The Cripple and His Talismans (18 page)

The usual group of bad boys sits at Lucky Moon. We have our own little table in the corner, near the kitchen, far away from the sugarcane machine and its flies. The sugarcane machine has been replaced by a new one that is semiautomatic. It churns out the crushed shoots much faster. It is perhaps the most expensive machinery in Lucky Moon. The waiter has just put in a fresh batch of sugarcane. I watch as shoots of cane go in cylindrical and hard, and come out as pulp. It is a sophisticated process. Now that I have been expelled from school, I would not mind working as a sugarcane crusher.

We are celebrating my expulsion from school by having cuttings. I am not too happy but I do not let that show. I play along and proudly display my beating marks to my friends. Mr. Old was mad, I say. See this mark. It is at least an inch deep. Even a horse cannot bear that kind of beating. We clink our tea glasses together and I watch the steam rise slowly. I want to say that I did it on purpose, that I hate Viren the sissy. But I do not. It is okay to lie in class, but not at our own table in Lucky Moon.

Irani Uncle calls to us from behind the counter. You boys keep an eye on things here, he says. I am going to the bathroom. If customers come, just say Irani Uncle is coming back very soon. Make them sit. Give them yesterday’s paper.

Okay, we say. We come here so often that Irani Uncle leaves us in charge instead of the waiter, because the poor fellow cannot speak English and that drives away the occasional foreign tourist. (They come here by mistake.) As Irani Uncle leaves, I walk up to the counter and look outside. Suddenly I want to greet people on the street and invite them for a cutting like the owners of those posh cafés in other countries.

I do not know if it is luck, or fate, or simply a matter of Irani Uncle’s bowels reacting at this particular time, but I see Viren near the school gate. It is his first appearance in a week after I hurt his eye. I look at him and decide to let him go. Let the English textbooks destroy him. Let the sissy be. He will grow up and still be a boy.

But then I want to know if I have brought him blindness. As Mr. Old would say, I wish to know the extent of my horrific act.

I go down the three white stairs of Lucky Moon. It is lunchtime and everyone is out deciding how to spend their lunch money. Cigarettes are a must, along with mangoes. For nourishment it is either a vegetable sandwich or a plain chutney sandwich. I weave through the white uniforms with blue ties, red ties and green ties until I reach Viren and his yellow tie. His blue bag is on his back and his eye looks fine. A deep gash near the eyebrow has been stitched. Mr. Old was scaring me. The boy is not blind. Upon seeing me, Viren turns away but he knows that in this crowd he cannot run far. So he turns back and faces me.

“If you even touch me, I will shout for help,” he says. “All the seniors will hit you.”

“Viren,” I say. “I did not mean to harm you.”

He is more afraid now than ever. He knows that I am sincere and it scares him. It is an odd feeling for me, too.

“Sorry does not make the dead come alive,” he says.

“I never said I was sorry. I just want you to know that it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Did the desk come down on its own?”

“No, but I did not know about the nail. The nail was a mistake.”

“It doesn’t matter. I never want to see you again.”

“You won’t,” I say. “I have been expelled from school.”

I do not think he noticed I was in playing clothes. That is what I call anything that is not a uniform. We cannot play in uniforms because uniforms are meant to keep us tied and unhappy. I am happiest when I play. Even drinking cuttings is play for me.

“Mr. Old expelled you?” he asks.

“I bring shame upon his school,” I say.

He does not say much. I think he feels bad. He should not. I should, but I do not. I do not feel happy or sad. School meant nothing to me, anyway. It only made me appreciate my playing clothes more.

“How about a cutting?” I ask.

“What?”

“A cutting. Have tea with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

But I know the answer. If I feel out of place with Shakespeare, Viren feels even worse in the presence of the likes of me at Lucky Moon. He knows he does not belong and that makes him feel stupid. So, in turn, he thinks it is stupid to have cuttings at Lucky Moon. I can feel his mind working, wondering what it would actually be like to sit in those magnificent surroundings and drink chai. His mother would hate it. He has never done anything his mother hates. This is a great opportunity for him. I make it easier for him by begging.

“Please,” I say. “I’ll feel better.”

“But I want you to know that I’m not your friend.”

“Viren, we can never be friends. But it is what men do. They have cuttings even though they don’t like each other.”

I lead Viren through the uniformed seniors with cigarettes in their hands. They keep the cigarettes hidden by their sides, as if they are holding guns, so the teachers do not notice. Why bother? The teachers smoke, too. We should have a smoking period in school and talk about the joys of cancer. For the first time, students and teachers would have something in common.

There are a few girls at Lucky Moon, adventurous ones whose mothers do not send them to school with food from home. These girls in their short skirts flirt with the seniors, sharing mangoes while the boys dare them to share cigarettes as well.

We enter Lucky Moon and the bad boys at our table are shocked to see Viren. Andha Kanoon has come, they shout.
The blind law
. They are talking about the fact that Viren is as good and straight as the law, and as blind. This is a Hindi movie reference and Viren does not get it. He does not watch Hindi movies; maybe Shakespeare told him not to. He looks down at the sugarcane machine. Perhaps the dirt and flies are spoiling his imported leather shoes. Irani Uncle is still in the bathroom and the waiter is in the kitchen preparing more tea.

“I’m going,” says Viren. “This place is for fools.”

“Have a cutting with me. Then you are free to go.”

“Free?” he asks. “What do you mean
free?”

That is how I talk. It was not a grand statement. Viren begins to lecture me and my friends in a loud voice. “If you have any brains, none of you will waste time here. Drinking tea all the time and coming last in class. None of you can spell. Besides your bloody address, what do you know to write?”

I do not know what has gotten into him. The bad boys get up from their table and walk toward us. I want to protect Viren for a change because I know he is an idiot. He is learned, the worst kind of idiot. Then I look at him for a second and a rage I cannot understand comes over me. Why did I allow this fool to spoil my school life? I should have the right to wear a uniform. My uniform should not have been taken from me. I have the right to own it, spit on it, jump on it, and then wear playing clothes instead. Why is Viren
not
blind?

I grasp his hand and put it in the sugarcane machine. I press it down hard with the shoots of cane. Before Viren can move, the machine eats his fingers. He screams and the bad boys do not move. I do not move. I look at Viren and wonder why he is so stupid. I want my school uniform back. I will feed it to this sugarcane machine just like Viren’s hand.

My hand is shaking and the train moves faster. The small boy seated opposite me looks very scared. But once he notices that I am more afraid than he is, once he sees that the only arm I have is like a tree limb vibrating in a storm, he reaches out toward it. I want to tell this small boy that I am sorry. Even though he is not Viren.

“Did you just see a ghost?” he asks.

His hand is cold. He waits for an answer.

“I think I did,” I say.

“I knew it. Your face is white.”

“I’ve not slept in a while.”

“You must sleep. Otherwise you’ll see more ghosts.”

He lifts his hand off me as though he has just given me a valuable piece of advice. Perhaps he has. The more hours I am awake, the more I awaken the past.

“I must go home,” I say feebly.

“That’s a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“No one ever gets sleep at home. Why do you think I’m sleeping on the train?”

“Is it allowed?” I ask. The thought of sleeping on a train embarrasses me.

“Just choose a spot and go to sleep.”

“But where does this train go till?”

“It’s a local train. It won’t go too far. Now make your bed.”

I look around. All the seats are wooden planks that have been painted green. Some have nails sticking out of them; those I shall avoid. The small, round fans above us make a lot of noise but do not circulate any air. How can they? Their covers choke the blades, smother them completely.

But the boy is right. I may be able to catch some sleep here. I will catch it by the neck and force it upon me. Let it scream and shout. I will show it no mercy. This night shall bring me the sleep of a hundred happy children.

I realize that I have already broken the main rule of sleep: I have thought about it too much; I am now wide awake. The boy has already leaned his head against the window and dozed off. To prove he is an expert at falling asleep, he snores loudly, announces his sleep from atop a mountain with a blow of nose trumpets.

I walk to the end of the compartment, where there is an advertisement from the government in favour of safe driving: “If you drive like hell, you will reach heaven.” I run my fingers across the green wooden seats to check for nails. I am satisfied. The boy’s trumpet snores have steadied down to a soft whistle.

I rest my head on the hardness of wood and stare at the ceiling of the train. It is the cleanest part, no doubt. White as chalk. Just as I think this, I spot a crack. Then another. One by one, lines appear in the ceiling of the train, as if the train is aging right before my eyes. I look to my side and the green wood of the seat has turned into a green bedsheet. I am no longer on the train. I try to get up to confirm this, but
she
does not let me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks.

I stop putting my shirt on and remain naked. She is up on her elbows and her black hair teases the green bedsheet by hanging just an inch above it. I am still too drunk to speak clearly.

“I asked you a question,” says Malaika.

She stares at me with dark, angry eyes. The sleep in her eyes is no match for her anger. She looks even more beautiful when she is upset. I do not think she will ever look old and wrinkled. I hate how she sits by the mirror and always looks beautiful. It is as if nothing can touch her, even though men ravage her by the hour, and leave their day’s hopelessness inside her. Admiring her beauty is like staring defeat in the face.

I try putting my clothes on again. I am unable to find the right hole for the right button. The room is swimming before my eyes. I must drink some more to calm myself down.

“I’m going because you have work to do,” I say.

I know it bothers her when I make jokes about her
hard
work. She finds it childish. So do I.

“No one’s coming tonight,” she says. She puts her head back on the bed.

I want to make another joke about no one coming, but I decide against it. I love this woman. But I cannot tell her that right now. I must buy flowers first. From now on, Malaika shall comb that long black hair of hers without being paid to do it. No man will be allowed to ask for the beauty of her mounds. No man except me. I am going to ask her to marry me.

“Please don’t go,” she says. “I’ve kept this night for you only.”

“I wish I could,” I say. “But I have an appointment.”

“At this time of night?”

“It’s in another brothel.”

I say it with a straight face, and she buys it. I know this because she tries too hard not to let her hurt show. Her lips tighten, her smile hardens and she stares straight at me. Now, if she praises herself and puts me down, I will know that I have hit a nerve.

“Then go. Perhaps you need to taste a bad woman to appreciate an apsara.”

It worked. She will be shocked when I ask for her hand. And her whole body. And the air that surrounds it.