The Cripple and His Talismans by Anosh Irani Page B

hand on my shoulder.
    “You’re not going anywhere,” he says.
    I remove the finger from the bag. “Let me go or I will eat this finger right in front of you,” I threaten.
    Abdul takes his hand off my shoulder. The waiter moves away as well. I put the finger two inches away from my mouth. I try not to let my revulsion show.
    “Okay, leave,” says Abdul.
    “That’s not all,” I say. “I want you to tell me where this finger points.”
    “Where it points?”
    “Don’t pretend,” I say. “You know the In-charge. You know Baba Rakhu. Quick, where does it point? I warn you, I’m getting hungry.”
    “I told you he is crazy!” shouts the waiter.
    “Sir AK! Sir AK! Sir AK!” Abdul yells back.
    “I will eat this biscuit.”
    “Wait,” says Abdul. “If you take a lotus and place it on water, what will happen?”
    “It will float,” I reply.
    “Wrong! It will sink.”
    “Why?”
    “The giant who lives underwater will pull it from below.”
    “What giant?”
    The finger is perilously close to my mouth. I am speaking into it as if it is a microphone.
    “This giant, is it a hint?” I ask. At this point I would look for clues in the cornea of the blind. But I have faith that I will be directed to the next point from here. When I was young, all my learning took place at Lucky Moon.
    Abdul looks at his slab of a hand and steps forward to hit me. As I retreat, my foot lands on a shoot of crushed sugarcane.
    “Tell me what to do with the finger!” I plead.
    “Get rid of it. It reeks of death,” he says.
    I nod in the direction of the flies, mosquitoes and crushed cane, and step out of Lucky Moon. I am glad time has not made it sanitary; I may even organize a school reunion here. Naturally, I will invite only those who used the word “cutting.” I look at the street and notice that apart from two handcarts and an old scooter, Clare Road is still Clear.

THE GIANT WHO LIVED UNDERWATER
    H ere is the story of Gardulla that I heard as a child, about how he came to live underwater. Let him be known as Gardulla the Giant. Let his home be the river Baya in an ancient land. Let it be written in blood that Gardulla the Giant was as real as the mosques of this city. Let him be an awning that protects us from the dark clouds of jealousy, for it was jealousy that brought about his birth and ultimately his demise.
    Long before Gardulla was born, the river Baya had a friend, a peacock that walked along her banks. The two enjoyed racing with each other. Baya was a young river then, fast and gushing, but she did not always win. The peacock had a red and blue fan that reached far into the sky when open. When the wind blew strong, it carried the peacock with a speed that Baya could only wish for.
    It was only natural, then, that the two became lovers. It was natural, but accidental as well. Very early one morning, when it was still dark, the peacock woke to practise his run. It was the month when the mountains ate the wind. As such, he had been losing to Baya of late and she did not let him forget it. “Your fan has no wind,” she would taunt. “Maybe you should keep it closed forever.”The peacock would pretend to enjoy the banter, but would bow his head in shame as soon as Baya flowed past. He needed a victory to make Baya’s mouth dry of hurtful words.
    As the peacock raced at the foot of Baya, he thought he heard a wind. He stopped to open his fan. It had been days since he had felt the wind and he wanted to remind himself what victory tasted like. As he waited, he knew his eyes would soon close with that first rush of air, the blue of his feathers trapping the wind, storing it for future use.
    But the wind came from another direction, for the first time ever, with such great force that he was plunged into the river. He had never touched Baya before, and to fall upon her, like some cheap rock, brought him great shame. Even greater shame than when he lost his races.
    Baya liked the warmth of the peacock’s