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over his nose and mouth and inhales deeply, pressing the bottom of the bag towards his face. His
clothes smell of paint and solvent. There is a rash around his nose. His mouth is sweaty and
sticky. After he inhales, his half-closed eyes turn glassy and his hand begins to tremble.
'Jitu! . . . Jitu!' I shake him. 'What are you doing?'
'Don't disturb me,' he says in a drowsy voice. 'I am floating on air. I am sleeping on the clouds.' I
slap him. He coughs up black phlegm. 'I am addicted to glue,' he tells me later. 'I buy it from the
cobbler. Glue takes the hunger away, and the pain. I see bright colours, and occasionally my
mother.'
I ask him for some glue and try it. After I inhale, I start to feel a little dizzy, the floor beneath me
appears to shift and I begin to see images. I see a tall woman, clad in a white sari, holding a baby
in her arms. The wind howls, making her hair fly across her face, obscuring it. But the baby
reaches out his tiny hand, and with gentle fingers smooths away her tresses, prises open her face.
He sees two haggard, cavernous eyes, a crooked nose, sharp pointy teeth glistening with fresh
blood, and maggots crawling out of the folds of her lined and wrinkled skin which sags over her
jaw. He shrieks in terror and tumbles from her lap.
I never try glue again.
* * *
Meanwhile, our musical training is coming to an end. Masterji is extremely pleased with Salim's
progress. 'You have now mastered the art of singing. Only one lesson is left.'
'And what is that?'
'The bhajans of Surdas.'
'Who is Surdas?'
'He is the most famous of all bhakti singers, who composed thousands of songs in praise of Lord
Krishna. One day he fell into an abandoned well. He could not get out. He remained there for six
days. He went on praying and on the seventh day he heard a child's voice asking him to hold his
hands so that he could pull him out. With the boy's aid, Surdas got out of the well, but the boy
disappeared. The boy was none other than Lord Krishna. After that Surdas devoted his life to
composing songs in praise of Krishna. With the single-stringed ektara in his hand, he began
singing songs depicting Krishna's childhood.' Masterji begins singing, 'Akhiyan hari darshan Ki
Pyasi My eyes are hungry for your presence, Lord Krishna.'
'Why are his eyes hungry?' I ask.
'Didn't I tell you? Surdas was completely blind.'
* * *
On the last day of our musical training, Masterji showers accolades on Salim for singing one of
Surdas's bhajans perfectly. I am testy and distracted. My encounters with Maman's boys have
left me distraught. Though in a sense we are all children of a lesser god, Maman's boys seem to
me to be a particularly disadvantaged lot.
Punnoose comes into the room to talk to Masterji. They speak in low voices, then Punnoose
takes out his purse and begins counting out some money. He hands over a sheaf of notes to the
music teacher, who tucks it gratefully in the front pocket of his kurta. They leave the room
together, leaving me alone with Salim and a harmonium.
'I should never have left Delhi,' I tell Salim. 'You have at least become a good singer, but I have
gained nothing from this trip.'
It is then that I notice a hundred-rupee note lying on the floor. Punnoose must have dropped it
while counting the money. My first impulse is to pocket it, but Salim snatches it from my hand
and insists that we must return it. So we go down the corridor to the room Maman uses as his
office, where Punnoose and Mustafa hang out.
As we approach the door, we hear voices coming from inside. Maman is talking to Punnoose. 'So
what did the Master say after finishing his lessons? He is getting more and more expensive.'
'He said that the older one is useless, but the young kid has a lot of potential. He says he's never
trained a more talented boy before.'
'So you think he can bring in at least three hundred?'
'What is three hundred? When he sings it is magic. And his face? Who can resist his face? I
would say easily a potential of four to five hundred. We have hit the jackpot, Maman.'
'And the other boy? The tall one?'
'Who cares? The bastard will have to fend for himself. Either he gets us a hundred each night or
he remains hungry.'
'OK. Send them out on the trains from next week. We will do them tonight. After dinner.'
* * *
A chill runs down my spine as I hear these words. I catch Salim's hand and rush back to our
room. Salim is confused about the conversation we heard, and the reference to numbers. But the
jigsaw is piecing itself together in my brain.
'Salim, we have to escape from this place. Now.'
'But why?'
'Because something very bad is going to happen to us tonight, after dinner.'
'I don't understand.'
'I understand everything. Do you know why we were taught the bhajans of Surdas?'
'Because he was a great poet?'
'No. Because he was blind. And that is what we are going to become tonight, so that we can be
made to beg on local trains. I am convinced now that all the cripple boys we have met here have
been deliberately maimed by Maman and his gang.'
But such cruelty is beyond Salim's comprehension. He wants to stay.
'Why don't you run away alone?' he asks me.
'I can't go without you.'
'Why?'
'Because I am your guardian angel, and you are part of my package deal.'
Salim hugs me. I take out the one-rupee coin from my pocket. 'Look, Salim,' I tell him. 'You
believe in destiny, don't you? So let this coin decide our future. Heads we leave, tails we stay,
OK?'
Salim nods. I flip the coin. It is heads.
Salim is finally reconciled to escaping from Maman's den, but his mind is full of doubt. 'Where
will we go? What will we do? We don't know anyone in this city.'
'I know where we will go. Remember that actress Neelima Kumari that Radhey told us about?
She needs a servant. I have her address and I also know which local train goes there.'
'How about going to the police?'
'Are you out of your mind? Haven't you learnt anything since Delhi? Whatever you do, wherever
you go, never go to the police. Ever.'
* * *
We are inside the bathroom in the basement, listening to the steady beat of water dripping from a
leaky tap. Salim is on my shoulder with a knife in his hand, trying to work the bolts holding the
wire-mesh window in place.
'Hurry,' I whisper through clenched teeth.
Upstairs, Maman's guards trample through our room, opening closets and cupboards. We hear
shouts and abuses. A bottle crashes, jangling our frayed nerves even more. Salim is terrified. He
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