The Cripple and His Talismans (8 page)

“If you were my son I would slap you!”

For a moment I visualize Madam seated on a desk surrounded by old files and papers, the black phone receiver tasting the oil of her black hair. I imagine thick glasses on a nose with flaring nostrils, portions of her belly folded and dead on her lap.

She carries on, “Government time not to be wasted.”

“Forget bomber. Can you give me the number for psychological assistance?”

“Cycle what?”

“Mental-help number.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I am distressed then who do I talk to?”

“No such number.”

“There is no such care for the citizens of this country?”

“If there is such a number then everyone will call and phone lines will be jam.”

“But I need help. I want to talk to someone.”

“Call Mr. P. He will listen.”

“Mr. P?”

“World-famous coffin maker. He is family friend.”

“Are you joking?”

“Government does not joke. Tell him I told to call.”

She gives me the number. I hang up.

Immediately:

“Hello, Mr. P speaking.”

“Can I speak with Mr. P?”

“Did I not say I’m Mr. P?”

“Sorry, you see …”

“Now, tell me who died.”

“Nobody died.”

“So you want the coffin for recreation?”

I must play along. Mr. P will not speak to me if I am not interested in coffins. “Yes,” I say. “I want a coffin to sleep in. I have a strong family history of people dying in their sleep. So I do not want to inconvenience anyone with coffin measurements when it is my turn. I like to be organized.”

“How tall are you?”

“Five seven or eight.”

“Make up your mind.”

“What difference will one inch make?”

“Ask your wife,” Mr. P chuckles.

“Five seven,” I say.

“Are you sure you are five seven? I do not want you to be uncomfortable.”

“It will hardly matter when I am dead.”

“But you will be sleeping in the coffin.”

“Oh, correct. Yes, better make it five eight then.”

There is the sound of traffic in the background and the sound of crows. I like birds.

“Now. Colour of your hair?” he asks me.

“Black. Why?”

“I want the inside of the coffin to match. Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non.”

“Do you want a lid now or at the time of death?”

“Now. I need complete darkness to sleep.”

“We are ready, then. I need advance cash. Your name, please?”

“Suicide Bomber.”

“What?”

“That is my name. Madam gave it to me.”

“Madam who?”

“Your family friend.”

“Listen, fellow, I do not know any Madam. Is this a joke?”

“Mr. P, I would never waste the time of a world-famous coffin maker like you.”

“Good. Now about this bomber person …”

“That is my name. You see, it has been my dream since childhood.”

“To be a bomber?”

“To die.”

“You need help, Mister.”

“Madam was right. You are the contact person.”

“I don’t know this Madam!”

“But you will help me.”

“With what?”

“Madam said that you will give me Mental Health Support. Since there is no service provided for us citizens.”

“Mental Health Support. What’s that?”

“You need not pretend, Mr. P. Where shall I begin?”

“Nothing to begin! Now, do you want the coffin or not?”

“If you listen to me, I will buy the coffin.”

“Please start. From the beginning.”

“You see, Mr. P, I do not have an arm. So I tried to kill myself. But then this poor construction worker died instead of me when he grabbed my grinding stone to pay me respect.”

“Did he have a coffin?”

“Who?”

“The worker. Did he have a proper coffin?”

“I don’t think he did.”

“An outrage,” he says.

“My story, Mr. P.”

“I apologize. Please carry on.”

“So the worker fell from the twentieth floor and splattered. Then I could not kill myself, so I called Madam and she rejected my idea of hugging Veerappan.”

“Why do you want to hug Veerappan?”

“So we both explode. Mr. P, you are not paying attention. As of now, I do not have a single foot in your coffin.”

“Sorry. Please go into more detail.”

“Okay. This leper gave me his finger. But I have no idea what it signifies.”

“Everybody knows it is rude. There is no deeper meaning.”

“No, Mr. P. Again you are not listening. He
physically
gave me the finger. Bit it off.”

“Did it have a coffin?”

“The finger?”

“Yes. The finger coffin is like a cigarette case.”

“Mr. P!”

“Damn you and your finger! I am the world’s best coffin maker! I do not need this torture to make a sale!”

He puts the phone down. I put the phone down. The world is a cruel place. There is no room for cripples even though we occupy less space than full-formed humans do. I need Mental Health Support. There has to be someone who offers this service. I want Veerappan. I will hug him like he is my brother. Then I will calmly undo my shirt and explode.

I storm out of my house with a brown paper packet clutched in my hand. I look to the sky in absolute delight, for I know that God is about to throw me an arm. Instead of rain, arms will fall to earth, separately and in pairs, in different coloured skins, in various shapes and sizes. All cripples can pick and choose, and take a few home with them in case of damage or wear and tear. It is not my fault I think like this. There is a lack of Mental Health Support in this country.

There is too much traffic today. I see the barbers through their glass window, examining heads and beards, waiting for the taxi drivers to collect outside so they can have their next smoke. I weave through the crawling taxis, buses, handcarts and cycles until the sidecar of a scooter taps my leg. It is a wonder people still use these; they were famous during World War II. Entire families travel in them, and it would be no surprise to me if they also carried the family tree. Husband riding, wife behind him with a little baby in her arms, three older children in the sidecar, their heads bobbing up and down like circus clowns. It is a travesty the way parents transport their children.

I reach the concrete divider in the middle of the road. My brown paper packet has greasy samosa stains on it. A beggar child sits next to me and waits for the light to turn red. Three black and yellow taxis are stuck behind a water tanker, which has
Beware of Dreams
written on it. Why only dreams? It is better to be wary of everything.

Part of the road has been dug up, and a stray dog lies inside the pit along with his collection of metal tins, pieces of wood and a shop hoarding for Tip Top tailors. The only way the pit will be covered is if ten cyclists fall into it on their way to work.

I look at the little boy slouched next to my feet. His hands are circled around his knees as if he were his own mother, trying to provide love and comfort. A man tries to push his handcart through the space between the taxi and water tanker. A
BEST
bus now takes its place behind the third taxi.

As the light turns red, the boy runs to the nearest taxi. With a steady stream of discharge from his nose, he tries to lean his chin on the rear window. He is too short. In the back seat of the taxi is a large woman.

“In God’s name,” I hear the boy say. “Please give money.”

I have heard these words in the past and they meant nothing to me. It made me angry that small children begged. If I do not feed them, I thought, they will die and I will be doing them a favour. If we all stopped giving alms, dead beggars would fall on the streets like flies. It will help our government. If outside countries want to help, they should send planes so we can load bags and bags of poor children on board. Then we will all feel better.

At this moment, even though the boy’s words are the same as they have always been, even though I take them in through the same ears, I do not want him dead. I am listening through the arm I do not have. So it does not surprise me when the woman in the taxi ignores the small boy’s words and shifts to the centre of her seat. She has two arms and that impairs her hearing.

“Only five rupees. Will eat food,” he begs again.

“Five? You want to eat in a five-star?” she barks.

The boy’s clothes are brown as the bag I hold and equally greasy. He puts his hand inside the taxi.

“I’ve not eaten for three days,” he tells the woman.

The woman digs into her handbag. The boy rises on his toes and peers into the taxi. The woman pulls out a handkerchief from her handbag and dabs her forehead with it. Two short pats on the cheek later, she puts the handkerchief back into her bag. The boy’s feet are flat on the burning concrete again.

“Give anything,” he says.

I step off the divider and tap the boy’s shoulder. Some time ago, it would have been to admonish or to dismiss. Two arms can be more selfish than one. I have used them in the past to prevent others from growing taller.

“Raju,” I say.

I once heard that all beggar children like to be called Raju. They respond as if it is their name.

“Raju, that well is dry.” I place the paper bag on the road. He smiles at me and nods his head. I dig into my pocket.

“You also don’t take out handkerchief,” he says.

I slap a five-rupee note into his palm. “Go eat in a five-star.”

“For that I need five hundred,” he replies.

I raise my hand as though I am about to hit Raju and he ducks. Before moving to the next taxi, Raju smiles my way. I have never had a Raju smile at me before. I have not given him reason to. I feel sad, as if I have found a remedy for a disease that has already killed me.

Suddenly horns are blaring ahead of me. A policeman is directing traffic and it is obvious from the position of the vehicles that the jam will take some time to clear. The handcarts and cycles have moved forward despite this. I pick the bag up from my feet and leer into the taxi.

When in doubt, suspend all logic. Slit common sense by the throat. Travel to the nearest newsstand and ask for elephants. Walk to the bakery and show complete disbelief when they inform you they do not stock piranha. It is the only way to find a use for that which has none: a leper’s finger.

“Lady, can I interest you in some shopping?” I ask.

She does not respond. Instead she looks straight ahead.

“He does have a nice head, doesn’t he?”

She looks my way, confused.

“The taxiwala. The back of his head looks quite … majestic,” I state.

The taxiwala does not care that he is the subject of conversation. Maybe he is thinking of his village and the wife he left behind. There is a blob of phlegm on his windshield. Must have been a disgruntled passenger. Or the taxiwala’s jilted lover.

I continue, “Lady, if I may point out, there are three to four droplets of sweat on his neck. While I agree
that
is not majestic, it’s the shape of his skull that is most noteworthy.”

“What do you want?” she finally spurts.

“I want to interest you in some shopping.”

“No, thank you. Now leave before I call that policeman.”

“But that is a traffic policeman. He can barely control cars. Human beings are out of the question.”

“Driver, take the taxi in front,” she demands.

The taxiwala turns and faces her. He looks at me but then decides that the sun is in his eyes and faces the wheel again.

“Did you not listen? This man is harassing me. Take the car in front.”

“It’s against the law to hit the car in front,” he says. “Now, please remain calm until the traffic clears. As it is, I’m being boiled.”

I step in again. “Lady, I have a great bargain for you. At least see what I’m selling.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t need it.”

“I’m glad you are interested.” I raise the brown paper bag to her eye level. The paper crinkles as I open it. “Lady, it’s a finger.”

She seems agitated and looks ahead to see if any cars are moving. I open the bag a little more and face it toward her. “How much are you willing to pay for this?”

She looks inside the bag. Her scream terrifies the taxiwala.

“What happened? Cockroach?” he inquires.

“This man has a black finger in his bag!”

“Black finger?” The taxiwala turns my way.

I close the bag. I might get beaten. A lady-scream can attract a mob, especially if a man inspires the lady-scream. But if the man is handicapped, the mob is confused. The mob is then divided between the lady and the cripple.

The flying cockroaches rescue me. They come in hordes, dark soldiers with blades spread; they whiz past my head. The taxiwala acts as if he does not see them. He wants me to think they are not real, that only I have dark friends who fly in hundreds.

“What black finger?” he asks the lady.

“A black finger is a word ladies use for cockroach,” I interject.

“Ah.” He seems satisfied.

“There’s no cockroach! It’s a real finger,” the lady insists.

“That stupid handcart fellow!” bellows the taxiwala. “Who told him to go in between? Now at least ten more minutes wait.” He cranes his neck outside the window to get a better view.