Chamdi strains his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Grey cement walls make the room feel smaller than it is. There is a bathroom in one corner with a wooden door, slightly ajar, and Chamdi sees a red bucket on the bathroom floor. On one side of the room is the kitchen sink, which is rough and stony and old. Cement shelves protrude from the wall above the sink. Chamdi makes out a sack of rice on one of the shelves. It hangs precariously and he is sure that it will soon fall on the small wooden table below it. A pack of Gold Flake cigarettes lies on the table along with a half-open box of matches. A single tube light flickers on and off, sending strange shocks of light all over Guddi’s body. There is little sunlight in this room.
Guddi lies motionless on the floor. Darzi sits on his haunches and presses a white cloth against the wound on her forehead to stop the bleeding. There is some blood on the floor already, but Chamdi knows that it is not from Guddi. It probably belonged to Anand Bhai’s brother, Navin. Chamdi wonders where Navin has gone. He was in this room only a short while ago—his moans could be heard.
Darzi might be old, but he sits on his haunches with ease. He has very thin eyebrows and his forehead looks swollen. His white hair is oiled back and it glistens. He gives Chamdi a yellow smile. Chamdi smiles back, but his mind is on the scissors, needle, and thread that are placed on the ground beside Guddi on a piece of white gauze. One hand still on Guddi’s wound, Darzi uses the other hand to pull up his checkered lungi. He scratches his right shin. In the heat, he has pulled his white vest halfway up his stomach, which is hairy, just like Anand Bhai’s.
“Where’s the old woman?” asks Anand Bhai. He takes off his white shirt and wipes his face with it. Then he throws the shirt in a corner. It lands next to a pair of kolhapuri chappals.
“She’s put Navin in his room,” replies Darzi.
“Is he okay?” asks Anand Bhai.
“In two-three days he’ll be fine.”
“I’ll make those bastards pay.”
“I see,” says Darzi softly as he lifts the rag off Guddi’s forehead. The blood still seeps out. He lets out a isle and places the rag back on her forehead.
“The Muslims have done this,” says Anand Bhai. “They will pay.”
“What will killing accomplish, Anand?”
“To save a life, you have to take a life. No Hindu is safe until the Muslims are out of this country.”
“So now you want to kill any Muslims you can find?”
“I’ll start with a few. I’ll start with a few Muslim heads. Then I’ll show them to Navin—was he the one who bombed the temple? Or was it this one here?”
“What was Navin doing at the temple in the first place? Why was he not at his job?”
“Working for the telephone company is not a job. It is slavery, understand? Anyway I wanted Navin to meet Namdeo Girhe. Show respect, take his blessings, so that Navin will go up in life.”
“Instead Namdeo Girhe went up,” says Darzi. “But it would be wise to keep seeking Girhe’s blessings.”
“What for?”
“Now that he’s dead, he has a direct connection with God.”
“Joke all you want. The truth is, Bombay will burn now. You watch.”
“Even if the Muslims have done this, it’s a handful of them,” Darzi says. “Why should the rest suffer? We have lived peacefully with Muslims for years. They are our brothers. Only a handful of them have done this. The rest are innocent.”
“No one is innocent.”
“We almost lost a son today. Don’t forget that. And why were you not at the temple? Why send your younger brother?”
Anand Bhai is silent. He looks around the room as though he did not hear Darzi’s words. He places his right hand against the doorway and lets out a soft burp. The old woman appears, moves his hand out of her way and enters the room.
“Tell your mother why you did not go to the temple today,” says Darzi.
The old woman does not glance at either of them. To Chamdi, she seems much older than Darzi. She looks up at the flickering tube light as if it irritates her.
“Our son was busy getting pleasure from Rani, his whore,” says Darzi. “That’s why he could not go. But he bravely sent his younger brother instead. His younger brother, who has an honest job.”
“Navin will be okay,” says the old woman. “I have kept him in his room. He’s sleeping. Now tell me, how is Guddi?”
“Yes, will Guddi be okay?” Chamdi asks, brave enough to speak for the first time since he entered Darzi’s room.
“Yes,” replies Darzi. “But she’s weak.”
Although Chamdi is relieved to hear this, he knows he has more dangerous matters at hand. He must think of what to tell Anand Bhai about Dabba. And what about Amma—how will he tell her that she has lost her son? Will she even understand what Chamdi is saying? As he thinks about this, his gaze rests on a wooden box in the corner where Anand Bhai threw his shirt. The box has an “Om” on it.
“What are you looking at?” asks the old woman.
“That box,” says Chamdi. “It’s Guddi’s, no?”
“Yes,” says the old woman. “She left it here this morning.”
Darzi gives a quick nod to the old woman. She walks to the corner with the box and sits down facing the wall. She motions for Chamdi to join her. Chamdi goes to the old woman and sits down beside her. They both have their backs to Darzi, but then Chamdi turns to watch Darzi, who puts a thread through the needle. He reaches for a bottle that contains a colourless liquid. He puts the rag to the mouth of the bottle and wets it a little. He places the cloth over Guddi’s nose for a few seconds and then starts stitching her up. That is when Chamdi turns away.
The old woman opens the wooden box. Once again, Chamdi is assaulted by colours, but there is no lift in his heart when he sees the painted gods. Why did the gods not protect Sumdi and Guddi? He thinks of Jesus too and wonders why Jesus let this happen. Perhaps it is best Chamdi left Jesus at the orphanage.
“I make these clay gods,” says the old woman. “Guddi sells them for me. She wanted to learn how to make them herself. I hope …”
Chamdi notices that the old woman is biting her lip. He turns to look at Guddi, but the old woman puts her hand to his cheek and diverts his attention back to her.
“She will live, no?” asks Chamdi.
“Of course she’ll live. With so many gods protecting her, she has to.” The old woman smiles. “Look—so many of them—do you know them all, do you know their powers?”
Chamdi shakes his head. The old woman picks a god out of the box. How small the god looks, thinks Chamdi. The old woman should not be holding the god in her palm. It should be the other way round. But he does not say this.
“Do you know who this is?” asks the old woman.
Chamdi shakes his head again.
The god holds a sword in one hand and a lotus in the other. She has two extra arms but they are free—they hold nothing. She is painted yellow and her palms are red.
“That is Durga,” says the old woman. “The Invincible One. That means she can never lose. Do you want me to tell you a story about her?”
Chamdi is reminded of Mrs. Sadiq and the Chandamama stories she used to tell him.
“No,” he says firmly. “I don’t like stories.”
“Then know this—Durga is protecting our little Guddi. That’s why she was saved.”
As the old woman tells him this, Chamdi is absent-mindedly scratching his body. The dirt and blood stuck on his oily torso are causing him discomfort.
“What you need more than any god is a bath and some food,” says the old woman. “Why don’t you go wash up? There’s a bathroom.”
“No, come with me,” says Anand Bhai as he looms in the doorway.
“Let him stay here,” pleads the old woman.
“I saved the girl. Now don’t interfere.”
Anand Bhai’s tone is sharp and the old woman does not argue any further. She gently nudges Chamdi on the shoulder. Chamdi gets up and walks to the door. He says a short prayer for Guddi but it is interrupted by Anand Bhai.
“Let’s go to my room,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi squints as he follows Anand Bhai out into the sun again. The adda is secluded now. The goat is still tied to a post and it shakes its head, tries to yank the post out of the ground, to no avail. The green curtain that hangs in the doorway of Anand Bhai’s room is still. Anand Bhai’s hand rests on Chamdi’s shoulder as he leads him past the curtain into his room.
This room is different from Darzi’s. Rani lies on a bed and watches TV. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she loosens the gold bangles on her wrist as Chamdi and Anand Bhai enter. She is watching a black-and-white movie.
“Switch it off,” says Anand Bhai.
Rani gets up from the bed and does as she is told. She looks at Anand Bhai, awaits further instructions.
“Get me some chicken from the Mughlai restaurant. And get it fast. Abdul will have it ready.”
As Rani leaves the room, she glances at Chamdi. But she does not say a word. Chamdi notices that there are patches of dark blue on her left arm.
“Get pieces that are not oily,” Anand Bhai says.
But Rani has already left the room. The green curtain is still once again, as though Rani did not pass through it only seconds ago.
“Do you like oil in your food?” asks Anand Bhai.
Chamdi is unsure of what to say. He has never thought about it before. “No,” he decides. “I don’t like oil.”
“Then why are you carrying it all over your body?”
Chamdi remains silent.
“Why is your body covered with oil?” asks Anand Bhai.
“I … I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“I was playing … we were playing a game, Sumdi and I.”
Anand Bhai’s grip tightens on Chamdi’s shoulder. “What were you trying to steal?”
“Nothing …”
“The only time a person smears himself in oil is when he wants to be slippery. What did you want to slip away from?”
Now Chamdi is in pain. Anand Bhai’s hand is pressing a nerve on his shoulder, applying more and more pressure. Chamdi looks at the blank TV screen as pain shoots through him. His mouth is half open, ready to let out a yelp, a cry, anything, but instead he slumps to the floor in agony.
“The temple …” groans Chamdi.
Anand Bhai lets go. “The temple?”
“It was Sumdi’s idea to rob the temple money,” says Chamdi.
The moment the words come out of his mouth, he is ashamed for blaming his friend. He hopes Sumdi will forgive him. He has no choice left but to tell Anand Bhai the truth.
“I was going to slip in through the side window of the temple and steal the puja money. Please forgive me.”
“What about Dabba?”
“Dabba is dead. I did not lie about him being dead.”
“The jeweller.”
Chamdi does not know what to say. It is best to stay silent. He does not have the guts to look Anand Bhai in the face. He stares at the grey, stony floor.
“I see,” says Anand Bhai.
The telephone rings in Anand Bhai’s room, but he does not move. Chamdi still has his head down and he shivers, fully expecting a massive blow to the head. The ring of the telephone becomes uncomfortable because Anand Bhai remains still. The moment the phone stops ringing, Anand Bhai speaks.
“Do you see that drawer?” asks Anand Bhai.
Chamdi still does not look up. Anand Bhai lightly places his finger under Chamdi’s chin and forces him to look up. Chamdi looks at Anand Bhai’s beard. The two grains of rice are still entangled in the hair. Anand Bhai turns Chamdi’s head to the right, in the direction of an old wooden chest of drawers.
“Go open the top drawer,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi tries to get up but his legs let him down.
“Don’t make me say it again,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi wants to tell Anand Bhai that he does not have the strength to get up, but instead he places his palms on the ground and boosts himself. He walks past the blank TV screen to the drawer.
“Open it,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi holds the rusted brass handle and pulls.
“You’ll find a map in the drawer,” says Anand Bhai.
The map is the only thing in the drawer. Chamdi looks at it closely. It is large and folded and there are brown marks on it—like chai stains. The word BOMBAY is printed on it.
“There’s something beneath the map,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi places his hand on the map. He can feel something beneath it. Something hard. He holds one end of the map and lifts it.
A knife. It resembles the butcher’s knife Munna stole.
He looks back at Anand Bhai.
“Bring it here.”
Chamdi holds the knife by the handle and he does not like the feel of it in his hand. The black handle does not look new—it is smooth with use. He holds it very lightly and makes sure that the tip of the blade faces the ground. He is now only a foot away from Anand Bhai.
“Now cut your tongue off,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi is sure he has not heard Anand Bhai’s words correctly.
“You lied to me,” says Anand Bhai. “So hold your tongue out and slice it off.”
Anand Bhai’s tone is casual. There is no hatred in it. He stands with his arms folded across his hairy chest.
“I’m waiting,” says Anand Bhai. “Either you do it, or I’ll do it. The problem with me is that I’m a perfectionist. That means I will work slow and steady and make sure that the cut is in one straight line. If not, I’ll start again.”
“Please, Anand Bhai,” begs Chamdi. “I’m sorry. I lied to save Guddi.”
“And she has been saved. But you have to pay. Like Munna. Remember Munna? I caught him with the very knife that you are holding, but I did not harm him until he disrespected me by talking back, when he said that he does not care about the police. Only I abuse the police, no one else. So Munna had to be punished. Same for you because you disrespected me by lying.”
“Please …”
“Okay,” says Anand Bhai. “I’ll do it. Give me the knife.” He takes the knife from Chamdi’s hand. He holds it in his right hand and places his left hand on Chamdi’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll still be able to hear. It’s more important to listen than speak.”
Chamdi tries to move away but Anand Bhai stares him down. Chamdi knows it is foolish to run. By the time he reaches the green curtain, Anand Bhai’s knife will have carved part of Chamdi’s back.
“Stick your tongue out,” says Anand Bhai.
“Please …” says Chamdi as he folds his hands and begs.
“Stick your tongue out!”
The snarl in Anand Bhai’s voice jolts Chamdi and his tongue slips out of his mouth. Anand Bhai digs his nails into the tip of Chamdi’s tongue.
“No wonder you lie so much,” he says. “You have a long tongue. Don’t move. If you move even one inch, this knife will enter your eye. Now I will cut your tongue in one stroke, not to worry, hah? On the count of three I’ll do it. Take a deep breath. One-two …”
Chamdi makes strange desperate sounds. With his tongue out it is hard for him to speak.
“Stop making sounds. You’re not dumb yet,” says Anand Bhai.
He makes a small cut on the edge of Chamdi’s tongue. The blood trickles down the blade of the knife.
“Can you feel it?” he asks. “I’ve started.”
Tears form in Chamdi’s eyes. Anand Bhai lets go.
“I’m sorry,” says Chamdi. “Let me go, I’ll …”
“You’ll what?” asks Anand Bhai. “Talk while you still have a tongue left.”
“I’ll do anything for you,” says Chamdi.
“I asked you to cut your tongue off. Such a simple task, but you can’t perform.”
“Anything else. I’ll beg for you my whole life.”
“Beg? Who cares about begging?”
“Whatever you want. I’ll steal.”
“What else?”
“I’ll steal, I’ll … do whatever you ask.”
“Are you sure?”
“I promise,” says Chamdi.
Anand Bhai runs his index finger along the blade of the knife. He sniffs hard a couple of times, as though there is something irritating his nostrils. He hands Chamdi the knife.
“Put the knife back in the drawer,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi walks to the drawer. The cut on his tongue burns. The telephone rings again. Rani enters through the green curtain with a white plastic bag in her hand. The thought of eating makes Chamdi ill. In any case, the cut on his tongue will make eating difficult and painful. Rani sees that Anand Bhai is silent. She places the plastic bag on the TV and answers the phone. She begins talking in a hushed tone as though she senses what has just happened in the room.
“I like you,” Anand Bhai tells Chamdi. “You risked your life to save your friend. I need men like that.”
Chamdi is confused.
“You are sharp also,” continues Anand Bhai. “I believed you about Dabba. But I would have taken that out of you in one second if I wanted. It’s just that I have to keep the old woman happy. In her old age she worries too much about me. I saved Guddi for her peace of mind. In the days to come I will be forced to take many lives and God is my witness—I have saved a little girl’s life. So that’s why I did it. Anyway, I like you.”
Chamdi does not understand why Anand Bhai likes him now. Only moments ago, he was about to slice off Chamdi’s tongue.
“Let’s eat,” says Anand Bhai. “Get off the phone, Rani.”
Rani nods her head and whispers goodbye into the phone. She places the black receiver back into its cradle.
“Do you like chicken?” Anand Bhai asks Chamdi. “It’s Mughlai food. Best in the world. But it’s spicy. No matter how much we tell Abdul, he does not listen. Sorry about the cut. It will burn, but you’re a tough boy.”
Suddenly, Chamdi is afraid again. Anand Bhai seems even more dangerous when he is friendly.
“What are you going to do to me?” asks Chamdi.
“For now, nothing,” says Anand Bhai. “For now, we eat.”
Chamdi sleeps on the floor of Anand Bhai’s room, his knees tucked into his chest. His mouth is slightly open. Each time the cut on his tongue burns, he opens his eyes a little, but he quickly closes them and tries to sleep. He has been floating in and out of sleep for hours now.
“Get up,” says Anand Bhai. “Time to go.”
Dazed, Chamdi looks around the room. The tube light is on and Anand Bhai’s bed is made. Rani is nowhere to be seen. Chamdi glances out the window—it is night.
“Go wash yourself,” says Anand Bhai. “I’ve cleaned the car. Don’t want you to stain the seat.”
Mutely, Chamdi gets up and walks to the bathroom. He shuts the door and steps over a small parapet that separates the toilet from the bathing area. As he removes his shorts, a bougainvillea petal slips out of his pocket. It looks old. He lets it remain on the floor. He does not remove the cloth from around his neck. Let it get wet. It will keep him cool.
He grabs a white plastic mug that floats on water contained in a steel bucket, dips the mug into the water and opens his mouth wide. He grimaces as the water soothes his cut, then takes another mugful and pours it over his head. This will be his first bath since he left the orphanage. He looks around for soap and sees a light blue soapbox. He does not care to ask Anand Bhai’s permission. He scrubs himself until the dust particles and dirt slowly disappear down the drain.
As he does this, Chamdi thinks about Guddi. Darzi and the old woman are good people—they will take care of her, he reassures himself.
Soon, Chamdi is clean. There is no towel in the bathroom, but Chamdi spots an orange napkin on the window ledge and uses it to dry himself. He lets his hair stay wet. He thinks of Guddi in Darzi’s room and imagines her walking and laughing. I will enter that room and she will be on her feet, he convinces himself. He puts his shorts back on and steps out of the bathroom. He will have to ask Anand Bhai for a shirt since he no longer has his white vest. He tries not to remember the events that led to the removal of that vest.
“What happened to your ribs?” asks Anand Bhai. “They are like knives.”
Chamdi does not respond, though he wants to tell Anand Bhai that they are not ribs, they are tusks, and they will one day be used against the likes of him. Mrs. Sadiq was the only person who did not make him feel conscious of his skinny frame. She always told him that he would gain flesh with age. He is pierced by a sudden longing to be with her.
“Can you please give me a shirt?” asks Chamdi.
“What happened to yours?”
Chamdi remains silent. Anand Bhai goes to the wooden chest of drawers, the one that contains the knife. He opens the bottom drawer, takes out a white T-shirt and throws it at Chamdi.
“I play cricket in that T-shirt,” says Anand Bhai. “I love India. Good team, but ma ki chud you cannot depend on them. Some days they are dynamite, some days they are hollow.”
Chamdi finds it strange that even though he is so different from Anand Bhai, the two of them enjoy the same game. Chamdi has not seen a single game of street cricket in Bombay like he imagined he would. He has not even seen a red rubber ball.
He puts on the T-shirt. It is so big for him that the sleeves come down almost to his wrists. He tucks it into his shorts and it balloons over the top, but he does not care. He wishes he could get fresh shorts too.
“I want to see Guddi,” says Chamdi.
“Now now. She’s sleeping.”
“But …”
“Darzi and the old woman are also resting. We cannot disturb.”
Why does Anand Bhai not call Darzi and the old woman Father and Mother? Here is someone who has not one parent but two whole parents, and he never refers to them as Father and Mother.
Anand Bhai waits for Chamdi at the door. The green curtain has been parted to one side. Chamdi wonders how late it is. He can see that most of the doors of the other rooms in the adda are shut. An oil lamp has been placed at the foot of Darzi’s door, which is also closed. The small flame of the oil lamp flickers.
As they near the car, Chamdi feels ill. He does not want to sit in the car. Anand Bhai opens the passenger door for him, but Chamdi stalls, looks around the darkness of the adda. At the orphanage, Chamdi had the bougainvilleas to comfort him. Even at night he could use his mind to light them up and any fear or illness he felt was reduced. He wishes he could do the same at the adda, but all he can see are the tomatoes and cucumbers that grow behind Darzi’s room. They fail to soothe him.
Anand Bhai taps the inside of the car window. Chamdi gets in but does not look at the back seat. He looks straight ahead and does not say a word. The car starts and the headlights shine on the tomatoes and cucumbers. They look horrified by the light, thinks Chamdi. The redness of the tomatoes reminds him of blood. Why did God make blood and flowers and vegetables the same colour?
The alley behind the adda has no streetlights so only the headlights of the car light the way. There are holes in the road, a few plastic bags are floating along the street, and a man has placed a cot on the footpath. This man uses his shirt as a pillow. Chamdi’s eyes shut as the car hits a stretch of road that he does not recognize. He has no interest in his surroundings, and he wants to shut his ears as well because now he can hear Sumdi breathing onto his neck from the back seat. Chamdi turns his head and looks at the back seat—he is imagining things.
“Your friend’s in the trunk,” says Anand Bhai.
Chamdi shuts his eyes again as the car speeds up. He opens his eyes only when the car slows down and enters a short lane lined by trees on either side. The lane opens out into a large clearing. The car comes to a halt.
Chamdi and Anand Bhai step out of the car, and Chamdi looks up at the night sky. He wonders if Sumdi is already up there or if he is still in his body. But Sumdi was so eager to run that he would not wait in his body if he did not have to.
Anand Bhai opens the trunk of the car. He looks at Chamdi, who understands that he must help Anand Bhai lift the body. Chamdi does not want to see his friend’s face. He knows that he will forever hold a picture of Sumdi’s face in his brain: teeth slipping out of his mouth and falling onto the cement road.
He is relieved to see that Sumdi’s body is covered in a white cloth. Anand Bhai holds one end of the body, and Chamdi the other. With one hand, Anand Bhai quickly slams the trunk shut.
Chamdi sees a number of sheds with tin roofs in the clearing. Below each roof is a cement slab and on the slab are logs for the dead body. There are at least seven to eight fires roaring at the same time. At a tap near the sheds, an old man washes his hands under streaming water. He then uses the bottom of his kurta to wipe his hands and face. Men, dressed mainly in white, gather near the bodies of the dead. The women sit on benches away from the funeral pyre. A young woman’s wails pierce the dusty air. An older woman dressed in a cream salwar kameez rubs the younger woman’s back to soothe her, but it seems to make no difference. The young woman’s cries mix with the sound of crackling wood. A group of men walk past Chamdi carrying a body on a stretcher. They do not utter a word and simply take in the sobs that come from some of the sheds. The sobs make Chamdi think of just one thing: how to tell Guddi that her brother is dead. He knows that she is a brave girl, but how she will bear the news? What he fears most is that there will be no crying. What if she simply closes her eyes and never wakes up again?
Anand Bhai leads Chamdi to one of the sheds with a funeral pyre, the wood neatly stacked up. They place the body on the ground. Chamdi does not want to take the cloth off Sumdi’s body.
But Anand Bhai whips it off.
Chamdi forces himself to look. Sumdi’s face is even more destroyed than Chamdi remembers.
A man comes towards them. Chamdi can tell that the man is a priest because of the red tikka on his forehead. A young boy, perhaps two or three years older than Chamdi, follows the priest. Anand Bhai lifts Sumdi’s body and places it over the wood. The logs are arranged very neatly and covered in oil. Chamdi stares at Sumdi’s body—it is unclean and bloody. He wonders if he should burn the white cloth with the three drops of blood on it right here, right now, along with Sumdi’s body. It is of no use, he tells himself. I am foolish to think that it will lead me to my father. Look at what it has done for me so far.
The priest begins chanting prayers, but Anand Bhai stops him. The priest then sprinkles a liquid over the body. The young boy holds a flaming log in his hand and he looks at Anand Bhai, who turns to Chamdi. The flame is a yellow shiver in the wind. The priest places a few small logs on the body, and Sumdi’s face is no longer visible. Chamdi wants to take the logs off, he wants to have one last look, a word perhaps, a whisper in Sumdi’s ear. If Sumdi had a choice about going, he would like to go with a beedi in his mouth.
The young boy hands Chamdi the flaming log.
Chamdi wants to say a prayer, but when he tries to think of God or heaven, prayer is replaced by flashes of the gaping hole in the temple.
Chamdi touches the end of the flaming log to Sumdi’s feet.
He cannot bear to start with the face.
What angers him is that Anand Bhai is watching Sumdi burn. It should be the other way round.
As Chamdi hears the people at the funeral pyres around him wail, he wonders why he is not crying too. What if Sumdi were to see him right now? Sumdi would be surprised that Chamdi is just as lifeless and unaffected as Anand Bhai is. Chamdi does not know what to do, so he releases the flaming log and watches in silence as the flames travel along Sumdi’s body.
Chamdi stands outside the closed door of Darzi’s room. The white cloth is no longer around his neck. It is a bundle in his hand. He took it off at the cremation site, and it now contains Sumdi’s ashes.
He taps on the door. Anand Bhai had asked him not to, but Chamdi no longer cares. He looks towards Anand Bhai’s room. The light is off. Anand Bhai must be asleep by now. Just as Chamdi is about to tap a little harder, the old woman opens the door. She does not say a word as she lets him in.
Darzi is asleep on the ground, snoring loudly. His hands are clasped across his stomach and his head faces the ceiling. The old woman goes back to her place beside Darzi. Chamdi asks himself why Anand Bhai does not give his parents a bed. But perhaps they prefer to sleep on the hard floor, just like Mrs. Sadiq.
Chamdi approaches Guddi in the darkness of the room. He places the white bundle on the floor. Guddi lies on the floor in a position similar to that of Darzi. Her forehead is bandaged, and as Chamdi bends down he can hear her breathe lightly. He wonders again how he will tell Guddi about Sumdi’s death. Maybe she knows already. What should he say to her? What should his exact words be?
Your brother is dead.
Sumdi died.
Sumdi did not live.
Sumdi.
Yes, that is all he needs to say. He only needs to utter her brother’s name. She will know.
Chamdi takes Guddi’s hand in his, anxious for her to wake up. He knows it is better if she rests, but she has to face Sumdi’s death as soon as possible, for he cannot bear it alone. Not that he feels too much. In fact, he is repeatedly surprised at himself that he feels so little. Sumdi could have been like a brother to me, he thinks, but that would have taken time.
As Chamdi thinks this, Guddi stirs. Perhaps Guddi has read his mind. Or perhaps Sumdi is talking to her already, telling her that he has finally reached their village, except that it is slightly different than expected, but it is their village no doubt because he recognizes some of the other people around, and, of course, he knows the village head as well, and he will soon meet him, but he has no fear, for he has lived as clean a life as the streets of Bombay allowed him and he is sure that the village head will understand.
Chamdi places his hand on Guddi’s forehead. She looks at him and says nothing, and three thoughts flash through his brain: I hope she is not blind. I hope she is not deaf. I hope she has not lost her voice. Any of these could be possible, he knows, because he has been spared completely and one person always bears an unfair burden.
But Guddi looks into his eyes and Chamdi’s first doubt is cleared. He wants to say something so that she can respond and the second and third fears can vanish as well, but he does not know what to say. He could tell her it was a bomb, or that the politician died, or that Anand Bhai has promised there will be more riots—he could tell her all this, but she would not care at all.
And that is when Guddi opens her mouth and says softly, “Sumdi.”
Now Chamdi knows that he does not need to explain a thing because his hand betrays him as it clutches Guddi’s tightly. The sick feeling of a while ago returns to him like the very heat of the flames. He can feel the flames all over him, especially on his face, and he is ashamed of how he is shaking while Guddi is completely still, staring at him for what seems to be a long time, and then she trembles, her grip on his hand tightens, as though a bomb of pain has exploded in her as well.
In the early morning, Chamdi and Guddi walk to Grant Road Bridge. Even though Guddi was too weak to leave the house, Chamdi explained that they needed to fulfill Sumdi’s dream. That was all he said.
As they climb up the steps that lead to the bridge, Chamdi can sense that Guddi is worried about Amma—he went back to the kholi to fetch her, but she was not there. He imagines Amma wandering aimlessly through the streets with a baby in her arms, not knowing that her son is dead.
Chamdi remembers the night he and Guddi rode in the horse carriage. It was the only time he experienced happiness, and he is grateful for that feeling. His mind returns to the white bundle that he holds in his hand. How strange life is, he thinks. I was once wrapped in this white cloth, and now my friend is in it.
They climb the final step and onto the bridge itself. Guddi leans on Chamdi for support. The walk, even though it was very short, has tired her. It is still early so the bridge is clear, but a few street hawkers are setting up their temporary stalls near the entrance to the railway station. A man who sells lime juice washes his glasses. A man who sells combs, mirrors, and small diaries places a blue plastic sheet on the ground and arranges his wares, as do two women who sell travel bags and clothes.
Guddi is shaking with fever. A striped shawl covers her dress. The old woman gave it to Guddi to prevent her from shivering. Darzi said fever was to be expected because of the stitches. It was nothing to worry about.
Railway commuters cross the street and wait for an oncoming bus. A local train rumbles below the bridge, and Chamdi sees a few faces peering out of the windows of the buildings along the railway tracks. Crows perch on the electric lines above the tracks.
Chamdi and Guddi stand in the middle of the bridge, against a dark stone wall. A man relieves himself on the wall, but he zips up quickly and crosses the street. Chamdi looks down at the tracks. A small boy places an empty coconut shell on the tracks and waits for the train to crush it. A little farther ahead, a man staggers alongside the tracks, clutching a bottle. The sound of the train fades, clears the way for Chamdi’s words. But Guddi speaks first.
“I can’t stand for long,” she says. “I’m feeling very weak.”
“I know,” he replies softly.
Chamdi places the white bundle on the railing of the bridge.
“Do you know what your brother dreamt of?” he asks.
“Many things,” she says. “We both dreamt of going to our village.”
“What else? What was his secret wish?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m very tired.”
“Your brother wanted to fly. He said that his leg made him heavy and it was his dream to fly. That’s why we are here.”
Chamdi carefully opens the knot of the white cloth.
“I can’t believe that’s him,” says Chamdi at last.
Guddi simply stares at the ashes. The sun casts light on the surrounding buildings and makes them seem less desolate. In the distance, the high-rises of Bombay loom over the city and stare down at its slums.
“I want to say this and I don’t know how,” says Chamdi. “But I loved your brother even though I knew him for only three days.”
“I loved him too. So did Amma.”
“I hope we can find Amma,” Chamdi says. “She’s not at the kholi. I hope she comes back.”
Guddi looks at the tracks, and Chamdi can tell from the tremble of her lips that she is trying hard not to cry.
“We must help him fly,” Chamdi tells her.
They carefully lift Sumdi together, release him over the bridge and into the sky.
Sumdi breaks into a thousand different parts, bits of grey that shine in the sunlight as they soar over the railway tracks. Chamdi thinks of the ashes as tiny birds, each bearing a particular trace of Sumdi: his smile, his jagged teeth, his foul mouth, his deep scar, his polio leg, his arm around Chamdi’s shoulder, his laughter in his sister’s ear.
As the last of the ashes leave the white cloth, Chamdi lets go of the cloth itself.
Go land at my father’s feet, he says to the cloth. The three drops of blood will help him recognize the cloth. Now it is his turn to find me.
Chamdi wishes Mrs. Sadiq were here to witness this moment because she would have been very proud of him. Her words come to him: You are no longer ten. You are a man now and it is my fault that I have made you the man you are. But Chamdi is grateful to her. He wants her to know that.
In a way, it is okay if my father is dead, he thinks. If I miss my father without even knowing him, thinks Chamdi, I can imagine how hard the separation must be for my mother. If they are both dead, at least they are together.
And soon, he tells himself, Sumdi will fly over the city and visit the Bombay he loved—every dirty corner. He will watch cricket matches and cock fights, he will enter gambling dens and play till his pockets are empty and his heart full. Some parts of him will fall on the roof of that local train, where he will remain until the train reaches the end of the line, but some parts of him will continue to fly, they will circle the city and then the world, and it will not be the world Chamdi knows. It will be a world seen from the sky.
Chamdi looks at Guddi, who is crying, and suddenly he knows exactly what he must say to her. “Khile Soma Kafusal,” says Chamdi as he caresses Guddi’s face. “I speak to you in the Language of Gardens.”
This time, Guddi does not ask what his words mean because the way he looks at her tells her the exact meaning. But clearly, Chamdi’s words are not enough.
“Sumdi is free,” Guddi says. “But we are stuck here.”
“No, we are not,” says Chamdi.
“We’ll never be able to leave Bombay.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “Because Bombay will leave us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kahunsha will be born.”
“Is such a thing possible?” asks Guddi, hopefully.
“If you can think it, it’s possible,” says Chamdi.