The Song of Kahunsha (3 page)

Chamdi closes his eyes and opens the book to “The Hunger Princess.” He knows this story and is happy it has been chosen. “The Hunger Princess” is a love story about a beautiful princess in ancient India who was not allowed to marry the boy of her choice, a poor farmer’s son. So she decided to starve herself to death. The king did not think his daughter would do such a thing, but she bravely refused to eat, and such was the effect of her devotion that crops stopped growing and the whole kingdom starved until the king finally agreed to give his daughter to the poor farmer’s son.

It was Mrs. Sadiq who first read this story to all the children. As Chamdi thinks back, he understands why the story gave Mrs. Sadiq no joy when she told it. Perhaps it made her realize how differently her own story had turned out, and even though the tone of her voice was gentle, Chamdi could tell that Mrs. Sadiq did not believe a word of what she was reading. He is sure of that now. But he is pleased that Pushpa is ready to wholeheartedly believe whatever she is
told. After he reads her the story, he might reveal to her the power of colours. But just as he is about to start reading, Mrs. Sadiq steps into the room.

“I want all of you to sit on the floor,” she says. “I have something important to tell you.”

Chamdi closes the storybook and tells Pushpa that as soon as Mrs. Sadiq makes her announcement, he will start the tale. Pushpa takes the copy of
Chandamama
from Chamdi’s hand and admires the illustration of the Hunger Princess, whose long black hair covers her face as she weeps for the poor farmer’s son. Dhondu the ghost-boy sits down next to the two of them.

It is hard for the Koyba Boys to stop their game because one boy has now won four games in a row. He tells the others that he wants to set a record of five. But at a look from Mrs. Sadiq, they pick up one stone each and sit down next to Sonal, who is already waiting, her hand on her chin.

Chamdi catches Mrs. Sadiq’s reflection in the mirror on the wooden cupboard. Her body is frail and the veins on her forehead are visible. She looks even more tired now than she did a while ago in her office. This means the news cannot be good.

He recalls the last time she made an announcement. It was regarding the Babri Masjid. The mosque had been destroyed on December sixth, the same day as Pushpa’s birthday. She told them about it a couple of days later, when riots had broken out in Bombay.

Over the next few days, Chamdi overheard Raman tell Jyoti that it was unsafe for Mrs. Sadiq to go out of the orphanage as well because she was Muslim. Muslim-owned shops were being looted and set ablaze. Muslim men, women and children were being harmed, and the police offered no protection at all. It was Raman who suggested that Mrs. Sadiq wear a sari instead of the traditional salwar kameez. If she did step out, she might be able to pretend that she is Hindu. But Chamdi did not want to believe any of this. After all, Raman drank so much. It made him tell lies.

Mrs. Sadiq’s words bring Chamdi back to the present.

“I have watched some of you come here as babies, and now you are so heavy that I cannot even lift you,” she begins.

Her mouth breaks into a faint smile. She looks at Sonal, who plays with the frills of her green
dress. Sonal often wanders off into Dreamland. It irritates Chamdi that Sonal is not paying attention.

“Sonal, you came here when you were two years old,” says Mrs. Sadiq. “How old are you now?”

Sonal hears her name and looks up at Mrs. Sadiq. She raises her hand to answer. Mrs. Sadiq has taught them that when they are in a group they must raise their hand if they wish to speak.

“How old are you?” repeats Mrs. Sadiq.

“I’m nine years old,” replies Sonal.

“We have one boy who will soon be a man,” says Mrs. Sadiq. “Can anyone tell me who that is?”

Pushpa points to Chamdi. Chamdi looks down because he does not like the attention. What is so great about being born before the others? He has done nothing to achieve it.

“As you all know, this orphanage used to be owned by a Parsi lady,” says Mrs. Sadiq. “H.P. Cama died thirty years ago. It is said that she had no husband, no children. She decided that after she died her home would be a home for little children like you.”

Why is she telling us what we already know? thinks Chamdi. He is now sure that the news is bad because Mrs. Sadiq is wasting time and she looks at her feet as she talks.

“But there is a problem now.”

Mrs. Sadiq straightens her back and head when she says this, but Chamdi knows this will not change the nature of her words.

“Three months ago, I received a letter. It was from the trustees of this orphanage … the people who are in charge of this place. A man showed up and he was able to prove to the trustees that he is H.P. Cama’s grandson.”

Mrs. Sadiq stares at her feet again. Then she crosses her arms and scratches her elbows.

“So the trustees are being forced to hand over the place to him, and they hear that he is going to construct a building in place of this orphanage. I begged them to provide some sort of shelter, even a smaller shelter would do, anywhere … They gave me a final answer at three o’clock today.”

Beside Chamdi, Pushpa opens
Chandamama
and flips through the pages. She stops at an illustration of a young boy who holds a mountain in his hand and is ready to eat it. Pushpa looks at Chamdi, points to the boy’s gaping mouth, and giggles. But Chamdi is concentrating hard on Mrs. Sadiq’s words.

“The thing is, the trustees have asked us to leave this orphanage. We have one month to leave. This
orphanage will be broken down and a tall building will come in its place.”

Suddenly, Chamdi is filled with anger at Mrs. Sadiq. She knew about this three months ago. Why did she not tell him? All she did was grow quieter and quieter as if her silence would help them. And what kind of people are these trustees? How can they choose a building over children?

“Tell them we will not leave,” says Chamdi.

“We have no choice, Chamdi.”

“This is our home.”

“But they own it. There’s nothing we can do. There are times in your life when you cannot do anything. We are lucky that we were allowed to stay in this place for so many years. There are people who are worse off on the streets.”

“But that’s where you are sending us.”

“I’m not sending you anywhere. It’s not up to me. But I’m doing all I can to find another place for you all.”

“Where?”

“Pune.”

“Where is that?”

“Pune is three hours from here by train. I know a priest there. His name is Father Braganza. He runs an orphanage too. I have written to him.”

“We are leaving Bombay?”

“I have tried to find a place in Bombay but there is nothing. And I feel that the farther away you are from this city, the safer it is. These are dangerous times. You know how bad the month of December was. Some people say the riots are not over, that more fighting and looting will take place.”

Chamdi does not like it when Mrs. Sadiq says this. Just because her life took a wrong turn does not mean theirs will too. And he has not seen any riots. He has seen Bombay in his mind and it is wonderful.

“What if Father Braganza says no?” asks Chamdi.

“He won’t,” she says. “Look—there’s no point in talking about this now. We will find another place. For now, all we can do is pray.”

Mrs. Sadiq runs her hands over her white hair and leads all the children to the prayer room. Pushpa leaves the storybook on the floor. Pushpa and Chamdi are the last to enter the prayer room.

Chamdi can tell that Mrs. Sadiq is scared. She usually stands just below Jesus and talks to the children before the prayer, but today she kneels alongside them. With her head bent down, she softly says, “Tell Jesus everything.”

Chamdi loses track of how long they stay silent, but by the end of the prayer it feels as if all the children have moved a little closer to each other.

Mrs. Sadiq is the first to stand up. All the children walk past her out of the prayer room. No one says a word. As Pushpa passes Mrs. Sadiq, she pulls on Mrs. Sadiq’s hand, as though she does not want to go to the next room alone. But Mrs. Sadiq does not leave. Chamdi is last in line and he has been looking at her. Mrs. Sadiq tells Pushpa to carry on.

Chamdi is burning with anger because he has heard the truth. And he has decided that if Mrs. Sadiq can speak the truth with such ease today, she will tell him what she has been hiding from him for all these years.

“You have to tell me the truth,” he says.

“I did tell you the truth,” Mrs. Sadiq replies. “We have no home now.”

“Not about the orphanage. I want the truth about me.”

“Chamdi, I’ve told you many times. I know nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“I know nothing. I promise.”

“Swear by Jesus,” insists Chamdi.

“I have done that for you also. Many times.” Mrs. Sadiq sighs.

“Put your hand on Jesus. Then say it.”

Chamdi knows that in the past Mrs. Sadiq has lied to him. She has sworn by Jesus that she knows nothing about his mother or father, but she has never placed her hand on Jesus and lied. Mrs. Sadiq touches Jesus’ feet.

“I know nothing about your mother and father,” she says.

“You’re still lying.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You removed your hand from Jesus’ feet while you were saying it.”

“Chamdi … you must stop asking about your parents.”

“Then I will ask you something else.”

“That’s better.”

“Do you remember when you asked me if I kicked one of the Koyba Boys while he was sleeping?”

“I remember.”

“What did I tell you?”

“You told me you did kick one of them.”

“And you know why I told you? Because I’m a bad liar. Just like you. Tell me, please. Please, Mrs. Sadiq, I need to know about my parents.”

“But what’s the use now?”

“I will stop thinking about them. Some nights I wonder if they lost me by accident and are still searching for me.”

“Chamdi, it’s harmful to keep dreaming like this.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

There is a long silence. Chamdi expects that Mrs. Sadiq will break the silence by telling him for the hundredth time that she knows nothing about his mother and father.

“Mrs. Sadiq, you kept silent for three months about the letter, and you did not tell us we were going to lose our home, and now see the end result.”

“Chamdi …”

“I know why you’re sending us to Pune.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to look after us anymore.”

Chamdi looks directly at Mrs. Sadiq when he says this. There is disbelief on her face. Chamdi has never spoken to her in this manner before.

“Chamdi … there’s nothing I can do. It’s not up to me. The trustees are in charge. I’ve told you the truth. I promise.”

“Then tell me the truth about my parents also.”

“You might not like what you hear.”

“Tell me.”

“Think hard about what you ask.”

Chamdi wants to tell Mrs. Sadiq that he has spent his whole life thinking about this. On some nights he stands by the open window of the orphanage and begs his parents to come back for him, but he does it only on nights when there is a strong wind so that the wind can carry his words to them. Sometimes he stares at himself in the mirror and wonders what part of his face his parents did not like. He wants to tell Mrs. Sadiq why he stands in the courtyard all day. It is because he had a dream once that he was standing in the courtyard and a man and woman walked towards him, and he suddenly started running to them because his heart recognized who they were, and he was in their arms within seconds, and the whole courtyard was happy for him, especially the bougainvilleas …

“Your father left you here, Chamdi,” Mrs. Sadiq says sharply. “He’s never coming back. I thought it was better for you not to know.”

Chamdi is shocked at the manner in which Mrs. Sadiq’s words jump out. She takes a few steps to the window and looks out into the courtyard.
She takes her glasses off and clasps her hands behind her back. She continues slowly.

“I saw your father,” she says. “I saw your father the day he left you. It was in the afternoon and I had just finished eating. We had a dog called Rani, who is gone now. Rani was a very gentle dog. But Rani started barking, and she would bark only if someone was running. For some reason Rani never liked people running. She never ran herself. Even though dogs love to run and chase things, my Rani never ran. She was like a queen, always walking.”

“What did you see?” asks Chamdi.

“I walked to the window and saw a man running. He was running away from the orphanage.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was running away from the orphanage and I had a sick feeling in my heart. The same sick feeling I get every time someone leaves a child here. It’s a feeling that never goes away.”

“What did the man look like, Mrs. Sadiq?”

“I looked at the man and then back at Rani, who was barking loudly. She was near the well and next to her was a white bundle. That white bundle was you.”

“What did the man look like?” This is what I
want to know, thinks Chamdi. Tell me what he looks like.

“He looked scared. I never saw his face. I could only see his back, but even from his back I could tell that he was scared.”

“Was that my father?”

“Yes.”

“But how do you know?”

“I could tell by the way he ran.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Sadiq?”

Mrs. Sadiq sighs. “The way he ran, Chamdi. It could mean anything. It could mean that he loved you very much but was forced to leave you alone and was running from you because it would be impossible for him to simply walk. Or it could mean that he ran because he was afraid of being caught. You must decide what it means.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“You mean you
saw
his face?”

“The thing is, Chamdi … I saw his back so clearly that over the years his face slowly started forming, and in my mind he had the same face that every man in this world has. His face was the
same face as that of my husband, it was the same face as that of the man who sells vegetables around the corner, it was the same face … and the face does not matter at all.”