Flash Fiction, Chuck Wendig. 2nd 500 Words of Story 1. 18-09-2014

When they called his name in the lottery, there was no address attached, because he didn’t have a home, not the way most people thought of it. He slept where he could, and he’d stay in a spot for a few weeks or more before being shuffled along to the next place–a shed, an empty fruit stand, a temple, and once, a brothel.

So when the news announcer on Sahara Mumbai Live said that the selection had been made, and that the person named “Haresh Kumar” of Dharavi should present himself “with all due haste,” there was no address to identify him, and the BMC swelled with hopefuls and imposters, bus-loads of them arriving on the hour.

Keeda knew they had called him, because who had worse luck? He’d been born with it, like some people were born with a harelip or an ugly mole.

Days passed, but he didn’t report in. He found a carton of Gold Flakes, half empty, and he had a good run selling them as singles to the day workers boarding the trains and busses that departed every morning in the dark, distant suburbs to converge in Mumbai’s congested heart. A bigger guy in a flowered denim vest took the last few packs, showing Keeda a switchblade as his currency.

He took most of the money he’d made, too, but he didn’t find the bit that Keeda had stashed away in his sandal earlier that morning, under his big toe. It was Keeda’s habit, when he came into any amount of money, to split it across a few different spots on his person. Sometimes one or two stashes would be discovered, but usually not all.

Keeda squatted by the platform and counted what he had left. It was enough to buy a skewer of good meat from the vendor on Kuttiwadi Cross Road, although his mother had told him never to eat animal meat, because it would tarnish his soul. He’d liked the way she said this–like his soul was made of a precious metal that required some care.

It was also enough money to jump on the next train to the BMC. To turn himself in, as he’d begun to think of it, as though he was a gangster on the lam, not a random name selected by lot. “If you get a chance to change your life, you should take it. At least you can say you made one choice,” a woman in the brothel had told him. That’s all she would say about her past. Keeda didn’t blame her. He didn’t like talking about his mama, either.

He watched the next train roll into the station. A commotion of people pushed off and another pushed on. The sun had risen. It glanced over the chrome car to pierce Keeda’s eyes, stinging brightness making them water. He looked down toward the dirt, and up again at the car, and watched as it began to heave into motion again.

He watched himself as he rose from the dirt, feet pounding to carry his body alongside the moving train, arms outstretched to take the hands of a man inside. Whatever came next, at least he’d made the choice himself.

***

By Arin Pandey: The Middle 500 Words

Keeda peeled off the lottery ticket and gave his entire cash to the ticket collector. The guy didn’t even glance at the ticket that was worth two or three trains-full of rides. No one ever gave Keeda a second glance. He’d have to do something about that. Immediately. Otherwise no one would believe he hadn’t stolen the ticket.

Keeda stepped over the masses and ignored the many more heads looking down from the tiers. He entered the reeking toilet, and after doing his business, removed his clothes. Squatting by the low tap, Keeda washed what he parts of his body he could. The rest he scrubbed with his dampened cotton muffler. Knowing that the bullies in the carriage would hoot at him, he stashed the ticket in his trouser pocket and washed his shirt with water, wringing it out as best he could.

The inevitable banging at the door started. “Other people need to use the latrine.” In Telugu.

Keeda pushed past the men, getting yelps of disgust when his wet shirt touched them. Looking at himself in the steel rectangle mirror, he slicked back his thick hair with tap water, using his fingers as a rough comb. It would have to do.

“Oi, beauty queen, you smell sweet as a sewer,” a pockmarked lout jeered in Punjabi.

His friends joined in the heckling.

Ignoring them Keeda returned to his spot. He didn’t feel like squeezing himself amongst the smelly passengers on the filthy floor. His hand on a handrail, Keeda’s eyes followed his nose to chapatti-wrapped potatoes a mother was handing to her children. Lucky them. He was a bastard. Eighteen, still no father had claimed him. He’d been called that moniker all his life that he used it without flinching. Keeda’s grumbling stomach reminded him he had chosen the train ride over breakfast.

“Here, take this,” in Gujarati. A stuffed chapatti was thrust under his startled eyes.

Keeda’s grateful smile vanished as he wolfed it down. Maybe his luck was changing.

“He’s not right in his head.”

Keeda realised she was whispering about him. So he recited the phrases in his head rather than out loud. He jumped off the train when the BMC approached. His heart pounded and his head felt like it would explode. What if they didn’t believe him? How could he prove he was legitimate for the first time in his life?

At the counter Keeda pushed his ticket under the grill and said, “Haresh Kumar.”

The man gap-toothedly grinned at his colleague and said, “Another one.” He didn’t even look down.

Keeda said, “Take this ticket.”

Keeda watched Gap-Tooth listlessly punch in the numbers: his eyes growing from raisins to almonds to pennies. His bald co-worker pooh-poohed it, re-entered the numbers, and gasped.

Keeda heard the dreaded words in Hindi, “Prove you’re Haresh Kumar.”

“You have the ticket. I don’t have to prove anything. Give me my money.”

In India fluent English was a currency; Keeda hoped his language skills just paid off.