over the railway tracks. Chamdi thinks of the ashes as tiny birds, each bearing a particular trace of Sumdi: his smile, his jagged teeth, his foul mouth, his deep scar, his polio leg, his arm around Chamdi’s shoulder, his laughter in his sister’s ear.

  As the last of the ashes leave the white cloth, Chamdi lets go of the cloth itself.

  Go land at my father’s feet, he says to the cloth. The three drops of blood will help him recognize the cloth. Now it is his turn to find me.

  Chamdi wishes Mrs. Sadiq were here to witness this moment because she would have been very proud of him. Her words come to him: You are no longer ten. You are a man now and it is my fault that I have made you the man you are. But Chamdi is grateful to her. He wants her to know that.

  In a way, it is okay if my father is dead, he thinks. If I miss my father without even knowing him, thinks Chamdi, I can imagine how hard the separation must be for my mother. If they are both dead, at least they are together.

  And soon, he tells himself, Sumdi will fly over the city and visit the Bombay he loved—every dirty corner. He will watch cricket matches and cock fights, he will enter gambling dens and play till his pockets are empty and his heart full. Some parts of him will fall on the roof of that local train, where he will remain until the train reaches the end of the line, but some parts of him will continue to fly, they will circle the city and then the world, and it will not be the world Chamdi knows. It will be a world seen from the sky.

  Chamdi looks at Guddi, who is crying, and suddenly he knows exactly what he must say to her. “Khile Soma Kafusal,” says Chamdi as he caresses Guddi’s face. “I speak to you in the Language of Gardens.”

  This time, Guddi does not ask what his words mean because the way he looks at her tells her the exact meaning. But clearly, Chamdi’s words are not enough.

  “Sumdi is free,” Guddi says. “But we are stuck here.”

  “No, we are not,” says Chamdi.

  “We’ll never be able to leave Bombay.”

  “That’s fine,” he says. “Because Bombay will leave us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kahunsha will be born.”

  “Is such a thing possible?” asks Guddi, hopefully.

  “If you can think it, it’s possible,” says Chamdi.

  TWELVE.

  The old woman brings two steaming glasses of tea. Anand Bhai and Chamdi sit on the steps outside Darzi’s room. Chamdi notices that there are three steps, the same number as at the orphanage. How he loved walking down those steps and being greeted by the bougainvilleas. Anand Bhai’s adda lacks colour. Perhaps it is not possible for plants and flowers to grow in the presence of such a human being.

  Darzi gave Guddi a pill for the pain and she is asleep again. Chamdi liked the way Darzi read out the name of the white pill—Comb-bee-flaam-as though it were a magic seed. He wishes he had parents like Darzi and the old woman. He would use Father and Mother because those are words he has never been able to say in his life.

  Anand Bhai sips his tea and stares at the wall that separates his adda from the school. Two sparrows peck at the ground in front of them.

  “Drink your tea,” says Anand Bhai.

  “It’s very hot,” says Chamdi. “The cut on my tongue burns.”

  Anand Bhai places the glass of tea down and puts his arm around Chamdi.

  Chamdi is uncomfortable—Anand Bhai’s touch is not warm. Mrs. Sadiq was the only person whose touch comforted Chamdi, but he never let her know that.

  “Do you know what injustice is?” asks Anand Bhai.

  “I … yes.”

  “Explain to me.”

  “If someone good suffers, then it’s wrong. Like that?”

  Anand Bhai takes his hand off Chamdi’s shoulder. He removes a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes from the pocket of his white shirt. He taps the cigarette three times on the pack. Chamdi asks himself what Anand Bhai is thinking about—perhaps his own childhood, when he ran around the adda and played cricket with boys his age. It is hard for Chamdi to imagine that Anand Bhai was once a child. Anand Bhai lights the cigarette with his gold lighter and lets out streaks of smoke through his lips.

  “Do you remember what I told you about Radhabai Chawl?”

  “Yes,” says Chamdi.

  But Anand Bhai continues as though he did not want his question to be answered.

  “It was a burning of innocents, a grave injustice. Do you understand? Also, what happened at the temple … your friend Sumdi. There was no need for him to die. Even my brother Navin got hurt.”

  “Yes …” says Chamdi. “But there’s nothing we can do.”

  Anand Bhai takes a deep drag from his cigarette and bares his teeth to Chamdi. As he exhales, the sparrows that were picking on food crumbs fly right above his head.

  “There is something we can do,” he says. “We must let the Muslims know that God is on our side, not theirs.”

  The mention of God once again reminds Chamdi of the gaping hole in the temple, of Ganesha’s trunk lying helpless on the street, unable to rise and spray water on the flames. Chamdi has seen the gods that the old woman makes too and they are so small, they fit in a wooden box. He has seen Jesus, who is life-sized, but even Jesus is powerless.

  “What do you think?” asks Anand Bhai.

  “I … about what?”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know,” says Chamdi. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Your friend died and you want to just sit there? You don’t want revenge? If anyone harms my Hindu brothers,
I will rip that person to shreds.”

  Anand Bhai flicks his cigarette to the ground. Chamdi looks at the sparking butt of the cigarette.

  “We will replicate Radhabai Chawl for the Muslims,” says Anand Bhai. “And it will happen in many parts of the city at the same time, not only here.”

  Chamdi does not understand exactly what Anand Bhai means. Anand Bhai scratches his chest, grits his teeth as he does this.

  “You will come along. Be part of our gang. It will be training for you. I want my men to see you, that even though you are so small you are not scared in the face of danger. They will be impressed. That’s how you earn your place in the gang. The future is in you young boys. If I have fifty Chamdis, then think of how much power I will have in a few years.”

  “But …”

  “You will do as I say, Chamdi. You work for me now,” says Anand Bhai.

  Anand Bhai stands up and throws away the tea that remains in his glass. It lands on the gravel. He smoothes his beard and looks down at the map the spilt tea has made.

  “I own you,” says Anand Bhai. “Remember that.”

  Chamdi does not know what to do. He understands now why Mrs. Sadiq was so against the children going out into the city, why she wanted everyone to leave Bombay.

  More than ever, he yearns for Mrs. Sadiq, for her long, bony hands.

  THIRTEEN.

  It is very late at night. Even though all the doors and windows of the one-room homes are closed, Anand Bhai’s adda is busy. About fifteen men have gathered, and Chamdi watches as some of them smoke cigarettes, others stretch their limbs, and a couple pace about outside Anand Bhai’s room. Most of the men are short and thin. They are dressed plainly: dark shirts, jeans or trousers, and chappals. Munna is present too. Munna has a white bandage around his eye. He too shall carry Anand Bhai’s signature for the rest of his life. Chamdi looks for Jackpot and Handsome, but they are nowhere to be seen. It makes sense—they are of no use tonight. Chamdi feels Munna’s stern gaze upon him as if Munna does not approve of Chamdi being here.