Now that the chickens have been destroyed, I am able to venture outside. It is strange what one night without sleep can do to you. Your hearing improves. I can hear my heartbeat. It skips. This means my heart is happy. But it does not mean I am happy. The pursuit of happiness is dangerous. Look at my heart. It is happy and so it skips. If by chance it falls down while skipping, it will hurt itself. It will be in pain. To its surprise, the pain will not die down. If the pain lasts for a prolonged period of time, the heart suffers an attack. So please understand that you can die from too much happiness.
I go back to Jalebee Road. The narrow lane that leads to the In-charge’s beedi shop looks like any other. Vegetable vendors sell onions, tomatoes, cauliflower and lettuce from brown baskets. At least their products are on display, not banished under lids for being evil. The road is sticky. Dead vegetables are mashed into the ground. Rust-coloured cycles rush past, the tring-tring of their bells reminding you of when you got your first ride, double seat on your servant’s cycle. A scooter chokes on its owner again. The owner will try and kickstart it to no avail. Once a scooter chokes, it is dead for the day. Little children dressed in stolen clothes wait for instructions from beggar masters. There is soot in the air, but I see no chimneys. Only the factories have them. I have always wanted a chimney at home.
The In-charge cleans the counter with a white cloth. On seeing me, he turns his back and wipes the mirror that serves as a backdrop to his little cigarette shop. A flying chariot is embossed on the glass. In the mirror I see my empty sleeve. It hangs like a hollow pipe.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me.
“I have closed the evil eye. What must I do now?”
“With what?”
“The finger. I have brought it with me.”
I show him the brown paper bag in my hand. He cleans the wheels of the chariot. The cloth makes a squeaking sound against the glass. A short man wearing tight white trousers and a ribbed red vest approaches. He places a black videocassette, without its cover, on the counter and taps his fingers on the wood.
“Gold Flake ka pack,” he says. He looks in the mirror and combs his hair with his hands.
“Is it any good?” the In-charge asks him, using his chin to indicate the cassette.
“Love in Bombay,” he replies. “I know the director.”
“I would not own to knowing the director of such a third-grade picture,” says the In-charge. “I need a decent movie. To watch at home with the in-laws.”
“You know I don’t keep family pictures.”
“I’m saying it in the hope that you will.”
“But I have to make a living.”
I look at the flower shop next to me. Four buckets containing red and white roses are placed on the floor. The water is dark as though night has been squeezed into the buckets. The In-charge hands the man a pack of Gold Flake.
“Put it on my account,” the man says. “What’s the total?”
“More than you are worth.”
“I think today you are after me. Did I say something to upset you?”
“It’s enough that the movies you rent out are humiliating.”
“What are you saying? Love in Bombay is a masterful picture. The Thok-Thak Brothers are pioneers in Indian vulgarity. It’s a crime not to see their pictures.”
“Third-class movie makers!”
“Boss, what you saying? Their movies are complete classics! Have you not seen Life of a Dark Blue Filmmaker? It will excite your blood to boiling point and beyond!”
“I saw Bombay Buttocks. The woman takes fifteen minutes to remove her pallu. She’s so afraid to show her face.”
“It begins slowly but then she is completely full-to. She just needed encouragement.”
“Go rent your movies to your filthy customers,” says the Incharge as he extends his hand to receive payment.
“So you want Love in Bombay for tonight or no?” The man smiles as he takes out a cigarette and taps it on the pack.
“I warn you, if it is as bad as Bombay Buttocks I will stop selling you cigarettes.”
“Don’t worry. In this one, the woman is not wearing a pallu. She is full-to from the beginning.”
“That’s better,” says the In-charge as he withdraws his hand.
“Take this tape with you and put another name on it so that my wife does not suspect. I will collect it in ten minutes from your house.”
“What name to put?”
“Documentary of Rare Birds.”
The man performs a slight salaam to the In-charge, picks up the cassette and leaves.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“The local saint.”
I deserve that answer. So I get to the point: “Are you going to help me or not?”
“With what?”
“I don’t know what to do with the finger. You were the one who told me to take it since it was a mark of respect.”
“You must leave now.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” he says. He leans toward me. I look into his eyes. They are large and brown, like a woman’s. “Give me the finger.”
I remove it from the brown paper bag. I am about to place the finger on the wooden counter.
“You will defile it if you place it there,” he says sternly. He reaches below the counter. His cupped hand reveals an earthen bowl. “Put the finger in this bowl.”
I place it in the bowl. He looks at it, deliberates. “There’s something missing. Can you tell me what that is?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Water.”
“Water?”
“Yes. But I don’t have any.”
I point to the Bisleri bottle neatly tucked in a corner, right next to the hundred-page notebooks. This shop has everything. If I want to buy a midget, there will be one under the counter.
“It’s unopened,” he says. “I don’t want to break the seal.”
“I will buy it from you. But is the water really necessary?”
“It’s crucial. It is very negligent of you not to have thought of this on your own.”
I pay the In-charge ten rupees. He strips the blue seal off the bottle and pours water into the bottle cap until it overflows.
“The right amount must be administered,” he tells me. He pours a few drops onto the finger.
“What are you doing?”
“Watering the finger.”
“Why?”
“So it can grow into an arm.”
I notice that he is not smiling. He leans close to me and whispers. “Plant this finger in your garden. Each time you water it, ask it to forgive you. When you have truly repented, it will grow into an arm.”
“Is such a thing possible?”
“Of course not!” he roars with laughter. “What a sample!”
“You will never understand what it’s like to lose an arm.”
“Now go back,” he says.
“Not until you give me my next clue.”
“I just did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go back. Far back.”