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- An Excerpt from Chokra | Taxi Wallah and Other Stories
Fuelled by Numair Atif Choudhury’s trademark linguistic verve and energy, Taxi Wallah and Other Stories is a searing yet tender portrait of a country that is fractured but lets in light through the cracks. Read an excerpt from the short story Chokra:
I was six years old when my sister was born from a gasoline drum.
Mother took me behind the railway tracks, where rough men milled about tea stalls and wooden shanties. Her stern grip warned me that this was to be a quiet walk. After covering a dark and stony distance, we stopped outside a hut with a new, corrugated tin roof. Ruffians looked us over. I was restless, but Amma stilled me with a sharp jerk. She spoke to them, asking for a Baba Mia. We were told to wait.
A few beetle-spitting minutes later, a man came out of the hut. He had a stillness about him that made him difficult to see. He was Baba Mia, and wore a clean and freshly ironed shirt. He led us inside. I sensed two things after we entered – a rotten smell, and a strange humming. And then I saw the drums. There were stacks of them: some new, others rusted, but all tied in place with jute cords. Neatly arranged, each was covered with markings of white chalk. I realized that the stench and sounds were coming from these small drums. The smell was that of decayed flesh, like that of spoiled meat which even lemon could not hide. But stronger. And the humming? It was as deep as earth sounds, and listening closer, I could hear an undercurrent of scraping and knocking, moving and crying, as if there were a thousand echoes in that hum.
Baba Mia walked over to a drum that had been pulled apart from the rest and pointed to it. ‘Check the markings. It is Munmun.’
Amma looked it over and said, ‘Yes, it is mine indeed.’ She traced shaking fingers over the chalk scribble. It was obvious that her fingers had done a good job of memorizing the figures; it was also obvious that my mother was filled with a very thick dread.
‘To wait any longer might kill her,’ he said quietly. Amma nodded. The man then lifted the lid off the drum, reached inside with one hand – and pulled out my three-year-old sister.
***
Leaning on a rusty telephone pole, I remember all this. I am not sure why the memories come to me today. It is not a day for idle thoughts.
It is raining this evening. Munmun is cranky. She sits in her cart and makes faces. With this attitude, she is not going to make us any money, and when I tell her so, she looks away. I don’t know what to do. I hate the rain.
We should move, as no one will visit the market in this downpour. The guard has also walked by twice, slapping his cane against his boots threateningly. His uniform is scrupulous and neatly pressed despite the weather. We should not be here on his third round. I tell Munmun that maybe someone will let us use their porch in the adjoining street. Maybe there will even be something to eat. But she only grunts, and I ignore her. Tucking her wet clothes around her, I drape her with our piece of translucent blue plastic. And I start to push. It is difficult when the streets are wet. Mud cakes the tin-can wheels, making the wooden cart swerve. My bare feet are unsure of how to step and Munmun flops uncontrollably, her arms poking branch-like.
When we reach the other street, the houses look poorer than I remember them to be. We begged here months ago. In the fading light, I scan the length of the potholed road and find it almost empty, except for two dogs in a pile of garbage. I stone them away to check if there is anything good, but they have done a thorough job. I push Munmun to a thatched door and knock. Almost immediately, as if expecting us, it is opened by a bare-chested man who tucks in his lungi and raises a leg to kick at the cart. I pull away my outstretched hand and wrench Munmun back.
‘Thieving bastards! Wait, let me get my stick.’ He feigns a rush, but we are safe in the rain. We try other houses, but are mostly yelled at and even have trash thrown at us. One enraged man hurls his dinner chapati at us. We share it, laughing while we chew the warm bread. And finally, we get lucky when a dull-eyed woman espies us and opens her door. She lets us in without a word.
Her house is bare, but cool and dry. I feel myself steaming like a fresh rice cake.
‘Poor children. Sit down, boy. It is bad outside.’ I sit on the earthen floor, folding my knees to rest my chin.
‘You are very wet.’ I nod. She then asks Munmun, ‘Are you his sister?’
I answer the question. ‘She is. She can’t talk. She can understand, though. Her name is Munmun.’
‘Munmun,’ the woman repeats. ‘Poor Munmun. Look at poor Munmun.’ She removes the plastic, which looks almost pretty in this dark house, and the layers of draped cloth to understand my sister. She eyes the knotted stubs of what were legs, and the mangled bones for arms. Then, with a rag she pats the white scars dry. She notices the little bag with feathers that Munmun collects to stitch into a pillow one day. I had told her once that she cannot sew, but Munmun is stubborn.
The woman clears knots in Munmun’s hair and uses a ripped sari to tie it back neatly. She says, deep in her throat: ‘What have they done to her?’
I know why this woman is so soft. No children live in this house. Women like her often help us, but they are mixed blessings. For when it is time to leave, Munmun will sulk for days. Because we always have to leave. Because she has never had a mother.
The woman uncovers little tin bowls. She gives us a ball of rice and divides an egg. I sense that this is a luxury, and more than she can afford. Later, as she takes our clothes and spreads them to dry, Munmun falls asleep but I keep watch. I know the woman will want to talk.
‘Poor Munmun. What have they done to her? Why? How terrible … How could a little thing like her survive it?’ She is not really speaking to me though. On her haunches, she is rocking her thoughts out, somewhat like that man with the stick. Earlier, I used to wonder why the sight of Munmun and me angered people so much. I think I know why now. We disgust them and sicken them. Because what if, by some twist of fate, we had been their own children?
My head is light with sleep, so I talk a little. ‘I never knew why mother took her, when they made her like this. I was small then. We have been on the streets for five years now. I don’t know how we would beg if they hadn’t changed her. But I would never have let them take her if I had known. I was small then.’
‘Do you have anybody? In your village home?’ she presses, but her squinted eyes tell me she is still making words, not sense. Maybe she is thinking of green mangoes from her own childhood days – she must be from outside the city.
I shake my head. ‘I keep thinking that maybe we can find somewhere to stay, where I can work. There are construction sites. I can break bricks. But what about Munmun? She doesn’t like being alone for that long.’
Later, she tells me that we can spend the night there. I turn to sleep. At some point, I think I hear the woman crying. But I sleep.
As the first streaks of light crack through the brick wall, she shakes my shoulder. Her husband will return from the factory and we should leave. Munmun is already awake. She has that blank look on her face. Together, the woman and I cover her with the plastic. Without a word I push the cart out.
Outside, there is no dust after the long night’s rain. My wood grip is warm, and I push energetically. The street taps out the sounds of five in the morning. And as we track the sun coming up from somewhere between green leaves and a brick building, I think it will be a bright day.
To read more, order you copy of Taxi Wallah and Other Stories today!
About the Book - Taxi Wallah and Other Stories
'Numair Choudhury is the Bangladeshi Bolano' AMITAVA KUMARNumair Atif Choudhury's first and only novel, Babu Bangladesh!, published posthumously, was heralded as a sui generis masterpiece. In Taxi Wallah and Other Stories, we encounter more of Choudhury's limitless imagination and deep…
About the Author - Numair Atif Choudhury
After studying creative writing at Oberlin College and the University of East Anglia, Dr Numair Atif Choudhury did a PhD from the University of Texas, Dallas. He had been working on Babu Bangladesh!, his epic first novel, for nearly fifteen…
To read more, order your copy of Taxi Wallah and Other Stories, by Numair Atif Choudhury today!
₹ 250.0000
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