The Song of Kahunsha

by Anosh Irani

  “But it’s still morning.”

  “So?”

  “So no traffic jam. In the orphanage we could hear the sound of cars only in the afternoon.”

  “What sort of place was this orphanage? What rubbish did they teach you there?”

  “I learned how to read and write.”

  “You can read and write?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you proud of that?”

  “Very proud.”

  “That’s of no use at all, you fool! When you go to the taxis to beg, they are not going to ask you, ’Excuse me, can you spell your name, please?’”

  “What do I do?”

  “You must act like you are really suffering.”

  “But we are suffering.”

  “Hero, this is Bombay. No one cares about the truth. The people want emotion. Tears! Can you cry real tears?”

  “On demand?”

  “Yaar, I’m just playing with you.”

  Sumdi places his hand on Chamdi’s shoulder, and Chamdi stops walking. In front of them, an old man opens the shutters to a small watch repair shop.

  “Now listen,” says Sumdi. “There should be no shame in begging. We are smart boys. If life had been good to us, we would not be begging. No one will give us work, so we have to do this. No shame in begging.”

  Chamdi notices that Sumdi’s tone has suddenly changed. His voice is softer, but firmer.

  “The tears will come anyway, trust me,” Sumdi continues. “I think of my father and that car going over him, and Amma screaming and running towards him … and I had to hold my sister because I was more afraid than she was. Neither of us went near the body. I think of Amma now, how she sits in the darkness every night and pulls out her hair, and even though I think about this every day, the tears still come.”

  Then he spits onto his palm, greases his hair with it, even though he hardly has any hair. In the sunlight, the scar on his face seems even darker, as though the skin has been removed inch by inch.

  “Even with this face, I can still look chickna,” says Sumdi. “Understand? You know how many movie offers I get when I go begging? But I always refuse. Who wants fame? Look around you—I can pull my pants down and let it all go like a waterfall anytime I want, and no one will stop me. How many movie stars can do that?”

  Chamdi still stares at the scar. He knows it must make Sumdi uneasy. The edges of the ear are jagged, like torn paper.

  “I must look handsome for the aunties,” continues Sumdi. “Fat aunties have lots of money.”

  With that, Sumdi steps off the sidewalk and onto the main road. Chamdi watches his new friend trail a black-and-yellow taxi as it slows down for the red light. The taxi has no passenger. Chamdi notices that the buildings on this street are much taller than the ones near their kholi. TV antennas line the terraces of these buildings.

  “Bhaiya, please give something,” says Sumdi to the taxiwala.

  “Don’t eat my brains early in the morning,” says the taxiwala.

  “But if I have no food then naturally I will eat your brains, no?”

  “Your tongue is sharp. Be careful or you will cut yourself.”

  “That’s the problem. My tongue is so sharp that food is afraid to enter my mouth. Look how skinny I am.”

  “You don’t look skinny to me.”

  “Look at what polio did to my leg.”

  “What other sickness do you have?”

  “I’m in love. Biggest illness …”

  “Hah!” says the taxiwala. He reaches into the pocket of his khaki shirt and takes out a one-rupee coin. He gives it to Sumdi.

  “For one rupee what will I get?”

  “You can get lost,” says the driver. “I don’t want to see your face again.”

  “Is next week okay?” asks Sumdi.

  The taxiwala smiles. As the light turns green, Sumdi steps on the sidewalk again.

  “That was very good,” says Chamdi.

  “Stop congratulating me and make some money.”

  “But I wanted to watch you first.”

  “You wanted to watch me? Me, who cannot read or write?”

  “I want to learn properly how to beg.”

  “Then you are my student from this moment.”

  “Done.”

  “Show me some respect, you idiot. Call me Sir.”

  “Sir.”

  “Now pay attention. First rule, never beg from taxiwalas.”

  “But you just did.”

  Sumdi taps Chamdi on the head with his knuckles. “Don’t argue with the master. You rarely get money from taxiwalas. But this one’s a regular. I have known him for two years now. Every day he takes the same route. When he’s in a good mood, he gives. With the taxiwalas you cannot use emotion because their lives are just as hellish as ours, a little better maybe. So they don’t care about tears. And don’t be stupid and tell them you can read and write because maybe they can’t. You don’t want to make them feel that you are cleverer than them. You are a beggar and beggars are meant to be brainless.”

  “Okay, I will be brainless.”

  “Sometimes it helps to act mentally disturbed. Especially with delicate ladies. Cross your eyes and make strange sounds. Bang your head against the taxi a few times. Go close to the window and cough into their faces. Guaranteed money maker.”

  “Right.”

  “Next are the lovebirds. You know what lovebirds are?”

  “I think so.”

  “Explain.”

  “Lovebirds are the … the boy-girl …”

  “What are you shy of? Lovebirds are beautiful. That’s what you must tell them. ’Look at you two, like Laila-Majnu, forever you will be together like two beautiful birds …’”

  “May you have many-many children.”

  “No! Never mention children! The boy will slap you. He doesn’t want his girl to become bloated like a football. If he wants a football, he’ll buy one. No children. Just say that they are meant for each other and if you are lucky they will give you a coin. The best time to beg is when they are kissing. Keep on begging, keep on irritating, ’Please give money, please give money,’ keep on saying it until the boy gets fed up and gives you a five-rupee note.”

  “Five rupees?”

  “Yes, love costs. Now the biggest item. The foreigner. Man from other land. With these people you have to use pity. Make sure your face is very dirty. Put spit all over your face and underneath your eyes so it looks like you’ve been crying. Then go near the window and look directly into their eyes. It will be hard because they are always wearing sunglasses, but do it anyway. If they do not give money immediately, then say something like ’My father beats me,’ ’My mother is dying,’ ’My car is not working.’”

  “’My car is not working’?”

  “Say anything, it doesn’t matter. They have no idea what you are saying. Most of them. But some of them are sharp and speak the language. Now there are many more types. But lessons for today are over, you may leave and go home.”

  “I’m already home. The streets are my home for now.”

  “Wah! What a line! You are ready. Now go and earn some money.”

  As Sumdi limps away from Chamdi, a van goes past and blows smoke on Sumdi’s face. Instead of shielding himself from the black smoke, Sumdi inhales deeply. Then he turns to Chamdi and shouts, “Take it all in, it will make your lungs strong!” He starts coughing. “Good way to get tears,” he says, “to let smoke go in your eyes. Dirty your face, it’s too clean. I wouldn’t give you a single rupee! Stop walking like you own the world. Carry the world’s weight on your shoulders. In a day or two you’ll feel it anyway! And take that white scarf off your neck. Bombay is not a hill station!” Then Sumdi laughs, and Chamdi feels it is a strange sight indeed, to watch this boy walk with a limp, a face black from smoke, and the widest smile in the world.

  Just as Chamdi is about to step off the footpath, a man on a wooden trolley rolls up next to him. The man has no legs, and there is a deep gouge
above his right eye. Flies rest in that cavity. He uses his arms to get off the trolley. He places the trolley on the main road and then sits on it again. A lump the size of a cricket ball protrudes from the back of his neck. Chamdi turns away, looks for Sumdi, but Sumdi is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a small dark boy, not more than four years old, stands on the footpath and glares at Chamdi. There is a steady stream of discharge from the boy’s nose and he is completely naked but for a black thread around his waist. The boy does not take his eyes off Chamdi, so Chamdi is forced to close his own.

  He imagines he is in the courtyard of the orphanage. A gentle breeze blows. The bougainvilleas sway towards him and he lets their petals caress his face. Soon they spread themselves all over the courtyard and climb over its black walls and into the narrow street that Chamdi passed through when he ran from the orphanage. The speed at which the bougainvilleas travel surprise Chamdi. They will be here soon, he tells himself.

  A truck brushes past him, but he does not listen to the roar of its engine.

  The car is a private one with tinted glasses. The thump of music emanates from it. As Chamdi approaches the car, he remembers Sumdi’s instructions about tears, and tries to recall the first time he realized he was an orphan. But he cannot remember the exact moment. All he knows is that he was walking around the courtyard one day and Mrs. Sadiq was sitting on the parapet of the well, and when he looked at her, he suddenly understood that she was not his mother. Even though he felt a deep ache within himself that day, he did not cry. So that memory would fail to bring him to tears today.

  Chamdi knocks on the window of the car and waits. The window stays up. Chamdi knocks again, harder. The young man rolls the window down, irritated.

  “Get out,” he says. “And if you touch my car once more, watch it.”

  Chamdi knows nothing will come of this. He walks to the next car, a taxi, and turns to look if the light is still red. A sudden gust of wind blows dust into his eyes and they begin to water. He rubs his eyes in vain and through a haze he tries to get back on the footpath. He almost bangs into a motorcycle. Then he hears the revving of the motorcycle’s engine and realizes the light must have turned green. The cars have started to move. Horns blow. He hears the word “Chutia!” and the loud manner in which it is said makes him understand that the insult is directed at him. He blinks rapidly in an attempt to clear his eyes but instead collects more dust and snapshots of the grey buildings and the bending streetlights around him. His toe hits the curb and he yelps. He stumbles onto the sidewalk. Safe now, he sits on the ground and closes his eyes.

  “Gaandu!” Sumdi’s voice booms. “Why are you lazing around?”

  “Something’s in my eyes.”

  “Yes, your eyeballs. Now will you get up?”

  “I can’t see …”

  “You are really delicate, yaar,” he says as he hoists Chamdi up. “Now open your eyes.”

  “If I could open my eyes, there would be no problem, no?”

  Sumdi pries open Chamdi’s right eye with his fingers, his nails black with dirt. “Ah, there, I can see it.” He blows into Chamdi’s eye.

  “What is it?”

  “Dirt, what else?”

  Sumdi keeps blowing, but to no avail. “Now don’t move,” he says. “I’m going to put my nail in your eye and remove the dirt, so just stay calm.”

  “What?”

  “My little finger has a long nail for special purposes like when I need to satisfy an itch in my …” He stops deliberately. But Chamdi catches on.

  “You’re going to use that same nail in my eye?”

  “Just a joke. Just a joke.”

  Sumdi delicately places his long nail in Chamdi’s eye and flicks the particle of dirt out.

  “Ah …” says Chamdi.

  “Now for the other one.”

  But Chamdi opens his other eye on his own. The dirt seems to have disappeared. His eyes are red and watery.

  “Perfect! Looks like you’re crying. Now go and earn your first payment. Remember, Masterji is watching.”

  The light turns red again. This time, Chamdi is determined to prove that he can survive on the streets. He waits for the first few cars at the traffic light to come to a complete halt. He surveys each taxi. He spots a woman who is very plump and the heat has made her cheeks red. Sumdi’s words ring in Chamdi’s ears, “Fat aunties have lots of money.” Chamdi wishes himself luck, puts on a smile in order to seem charming, and stands near the rear window. Just as he is about to beg and plead, he realizes that the woman is not alone in the taxi. A small boy, perhaps a year or two younger than Chamdi, sits by her side. He looks at Chamdi and says, “Mummy, a beggar.” Chamdi’s smile disappears. He did not expect to be faced with a boy the same age as he. More than that, the boy did not doubt for a second that Chamdi is a beggar. Chamdi may be an orphan but he can read and write—he is a temporary beggar. To be identified as a beggar right away, in the manner a policeman or doctor would be, makes him lower his head. Chamdi blames his dirty, ragged vest. The boy in the taxi blurts out, “Look how thin he is.” Chamdi is still unable to look up. He wanted to charm the fat aunty, earn money the way Sumdi did with a tongue full of quick remarks. He tries to suck his ribs in but knows that it is not possible. “Here, give him some money,” he hears the woman say. The next thing Chamdi knows, he has stretched out his hand, and a coin lands on his open palm. He does not look at its value. He is still staring at his feet. He notices his right toenail. It must have cracked when he hit his foot on the curb only a few minutes ago. He clenches his fist and turns away from the taxi.

  SIX.

  On the footpath, an old man is dusting the glass display case of his clock-repair shop. He mutters to himself as he does this. Chamdi wonders if the man is muttering because all his clocks show a different time. Flies sit on the glass counter and the old man brings his duster down hard on it.

  In the distance, Chamdi sees the skyscrapers. What would it be like to be on the twentieth floor of a building? Would he be able to view the orphanage from up there? Where he stands now, the buildings are only four or five floors tall. The children that live in the nearby buildings must have no room to play at all, he thinks. But they have the advantage of being able to fly kites from the terraces of their buildings.

  Light falls hard on the sidewalk, which is busy and breathing. At a toy stall, orange and silver cars are placed in a row, and dolls hang in plastic cases from the roof. There is a plastic cricket bat, but it is very small, for children. Next to the cricket bat is a toy gun. Chamdi does not like the gun even though he knows it cannot be used to harm anyone. The shopkeeper sits on a stool and winds a two-headed puppet. When he lets go of the key, both the heads jiggle madly. The shopkeeper seems to enjoy playing with his own toys, even though people stroll past him and no one buys anything.

  Next to the toy stall, a man garlands the entrance to his tailor shop. Chamdi wonders if the garland was made by the old woman who sits outside the temple. He misses his bougainvilleas. Why does no one make garlands out of bougainvillea petals? He has been without them for more than a day now and he can already feel the colour draining out of him. Perhaps he will be able to find a garden so he can recharge himself. With this thought, he remembers the petals in his pocket. He takes them out, holds them in his palm. He notices a man passed out on the footpath. The man’s shirt is muddy and wide open, and black ants crawl around his toes. Chamdi wishes the petals could make things better here as they did in the courtyard of the orphanage. But they do not. Perhaps it is because they are not attached to the tree. He puts the petals back in his pocket.

  A moment later, Sumdi arrives and slaps him on the back.

  “They’re all beggars,” says Sumdi. “Those rich people in the cars are the true beggars. Sixteen rupees. That’s all I made in four hours of begging. Today was a slow day.”

  But Chamdi is quite surprised with the amount of money that Sumdi has made.

  “What about you?” asks Sumdi. “How much did you make?
”

  “I made four.”

  “I think the problem is your face. Your body is very thin but your face looks healthy. Try and look sick next time. Okay—we have twenty rupees in total.”

  “So we can eat now.”

  “Not so fast, hero. We can’t eat yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “First show me the money you made.”

  Chamdi dislikes the fact that Sumdi needs proof. But he reaches into his brown shorts and takes out a handful of coins. He opens his palm for Sumdi to see. There are four fifty-paise coins and two one-rupee coins.

  Sumdi takes the money from Chamdi’s palm and puts it in his pocket. “Right. Twenty in total,” he says.

  “Why didn’t you believe me?”

  “I believed you.”

  “Then why you needed to see?”

  “This money does not belong to us.”

  “What?”

  “It belongs to Anand Bhai.”

  “Who’s Anand Bhai?”

  “Anand Bhai is our boss. All beggars who work in this area must give him whatever we earn. Then he will give us some money back.”

  “Why should we give him our money?”

  “Look at my face,” says Sumdi.

  “Hah?”

  “Look—I know that since we met you have wondered about this ugly scar on my face and why my right ear is half-eaten.”

  “I …”

  Chamdi finds it hard to look Sumdi in the eye. So he stares at Sumdi’s shirt instead. It is cream in colour and has grease stains.

  “This rip on my face was made by Anand Bhai,” says Sumdi. “He calls it his signature. He cut me with a knife.”

  “He cut you?”

  “After my father died, I cleaned tables and swept the floor in an Irani restaurant. One night as I was returning to the kholi, a man showed up and said he was my father’s friend. He walked with me a short distance and then suddenly slapped me hard. I ran, but the fear made me forget that I have polio and I am unable to run so this man caught me easily and slashed my face with a knife. Then he said, ’I am Anand Bhai, and your father owed me money, so now you must work for me.’ I was scared but angry and so I swore at him. That was when he sliced off part of my ear. So now you understand why this money is not ours?”