In the morning, the sky has the gloom of dusk. The doors of the bakery are open, and from where he lies on the street Chamdi can see a woman in the room above the bakery. She wears a pink scarf on her head, holds a small book in her hand, and she is mumbling to herself. Perhaps she is praying, asking for protection from her own husband.
Chamdi’s back hurts. He is still not used to the uneven stone of the footpath. And it hurts for another reason, too—something has been creeping up his back all night, a thought, and it has finally settled down in his brain: Today is the day I become a thief. But he still hopes for a way out. There has to be.
After a while, Sumdi stirs and stands up.
“Going to get food?” asks Chamdi.
“No,” says Sumdi. “I have to get something else first.”
“What?”
“Rat poison.”
“What for?”
Sumdi does not answer him, and Chamdi is left to wonder. He knows that rat poison will be of no use at all. It might kill one rat, ten rats at the most, but in a city of countless rats, what good will that do? Still, he does not question Sumdi’s actions. After all, it is Sumdi’s money. Chamdi has his own money, but it makes him uneasy to use any of it.
For a moment, Chamdi watches the taxis as they roll slowly past. Then he turns his attention to the apartment buildings that look out over the street. Most of the windows in the buildings are closed, perhaps because of last night’s heavy wind. Only a few men stand at their windows and peer onto the street. Some wear white vests and scratch their underarms, and some of them have red lips from chewing paan. Even though paan is colourful, Chamdi does not like the way it stains the lips and eventually the streets.
“Can I come with you?” asks Chamdi, finally.
“No,” says Sumdi.
“Why not?”
“I have work to do.”
“But I need to talk to you about this afternoon.”
Sumdi walks away from the tree. Only when he is a fair distance away from the bakery does he cross the road. Chamdi follows in Sumdi’s footsteps.
“The oil you’ll need this afternoon is with us,” explains Sumdi as he blows his nose. “I’ll give you the bottle when we get back.”
“Where did you get the oil?” asks Chamdi.
“I stole it from the beediwala near the temple.”
Chamdi remembers the beediwala shutting the lid of the biscuit jar hard on his wrist on his first day in the city. In a way, Chamdi deserved it. After all, it is Chamdi who is going to use the stolen oil.
“The plan is simple,” says Sumdi. “Guddi will sit outside the temple and sell the gods. I will be with her. You stay out of sight, behind the beediwala’s shop. But make sure you can see us, okay? When Namdeo Girhe makes his entry, that’s your signal to smear yourself with oil. As soon as his puja is done, he will leave with the priest. The temple will then be closed for a while. You slip in from a side window. This side window can’t be seen from the street. Its bars are very close to each other, but you will be able to go through them. You’ll also need a hammer. I’ll place it on the ground just below the side window.”
“What is it for?”
“The money is kept in a large plastic box. First throw the hammer in through the window, then enter, then smash the box.”
“Where do I meet you after I get the money?” asks Chamdi.
“Grant Road Station,” says Sumdi. “Walk through the school playground. Turn right, cross the street, and you will come to Grant Road Station. Go to Platform 1 and stand near the ticket window. We will bring Amma and the baby there. And wait there only. Even if we take time, you have to wait.”
“I’ll wait,” promises Chamdi.
“And idiot,” says Sumdi. “Make sure you put the money in your pocket in the temple itself. Only take the notes. No coins. And once you come out, walk easy like you are in a garden. Only if you are seen, then run. Only you know you are a thief, remember that. If your heart is beating fast, no one else will be able to hear it, so just relax. Before you come out of the window, peek through the bars. We’ll be outside. So we’ll give you a sign.”
“What if the temple window is closed?” asks Chamdi.
“On the day of the puja, because of the extra incense, they keep the side window open. They have to let the fragrance out. And the thief in.”
“I’m not a thief,” says Chamdi sharply.
“Okay, okay.”
“And why has no one robbed the temple in all these years?”
“No one has the guts to rob that temple.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, everyone thinks it’s a miraculous temple. So to rob it would be bad luck.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“The temple is under Anand Bhai’s protection.”
“Oh …”
“Namdeo Girhe uses Anand Bhai to beat people up during voting. Anand Bhai’s gang is very powerful. During voting, this temple is used for paying bribes to the police. The policewalas come in to pray and go out rich.”
“During the puja, Anand Bhai will be there?”
“He might. But don’t worry. He’ll be in a daze because he always drinks bhang.”
“What’s that?”
“A drug he puts in a glass of milk and swallows.”
“If he finds out, we’re dead.”
“By the time he finds out, we’ll be on a train. Any more questions?”
What if I am caught and beaten, what if my ribs cause me to get stuck between the bars, what if while I am entering the window the bars move on their own, come in closer, and crush me, what if I cannot find Platform 1?
“No, I don’t have any questions,” says Chamdi.
They enter the lane just behind a shop that sells car and truck tires. Next to it is Pushpak Books, and a group of schoolchildren line up outside it with their parents. Sumdi enters a small building. Its archway entrance is painted bright yellow, but the rest of the building is rundown and peeling. The iron grilles on the windows make the building look even more rusted. Sumdi and Chamdi are now inside a very narrow passageway. Chamdi inhales deeply, takes in the smell of different foods. There is also the pungent odour of waste emanating from a square landing in the centre of the building that is open to the sky. The inhabitants of the building must throw their garbage here—Chamdi spots green plastic bags in that landing, along with lots of eggshells and banana peels.
Sumdi knocks on a door that has a sticker of Shiva on it. He gestures to Chamdi to stay out of view. The cobras that spurt from Shiva’s locks remind Chamdi of Guddi’s wooden box, and of how he longs to do honest work like Guddi.
The door opens. Chamdi cannot see who it is, but from the way the person coughs, Chamdi can tell it is a man.
“I’ve come for some medicine,” says Sumdi.
“Hah?”
“Anand Bhai has sent me.”
“Oh? I’ve not seen you before. What’s your name?”
“Raju. I came here two weeks ago with Munna.”
“So where’s Munna?”
“He’s not well. He got cut above the eye.”
“But how come I still don’t recognize you? With a face like yours …”
“Sahib, you were … drunk last time I came, that’s why maybe.”
“You two-foot swine. You must be right. Because I’m drunk right now! So, what do you want?”
“The rat medicine …”
The man slams the door in Sumdi’s face. Chamdi has no idea why Sumdi is doing all this. The door opens again. The man gives Sumdi a small packet.
“Now give my respects to Anand Bhai. What did you say your name was?”
“Raju,” says Sumdi.
“Raju,” says the man, “may you kill many rats!”
The man shuts the door abruptly. There is the sound of him banging into furniture. Sumdi scurries down the passageway. As they pass the landing, Chamdi notices a tomato fall from one of the apartments above.
“Why did you lie to him about your name?” asks Chamdi.
“Because Anand Bhai did not send me.”
“But that man will recognize you, no?”
“Munna normally comes to collect poison from here for Anand Bhai when he has to do his dirty work. Munna used to make fun of this drunkard. He would joke about how the drunkard would be completely out, early in the morning. That’s how I know. I’ve never come here before. I just tried my luck—I knew he would not charge money if Anand Bhai ordered it. Anyway, let’s hope in his nasha the drunkard forgets that I came here at all.”
Chamdi thinks of Raman at the orphanage, and how he would mumble to himself when he was drunk. But Raman would never bang into furniture. His only problem was that he would pass out.
Back on the street now, Chamdi steps on a wrapper for Liril soap. He holds the wrapper to his nose and takes in the scent. The soap at the orphanage hardly had a scent. It did its job and left instantly.
Soon, Chamdi’s surroundings seem familiar: a post office, a jeweller’s shop, a police station with blue and yellow stripes on its walls. Chamdi wants to run his hands across the striped pillars and walls. They are, after all, the skin of the police-tigers. How their muscles will ripple like waves, he tells himself. They will be the most ferocious beings anyone has ever seen and their roar will be heard all across the city.
Soon, he and Sumdi are back at Dabba’s spot in the passage between the shop and the building with the broken pipes. A metal bowl of coins rests near his head. He looks at Sumdi and smiles. Sumdi does not smile back.
“Did Anand Bhai come?” asks Sumdi.
“Yes.”
“So what happened?”
“I told him that I had the best information for him. I told him about the jeweller’s shop being sold, and I was about to tell him the exact time and date they would be moving the jewellery from his shop to another location, but I didn’t. I told him to let me retire, that if he just gave me enough money to eat every day, I would be satisfied. It’s a small price for all the information I have given him. I said I just wanted to live in peace. I even told him that I could live with you, that you would look after me. I just want to stay in one place and not be moved around like an animal.”
“Did he agree?”
“He laughed. He said, ’I made you and I will tell you when to retire.’ Just as I thought. That madarchod will die a hundred deaths before he leaves earth, you mark my words, or my name is not Dabba.”
“Did you bring what I asked?”
“Dabba, I …”
“Don’t fail me, Sumdi. I expected Anand Bhai to fail me, but not you. Did you bring it or not?” The manner in which Dabba twitches suggests that he is hungry for what Sumdi has.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
Sumdi turns to Chamdi and makes a gesture with his head, a signal for Chamdi to leave. Chamdi moves away a bit, but does not take his eyes off Dabba.
“Show me the poison,” says Dabba. Sumdi opens the packet of rat poison and empties the black pills onto his palm.
“Okay,” says Dabba. “No formalities. Put it in my mouth.”
“I can’t,” says Sumdi. “I can’t do it.”
Dabba tries to sit up, sit back—anthing. He tries to reach Sumdi’s palm with his mouth, but his limbless body allows him hardly any movement.
“Sumdi, you are a cripple too. You are also a dog on the road like me and you have a long life to live, be sure of that. Someday you will need help. So don’t deny me. Just put it in my mouth and go,” says Dabba. “Get out of here.”
“I can’t put it in your mouth,” replies Sumdi. “Please …”
“Turn me around. Flip me over so that I rest on my stomach.”
“But the ground will hurt your face.”
“Just do as I say,” snaps Dabba.
Sumdi rolls Dabba over until he is flat on his stomach. Dabba’s face rests on one side.
“Now put the poison on the ground and get out,” says Dabba.
Sumdi overturns his palm and limps out of the alley. Chamdi stares in horror as Dabba licks the ground.
In the mid-afternoon, Chamdi waits behind the beedi shop. He forces himself to read the advertisement for Happy Tailors that has been pasted onto the back of the beedi shop. A sketch of a man’s shirt occupies most of the ad and the man has a huge smile on his face. There is a rose in the front pocket of the shirt, and at the bottom, a promise from the tailor himself: HAPPY TAILORS MAKE YOU HAPPY. A large nail sticks out of the poster and Chamdi is careful not to let it scrape him.
He has a perfect view of the temple from this position. The place looks nothing like a temple, thinks Chamdi. It is nothing more than a ground-floor apartment that has been converted into a temple. Only the yellow wall makes it stand apart from the rest of the building. Who knows for sure if Ganesha thinks of this apartment as home? What if he is forced to live here but does not want to? What if he is waiting for someone like Chamdi to rescue him? Then Chamdi would not be doing anything wrong. These are his thoughts as he watches the old woman make garlands outside the temple. Chamdi cannot hear her, but he can tell from the manner in which her head bobs that she is humming a song. She inspects the garland that she has just finished, holding it out as though it is a measuring tape. The sun is shining now and it gives the marigolds in the garland extra colour. The woman hangs the garland from the nail on the roof of her small shop, then rubs her eyes and opens them wide before starting a fresh garland. Chamdi wonders why she wears a plain white sari. A flower woman should be as colourful as her flowers.
He grips the bottle of stolen oil in his hand. What if the beediwala sees him? What if the man comes behind his shop to relieve himself? No, he would not leave his shop counter unattended.
From where he waits, Chamdi can keep an eye on Sumdi and Guddi, who stand outside the temple right next to the old woman’s stall. Sumdi is shirtless and Guddi has a couple of gods in her hands, but her wooden box is not visible. Perhaps she did not bring her box because if they need to run, it will be difficult to carry the box.
Chamdi is glad that he has never been inside the temple. If he had stood face to face with Ganesha, stealing would be even more shameful than it is now. Chamdi knows Ganesha through an illustration he saw in Chandamama, accompanying a story about Ganesha’s birth. One of the children had asked if Ganesha was real, and Mrs. Sadiq said that he was probably an invention, but Chamdi said no one could prove that. He went on to explain that Ganesha must be a kind, understanding god, his elephant ears large enough to listen to the problems of people from the farthest corners of India, his extra limbs able to comfort more than two people at a time. Today, Chamdi begs Ganesha to be forgiving. Please place your trunk on my head and bless me. Forgive me for being a thief. I promise I will never do it again.
A white Ambassador car with a red siren on top stops just outside the temple’s lane. A police jeep accompanies the Ambassador. The door of the Ambassador opens and a man dressed in a white kurta steps out. Chamdi assumes that this man is the politician. He can tell from the manner in which the people around the man fawn over him. Chamdi cannot remember the politician’s name, but it does not matter. He is suddenly very scared. He had no idea the police would be here.
Then Chamdi remembers what Sumdi told him. If by chance Chamdi gets caught, he must start crying immediately. He must bring whoever has caught him to where Amma is and he must say that Amma is his mother and all he wanted to do was buy some food and medicine for her and the baby. He must not worry. But Chamdi is still afraid. It is true that a normal citizen might slap him and let him go, but this is the police. He hopes they leave soon. As soon as he thinks this, a police inspector steps out of the jeep. He takes off his cap and places it on the dashboard, then follows the politician towards the temple.
The appearance of the politician was meant to be the sign for Chamdi to start smearing himself with oil. He now opens the cap of the oil bottle and pours some onto his shaking palm. He wishes he had not seen the police jeep. He wonders if Sumdi knew that a police jeep always followed the politician’s car. Perhaps Sumdi chose not to tell Chamdi.
Chamdi’s hands are sticky with oil, but he has forgotten to take off his vest. He removes it anyway and places it on the ground. For a moment he wonders if he should remove the white cloth from around his neck as well, but he decides against it. He made a promise to himself that he would untie the cloth only when he found his father.
He starts with his chest. He spreads the oil evenly, keeping an eye on the windows opposite him, even though he feels no one would care that he is putting oil over his body. He finds it hard to oil his back, but he manages. He is relieved that he has hardly eaten in the past two days-he has become even thinner. The fear rushes back: can he really go through with this? One hard strike of the policeman’s stick on his chest and his ribs will be broken forever.
Chamdi glances up. The police inspector has suddenly disappeared from sight. Chamdi whips around. What if the policeman has smelt him and has crept up behind Chamdi to take him away? He is clearly not cut out for this—he would be willing to trade his fast legs for Sumdi’s defective one.
The politician has now entered the temple. The policeman reappears in Chamdi’s line of sight. He stands outside the temple, only a few feet away from Sumdi. Chamdi feels a flood of relief. Surely, Sumdi will now give up the plan altogether. He will see the policeman, realize it is stupid to attempt such a robbery, and walk away from the temple. They will find another way to make money. It might take them a while, but they have brains. They will figure out a way to save the baby and eventually leave the city.
At least ten men have entered the temple with the politician. Sumdi and Guddi continue to stand outside the temple window. They do not appear concerned about the policeman. Chamdi steps out from behind the beedi shop and walks towards Sumdi and Guddi. Yes, his back and chest are smeared in oil, but it does not matter now. He sees Sumdi spot him as he walks, marks the confusion on Sumdi’s face. Guddi takes a few steps in his direction, while Sumdi stays rooted to the spot with his hands on his hips. Chamdi knows she will call him a coward. He looks down in shame, but then decides to look her straight in the eye. He summons his courage and raises his head—Guddi walks fast towards him.
In that split second, a great force throws Chamdi face down on the ground. Large blocks of cement fall from the sky. He covers his head and stays down. After a few seconds, he lifts his head into a curtain of thick, black smoke. White dust has stuck to his body because of the oil. He looks for Guddi. Chamdi realizes that he is now standing. The temple window is a gaping hole without bars. It is difficult for him to hear, and when he sees a bundle on the ground he screams, but he cannot hear his own cry. It is Sumdi, face down, his back torn open. Chamdi staggers towards Sumdi, but his feet have no strength. He slumps to the ground. He still cannot hear anything. He crawls forward, reaches out and turns Sumdi’s head sideways. Sumdi’s mouth is bleeding. Chamdi drops the head. Now his hearing comes back to him in bits. He hears a few muffled moans, and says softly, “Guddi, Guddi.” He gets up from his knees and looks around. Stepping towards the sound of the moans, he trips over the body of a man and scrambles away in fear, only to be blocked by a slab of cement. A brass temple bell lies on its side, shoes and slippers are strewn across the street, and he still cannot find Guddi. There is an arm lying on the street, with a watch on the wrist. Then he sees a figure in a brown dress, crawling away from him, towards what used to be the temple. He moves towards her and holds her by the waist. She is scared by his sudden touch and she screams. He says, “It’s me, it’s me,” but when she looks at him, he realizes that this is not Guddi, but a grown woman. He lets go, and the woman crawls away. A man beside him writhes in pain. Large shards of glass are stuck in the man’s neck and stomach. Chamdi coughs and covers his mouth to prevent dust from entering his lungs. He is about to keel over when he sees the wheel of a cycle. A hand rests on the wheel. There are orange bangles around the wrist. He is propelled towards the owner of this hand, even though his legs want to collapse. He gently lifts her head.
Blood flows from her nose, and there is a deep gash on her forehead. He looks around for help, but he is surrounded only by cries. He shakes her and utters her name, but she does not respond. The blood from her nose is now on her lips. He must take her to the doctor’s dispensary. He tries to lift her but she is heavy, so he drags her by her arms. Maybe he should not be pulling her by the arms. What if they are broken? He bends down, summons all the strength he has, and hoists Guddi on his shoulders. He searches for the door to the dispensary. Three men run towards him, but they pass him by as though he does not exist. They run towards the white Ambassador, which is in flames. The police jeep is overturned.
Chamdi reaches the door of the dispensary, but it is closed. He carefully places Guddi on the steps of the dispensary and pounds on the door. He wants to shout for help, but is unable to. Instead, his pounding becomes louder and louder. Why is the doctor not opening the door? He kicks the door hard and finally his voice comes to him, and he screams, but it is not exactly a word, it is a howl, and his fists join the howl, raw and hurt from beating on the door. He looks around him and suddenly knows: no one can help him. He sits. For a while, he sits on the steps of the dispensary as though nothing is wrong at all. He simply stares at the wound in the temple. Two stray dogs stand near him. It is difficult to breathe. He does not look at Guddi. It is easier for him to look at the dogs instead and the dogs are quiet.
Finally, Chamdi moves. He wipes the blood off Guddi’s face with his hands. The air around him is still a chaotic mass of smoke and dust, and through the haze, Chamdi thinks he sees Sumdi, face buried in the ground. He quickly forces himself to look away. He sees another body—the old woman who makes garlands. She lies on the ground covered in marigolds and lilies, and her white sari is red with blood.
Guddi is not dead, he tells himself. She cannot be. He knew no good could come from robbing a temple. He looks at the gash in her forehead—it is similar to Munna’s gash. With this thought, he stands up. There is only one person who can help Guddi.
If Darzi fixed Munna, he can fix Guddi.
The adda is not far, he tells himself. I can reach it. He jumps down the steps of the doctor’s dispensary and runs, runs faster than when he fled the orphanage. This is as fast as he would have run had he robbed the temple, but now something more precious than money is at stake. But even though he runs faster than he ever has before, his vision begins to fade. The shops around him spin and his knees buckle, and soon he is flat on the ground. The last thing he sees is the sky—a black sky in the middle of the afternoon.
As Chamdi regains consciousness, he is gripped by fear. But it takes him only a second to remember why he is afraid. An old man reaches out and touches him. Chamdi takes the old man’s hand and stands up. Satisfied that none of the shops are spinning, he starts walking fast. Soon the walk turns into a run, and once again his silver body is streaming through the street. He wonders if he is running in the right direction and is relieved when he sees Pushpam Collections—the air-conditioned clothing store—and the New Café Shirin Restaurant. In the distance, he can spot the tree he sleeps under. People pass him by, moving swiftly away from the temple. A man who runs a pharmacy slams the shutter down. When Chamdi hears the siren of an ambulance, worry grips him.
Chamdi finds it very hard to breathe, and he is surprised because he has run only a short distance. But he soon tastes the dirt in his mouth and realizes that his nostrils are blocked by grit. There is nothing he can do about it. He cannot afford to stop. He tells himself that he does not need air to run. He needs fast feet.
He cuts across the lane in front of his tree and runs past the burnt building. He sprints through the hole in the wall, enters the playground. He is surprised to find boys in white shirts and khaki shorts, and girls with blue ribbons in their hair. They are running too, a game of sakli, hands held together to form a chain, trying to catch a boy who is just out of reach. It is as though they are not aware of the blast. Their game temporarily stops as Chamdi tears through them.
He soon comes to Anand Bhai’s adda. He rushes towards Darzi’s room and bangs on the closed door. There is no answer. He continues to bang. The door opens suddenly. It is Anand Bhai. Chamdi does not know what to say. He did not expect Anand Bhai to open the door. He is shirtless and hairy.
“Madarchod, who is it?” he asks, as he stares down at Chamdi.
“It’s me, Chamdi …”
Chamdi realizes he must be unrecognizable—he has white dust all over him. His eyelashes stick together and he blinks rapidly. He sticks one finger in his eye and rubs hard. “I’m Sumdi’s friend,” he explains.
“What do you want?”
“There was a blast in the temple,” says Chamdi.
“I know. Now get out.”
Chamdi can hear moans of pain from inside the room, but he focuses on Anand Bhai.
“Guddi is hurt,” says Chamdi. “Please save her.”
“Everyone’s hurt,” says Anand Bhai. “Now get out.”
“Please ask Darzi …”
Anand Bhai slams the door shut. Chamdi cannot believe it. His chest heaves up and down and he notices there is some blood on it. It must be Guddi’s blood. Perhaps he should not have left Guddi alone. What if someone mistakes her for dead and takes her body away? If only Sumdi were with him, Sumdi would find a way to save Guddi. He must get Darzi’s attention. Perhaps he is a kind man and will have pity on Chamdi. He bangs on the door again with great might. He is worried that Anand Bhai might slash him with a knife as he did Munna. But Guddi’s life is worth any risk. This time Chamdi knows he has to somehow get Anand Bhai’s attention so the door is open long enough for Darzi to notice Chamdi. But what should he say?
Anand Bhai opens the door again.
“I told you to leave!”
“I have information for you,” says Chamdi.
“What information?”
Before Chamdi has time to think, a name jumps out of his mouth: “Dabba.”
“What about Dabba?”
“Dabba is dead. He ate rat poison.”
“He killed himself?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“So?”
“Dabba told me a secret.”
For a moment, Anand Bhai stands still. He holds on to the door of the room and looks hard at Chamdi.
“Dabba told me a secret about the jeweller.” Chamdi tries to remember the name of the jeweller’s shop, but his memory fails him. “The jeweller who is selling the shop. I know on what day and exactly at what time he will be moving the jewellery.”
“Listen to me, Chamdi. If you are lying, I will strangle you right here, right now.”
Anand Bhai’s mouth is very close to Chamdi’s. There are two grains of white rice stuck in Anand Bhai’s beard as though he was eating in a hurry, or had to abandon his meal.
“Please,” begs Chamdi. “Ask Darzi to save Guddi. I will tell you everything.”
“First tell me what Dabba said.”
“Dabba said that the jeweller will move the jewels tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“That I will tell you only after you save Guddi.”
Anand Bhai slaps Chamdi hard across the face. His hand lands on Chamdi’s ear and there is a ringing sound that rises and seems to enter Chamdi’s brain.
“No one bargains with me, understand?” snaps Anand Bhai.
“What’s wrong with Guddi?” says a woman’s voice.
The voice comes from inside Darzi’s room. An old woman grips the open door for support. There are folds on her face, as though it is made of leather, and her eyes are narrow slits.
“Go inside,” Anand Bhai tells her.
“What’s wrong with Guddi?” she asks again.
“She’s hurt very badly,” says Chamdi. “She’ll die if you don’t help her. There was a blast …”
“We know,” she says. “Anand, go get Guddi.”
“Do you want me to save the bloody world?” yells Anand Bhai. “Your own son is bleeding in that room. Why don’t you look after him?”
“Navin will be fine. He’s being looked after. You get Guddi.”
“What do you care about Guddi?”
“Anand. Get her. Now.”
Anand Bhai goes inside Darzi’s room and comes back with a white shirt in his hand.
“Do you have a mother?” Anand Bhai asks Chamdi.
“No,” says Chamdi.
“Good,” says Anand Bhai. He looks at the old woman as he says this. Then he turns his attention to Chamdi. “I’ll deal with you later. Let’s get Guddi.”
“But Darzi …”
“Darzi is looking after my brother. Now do you want to save Guddi or not?”
“We’ll have to run fast,” says Chamdi.
“No running.”
Anand Bhai takes out car keys from the pocket of his black trousers. He puts on the white shirt but does not bother closing the buttons. They walk to the white car parked behind Darzi’s room. Anand Bhai does not hurry. Chamdi swallows his anger and looks at the ground, noticing how tomatoes and cucumbers have been planted in the small space directly under Darzi’s window. He forces himself to breathe. Then he reaches out and tries to open the door of the car, but it is locked.
“Hurry up!” explodes Chamdi. “She’ll die.”
“If she is meant to die, she will. But let me explain something to you. If you are lying about Dabba …”
“I’m not lying,” says Chamdi. “I swear.” For once in his life, he does not feel bad about lying, even though he gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about what Anand Bhai will do when he finds out.
Anand Bhai starts the car and opens the passenger door. Chamdi gets in, and before he can close the door, they speed off. They race along the road behind the adda, past a vegetable seller who carts his vegetables on wheels. Anand Bhai takes the bend, turns left. His right hand is on the steering wheel and his left hand is on the horn. He keeps the horn pressed, giving it the urgency of a siren. But there is no need. The street is deserted. The bomb has scared everyone into their homes. Chamdi is relieved. “Keep breathing, Guddi, keep breathing,” he mutters. He does not care if Anand Bhai can hear him.
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.