The Song of Kahunsha (18 page)

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.

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 i
s
le 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 woman 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.

“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?”