The Cripple and His Talismans (7 page)

I squat a little, squeeze the grinding stone under my arm even tighter and leap onto the bus. I land. This grinding stone is too heavy. Why did I keep it? I do not have a servant to use it for grinding masalas. But it is useful in death.

I look for a seat. It is mid-afternoon so the workers are still in the factories, the housewives are done with the daily bazaar, and only the jobless ride the bus, the bags under their eyes filled with the sorrow of the world.

I sit with the grinding stone in my lap. The bus conductor approaches. He rubs his way through the passengers, his body scraping the fronts, sides and especially the backs of women (and sometimes men). He wears a brown uniform that chars him in the city heat. The government has given him a brown leather pouch to collect change from the passengers. Brown skin, brown uniform, brown pouch. Who says we are not organized? Such cohesion cannot be the outcome of the Third World.

I have a suggestion. To avoid confusion, countries should be numbered on the map: First World, Second World, Third World. This way, travel agents cannot fool poor foreigners. Madam, I promise you we are a First World country. So what if there are flies and malaria? A little sickness is good for health. Who said we don’t have water? Forget water, we have water buffaloes. No electricity? What you are talking, madam! If we did not have electricity, would I be shocked at your questions?

Okay, madam, I will not lie. At least we came in Third.

The bus conductor looks at the grinding stone as I remove change from my pocket to buy a ticket. This man has one grinding stone, he must think. Why does he carry an arm? Bus conductors are known to think differently.

I hand him the coins.

“Which stop?” he asks.

“Last stop,” I reply.

“Next time, exact change,” he says.

“No next time,” I say. “Today I am suicide!”

But he has already moved on to the next victim. The bus rumbles along, hits potholes and taps the occasional cyclist. Through the window I see the city pass by like an old postcard. The streetlights bend toward us and potholes grow larger; they spread like blotches of ink. Bridges hinge on the brink of collapse. They will fall when the maximum number of pedestrians and vehicles cross over them. I could sit on a bridge all day and wait for it to fall. But that would take time. The magazine vendors come up to the taxis, showing off dark-skinned beauties on the covers, only a few rupees for an afternoon of hand pleasure. Maya, Mamta, Sushma and Padma. Beautiful names that have lent their bodies for the public good.

I hear drumbeats. The bones of my severed hand are being used as drumsticks. The sound is everywhere, but only those who have lost a limb can hear it. I see an ivory drum in the centre of the street, right next to the cobbler’s stand. People walk by as if they do not see the ivory drum. One-armed, one-legged men beat the ivory with the femurs of cripples. This is the sound where life and death meet. Have a small chat, a cup of tea, and decide who shall recede or encroach for the moment. I hope death is persuasive. Suicide, you are all I have left.

The last stop is just before the old burnt-down mill.

I get off the bus and face the sea.

I turn around and face a tall building. It is under construction. I shall plunge to my death from the twentieth floor. The grinding stone is crucial to my plans. I am not very heavy. Okay, I am light. From time to time, muscles do sprout from my arms, chest and legs, but they are fleeting. They always succumb to sickness and injury.

The grinding stone will make me travel with greater velocity. The time it takes to travel twenty storeys can be especially long if, during the fall, one has second thoughts about dying. The greater the velocity, the harder the impact. The harder the impact, the more efficient the spread of skull on pavement. I shall make the clean-up job difficult for officials.

The racetrack of my life will be laid out for them. They will know I have gone off course, over the rails. To my left, they will find the arm that I leave behind. After I am dead, it might live on and do some good.

I enter the building and take the lift. There is no one around, so I go unnoticed. My arm aches from the weight of the stone. I get off on the terrace. The day is still gloomy. I climb onto the ledge and face the sea. The wind hits the sleeve of my lost arm and it flutters like a white sail. I watch it move gracefully as though it never needed an arm to fill it. The sleeve is my solitary wing. I will fly to my death. But I will have to make an extra effort to avoid the scaffolding.

I look straight ahead. Somewhere, in the country on the other side of this great sea, someone else commits suicide. He looks at the same sea, thinks the same thing. I am with you, my friend. I hope you have a grinding stone, too. I have left the city, moved out of the forest into the clearing. I can never go back. I know I will jump.

“Hero, what are you doing?”

It is a worker on the scaffolding. I stare at his skinny legs. He squats on the scaffold like it is on the ground floor.

“Were you about to jump?” he asks.

He has the eyebrows of an eagle. I feel compelled to answer.

“Yes,” I say.

“What is that stone for?”

“The stone is for speed.”

“Okay, best of luck.”

“What?”

“Hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

“You will not stop me?”

“What for? Your decision.”

Wisdom is a squatting eagle on a scaffold, an eagle who works for less than minimum wage. The signs are clear. I will succeed. The rule of widows and mad dogs shall prevail. So it
is
possible to end one’s journey.

“One question,” he says.

“Speak, my friend.” I feel jubilant.

“Where is the note?”

“What note?”

“Suicide note!”

I do not appreciate being reminded that I have overlooked a telling detail before death.

“You forgot note? You don’t watch
TV
at home?”

“I …”

“Not to worry. Do it now.”

“On what?”

“Oral. Recite to me. I am your audience.”

“No, I …”

“Please start.”

His eyebrows arch and I am compelled once more.

I blabber: “Dear Friends …”

“You have friends?” he asks.

I do not. This is disastrous. “Dear World …”

“If the world is dear to you, why are you leaving it?”

“What shall I say?”

“Be insulting. Give bad words.”

“Sewer of a city,” I say.

“Excellent. Well put. You are on your way.”

“May the palms of your hands be stained with the blood of a thousand lepers.”

“You are a poet. Tagore, boss.”

“May the teeth of your wisdom fall in the winter of your stupidity.”

“I wish I had a pen. You are gifted. It is sad that you will be dead.”

“I am a gem in your stone. May you choke on the smoke of your own sadness.”

The man applauds. “True class,” he says.

I bow. Twenty storeys high, and it is effortless. They say grace comes before death. I believe it. If only wisdom came to the living. When death comes, we all walk like lions and wish the earth well.

“Before you go,” the worker says, “I would like to touch that stone. A mark of respect to you.”

I am flattered. The respect of a worker is hard to earn. I very cautiously hand him the grinding stone.

“It is heavy. Oh, it is heavy …”

He is off balance. I reach out to hold him; I extend my left arm. The problem is, I do not have one.

“Don’t leave the grinding stone!” I shout.

The man falls and bursts like a watermelon. He has stolen the vehicle of my death.

The wind carries his last words to me. “To those who find me,” he says, “I have this to say. We worship the wrong people, we shake the wrong hands, and we eat the bread that is not laid out for us.”

Suicide, you do not exist.

Death walks in front of me; it knows I am chasing it, so it does its best to evade me. Life knows I fear it, so it runs behind me and hides in shadows and corner shops, out of sight but close enough for me to smell. There is a place on earth where life and death meet. It is called a Job. I must find that place.

Back at home, I stare at my telephone.

It is an old-fashioned telephone, black and boxy. I hold the receiver between neck and shoulder and dial the number listed under “Government Inquiries.” Since I am miserable anyway, I wish to work for the government. After nine rings, a lady answers the phone.

“Madam, I want to find out about government jobs,” I say.

“What type of job?” she asks.

“Any job. But it has to be for the government.”

“What number you want?”

I quote the number in the phone book.

“This number is out of order,” she says.

“How can it be out of order if I am talking to you?”

“Are you being smart?”

“I just want to find out about a government position.”

“Then call the right number,” she insists. “You want anything else?”

“Madam, the right number.”

“You have pen-pencil?”

Without waiting for me to respond, she fires the number at me. So I call the new number, the one that is not out of order. Again a lady picks up.

“Madam, I want to find out about government jobs,” I ask.

“Didn’t you just call?”

It is the same lady. “Madam, you gave me this number.”

“Am I saying no, or what? What is the problem?”

“There is no problem. I just want to work for the government.”

“Why? You have criminal record?”

“Madam, please, I am not a criminal.”

“Then what? Tell the truth.”

“I’m a cripple.”

“That is not good. Now, what job you are looking for?”

“Anything that is open.”

“This is a restaurant or what? Be direct. Government time not to be wasted.”

“I wish to be a suicide bomber,” I state.

“A who?”

“One who blows his own bomb,” I reply. “Is this a terrorist call?”

“No, I …”

“If this is a terrorist call, there is separate number for that.”

“I’m not a terrorist.”

“Then what you are saying? Listen, you are eating my lunch break.”

I look at the time. It is 3 p.m.

“Madam, I want to apply for the position of governmental suicide bomber.”

“Are you insulting us? There is penalty for such acts. I warn you.”

“I want to serve, not offend. Now listen: If you want someone dead and that person is not dying, I will do what you need by putting a bomb inside my shirt and then hugging that person.”

“Why would I want anyone dead?”

“Not you, madam.
Them!”

“Them who?”

“If I say, you will be offended.”

“Forget it! You are nonsense. You ate half my lunch break! Call in fifteen minutes. Okay, what?”

“Just tell me when I can come for an interview. Should I bring a mock bomb?”

“What interview? We don’t need a bomber!”

“Madam, of course you need one. Look at that Veerappan. For many many years he has been hiding in the forest smuggling sandalwood. He even kidnaps movie stars once in a while to earn extra pocket money. Now you cannot catch him. So let him kidnap me and then I will explode.”

“Why will Veerappan kidnap you?”

“I will pretend to be an actor.”

“How can cripple be actor?”

“I admire your memory.”

“Are you giving me line? I am married-wedded.”

“I am not giving you line. I am giving you a compliment. Now, what do you think of my idea?”

“Of hugging Veerappan?”

“Yes. Headline will say: ‘Sandalwood Bandit Killed by Suicide Bomber’.”

“You will take all the focus. What about me?”

“We can say it was your idea, that you masterminded the whole thing. You will get a promotion and a house in Pune.”

“You do not mind dying?”

“I mind more that I have to hug Veerappan. I cannot bear the smell of sandalwood. Look, I’m a cripple anyway. I want to go fast. But I want to serve the nation before I exit.”

“I am beginning to understand what you are saying. Now, since you ate my full lunch break, call little later. I need to think about this. Do not speak with anyone else. We need code names. These phones are taped.”

“Madam, yours is a government phone. Why is it tapped?”

“Not tapped. Taped. It is an old phone. There is brown tape on the dial.”

“I am sorry.”

“Okay, your code name is Suicide Bomber.”

“Applicant,” I add. “Because I have not got the job yet.”

“Suicide Bomber Applicant.” She lets the code name hang in the air. “No,” she says. “It is too long.”

“Okay,” I reply. “And what is your code name?”

“You are cripple-donkey or what?”

“Madam?”

“Use name you have been calling me so far.”

A little later:

“Suicide Bomber here.”

“Madam speaking. Sorry. Plan flop.”

“What?”

“My supervisor not agreeable.”

“Madam, you are crushing my childhood dream.”

“What do you mean? Since childhood you want to be suicide bomber?”

“No, since childhood I’ve wanted to die.”