Free The Cripple and His Talismans by Anosh Irani

concrete again.
    “Give anything,” he says.
    I step off the divider and tap the boy’s shoulder. Some time ago, it would have been to admonish or to dismiss. Two arms can be more selfish than one. I have used them in the past to prevent others from growing taller.
    “Raju,” I say.
    I once heard that all beggar children like to be called Raju. They respond as if it is their name.
    “Raju, that well is dry.” I place the paper bag on the road. He smiles at me and nods his head. I dig into my pocket.
    “You also don’t take out handkerchief,” he says.
    I slap a five-rupee note into his palm. “Go eat in a five-star.”
    “For that I need five hundred,” he replies.
    I raise my hand as though I am about to hit Raju and he ducks. Before moving to the next taxi, Raju smiles my way. I have never had a Raju smile at me before. I have not given him reason to. I feel sad, as if I have found a remedy for a disease that has already killed me.
    Suddenly horns are blaring ahead of me. A policeman is directing traffic and it is obvious from the position of the vehicles that the jam will take some time to clear. The handcarts and cycles have moved forward despite this. I pick the bag up from my feet and leer into the taxi.
    When in doubt, suspend all logic. Slit common sense by the throat. Travel to the nearest newsstand and ask for elephants. Walk to the bakery and show complete disbelief when they inform you they do not stock piranha. It is the only way to find a use for that which has none: a leper’s finger.
    “Lady, can I interest you in some shopping?” I ask.
    She does not respond. Instead she looks straight ahead.
    “He does have a nice head, doesn’t he?”
    She looks my way, confused.
    “The taxiwala. The back of his head looks quite … majestic,” I state.
    The taxiwala does not care that he is the subject of conversation. Maybe he is thinking of his village and the wife he left behind. There is a blob of phlegm on his windshield. Must have been a disgruntled passenger. Or the taxiwala’s jilted lover.
    I continue, “Lady, if I may point out, there are three to four droplets of sweat on his neck. While I agree
that
is not majestic, it’s the shape of his skull that is most noteworthy.”
    “What do you want?” she finally spurts.
    “I want to interest you in some shopping.”
    “No, thank you. Now leave before I call that policeman.”
    “But that is a traffic policeman. He can barely control cars. Human beings are out of the question.”
    “Driver, take the taxi in front,” she demands.
    The taxiwala turns and faces her. He looks at me but then decides that the sun is in his eyes and faces the wheel again.
    “Did you not listen? This man is harassing me. Take the car in front.”
    “It’s against the law to hit the car in front,” he says. “Now, please remain calm until the traffic clears. As it is, I’m being boiled.”
    I step in again. “Lady, I have a great bargain for you. At least see what I’m selling.”
    “Whatever it is, I don’t need it.”
    “I’m glad you are interested.” I raise the brown paper bag to her eye level. The paper crinkles as I open it. “Lady, it’s a finger.”
    She seems agitated and looks ahead to see if any cars are moving. I open the bag a little more and face it toward her. “How much are you willing to pay for this?”
    She looks inside the bag. Her scream terrifies the taxiwala.
    “What happened? Cockroach?” he inquires.
    “This man has a black finger in his bag!”
    “Black finger?” The taxiwala turns my way.
    I close the bag. I might get beaten. A lady-scream can attract a mob, especially if a man inspires the lady-scream. But if the man is handicapped, the mob is confused. The mob is then divided between the lady and the cripple.
    The flying cockroaches rescue me. They come in hordes, dark soldiers with blades spread; they whiz past my head. The taxiwala acts as if he does not see them. He wants me to think they are not real, that