Even thought it is night, Mr. P’s coffin enterprise is open. This makes sense to me. People die at all times. At night, all of us leave our bodies and visit our loved ones in the spirit world. A few of us do not come back. We look at our body from up above and wonder why we would want to repossess it. That is how we die in our sleep.
When I step into his office, Mr. P puts the phone down. He shouts toward the back of his coffin enterprise and asks not to be disturbed. There is no answer. Seven large coffins are neatly stacked on an iron stand. They are brown and made of the finest wood. The lowest one is labelled Made in England. First the British kill us. Then we import their coffins. How touching.
“Mr. P,” I say. “I have come with the finger.”
He does not seem perplexed, nor does he give any indication that he knows what I am talking about.
“I want to preserve the finger. It was given to me as a mark of respect,” I add. “It is dead now, so I must bury it.”
Mr. P points to a photograph album on the table before him. The word LOVE is written in gold letters on the cover. I assume I am meant to glance through the album.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “They’re not wedding pictures. A man in your state can get quite depressed thinking about weddings.”
“Very.”
When I open the album I see pictures of coffins: finger coffins, arm coffins, toe coffins. It surprises me how much I do not know about this city. Tomorrow I might meet a midget who is ten feet tall, a butcher who sells newborn babies, a boxer who works as an anesthetist in a hospital by knocking patients senseless. In this city, birds are forced to crawl and rats can fly if they use their tails correctly. When I think about this city, it is almost as if it does not exist. It is a body floating on air, and landing whenever it gets tired. That is why it is so noisy. The din is the sound of it panting.
While I gaze through the album, Mr. P reads a newspaper. His spectacles are perched on a fat nose. I select a dark coffin with a metallic glaze. It will serve as a contrast to the dull hue the finger has acquired. I point to the picture and look at Mr. P.
“Why do you call yourself Mr. P?” I ask.
“There are almost fourteen thousand eunuchs in the city,” he says, ignoring me. He takes his spectacles off and looks at me. He taps the newspaper with his knuckles. I do not know what this interesting statistic has to do with the question I have just asked. I stare at him blankly.
“Out of those fourteen thousand, only half are original eunuchs.” He raises an eyebrow.
“That’s sad,” I say.
“No, it’s good! It means only seven thousand are castrated. The others were born useless, so no harm done.”
Mr. P turns toward the back of the shop and shouts: “Quiet in there! I’m talking here.”
I do not hear anything. I wonder if this is a test. So I shout, too. “Yes, please! Keep the volume to a minimum!”
On the wall I see family pictures neatly framed. One in particular stands out. It is in black and white, and it shows a stout man, a dark woman, two beautiful children and an old lady. The old lady’s face is circled in red felt pen. Strangely, all the photographs on the wall have one or two persons who are marked in red.
“You’re wondering about the red circles,” Mr. P remarks.
“Yes.”
“They are the dead ones.”
“Ah.”
“I made coffins for them all.”
“Wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You want to know a secret?”
“I love secrets.”
“I circled one by mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“That old woman in the far corner.”
“Yes?” He refers to the photograph I saw first.
“She was my wife’s friend. I found that family photograph at home and circled her by mistake and put it up in my shop, thinking I had made a coffin for her. She had given the photo to my wife to show off her grandchildren.”
“I don’t like show-offs.”
“She died the very day I circled her.”
“How sad.”
“No. How coincidental.”
“Stand very still.”
“What?”
“Don’t move.”
Mr. P ducks his head below the counter and snaps back like a puppet. He holds a small camera in his hands. He shoots me. I feel like a soldier who has just been tricked by the enemy.
“Why did you do that?”
“I’m going to circle you, too.”
“I’m going to die?”
“I hope so. It’s my hobby. To take pictures of strangers and then mark them for death. I want to see if it’s a gift I have or if it was just a one-time random happening with that old woman.”
“I wish you well,” I say.
“How kind.”
We do not speak for a while. I think of my photograph developing. I hope he took only the face. But what if both arms show up in the picture? That would be nice. I would prance if that happened. I have never pranced, or even thought of prancing before.
“You’ve chosen the Dark Torpedo,” Mr. P says.
“Dark Torpedo?”
“That’s the name of the coffin.”
“When will it be ready?”
He gets up and unlocks a small cabinet that is placed near a wooden stool. The shelves of the cabinet are lined with red felt. He removes what I assume is the coffin. It is wrapped in white cloth. He takes off the cloth and caresses the Dark Torpedo. It looks better in reality than it does in the photograph. He pushes it toward me. I open the lid and see the indent of a finger: streamlined for the tip, gradually fattening at the centre and receding toward the base. Just like the leper’s.
“Go ahead. Try it out,” he coaxes.
I place the finger in the coffin. I feel sad, as though I am parting with a dear friend. Without it, my journey ends. Maybe I should buy my own coffin. I do not tell Mr. P I ordered one over the phone only a day ago. He did not like me over the phone. I am much more charming in person.
“Learn to let go,” says Mr. P. “Only then will you receive.”
He adjusts his spectacles and looks outside at the street. There is a church opposite, with a signboard that promises to save alcoholics. Three trees stand near the church steps. Sometimes drunks climb the trees instead of the church steps. But God does not mind. Only the priests do.
I snap the coffin lid shut. “Do I leave the finger with you?” I ask.
“What for?”
“So you can direct me further.”
“That will be two thousand rupees.”
“Two thousand! But it’s such a small coffin.”
“Do you know anyone else who makes one?”
“No.”
“Am I wrong in assuming that you can afford it?”
“I …”
“Then two thousand rupees cash. Take the coffin with you.” He raises his voice. “And for the last time, quiet back there!”