you a man or what?”
The old man laughs. His eyes are small and green, and Chamdi tells himself that thisman must be from Nepal, like Kaichi at the orphanage.
“Okay, kaka, I will talk to you only,” Sumdi addresses the old man again. “Last time I’m asking. How many legs do I have? Before you answer, I’ll give you a hint. One leg is not working. Which is it?”
Sumdi takes a few clownish steps.
“Right leg,” says the old man.
“Correct.”
“Now which is the other leg?”
“Left leg.”
“Now where is the most powerful leg? The hidden leg? The most important leg, your friend’s leg which is probably
not
working, which is why he’s in a bad mood?”
“Bhadwa, get the hell out of here,” the young man says to Sumdi.
“Your middle leg is in trouble and you are calling me a pimp? Anyway, kaka, you did not guess, you do not get the prize. Now you have to pay.”
“I’m not giving you any money,” says the old man.
“Money? Is that all there is to give? What about
love?
Is no one a lover anymore? How about giving me some
love?
Or if you can’t give love, then give me a cigarette, no?”
The old man reaches into the pocket of his grey shirt, takes out a cigarette, and throws it at Sumdi. Sumdi is unable to catch it. It falls to the ground. He picks it up and turns to Chamdi again.
“The work you need to do to get a cigarette,” he mutters. “So you see? That’s how you do it. Now your turn.”
Chamdi is quiet.
“What are you thinking about?” says Sumdi.
“I … what’s the answer to the riddle?”
“Hah?”
“What’s the hidden leg?”
“Oh, you idiot. You unfortunate fool who spent his whole life in an orphanage, you poor boy, you know how to read and write but no one told you about your hidden leg. It shames me to share the same sun as you. But don’t worry, tonight you will discover your third leg, and what a magical night it will be for you, chamatkaar! You will never take your hand off your leg. But first, you have to complete your part of the bargain. Now put on a show for me, entertain me while I smoke so I feel like a king. Hurry up, do something.”
“I will tell you a story,” says Chamdi.
“I spit on stories!”
“My
story.”
“It will be a boring, well-mannered story. Forget it, just sit down next to me.”
Sumdi looks for his box of matches. The cigarette is already in his mouth.
At first Chamdi wonders if he should pick a
Chandamama
story, but then he decides to invent his own story because it hurts him when Sumdi accuses him of having no imagination. Imagination is a private thing, but perhaps it is time to share his with his friend. Chamdi will tell his own story, but add and subtract a few minor details to make it worth a king’s time.
“This is my story,” Chamdi begins. “It is called ’The Boy Whose Ribs Became Tusks and Left His Body.’”
Sumdi almost drops his match.
Chamdi continues, “By the time you finish smoking that cigarette, the story will be over, and if you like it you’ll have to give me the money that I made.”
“I accept the challenge, you poor fool who has no knowledge of his third leg.”
“There once lived a boy who was very thin. Whenever he ate, his imagination used up all thefood because his mind was the strongest muscle, and he thought thoughts that no one else had the courage to think.”
“Like what?”
“Once more you interrupt me I will turn your stiff leg into a hard whip that will give you a hundred lashes.”
“Shabash!” shouts Sumdi. “I like you like this!”
“The boy dreamt of many things even though he was poor and had no parents. He dreamt of Bombay and how wonderful it was and how people help each other and do not fight or steal. Each time he saw something horrible on the road, some act of cruelty, his ribs would stick out more, and at first the boy did not understand this at all. Why are my ribs sticking out? he would ask himself. But one day his ribs spoke to him. His ribs
The old man laughs. His eyes are small and green, and Chamdi tells himself that thisman must be from Nepal, like Kaichi at the orphanage.
“Okay, kaka, I will talk to you only,” Sumdi addresses the old man again. “Last time I’m asking. How many legs do I have? Before you answer, I’ll give you a hint. One leg is not working. Which is it?”
Sumdi takes a few clownish steps.
“Right leg,” says the old man.
“Correct.”
“Now which is the other leg?”
“Left leg.”
“Now where is the most powerful leg? The hidden leg? The most important leg, your friend’s leg which is probably
not
working, which is why he’s in a bad mood?”
“Bhadwa, get the hell out of here,” the young man says to Sumdi.
“Your middle leg is in trouble and you are calling me a pimp? Anyway, kaka, you did not guess, you do not get the prize. Now you have to pay.”
“I’m not giving you any money,” says the old man.
“Money? Is that all there is to give? What about
love?
Is no one a lover anymore? How about giving me some
love?
Or if you can’t give love, then give me a cigarette, no?”
The old man reaches into the pocket of his grey shirt, takes out a cigarette, and throws it at Sumdi. Sumdi is unable to catch it. It falls to the ground. He picks it up and turns to Chamdi again.
“The work you need to do to get a cigarette,” he mutters. “So you see? That’s how you do it. Now your turn.”
Chamdi is quiet.
“What are you thinking about?” says Sumdi.
“I … what’s the answer to the riddle?”
“Hah?”
“What’s the hidden leg?”
“Oh, you idiot. You unfortunate fool who spent his whole life in an orphanage, you poor boy, you know how to read and write but no one told you about your hidden leg. It shames me to share the same sun as you. But don’t worry, tonight you will discover your third leg, and what a magical night it will be for you, chamatkaar! You will never take your hand off your leg. But first, you have to complete your part of the bargain. Now put on a show for me, entertain me while I smoke so I feel like a king. Hurry up, do something.”
“I will tell you a story,” says Chamdi.
“I spit on stories!”
“My
story.”
“It will be a boring, well-mannered story. Forget it, just sit down next to me.”
Sumdi looks for his box of matches. The cigarette is already in his mouth.
At first Chamdi wonders if he should pick a
Chandamama
story, but then he decides to invent his own story because it hurts him when Sumdi accuses him of having no imagination. Imagination is a private thing, but perhaps it is time to share his with his friend. Chamdi will tell his own story, but add and subtract a few minor details to make it worth a king’s time.
“This is my story,” Chamdi begins. “It is called ’The Boy Whose Ribs Became Tusks and Left His Body.’”
Sumdi almost drops his match.
Chamdi continues, “By the time you finish smoking that cigarette, the story will be over, and if you like it you’ll have to give me the money that I made.”
“I accept the challenge, you poor fool who has no knowledge of his third leg.”
“There once lived a boy who was very thin. Whenever he ate, his imagination used up all thefood because his mind was the strongest muscle, and he thought thoughts that no one else had the courage to think.”
“Like what?”
“Once more you interrupt me I will turn your stiff leg into a hard whip that will give you a hundred lashes.”
“Shabash!” shouts Sumdi. “I like you like this!”
“The boy dreamt of many things even though he was poor and had no parents. He dreamt of Bombay and how wonderful it was and how people help each other and do not fight or steal. Each time he saw something horrible on the road, some act of cruelty, his ribs would stick out more, and at first the boy did not understand this at all. Why are my ribs sticking out? he would ask himself. But one day his ribs spoke to him. His ribs
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