The street comes to life early in the morning. Crows sit in the trees and atop roofs and wake Chamdi. He is surprised to find that a lot of people sleep on the streets. A young man yawns and stretches as he lies on a handcart. He sits up, runs his fingers through his hair, and opens his eyes wide. Two men pass him by with small buckets of water in their hands. They smile at each other as though one of them has cracked a joke. A man dressed in khaki shorts uses a long broom to sweep the garbage that has collected on the footpath. An old woman sits on her haunches and brushes her teeth with her fingers. There is a thick black paste around her lips and she pours water into her mouth from a blue-and-white-striped mug and spits onto the street. She does so in front of the sweeper and does not seem to care that he has just cleaned that part of the footpath. A bald man in white robes walks barefoot across the street. He holds a steel cup with a long handle in one hand and carries loose marigolds in the other. From the red tikka on his forehead, Chamdi can tell that the man is on his way to the temple.
Chamdi hears Guddi clear her throat. She spits on the street too, just like the old woman. Guddi’s face looks dirtier than it did last night, but her cheeks are surprisingly full. Chamdi notices that she went to sleep with her orange bangles on. The brown dress she wears has small holes in it, and she wipes her hands on the dress, uses it as a towel.
“Look at him,” says Guddi. “He went to sleep with his scarf on. I told you he’s a complete idiot.”
“Let him be,” says Sumdi.
Sumdi must have been the first to rise, thinks Chamdi. He seems wide awake. He opens a rusty tin can and picks a matchbox from it. He lights a fire on a small kerosene stove and places a steel bowl on it. It is hard for Chamdi to take his eyes off the scar on Sumdi’s face. It is deep and jagged, as though the skin had been torn apart. Chamdi wonders how Sumdi lost part of his right ear. If they sleep on the street, maybe a rat bit it off. Chamdi is grateful that this thought did not come to him last night. He tries not to stare at the ear.
“You want tea?” Sumdi asks.
“Will you stop feeding him and make him do some work?” shouts Guddi.
Chamdi looks inside the kholi and is surprised to find Amma there. She is mumbling to herself again, but she is not still like she was last night. She moves her body back and forth with the child in her lap. The child’s belly is swollen.
“What’s she doing here?” asks Chamdi.
“Why is that bothering you?” asks Guddi.
“I did not mean it badly,” says Chamdi.
But he does not explain that he is surprised to see Amma in the kholi because it seemed as though Sumdi did not care much about her last night.
“Where can I go?” asks Chamdi instead. He directs his question at Sumdi and does not meet Guddi’s eyes.
“You know,” he says, awkwardly.
“But all you had last night was a slice of bread,” says Guddi. She seems to have picked up Chamdi’s meaning faster than her brother. “So were you lying to us about being hungry?”
“Pick your spot,” says Sumdi. “Do it anywhere you want.”
“What if someone sees me?”
“Ask them not to take a photo,” says Guddi.
Sumdi and Guddi laugh. “And you expect us to believe that you have lived on the streets,” says Sumdi.
“No, it’s just that …”
“Come with me,” says Sumdi.
He leads Chamdi about fifty feet away to three broken steps. One pillar stands in a corner with rusty iron rods sticking out of it. Slabs of stone are strewn all over the ground.
“This building got burnt,” says Sumdi. “Only these three steps remain. And we got a bathroom out of that. Now crouch on these steps and let it land.”
Sumdi limps away, and as Chamdi lowers his shorts, Sumdi turns and looks at him.
“Be careful of your jewels,” he shouts. “The rats might steal them.” He slaps himself on the thigh and limps away.
Chamdi tries to finish quickly. Not that he believes Sumdi about the rats, but he is uncomfortable. He thinks of Mrs. Sadiq. If she were to see him in this position, she would be shocked. If the Koyba Boys were to see him relieving himself on the street, they would tell the world. He thinks of the toilets in the orphanage, and an afternoon two years ago when Mrs. Sadiq went to the market and Raman passed out in the toilet. When Chamdi bent down to wake him up, he could not believe how powerful the smell of alcohol was. He threw water on Raman’s face and Raman got up suddenly and flailed his arms about and screamed. Chamdi ran out of there.
As Chamdi finishes, he does not know how he will wash himself. Still on his haunches, he looks around. If he were at the orphanage, he might have used a leaf. But the only tree in sight is the one sheltering the kholi, and the tree’s leaves are too high anyway.
A round stone saves him. He spots it only a foot away, so he stretches his arm towards it. As he wipes himself with the stone, he thinks of the Koyba Boys again. Maybe they should play koyba with this stone.
He pulls his shorts up and walks back to the tree. Sumdi and Guddi are already sipping their tea. They share the same glass, pass it back and forth.
“Did you empty your tank?” asks Sumdi.
“Yes,” says Chamdi.
“Have some tea then.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Maybe our tea is not good enough for the raja,” says Guddi.
“It’s not that. I can see there’s not enough because you two are sharing.”
“We’re sharing the glass,” says Sumdi. “We have enough tea, but only one glass. So you also have.”
He offers the glass to Chamdi. Chamdi hesitates.
“Are you shy?” asks Sumdi. “Are you feeling shy that her lips have touched the glass and if your lips also touch the glass then …”
Guddi hits Sumdi on the wrist and mutters, “Early in the morning …”
“Don’t mind her,” says Sumdi.
Chamdi watches as Guddi pours some milk from an open vessel into the round cap of a bottle. It looks like the cap of the liquor bottle Raman used to drink from. She then moves towards the baby, which is in Amma’s lap, and pours a little milk into its mouth.
“What’s she doing?” asks Chamdi.
“Feeding the baby.”
“Why is Amma not feeding it herself?”
“Amma is sick.”
“Oh …”
“She does not have any milk in her. Now stop asking questions.”
Chamdi takes one more sip of tea and passes the glass to Sumdi, who pours some more tea from the bowl into the glass. Amma begins to moan again, and although she looks directly at her child, it seems that she is seeing right through it. Chamdi glances at Sumdi.
“She’s our mother,” says Sumdi abruptly, as he stares at the steaming bowl. “She wanders off with the child all the time. Now we are tired of worrying. She can hardly understand what we say to her. She just sits in a corner and tears her own hair off her head. I hate it when she does that.”
“Where’s your father?” asks Chamdi.
“Dead.”
Chamdi wants to hit himself on the head for asking that question.
“You see that Irani bakery over there?” asks Sumdi.
Chamdi looks at the bakery opposite them. There is an advertisement for Pepsi above a board that says Rostamion Bakery and Stores. Below the board, a man with a large moustache dusts the glass display case in which the bread is stored. The first few buttons of his shirt are open to reveal a dense layer of black chest hair. Next to the bakery is Café Gustad, where a young boy sweeps the floor, stopping occasionally to wipe the sleep from his eyes. Black chairs are stacked on top of each other, and tables with marble tops and wooden legs are randomly placed throughout the café.
“A car crushed our father three years ago,” continues Sumdi. “Just outside that Irani bakery.”
If the father died three years ago, how can that be Amma’s child? But Chamdi does not ask this question aloud. “I’m sorry” is all he says.
“What to do? There’s nothing we can do,” says Sumdi. “Our mother went mad after he died. And we have to look after her now. What to do?”
Chamdi feels awkward. Is he supposed to come up with an answer to Sumdi’s question?
“You can help us,” says Sumdi at last.
“Me?”
“We have a plan,” says Sumdi.
“What plan?”
“To steal.”
The thought of stealing appalls Chamdi. He has never stolen in his life. Not once. Even though he knew where Mrs. Sadiq kept the special cream biscuits at the orphanage, he did not take any except when they were offered to him.
“I’m not going to steal.”
“Coward,” says Guddi.
“Don’t worry,” says Sumdi. “It’s a clever plan. Listen. Amma is very sick. If we don’t take her to a doctor she will be finished. If something happens to her, who will look after the child?”
“Nothing will happen to her,” says Guddi fiercely. “I will not let anything happen to Amma.”
“You understand?” asks Sumdi. “We want to steal money to take her to the doctor and then we want to get out of this place.”
“Forever,” says Guddi.
“Where will you go?” asks Chamdi.
“To our village,” says Guddi. “We have a village. So will you help us or no?”
She looks at Chamdi with her big brown eyes, and he is reminded of the kindness that he saw in them last night. But that kindness was so brief, he is confused.
“Why are you silent?” asks Sumdi. “If I could run, I would not ask for your help. Look at me, how can I run? If I run they will catch me and beat me till my skin peels off.”
“But I can’t run fast,” says Chamdi.
“All this time you kept boasting that you could run fast,” says Guddi. “So either you are a liar or you can run fast.”
Chamdi knows he can run fast. When he was little, he heard a story from Chandamama about a boy who screamed so hard that he lost his voice, and then a djinn appeared and told the boy that if he ran fast enough he might be able to catch the voice. So Chamdi used to try doing this in the courtyard of the orphanage until he realized that it was impossible. But at least the story had made him fast on his feet.
“Please help us,” begs Sumdi.
Guddi is about to speak, but at that moment the child in Amma’s arms begins to cry. Amma moves back and forth, speaking—loudly this time—but she emits only strange painful sounds. The child’s cries mixed with the mother’s slow wails make Chamdi uncomfortable. Sumdi rubs his temples as if a pain has developed there, and Guddi tries her best to calm the baby.
Chamdi cannot stop himself from staring at Amma. Her eyes roll upwards as though she is trying to look at the sky without raising her head. He believes that Amma hates the sound of car horns because it was a car that killed her husband. Maybe each time she hears a car horn, she feels something terrible is going to happen and it frightens her. He wishes Amma would say a word or two that might make her sound human, but all she does is howl.
Chamdi tells himself that he does not care if his father is poor, if he cleans toilets like Raman at the orphanage. All he wants is for his father to be in one piece. But there is one more thing. His father must remember that he has a son, unlike Amma, who has forgotten hers.
The sun has come out now and Chamdi stares at Amma’s scalp. The parts where the hair has fallen out, or has been pulled out, are pink. He imagines her hands pulling out strands in clumps, doing all this work that her brain is not even aware of. He grimaces at the thought of this, then feels Guddi’s gaze upon him. In the distance, he sees Sumdi perched on the three steps of the burnt building. He wonders if Sumdi also uses a stone to clean himself.
“So will you help us?” asks Guddi.
Chamdi knows that if he tells her he will not steal, she will call him a coward again, so he keeps quiet.
“We will steal puja money from the mandir. Are you listening?”
“Yes,” says Chamdi. “The one around the corner?”
“Hah, that one. Ahead of it there’s a doctor’s dispensary.”
“Why is there money in that mandir? It’s so small.”
“In two days they will do a puja for Lord Ganesha. There is a politician, Namdeo Girhe his name is. The story is that when his mother was carrying him, she was very poor. She had no place to stay. She used to sleep outside the door of the temple. People saw that she was going to have a child so they gave her money. She gave birth just outside the temple and the young priest in the temple told her that because her child was a son of the temple, blessed by Ganesha, her son would one day be a big man. And it’s come true. So lots of people believe in this temple. Every year, on his birthday, Namdeo Girhe comes here to pray and places money near Ganesha’s feet to make him happy. The money is collected in a plastic box and the priest lets the money remain there until night to show everyone how much Namdeo Girhe cares about God, and what a magical temple it is. That way more and more people come to the temple all year round and the priest gets fat.”
“I can’t steal God’s money.”
“We are his children. He won’t mind.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I’m fatter than you.”
“So?”
“Look,” she says. “You know why I spoke to you? You’re as thin as a stick.”
“So what?”
“You’ll have to slip in through the bars of the temple window.”
“What?”
“Do you think the door is going to be open for you? We’ll put oil all over your body so that you can slip in through the bars of the window. If you get caught, no one will be able to hold on to you because you’ll be so slippery.”
“Have you done this many times?”
“Never.”
“Then how do you know all this?”
“My father … my father used to steal. He would talk with Amma and we would hear. It was his idea to rob the temple. But he died on the day of the puja only.”
“I’m sorry,” says Chamdi. “I cannot steal.”
“Why not?”
“It’s wrong.”
“It’s wrong? What about my father dying? And what about Amma going mad and not having any milk in her body to feed her own child? That’s also wrong, no?”
“Yes …”
“Then it’s right to steal. We just want to get out of here. We are doing nothing wrong. If my brother could run, we would not be asking you.”
Guddi looks into Chamdi’s eyes. A strange feeling wells up inside Chamdi, as though he has known her before. He tries to look away but he cannot. Guddi rubs her nose and the orange bangles she wears catch the morning sun. Everything seems perfect.
Except that she is asking him to steal. Mrs. Sadiq always warned all the children: Remember, once a thief, always a thief. She used to wave her hand back and forth as she said this and Chamdi is shocked to see Mrs. Sadiq’s hand in front of him right now.
But he quickly realizes that it is Amma’s hand and she is bringing something to her mouth. Guddi lets out a small “oh,” and she reaches out to prevent Amma from eating, because Amma has found a clump of her own hair on the ground and has mistaken it for food.
Rather than look at Amma, Chamdi gazes up at the tree he slept under. It is as though this tree is afraid to reach far out into the sky, or perhaps its branches do not know the way to heaven. If only he could climb this tree, he might be able to catch a glimpse of the orphanage and talk to Jesus. He would ask if it is okay to steal to help someone.
“What are you looking up for?” asks Sumdi. “Waiting for food to fall from the sky?”
Chamdi smiles. It is strange being with this brother-sister. Even though he met them only last night, he feels as though he knows them better than most of the children at the orphanage. Apart from Pushpa, he did not feel close to any of the children. He wonders how Pushpa is. He feels guilty that he promised to read her the story of the Hunger Princess but he ran away instead. He hopes Mrs. Sadiq explains to Pushpa why he had to leave.
“Come with me,” says Sumdi.
Chamdi follows Sumdi down the road. He spots a cow lazing on the footpath. A man walks past the cow carrying an air conditioner in his hand. The cow is in this man’s way and he tries to shoo it away, but it does not budge.
“Where are we going?” asks Chamdi.
“To beg.”
“To beg?”
“Maharaj, don’t be so surprised. You are a man of the streets, no? So why is begging bad? It’s the family business.”
“I … but what do we do?”
“First, you tell me the truth.”
“About what?”
“About where you are from. Otherwise I will beat you on the head with my polio leg.”
Chamdi knows that there is no point in carrying on with his act. He needs Sumdi’s help in a city like this. If they become friends, he can tell Sumdi about his plans to find his father. But what if they both laugh at him—especially her? But if a car had not crushed her father, if he was lost but living, she too would hope the way he does.
“Do I have to beg you to tell me?” asks Sumdi. “We must not beg from each other. The enemy is out there, sitting in taxis.”
“I’m from an orphanage.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know what an orphanage is?”
“Hah yaar, I don’t know.”
“An orphanage is where they keep children without parents.”
“There’s another name for such a place.”
“What?”
“Bombay,” says Sumdi. “You’re smiling, but it’s true. This city is our home and it looks after us. Very badly. Bombay is a whore.”
Chamdi has never enjoyed strong language like this. The Koyba Boys spoke like that and he never found it helpful.
“What’s the matter?” asks Sumdi. “You don’t like me abusing Bombay?”
“No, I just …”
“Or you don’t like swearing?”
“That.”
“Few more days with me and you’ll be shouting gaalis like ’Pimp!’ and ’Son of a Pimp!’ from the rooftops. Anyway, at least you admitted that you’re not from the road.”
“How did you know?”
“So many clues. Just look at your teeth. All clean, in one line, so well mannered. That means you brush them.”
“Yes.”
“See my teeth.”
Sumdi opens his mouth wide and Chamdi can see that his teeth are chipped and jagged, and they seem to grow on top of one another as if they are fighting for space. Chamdi turns away because Sumdi’s breath is so strong.
“Not a single day I have brushed my teeth. But don’t be fooled. They might be yellow and eaten up but I could snap your forearm into two if I wanted. Not that I would bite your forearm, but I would crack it if you challenged me.”
“No, I believe you …”
“But more than your teeth, your style gave you away.”
“My style of what?”
“You act like a prince. You think and then you speak. When I speak, the words just come out … like vomit.”
As they walk and talk, a juicewala’s cart catches Chamdi’s eye. A plastic mixer containing orange juice rests on a glass case in which the oranges and mosambis are stored. Some of the oranges are arranged on top of the glass case. Chamdi marvels at the manner in which these oranges stay balanced in the shape of a pyramid, as if the juicewala is some sort of juggler or circus man. Chamdi would love to see the juicewala’s cart at night. Surely the oranges and mosambis would shine brilliantly when the bulb in the glass case is switched on.
“Hope for a solid traffic jam,” Sumdi tells Chamdi.
“Why a jam?”
“So that cars are stuck and we have more time at the signals. Do I have to explain everything to you? Can’t you think for yourself?”
“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.”
“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?”
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.