Moon at Half Past Noon

Chapter 3: A VERY SACK STORY

The couple sank an arm’s length away, the sack settling with a dull thud. Matthu turned his head and felt their closeness too sharp for comfort. His fingers twitched, but he held his tongue and wondered what they were up to. The old man pulled out an orange from his pocket, his hands trembling, skin cracked like drought-dry earth. He held it up, scarred and dull, a prize in his shaky grip. Matthu’s mouth watered instantly, his tongue brushing dry lips as hunger bit deeper. He stared, eyes glued to the fruit, desperation swelling inside him. The old man peeled it slowly, rind cracking and flaking like old bark. Juice sparkled inside, a sour-sweet tease that made Matthu’s stomach growl loud. The old man offered a slice to his wife. She was slow to respond. Her wheeze cutting the air.

Matthu blurted out before she could take it, “This one time, my cousin Chhotu was starving after school.” His words spilled fast. “I had one orange—just one—and he kept yapping, ‘Matthu, gimme, gimme! So, I split it—half for him, half for me—fair, right? He ate it so fast—juice all over—like a pig!” Matthu grinned, sly and uninvited, hoping they’d bite. The old man chuckled, a dry sound, and handed him the first slice. He said, “You must be hungry.” Matthu hesitated. Before his lips could refuse, his hand grabbed it. He rushed to eat it, juice bursting and dripping sticky down his chin. They smiled, lazily. Matthu took another slice on offer, then another. until the orange disappeared in the old man’s hand like it’s magic.

The old man adjusted his glasses, shattered, patched up with thread, and tape—barely holding, slipping down his nose. He asked, “What’s your name?” His voice creaked. Matthu answered, “Matthu…Matthu” and then yapped on. “Ma hollers all day. She never stops.” The old man grunted, “You tongue runs.” She rasped in a feeble voice. Matthu blinked, startled that they’d pegged him so quick.

He glanced at the sack trapped between the two of them. He sat up, brushing dust off, and wondered what was really in there. He asked, “What’s with that sack?” His voice stayed polite but firm, needing answers. The old man rasped, “Books.” Matthu frowned, unconvinced. He pressed, “Why can’t you lift it then?” His questions piled up like a gentle quiz. “What’s really in it? Why’s it so heavy? Why carry books anyway?” He wondered.

The old man chuckled, “Worn ones—old stories.” She wheezed. He hesitated but continued his inquest anyway, “Why don’t you take a rickshaw. Sack is heavy, isn’t it?” The old woman snapped, “money doesn’t grow on trees, you know, don’t you?” She adjusted her tone. She realized the kid is just a kid and a little dumb. “We live just across the street. Why are you roaming the streets alone? Can’t your parents send you to a school?” He chuckled and explained, “vacations, two months. You think Ma would let me skip a day, huh?” The woman whispered to her husband with a smile, “Look how happy this fool is.” Her husband dismissed her, “stop talking woman, save your breath. It is getting late. After, losing everything, we are now carrying this dead sack just for memories?” His eyes grew moist. He used his shirt to wipe his eyes clean. Matthu’s ears perked up when he heard the mention of dead weight. He fidgeted nervously. He inserted a hand inside the pocket that had the money. His figures scurried on a search yet the hand came out empty. Is this what they call a misfortune, or what? He screamed inside and heaved a sigh. He looked around in search of his money but couldn’t stop yapping.

“Why not sell ‘em—get cash?” He grunted, channelling Ma’s gruff pitch, “we give away my old books to a shop each year.” Old man nudged his reverie aside and tried to distract the kid, “you surely don’t like books.” He got up lazily pushing the concrete to stand up. Kid’s persistent voice slowed him down. “Stand by Shreeji’s and yell, ‘Books for sale! People would grab ‘em fast!” The old man’s glasses slipped. His cackle burst loud. He said, “You haven’t sold books before. Have you.” The old man paused, taking a deep breath and scanning the stretch of road. “Cops don’t like books or old people, like us,” he muttered. He seemed to look for an excuse to ditch the sack at a public space, Matthu tried to guess.

He pushed further to find out why the couple insisted on carrying the heavy sack. He felt like a cop on Puppa’s favourite show. He changed tack. “Then, hawk paan, beedie,” he blurted and pointed to a smoke shop some feet away. The old man shook his head. “Paans are messy. See these streets. They are red as if an entire village just bled,” the old man regretted his choice of words.

Mention of blood spooked Matthu. He returned his gaze to the sack, and nervously looked at the passing stream of traffic. The old man started fiddling with the sack. Matthu’s eyes followed his every move. Matthu stared and thought, No money—how? Their world just stumped him—they just walked, with no cash? And, too old to murder, eh? One never really knows, especially with so much blood being spilled, the old man said himself. His eyes traced dirt festering inside a crack in the pavement.

The couple indulged him because their bones needed a break from the painful drudgery on a hot humid day. Agreed, he was a riot—clueless— whose parents didn’t put him to good use. Matthu carried on with his nagging tone, “Puppa says you can make money with bulls and bears!” The old man squinted and spoke involuntarily, “God, now what? What’s that? Matthu struggled to find better words in Hindi, “Err…Bail aur Bhalu…Puppa says, price is one true god. you can make money in stocks.” The old man’s cackle roared—he thought—this kid’s nuts! He couldn’t help teasing the kid, “Does your Puppa work at Sanjay Gandhi National Park? Can he find us an easy job there? If we get paid, we can watch the Bulls and Bears tear the visitors apart for sure.” Matthu blinked and thought, Huh? The old man waved him off and thought, enough of this! His grin revealed his rotten teeth. He spoke, “Price is God, right! There’s not a penny inside my torn pockets, son?” He turned to his wife and helped her up. She was breathless again.

They rose and struggled—the sack scraped the ground as the old man heaved. His arms shook, and it dropped with a thud. She wheezed and tugged. They were too weak—pathetic. Matthu looked at the spectacle unfold. His bravado swelled. He thought, I’m tougher, watch me. Gratitude flickered—they gave me oranges. I could have give them the money. Damn, I wish could help ‘em cross the street. He stood affixed trying to toughen up and do what is needed.

At last, he got up nonchalantly and quipped, “I’ll carry it.” He stood tall and wide. The old man was about to tell him off. Matthu rushed towards the sack and poked it with his foot. To his horror, the sack tipped towards him in slow motion like a raging monster. He scrambled back, falling hard with a thud. A loud clap split the air. Eunuchs begging coins in the distance peered inside a car, and urged the passengers “Dua do!”

Their sharp voices and claps echoed constantly in his ears—Clap! clap! His heart thudded. He scrambled away and told himself it was alive—he had to get away! The old woman wheezed a laugh and teased, “Scaredy-cat, jumps at shadows!” Matthu bristled with broken pride. He felt humiliated for no reason.

Old man’s patched glasses glinted. Blinded, he tried to weigh in his options. Only a kid, but he looks strong enough, he was tempted. May be he wants to make a penny or two for candies and such. He asked, “Sure, boy? We can’t pay you for this short walk. Don’t haggle later.” Matthu looked at the sack again and nodded, “uh huh“. He heaved the sack. His arms strained. It’s too heavy—creepy. It slid on his back. Imaginary hands thrust out of the sack and poked at his skin. His heart fluttered. What’s inside—doom? Fear prickled—he was sure they’re lying—I feel it. But he couldn’t bolt. He thought, Play it out—see it through. He was conflicted and scared, so way out of his depth; doubt and gratitude nagging and pulling him apart. Each slither of the sack sent shivers up his spine. It felt alive and too heavy. Yet he held firm. He was caught between bravado and dread.

This new world’s too real!