'Yes. Two boys ran away last month. They came back within three days. They couldn't find any work. Bhiku's gang wouldn't allow them to operate in their area. Here, at least we get food and shelter, and when we are working for Maman none of the other gangs bother us.'
'We don't want to get involved with any gangs,' I tell him and recite a doha. 'Kabira Khara Bazaar Mein, Mange Sabki Khair, Na Kahu Se Dosti, Na Kahu Se Bair. Kabir is in the market place, wishing the welfare of all; He wants neither friendship nor enmity with anyone at all.'
* * *
We meet Sikandar, the import from Pakistan.
A ripple of excitement goes round the mess hall. A new kid has arrived. Mustafa brings in the new inmate and we all crowd around him. Mustafa is the most excited. 'We got him this morning from Shakeel Rana's consignment,' he says and slaps his thighs in delight.
The boy is no more than twelve years old. We touch him as though he is a caged animal. But he doesn't look like an animal. He looks more like the alien we saw in a Britannia biscuits commercial on TV, with an oval, tapering head, Chinese eyes, a thick nose and thin lips. Mustafa tells Punnoose, 'He is from the Shrine of Shah Dola in Pakistani Punjab. These boys are called "Rat Children".'
'How do they get a head like that?'
'I have heard that they put iron rings on the baby's head to stop it growing. That is how you get this unique head design.'
'I think he has a lot of potential. Maman will be pleased,' says Punnoose.
'Yes,' Mustafa concurs. 'A real high-value item.'
For some reason, the rat boy reminds me of a bear I saw once with Father Timothy in Connaught Place. He had a tight collar round his neck and a black mask covering his mouth. His owner would poke him hard with a pointed stick and he would stand on both his hind legs, saluting the people gathered round him. They would throw coins at him. The owner would pick up the money and pull him away for another performance. I was struck by the eyes of the bear, which seemed so sad that I had asked Father Timothy, 'Do bears cry?'
* * *
I discover Jitu, hiding in a closet.
He holds a plastic bag in his hand with a yellowish-white substance inside. He opens the end 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.
