The Storyteller (28 page)

‘This is priceless!’

I looked over my shoulder. One of the men was doubled over, holding his stomach. ‘Wish I had my video camera with me!’ he chortled. ‘No one will believe this!’

The other two staggered back a few steps, tears snaking down their cheeks, their faces the colour of ripe pomegranate.
That was when I let them have it. I was still fairly full. I turned around and sprayed them with a steamy, smelly jet of liquid. It was a feeling of immense power, as though I were a fireman with a hose in my hands. The laughter turned quickly into howls of abusive threats. One of them stepped forward. I whipped out the knife from my satchel and slashed the emptiness in front of me. They scrambled for the door.

In the lobby, the drunk whose wallet I had pinched was demanding compensation and threatening legal action. The hotel manager’s invitation to discuss the matter in the privacy of his office was spurned with an outpouring of vitriol against a poverty-stricken country.

‘There is no dwarf in this hotel, sir!’ the manager said firmly.

‘I fucking well saw him!’ the drunk insisted. ‘Ugly little bastard! Like a slimy toad!’

The
goras
I had confronted emerged from a shop, shrieking about a mad dwarf with a knife.

‘See!’ The drunk jabbed a forefinger in the manager’s chest. ‘What did I tell you?’

Confusion engulfed the scene. The Indians looked quietly amused. A few sari-clad women giggled. Other
goras
assembled in support of the agitated foreigners. The hotel staff gathered around the beleaguered manager. This was a free country. The whites could no longer intimidate the natives.
Jai Hind.

I would have slipped away like a dawn dream had it not been for a little girl who suddenly pointed a finger at me and squealed, ‘Mamma, there’s one of the dwarfs! Where are the other six? Here, dwarf! Dwarf! Come here…’

It was the only time in my life that a female had chased me. I was accustomed to lightning getaways. I bounded towards the door. Momentarily, the sight appeared to paralyse everyone.

‘That’s the little monster!’ the drunk hollered triumphantly.

‘That’s him! I’ll teach him to piss on us!’

Someone called for the hotel’s detective. ‘The police! Get the police!’

There were startled screams and cries for help.

I rushed through the main door, dived between Baldev Singh’s legs, and ran to the road. I dodged a taxi and two trucks, and weaved past several cyclists who had stopped on the other side of the road for a chat and a smoke. I felt dizzy and stopped to recover. People were streaming out of the hotel. A police van pulled up.

I retreated into the safety of darkness, buoyed by the chaos I had created. The rich would know about me now. They would tell my story to a breathless world. My only regret was my inability to see the hotel’s kitchen that Baldev Singh had described in reverential terms.

‘
Yar
, it’s a kitchen for the gods! Enough food there to feed half the population of New Delhi!’

Enveloped by the night, I sat in a field and groped for the stolen wallet in the satchel. I felt the thickness of the notes with the same passion as I might have felt the bulge of fat on Meena’s waist. I kissed the wallet and slipped it back inside the satchel. My immediate impulse was to head home…
the betrayal of one’s own.

The words were a timely reminder to be cautious.

Loneliness was a chilling awareness of a dying universe. A few dim stars. No Jesu. Space, darkness, a hollowness inside, and the thought that I might be the only human alive. For company I could have headed for the police station and handed myself in. I managed a smile at my plight. But there was also the beginning of a pain. A hurt that was deep and lasting. I wanted to gouge out my eyes, cannibalise myself, throw myself on the road from a great height.

Would Jesu rescue me? Reach out with a hand that performed miracles and pluck me from the air as I plummeted
to earth? Chaman’s cautionary voice intruded through the roar of the wind.

No, Vamana!

Where are the betrayers, Chaman?

That chased her away.

In the dark the mind was fully lit. There was Baji. Her rage hadn’t subsided. Manu’s promises to hide me. We were brothers in deprivation. He would lie to protect me…until he was threatened with pain.

I found myself in Chandni Chowk. Midday. Shops were crammed with disposable items. The bazaar was deserted, except for my presence.

I have money to buy whatever I please!

I loaded a cart with clothes, shoes and trinkets. Make-up boxes and bottles of perfume. Hats, wigs and food. The money—what was I to do with the money since everything was free?

Money, anyone?

Drops of rain. I emptied the wallet. Both my fists were full of notes. I hurled them in the air. They swirled and wavered and showered around me. Morning’s luck for some bleary-eyed vagabond. As for me, there was Meena. I would sneak back into the godown and lie with her.

These voices are intended to intimidate me. They call my name in different tones. A
lathi
is dragged over the iron bars. Someone whispers. Harsh laughter. They want me to know about their collective strength. Anything foolish and there will be no mercy. Footsteps inside the cell. So it’s my turn. I look up at the patch of light stuck on the glass pane. They won’t execute me during the day. I wipe the beads of perspiration on my forehead.

I am handcuffed. A rope is tied around my waist. They drag me outside. My eyes are pricked with needles of light. This is my first real contact with daylight for some time. Recently I have not been taken to the field to break stones. My eyebrows twitch. Watery eyes. I fall to the ground and inhale the dust. A booted foot smashes into my ribs. I manage to stagger to my feet. The fools think that they have broken me.

The world emerges slowly through a blur of white light. Wavering faces, as though they are under water. Slowly the outlines steady and sharpen. Trees and whorling eagles. A clear sky. The smells of fume-tainted air and ripe guavas. I forget the pain.

I am standing inside the gates with other prisoners. We are told to strip. A hose is turned on us. It feels delicious to be wet. A bar of soap is passed around.

‘Hair! Armpits! Groin! Rub properly!’

The guards watch us closely, their fingers lurking on the triggers of their guns. A cart, loaded with brooms and buckets, brushes past me. We put on our dirty clothes. The stench returns.

The gates are dragged open. The wheels grate on the rusty tracks and sound like frightened mice. A van reverses towards us, belching a thick jet of fume and raising dust. We are prodded with
lathis
and herded into the back of the vehicle. There is a scramble for seats. Doors slam shut. One of the prisoners shouts an obscenity. It is no more than a sound of the helplessness that we all feel. The click of a padlock. A hand thumps the side panel of the van. Horns blaring, the driver roars away. We are thrown against each other. Tempers ignite. There isn’t enough room for an effective kick or a bruising head-butt.

‘Where are we being taken?’

They look at me as though I ought to know.

‘To court!’ snarls the man on my left. ‘Who did you kill?’

‘A snake.’

Heads turn. An incredulous pause.

‘You can tell us. We’re all murderers here.’

‘I’m not!’ I defend myself stoutly. ‘They made a mistake.’

‘Why should they gaol you for killing a snake?’

‘Because it was a politician’s pet.’ I smile mysteriously, as though I am privy to profound secrets.

Those sitting opposite me lean forward slightly. ‘How did you kill the snake?’

‘I bit off its head.’ Lips curled, I reveal my canines. I lift my handcuffed hands to my mouth and rub the pointed tips of my teeth with my thumbs.

The man on my left stops leaning on me. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. I know they are watching me, but I won’t be harmed.

I wonder if the judge will be more understanding than the old man who declared me to be a social misfit. I never intended to stab Dilip repeatedly. Scare him, sure. Maybe inflict a shallow wound, perhaps a cut. But then he acted in such a dishonourable way that I had to punish him. He abandoned
her.
When I am angry, I cannot think clearly. I see red streaks in front of me, and my head crackles with the sound of a raging fire. He shouldn’t have…He shouldn’t have. I wish my eyes hadn’t witnessed what my mind had foreseen. A fresh surge of anger engulfs me.

In the middle of an open field. Rain, lack of shelter and regret. It was foolish to throw away so much money. I retrieved some of the soggy notes.

A persistent desperation had crept into my life. I envisaged the shadows of malicious demons prowling in search of me. When I eluded them, there was Chaman sprawled on a straw mat, coughing blood, her body shaking uncontrollably as the insane disease continued to punish her. I flirted with extreme measures to end her suffering…and mine. Rat poison dissolved in warm milk. Suffocation. A more messy and bloody ending as she slept. Possibilities only. Agitated reflections of my helplessness. But such dark imaginings made me feel wretched. I was quite incapable of doing any more than watching and agonising as life filtered out of her.

The damp and bleak openness of the field were galling reminders of my plight—hunted by the police, dumped by my associates and shunned by those I had served. I decided to risk Baji’s wrath—the fury of her words and the pain of her blows. But I didn’t think she would betray me. On my way to
the
haveli
, I decided to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. I composed a lengthy speech, full of contrition and devoted to a syrupy praise of her generosity, compassion and wisdom. I rehearsed the words, injecting sincerity into the delivery, decided on my facial expression and practised the supportive movements of my hands. I imagined the scene and made minor adjustments to what I intended to say. As she attacked me with abuses, I would sob, grab her ankles and mumble how sorry I was for my misdeeds. In the end she would scowl, relent and point me to a corner for the night. Depending on her mood, I might even get the leftovers from her dinner.

The calmness of the steady rain washed over me.
Rhim…jhim…rhim…jhim.
In the distance, the sky had cleared to reveal a buttery slice of the moon. A shy, half-smile of a woman in a bazaar. If only I could reach up and take her to the safety of a home…

Although the entrance door was ajar, I hesitated and did not walk into the courtyard. I peeked through the opening. Gulbadan was frying
puris.
A table had been set with porcelain plates on a white tablecloth. Baji was immaculately dressed in pink and white, her face glowing with make-up. She laughed and talked with her guest, and at one point she briefly held his hand.

I felt cold. It seemed as if a trusted friend had pushed me off the edge of a cliff. There was fear and bitterness, but also the exhilaration of danger. Emptiness and intimation of impending death. I knew him. I didn’t have to see his face or hear the murmuring of his voice. The Devil could be perceived without the details of his physical appearance.

Baji’s deep voice dominated their conversation. She was telling him how she loved going to the cinema. Romance and adventure films. Nothing that ended sadly and made her cry. A happy conclusion made her feel as if there were justice in the world.

‘Films should end with a young hero embracing his love and securing their future. No killing or unnecessary deaths. Ram Lal
jhee
, what sort of films do you watch?’

I could barely hear him. He rarely had the opportunity to go to the cinema, he said. Work and family occupied most of his evenings.

Baji beamed her approval and smothered him with questions about his wife and children. Ram Lal’s replies were brief. He had been married for fifteen years. His wife was a nurse. They had two children—a girl who was ten, and a boy aged eight. His daughter was performing well at school, but he was concerned about his son’s progress.

‘Raju struggles with sums,’ he said slowly, as though reluctant to make an admission of familial weakness to a stranger, ‘and what can you do without mathematical skills these days?’

Gulbadan placed a bowl of
firni
on the table. Ram Lal scooped several spoonfuls on his plate and finished the dessert in a hurry. His chair squeaked, and he looked around him as though he didn’t trust the company of
hijras.

He glanced at his watch. ‘I must leave now. So we agree about the dwarf?’

Baji nodded stiffly. I had the impression that her face was shadowed with misgivings.

‘There is no going back,’ he warned her. ‘We cannot allow a dangerous criminal to roam the city. In return,’ his voice softened, ‘we will not disturb you and your companions as long as you don’t commit serious crimes. For the time being, we ask nothing else in return.’

Ram Lal stood up and headed for the door. I had to scramble into the darkness across the lane.

I followed Ram Lal from the safety of some distance. He had a rigid manner of walking—head still, straight shoulders, and
coordinated movement of the arms in the motion of twin pendulums. He lived in a ground floor flat of a run-down, two-storeyed building. Ram Lal’s wife opened the front door, but she was immediately pushed aside by two excited children. He picked up a child in each arm and kissed them in turn. His wife stroked his back as he stepped inside. She took a step with him and then turned around to shut the door. For a moment she hesitated, her eyes, it seemed, fixed on the spot where I stood. It was unlikely that she had seen me in the shadows. I did not move. Slowly the door closed.

Through an open window I could see a brightly lit room. Ram Lal appeared in a T-shirt and shorts, rubbing his hair with a towel. His children grabbed his hands and dragged him to a table strewn with books and papers. His wife staggered in with a pile of clothes and dumped them on a small table wedged in a corner. She ironed each piece of clothing with methodical care. Occasionally her husband turned to talk to her, but most of the time he was preoccupied with the children. The Ram Lal I watched was a different person to the policeman I knew. He laughed frequently and appeared to be relaxed. I kept visualising the man with a foot on my neck, chain-smoking and flicking ashes on my face and head.

I crossed the lane and crouched under the open window. Audible voices. Ram Lal coaxed his daughter to learn about Ashoka’s rule in India. He was equally patient about helping his son with numbers.

‘I am sleepy,’ the boy protested. ‘No more.’

‘A few more sums,’ Ram Lal said soothingly. ‘Let’s try working with a few larger numbers. Now write, twenty-seven plus eleven, thirty-four plus nineteen, forty-one minus fifteen. Another ten minutes of work and then a story.’

‘Promise?’

‘Have I ever broken one?’

‘What is it about?’

‘It’s a very special story,’ Ram Lal chuckled. ‘Your father’s in it.’

‘Tell us!’

‘It’s about a wicked dwarf and how I will catch him.’

‘Is he dangerous?’

‘Very dangerous.’ Ram Lal’s voice was low and sinister. ‘And sick.’

‘Will you kill him after he is caught?’

The rain spat on me again. There was a flurry of movement inside. Hands reached out to close the window shutters.

I ran to the side of the house. Peeling plaster and an unlit window. On the opposite side there was a narrow alley blocked by a brick wall. It appeared to be too high and slippery for me to climb over. Suddenly there was a light. I scratched my arms and legs on the jagged edges of the bricks. Vamana’s story. And I couldn’t listen. Did he have the talent to turn me into a worthy adversary? Or was I destined to enter the ranks of gutter villains—brutal, devoid of feelings, incapable of dreaming and without any understanding of beauty? I felt cheated, deprived and angry. I had made plans about Ram Lal’s flat. Now they had to be forgotten. I had seen his children and glimpsed him as a father. I had some thinking ahead of me.

I didn’t deliberately head towards Meena’s home. I had no fixed destination in mind. I was too busy grappling with an unanswerable question.
Will you kill him after he is caught?
Would he try? I wanted to ask him myself and goad him into a reply. I became agitated. Shadows chased each other through empty streets. They merged and then separated. A wolf howled at the end of the hunt. The moon grieved behind a fluff of cloud. What was the conclusion of Ram Lal’s story?

I walked purposelessly, preoccupied with betrayals and the harm they caused. I was not surprised by Nimble Feet and
Lightning Fingers. The years we had spent together shrivelled into a few unsentimental memories. It was an arrangement of convenience. They were efficient at their jobs, and I added an unusual variety to mould us into a successful team of pickpockets. It occurred to me that our lack of commonality and disinterest in each other was actually a binding force. I couldn’t remember an occasion when we had squabbled over our efforts or what we had gained from our ventures.

Farishta…he was different. I liked him, and sometimes we spent our evenings drinking
thari
, smoking
ganja
and talking. I think he was fascinated by my ability to remember stories and by my inexhaustible creations that he found so offensive. Farishta never questioned his fate or expressed any resentment against the limitations of his circumstances. Meaning and purpose had no place in his scheme of thinking. He was a poor man and a thief, destined to die one day. One day. That was the only vague landmark in the misty landscape of his life. Mortality did not bother him. Poverty had no effect on his thinking. His mind was overwhelmed by the sheer privilege of being alive. He was unnerved by my railings against life and my rebellion against the impositions of a world that was not prepared to accept me, even if I conformed to its arbitrary rules. He treated my mode of thinking as if it were a disease that might infect him and jeopardise the arrangement of his universe.

‘Why are you so angry?’ he asked me one day. ‘What are you fighting against?’

‘Whatever each day brings.’

‘Fate cannot be influenced.’

‘Quite possibly. But that I make an effort makes me feel grand and strong. Sometimes I stand between the railway line and the mango tree at night and look up at the stars. I shout abuses into space and say all that I think is unfair about life.
There is, of course, no response, beyond the occasional howls of sleepless dogs. But I like to think that the silence is not one of indifference but of guilt and failure. It makes me feel as though my complaints have been registered, that someone has listened and acknowledged the validity of my anger. I feel good about that. I know that the next day will bring no relief. Nothing will change. I shall wake up to the stench of garbage and the sounds of men coughing and children crying. But for that moment, when the stars appear to shiver in fear of my anger, I am satisfied.’

‘You are a strange person,’ Farishta murmured. ‘You say things that are beyond my understanding. Why do you spend so much of your time seeking failure?’