The Cripple and His Talismans (11 page)

I walked this road many times as a boy, from Lucky Moon to Love Lane. It is a ten-minute walk. During those ten minutes, I would think of how eating dinner at home would make me sick. The silence between Mother and Father as they let the clink and scratch of forks and spoons speak instead of their own voices, the razor cuts on Father’s face increasing as their love decreased, while I stared at the mangoes on the table, the fish, the bread, how it all was cut up and open, just like Father.

During the ten-minute walk, I also thought of never going home again. What if I kept on walking? I would cross the outer limits of the city, then the suburbs, the towns, the villages, until I would stand before a vast expanse of water. A large white bird would pick me up, fly me to the land of my choice, and I would ask it to go where everyone is always talking, where there are no spoons and forks, where boys play cricket and girls have pretty brown hair, and where mothers do not sleep with supreme court judges and fathers have no razor marks on their faces.

But I never saw a large white bird. There were only sparrows picking on crumbs that beggars had left behind. So I would go back to Lucky Moon, where my worried driver would be searching for me. He would cage me in my black Mercedes and take me home just in time for the silence of dinner.

This road is called Love Lane for a reason. When you walk through it, you ignore the loud noise of schoolgirls. You do not hear the religious discourse of the old man with a long beard who is spitting wisdom into a megaphone. The month-old puddle from the leaking sewage pipe does not affect you. You ignore the swarm of flies that fuss over it like women. For when two hands meet in Love Lane, they can make deserts wet.

Today I see another breed of lovers. They are seated on wooden chairs under a long white canopy, staring at the bearded wise man. They are lovers of religion. If the lovers of the flesh are absent, these will do. The wise man speaks to at least forty people, all of whom hang on his every word as if he is the world’s next prophet. He holds the megaphone to his lips with his right hand, and directs world prosperity with the other.

“Even kings take help from beggars,” he shouts. “So why not you?”

The canopy is hung outside an all girls’ school. By the time the girls grow up to be women, they shall be pure and helpful. There is nothing like religion for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“So why not you?” repeats the wise man.

No one answers. It would be disrespectful to do so.

“I will tell you why,” he says.

By the manner in which they shake their heads, I can tell a few of the listeners are already ashamed.

“You are too proud to ask for God’s help,” he says. “Too proud.”

There are three women seated in the last row. They could not agree more. They would cook for this wise man; such is their awe for the saver of us all.

“The mountain will not come to you,” he says. “You must walk to it.”

A man wearing a white bush shirt and black trousers has fallen asleep in the first row.

“Look at this man!” shouts the wise one. “He does not even have the manners to listen to the word of God.”

If God had one word to tell us, what would it be? He has created too much for one word to explain.

“You know what this man is?” asks the prophet.

Once more, they do not answer because they are not meant to.

“This man is proud,” he shouts. “Pride is what allowed the evil spirit to conquer good.”

I think the poor man is simply asleep. He is probably trying to rest after a hot afternoon of fixing a telephone line or selling combs out of a torn suitcase.

“This man is a peacock!” says the old man. “Too proud!”

For once, I must admit, religion has saved me.

In this world there is no such thing as coincidence. Hospitals are real and jails are real. Believing in chance is like saying the opening of flowers happens by mistake. If there is a peacock here, a river and a giant are close by.

The wise man takes his megaphone close to the sleeping peacock. “God wants us all to rise!” he shouts.

Everyone slowly gets up from their chairs. The creak of their backs indicates that this has been one long afternoon of enlightenment.

The man still sleeps. It is quite superb.

The wise man will not tolerate defiance. After all, he is not selling onions at a high price. His claims cannot be dismissed with such apathy. He is offering the Fruit of God. It is free, but can cost us the universe if we do not eat it.

“We must not only get up from our seats,” he says. “We must rise as human beings!”

The man’s sleep breaks. Maybe he has sold his last comb or there are no more telephone wires to be fixed. Everyone looks at him. His eyes have the red blur of sleep and confusion. He looks at his arms, which are already folded. All he has to do is stand up and he is a gentleman again.

“I fear for your soul,” says the wise man. “We all fear for his soul,” he adds. He looks at the others, who are thankful that they slept well at home and did not doze off during the wise man’s edict.

“Brothers, don’t we fear for his soul?” he asks. “We must teach him a lesson. God wants it so.”

The waking man’s hands are not folded anymore. They are by his side as he looks around at the faces. They are young and old, but mostly old. The young seek religion only after they have collected enough sin. Ask me; I know. The crowd starts moving toward the man who was asleep. In a second faster than light, the man runs.

Brown paper bag in hand, I bolt after him. He is my racing peacock. I look for rivers on either side of the street. There are bullock carts trudging along, cycles lined against the side wall of a ration shop, and a circle of men in white shirts smoking cigarettes during their tea break.

The peacock does not stop running. He darts through a taxi and a handcart and enters a small passage that separates two buildings. I must not lose my peacock. Try running without an arm. It is a circus act. It is like stirring soup without a ladle.

Residents of both buildings are outside. One man brushes his teeth, perched like an eagle on his outside landing. A woman beats her yellow sari with a wet cloth again and again as if she is lashing a woman who hides inside. She sees the peacock rush past. Then she sees me.

“Thief!” she shouts. “Stop that thief!”

I am not sure who she thinks the thief is. I am the chaser, but then again I am carrying a brown paper packet in my hand. The peacock is empty-handed.

A short man leaning against huge drums of water decides to be heroic. It is
his
little lane, and he will be talked about in the days to come. So he puffs and heaves and overturns a drum. Water gushes out. It is not the least bit dangerous, but the runner stops.

The sari-lasher has come up behind me with the tooth-brusher. The tooth-brusher tries to speak and spits black paste onto me instead.

“What did he steal?” asks the sari-lasher.

“I … nothing,” I say.

“Stop that man!” she shouts.

But the man is not going anywhere. He walks toward us, his chest heaving. The water from the drum seeps through my sandals and wets my feet. It feels dirty, as though truckloads of children with runny noses have bathed in it.

“He is not … a thief,” I say.

“Not a chor?” asks the tooth-brusher. “Then why were you following him?”

“I was not following,” I say.

“What, you were exercising?” he snaps. “Tell the truth, cripple. Why you were following?”

“I was following him to return this bag.”

The peacock looks at the brown paper bag in my hand.

“You must have left it inside God’s tent,” I say. I extend the bag toward the peacock. The water has soaked my feet now and rushes past on a downward slope.

“It’s not mine,” he says. “I had to meet my wife half an hour ago. I’m late. That’s why I was running.”

You were running from God, so you could get to your wife. Woman is truly powerful.

“I have to go,” he says.

The drum-turner, the sari-lasher and the tooth-brusher are most disappointed that no confrontation will take place. So I try.

“But you might know what to do with it,” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I feel something nibbling against my foot. I know what it is, but I refuse to look down. I simply stare at the peacock.

“Do with what?” he asks.

“This bag,” I reply.

A small rat is feasting on my toes. I try to stamp on it but it escapes. In the water, it is a black prune running.

“Saala rat,” says the drum-turner. “This gully has too many rats. I’ll show them.”

Perhaps he says this because his bravery did not pay off. No thief was caught and he will not be talked about in the days to come. “I will drown all those rats,” he says.

He walks to a drum and empties it in our direction. Dried flowers that must have been part of a garland wash past me.

“Ay!” shouts the sari-lasher. “Don’t waste water!”

“Saala rats!” he shouts.

He overturns a third drum. It is the last one. Empty cigarette packs, matchboxes, torn balloons and two more rats come toward me. The water rushes past like a river.

“My wife!” says the peacock with the suddenness of a traffic signal coming on.

He flees from strife, toward his wife, where he will beg for his life for being late. The water follows him, curling at his feet. In that moment, I know I must start running again. Love and history are repeating themselves for me. The peacock is racing with the river. I see the river part as it breaks into two thin streams.

Will the peacock be lashed against a tree after slipping? Will his wife push him into oncoming traffic for being late? It does not concern me. I was never after the peacock. I want the giant. As the river forks into Love Lane again, I stand and survey the street. In front of me there is a shop that sells cooking utensils. Next to it is a cycle shop. At one time these cycles were parrot green, ink blue and sun orange. Now they look a beaten-down black. Cycling. One more thing I cannot do. So I look at the cars that trickle past. Driving. One more thing I cannot do.

I think of one-armed gems: stabbing with a knife, using a gun, picking flowers, snapping your fingers, waving goodbye. There is a place in this world for cripples. We cannot ride cycles, we cannot drive cars, but we can kill. It is hard to swallow the fact that I failed at suicide. If I had succeeded, I would not be staring at this large man reading a young girl’s palm near the cycle shop.

I have found my giant. Yes, it has been too easy. But this only means that what lies ahead will be disastrous.

I quickly cross the street toward the giant, but in my haste I drop the brown paper bag. I raise both my arms to the skies to stop the oncoming black Fiat from crushing it. There is no harm in me thinking that I have raised
two
arms. In my mind I have raised two arms and it is the thought that counts.

The driver curses me. (I am told to fetch my sister so that he can make her swelter and welter like the she-dog she is.) I pick my bag up and approach this large man who reads the palm of the young girl.

“Let’s go,” says the young girl’s lover. He tugs at her skirt. He does not want her palm to be read.

“But Suresh,” says the girl. “I want to hear what more this man has to say.”

“But he’s saying such bad things about us.”

“What if they are such-mooch? Suresh, give him money.”

“But …”

“If you love me, you’ll pay for my fortune.”

“I
am
paying a fortune,” says Suresh.

“You call twenty rupees a fortune?”

“See, I’m right,” says the giant. “Your match is not good.”

Suresh unhappily plucks out twenty rupees from his shirt pocket. With irritation, he thrusts them into the girl’s palm. I like the shirt Suresh wears. It is so loud, even car horns will sound like whispers.

“Here’s the money. Tell me what the stars say about me,” says the young girl.

“I will,” says the giant. “But I must do something before that.” He looks at me. “Is this some balcony show? What are you looking at?”

“I also want to know my future,” I say. “After her.”

He does not say anything. He takes the girl’s money and her hand in his. Her hand looks tiny in comparison, like a doll’s. He rubs his palm onto hers and slips his tongue out and in. He takes his time feeling the young girl. I glance at her face and there is no doubt that Suresh is a lucky man. She has been freshly plucked from a tree. How can she allow him to wear that shirt? It makes a circus tent look like a hospital sheet.

Suresh grits his teeth together. “Now he’s touching you. I cannot bear it!”

“How you think so vulgar, Suresh! Like a mavali,” she says.

“I’m the mavali? I’m the mavali?” shouts Suresh.

“Your future is good,” says the giant.

“See?” she tells Suresh. “You were worried.”

“But only on your own,” he continues.

“Why?”

“A possessive lover will deny you your dream,” he says.

“Enough!” says Suresh. “Let’s leave.”

“What dream?” asks the girl.

“Your dream of becoming a heroine.”

“How you knew?”

Even I knew. With a face like that, what else could her brain want?

“See this line?” says the giant. “That is your dream line. It is getting cut again and again by your love line. It means the one you love will cut your dreams.”

“Suresh,” she says. “Is this true?”

Suresh is climbing the roofs of the city and is ready to jump off. Suresh is having such bad thoughts about the giant that even a crow will turn white.

“I cannot believe you are so stupid!” Suresh tells her.

Suresh has just jumped off the roof and dug himself a deep hole.

“What did you say?”

“I did not mean it, darling,” says Suresh.

“You called me stupid,” she says. “And you have before also made fun of my movie dreams.”

“I love you. You will be a big star, I promise.”

Men lie like Tuesdays that say they are Sundays. We do not deserve women.

“You’re just saying that,” she says. I detect tears.

“Don’t cry, my jaan,” says Suresh. “I did not mean to …”