Story: Chandni Chowk

*Here is an excerpt from a longer story I wrote upon returning from India called "A Journal of Things Held":

A haze of kerosene and petrol hung between vehicles at the traffic light, wavering in the air and bending the figures moving between cars selling every variety of book, magazine, flower, and sliced coconut; while others offered only good karma and the joy of giving.

A child staggered up beside me and the rickshaw driver cast him a sidelong glance, paying no further attention. There was an open wound on his shoulder- a laceration like a knife- and the hand he held out to me was also disfigured, mangled as if it had been broken over and over. He spoke something slow and in Hindi, ending with Please, and I reached into my pocket to find only a fifty rupee note, placing it delicately into his hand. I would have given more if I could spare it, but even so, I noticed the driver scoff and shake his head in the mirror. The boy held the money in his hand and made a small bow, thanking me in strung sentences that seemed to be neither Hindi nor quite English. And as the light turned green we continued our journey to India’s largest fort, built by the Mughul emperors and palace to centuries of Indian rulers.

We drove in silence for several moments, and the driver cast me several glances in the rearview mirror before he finally spoke. “The boy,” he began, having nearly to shout to be heard over the engine. “He do to himself.”

“What?” I shouted back.

“Himself…” He made slashing motions with his hands and rubbed his palm for money.

I nodded and didn’t say anything, wondering at the sensation I felt: that I’d been deceived. The boy had manipulated me. Shown me something that had not been done to him, but by him, and unknowingly I had been patron to this apparent tradition of self-mutilation. But after thinking about it for a while I am not so sure. Not at all, in fact.