Free The Song of Kahunsha by Anosh Irani Page A

he met them only last night, he feels as though he knows them better than most of the children at the orphanage. Apart from Pushpa, he did not feel close to any ofthe children. He wonders how Pushpa is. He feels guilty that he promised to read her the story of the Hunger Princess but he ran away instead. He hopes Mrs. Sadiq explains to Pushpa why he had to leave.
    “Come with me,” says Sumdi.
    Chamdi follows Sumdi down the road. He spots a cow lazing on the footpath. A man walks past the cow carrying an air conditioner in his hand. The cow is in this man’s way and he tries to shoo it away, but it does not budge.
    “Where are we going?” asks Chamdi.
    “To beg.”
    “To beg?”
    “Maharaj, don’t be so surprised. You are a man of the streets, no? So why is begging bad? It’s the family business.”
    “I … but what do we do?”
    “First, you tell me the truth.”
    “About what?”
    “About where you are from. Otherwise I will beat you on the head with my polio leg.”
    Chamdi knows that there is no point in carrying on with his act. He needs Sumdi’s help in a city like this. If they become friends, he can tell Sumdi about his plans to find his father. But whatif they both laugh at him—especially her? But if a car had not crushed her father, if he was lost but living, she too would hope the way he does.
    “Do I have to beg you to tell me?” asks Sumdi. “We must not beg from each other. The enemy is out there, sitting in taxis.”
    “I’m from an orphanage.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You don’t know what an orphanage is?”
    “Hah yaar, I don’t know.”
    “An orphanage is where they keep children without parents.”
    “There’s another name for such a place.”
    “What?”
    “Bombay,” says Sumdi. “You’re smiling, but it’s true. This city is our home and it looks after us. Very badly. Bombay is a whore.”
    Chamdi has never enjoyed strong language like this. The Koyba Boys spoke like that and he never found it helpful.
    “What’s the matter?” asks Sumdi. “You don’t like me abusing Bombay?”
    “No, I just …”
    “Or you don’t like swearing?”
    “That.”
    “Few more days with me and you’ll be shoutinggaalis like ’Pimp!’ and ’Son of a Pimp!’ from the rooftops. Anyway, at least you admitted that you’re not from the road.”
    “How did you know?”
    “So many clues. Just look at your teeth. All clean, in one line, so well mannered. That means you brush them.”
    “Yes.”
    “See
my
teeth.”
    Sumdi opens his mouth wide and Chamdi can see that his teeth are chipped and jagged, and they seem to grow on top of one another as if they are fighting for space. Chamdi turns away because Sumdi’s breath is so strong.
    “Not a single day I have brushed my teeth. But don’t be fooled. They might be yellow and eaten up but I could snap your forearm into two if I wanted. Not that I would bite your forearm, but I would crack it if you challenged me.”
    “No, I believe you …”
    “But more than your teeth, your style gave you away.”
    “My style of what?”
    “You act like a prince. You think and then you speak. When I speak, the words just come out … like vomit.”
    As they walk and talk, a juicewala’s cart catches Chamdi’s eye. A plastic mixer containing orange juice rests on a glass case in which the oranges and mosambis are stored. Some of the oranges are arranged on top of the glass case. Chamdi marvels at the manner in which these oranges stay balanced in the shape of a pyramid, as if the juicewala is some sort of juggler or circus man. Chamdi would love to see the juicewala’s cart at night. Surely the oranges and mosambis would shine brilliantly when the bulb in the glass case is switched on.
    “Hope for a solid traffic jam,” Sumdi tells Chamdi.
    “Why a jam?”
    “So that cars are stuck and we have more time at the signals. Do I have to explain everything to you? Can’t you think for yourself?”
    “But it’s still