The Cripple and His Talismans by Anosh Irani Page A

soup. What sort of cutting is this?”
    “Lucky Moon cutting. Best in Clear Road.”
    “What do we do about the fly?”
    “Where is the fly?” He bends forward to inspect the cutting.
    “It flew,” I say.
    “Boss, this area no fool around.”
    “Okay, I will finish this soup even though it is contaminated. You will be responsible for giving a cripple jaundice.”
    “Cripple?”
    “You mean you did not notice my deformity? Manager! Who is your manager?”
    “I not see …”
    “A complete lack of service. Absence of the human element!”
    By now, he has no clue what I am saying. So to give him a visual stimulant, I remove the finger from the bag. In this setting it looks edible. The man moves away from the table.
    “What is that?”
    “I will dip it in my cutting.”
    “Cannot eat!” He staggers back some more. There is no trace of the Hindi movie walk now.
    “You want to try?”
    “Abdul bhai! Abdul bhai!” he shouts hysterically. I assume Abdul bhai is the owner. I must be careful. Abdul bhai sounds like dynamite.
    Abdul gets up from his place behind the counter and hitches up his black pants. He grunts a little. I had mistaken his hair to be oily. It looks more like water. That is not a good sign. People who water their hair are dangerous. For one, it shows they have too much free time and will therefore snap at the slightest provocation. Two, the hair-watering type is commonly of a certain profile, mainly gangly (belonging to a gang). Three, the constant need for wetness is the result of a hot head.
    “Abdul bhai,” the waiter starts again. “This man is being shyana.”
    “I’m not being clever,” I tell Abdul.
    “Shyana buntai?” Abdul’s hand is the size of my foot. I thank God for my deformity; it might inspire pity in Abdul.
    “Abdul bhai,” I say. I turn to my left so that the absence of my arm is even more apparent.
    “I am not Abdul bhai,” he says.
    “You are not?” I ask.
    “I am.”
    “I am confused.”
    “I am, but not to you.”
    “Sorry,” I tell him.
    I slowly drag the finger toward the edge of the table. A few more inches and I can place it in the bag. I must not lose the finger at all costs.
    “AK Munna Tiger Lily!” he shouts.
    “What?”
    “You must call me AK Munna Tiger Lily.”
    “Okay,” I say. By now, the waiter has calmed down. His eyes are on the finger so I stop moving it.
    “Go on,” Abdul says. “Call me by my name.”
    “Could you repeat it, please?”
    He steps a foot closer.
    “Sir, I wish to get your name perfectly right,” I plead.
    “ AK Munna Tiger Lily.”
    “A gun, a boy, a tiger, a lily,” I say to myself.
    “A gun? You have a gun?” asks Abdul.
    “No. I’m just being literal. AK for 47. It will help me remember your name. And Munna means boy. So.”
    “So you don’t have a gun?”
    “I don’t have an arm to carry a gun, AK Munna Tiger Lily,” I say.
    “I noticed,” he replies.
    “What a relief. This waiter did not even see that I’m a cripple. AK Munna Tiger Lily, you are a pride to the hotel industry. Did you train in Switzerland?”
    “Without training,” he says proudly.
    “That’s remarkable,” I say. “If only this man here had your manners.”
    Abdul looks at the waiter. “How many times I have told you to be courteous?”
    “Courteous?” replies the waiter.
    This is my chance. I must point out this show of disrespect on the waiter’s part. “Sir AK , this man is making a fool of your courtesy.”
    “Are you?” he asks the waiter, who fidgets nervously with his rag.
    “Abdul bhai, do not listen to him,” pleads the waiter.
    “AK Munna Tiger Lily!” he booms.
    “But I always call you Abdul bhai.”
    “You have lost that privilege.”
    I add: “I think Sir AK is much better. It is regal.”
    Adbul raises an eyebrow. “Yes, it is much more better.”
    “But this man wants to eat a finger,” shouts the waiter.
    I put the finger in the brown paper bag and get up from my table. Abdul puts his