Nonfiction
my god died young
artwork by amina
One day when my communist friend and I were walking towards Coffee House, the little boy approached us and held out his hand. He clutched the copper coin I gave him in his twisted hand and put out the other to my friend. "Get away," my friend said, walking on. The boy kept pace with us with his outstretched palm, staring silently at him "Come on, get away," he shouted again, full of anger and disgust, "or I'll call the police." The boy persisted. I put my hand inside my pocket and was about to take out another coin when the boy said, "No, him." My friend grimaced, oozing venom from his face, when the boy's eyes lit up with scorn. "What's the matter? You have no money…?" My friend turned away, ran up the steps of Coffee House and took the chair at his usual table. "They are a terrible nuisance, you know," he said to me, as I joined him. "You shouldn't encourage them." After a pause, he added, "This is what gives the country a bad name. Americans with bulging cameras go goggle-eyed over them. It's good for the tourist trade, so they say…but in a socialist state there would be no beggars." I thought of grey walls, firing squads and gas ovens. There are so many ways of getting rid of evil. Often I would walk home from college, taking the shorter route through the lane of tupenny harlots. In the evening, the women would stand outside their rickety wooden doors and announce their waresthe caked paint lining their faces, heavy earrings tugging at their lobes. The narrow lane was lit by flickering gas-lamps. The big rough men would haggle and shout for a minute more or a coin less for their fares. A thin stream of black gurgling fluid would flow down the open drain and the raw perfume on the masked women would mingle with the stench of the running sewer to produce a thick suffocating vapour. The women ranged from sixteen to fifty-six, the older ones loud and aggressive in their chatter. I felt a strange fascination for the lane and, though I loathed the stench, could not avoid walking past their siren calls. If I had been more daring I would have visited one of their dens and learnt the lessons of iniquity. But there were too many fears which wriggled about within my mind… Sometimes I would peep into one of their windows, fling a smile to one of the younger girls. They would raise their fingers, showing their prices, make a clucking noise with their tongues and I would quicken my steps, happy to be on the wider street again. One afternoon when the lane was quiet, a few unplastered women chatting in the little open spaces between their huts, I saw the beggar boy coming out of one of those doors... It was too early for the older men. The shadows were young, the sun had barely set and the gas-lamps were still asleep. He smiled at me and I smiled back, an imperceptible conspiratorial nod instantly passing between us. "You come here?" he asked, coming up to me. I nodded. "You want a lay?" (The word in Bengali is rather rough and I was startled to hear it from him.) "No," I replied, "I'm going home." He smiled again, this time like an understanding priest doling out absolution. "All right, I get you one. Good, very young." A host of feelings rose up in me. I wondered how old he was, how long he had been at the game… I felt squirmy with him. The rough cynicism of the adult coming from the lips of a child. "I don't go with women," I replied bluntly. He looked quizzically at me for a while and then burst into a loud, hurting laugh. "You have no money, eh?" I felt angry and resentful. He was getting the better of me. I threw him a sharp glance and started to walk away. "Eh, what's the matter?" he shouted, hobbling after me. "Nothing," I replied, "I'm going home." He appeared puzzled and then he smiled again. "No woman, eh?" I shook my head. He kept apace for a few moments, nodding to himself. "Good. Good," he said finally. "Don't," he advised, giving me a wink. Then he caught my hand and pulled me to a halt. "Come and see my mother. She wants to meet you," he said. "There," he added, pointing to the door from which he had just come out. I looked at him, startled once more. Obviously, I wasn't much good at making guesses. I followed him obediently to the door. The room was small, an oil lamp burning in the corner… There was a coir bed against one wall and a woman breathing heavily through her mouth lay huddled over it. I couldn't see her face, but the sound of strained lungs was old. She groaned as she saw me enter and the boy said, "Ma, I have brought him." The woman raised herself on an elbow and opened her eyes. "Yes, yes, God bless you, my son," she said, looking at me. I stood in the corner like a pillar of salt. "Go and bring him some sweetmeats," she told her son, and before I could demur the boy had gone out of the room… I remained silent. "You study at college?" she asked. I nodded, feeling guilty and ashamed. "My son was at school…But I can't work any more…" The boy came back with a packet in his hand and put two pieces of sweetmeat on a small brass plate. They must have cost more than I would give him over two weeks. I felt as if they would stick in my gullet, but I ate them all the same. "I must go now," I said finally. "Come see us again," the old woman replied. "And God bless you, my son." Returning home I could not eat my dinner that evening. A few days later my friend and I came out of college and decided to take the first tram home. The little boy came up to us and held out his hand to my friend. Fearing his censure, I dared not do anything myself. My friend brushed the beggar aside and walked on haughtily, the boy following. I fell behind, guilty at my own impotence, watching the two of them fight their silent battle…Finally they came to the tram stop. Here my friend was stumped. He had to wait in the queue and there was no getting away. The beggar boy fell on his feet, hand still outstretched. My friend fidgeted about, looking away, impatience and frenzy thickening his face. But whichever way he turned the boy met his gaze, sure and defiant like silence. I was still a few yards away and could feel the string tightening to snapping pitch… Then unexpectedly the tram came. The men ahead rushed in through the open door. I ran to get in too, the boy's face was full of hate; not for my friend but for the tram. So, just as my friend was about to get in, the boy threw his twisted arm round his feet, holding on to him. Like the stroke of a thin metal whip, anger ripped across my friend's eyes. He kicked the beggar and jumped inside. I too got in after him. As the tram moved off, I saw the boy fall to the ground, rolling a little down the pavement. My friend and I were silent all through the journey. I did not see the boy for the next few days. The summer holidays cam and college adjourned for over two months. When we reassembled, the other boys were once more a part of the familiar scene. But 'my' beggar wasn't among them. Finally I asked one of the other boys about him. He had been taken to hospital with a fracture. They didn't know much about him, couldn't really care. I went along to the hospital, but the search through the casualty lists of that particular day was tedious. As I didn't know his name, I had to go round the wards, describing the boy to each of the matrons. I was about to give up when one of the sisters said, "Yes, I do remember. He couldn't walk properly. He broke his arm, falling from a tram, I think. It wasn't serious but we had to keep him in plaster for a month. He was discharged about three weeks ago." So I walked back to the lane to find his mother. It was late evening and the women were out on the street. I found the old door I had once entered, but there was a new young face on its steps. She smiled, announcing her price and a list of blissful confections she could offer. I shook my head and asked for the old woman and the little boy. It must have touched a weak spot in her, for she made a face at me, spitting out a huge glob of saliva on the street. "She gone to the dark place," she said. And as I continued to stare uncomprehendingly at her, she added, "Why don't you go there too, if you like her so much?" I did not understand her but it didn't matter. I never saw my beggar friend again.
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