Balloon Man: Giganotosaurus V8 N8

by Shiv Ramdas

  June 1, 2018 Volume 8 No 8

  Balloon Man

  by Shiv Ramdas

  If it hadn’t been for the camel, Mithun might never have noticed the old balloon seller at all. He almost didn’t notice the camel either. If he’d been looking for it, he probably wouldn’t have.

  Like so many other parts of Northern India, Qaisarbagh Bazaar wasn’t so much a place that time forgot as much as it was a place that had forgotten time, or at the very least, had pointedly refused to acknowledge its existence. To Mithun’s left, men in pathani kurtas herded goats past cellphone towers, never looking up. To his right, vendors pushed carts piled high with sweet-smelling fruit, bright clothes and trinkets under dangling electricity lines, ignoring the half-buried cables underfoot as they called out to passers-by as a steady stream of cars, bicycles and cycle-rickshaws swerved and cursed their way down the narrow cobbled streets. All in all, it was an explosion of sights, sounds and smells, a patchwork of colour and chaos of the sort that is so much more appealing on Exotic India postcards than when experienced in the flesh. Partly because it makes a lot of things rather difficult, such as the mundane yet surprisingly useful exercise that is finding things just by looking for them.

  As Mithun stood there, he found the camel staring back at him, unblinking. Then slowly, deliberately, it jerked its head sideways, at the old man with the bent back and straggly grey beard, standing there between the paan-seller with bad teeth and the cigarette-vendor shouting discounts at schoolchildren, half-hidden in the shadow of the crumbling clock-tower. And that was when Mithun noticed the balloons.

  Indeed, he couldn’t help but notice them, for these were no ordinary balloons. No, they were massive, lustrous, the most wondrous balloons you ever saw. Above the spotless white Gandhi topi on the old man’s head, a beautiful blue-green globe, the earth itself, or perhaps not quite, floating right there. Beside it, much larger, the fiery citrus glow of the reluctant red of the setting sun giving way to a soothing orange. Next to that, a small one, half translucent, half black, the moon being eaten by Rahu, just like in the myths the teacher read out every Friday.

  Mithun looked at his mother, but she failed to notice him, being still engrossed in the vital task of securing an extra half kilo of lentils at no additional cost. An additional half kilo that he already knew it would be his destiny to spend the evening carrying around the bazaar. He looked back at the balloons, and as he watched, one of them, an impossibly radiant five pointed star, floated heavenwards, and then exploded in a shower of iridescence, each fragment now a star in its own right. This was the first thing Mithun noticed.

  The second was that he seemed to be the only person who had noticed it.

  ‘Come here, boy.’

  He looked around, but could see nobody who had spoken, just the usual whirling dervish of a small town economy hard at work all around.

  ‘Are you deaf? I said come here, boy!’

  He swung around, looking across the street to where the voice had come from, and discovered he was looking at the camel again.

  Mithun blinked. The camel didn’t. Instead, once more it jerked its head towards the balloons.

  And then Mithun found himself far away from the channa vendor, skirting vehicles, making his way towards the talking camel and the magical balloons. But when he finally got there, he found the little stall in the shadows of the tower deserted. This gave him pause, but only briefly. Because just then he noticed the most amazing balloon of them all, a huge, black oval affair that was still translucent enough for him to see the other shapes inside it, too many to count, some round and revolving around bigger round ones, sometimes colliding, some impossibly bright, winking in and out and sometimes vanishing entirely. Mithun didn’t really know much about astronomy and had even once spelt it wrong on a test, but he knew enough to know that sometimes the appropriate response is just to gawk, mouth half-open. So gawk he did, pausing only twice, once to decline the offer of a paan and again, to point out he didn’t want a cigarette at half price.

  So well did he gawk that he failed to notice the shouting, or the people suddenly running pell-mell in the opposite direction. The first inkling he had that something was wrong was a heavy, grinding sound, not dissimilar to the one Sarita Aunty’s lassi-machine had made when he’d tried to grind pebbles in it. Only this was much louder, loud enough to cut through his reverie.

  He looked up, and saw it, the top of the clock tower teetering and then, ever so leisurely, tipping over, raining rock down, as it strained to obey gravity’s call. Then with a final, shuddering groan it fell, blocking out the sun above him, falling downwards like a furious thundercloud, Indra’s vajra hurtling down to earth.

  Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, Mithun knew he should run, but his legs wouldn’t work, nothing would, all he could do was look up, mouth open in a wordless scream. He felt a hand grab the back of his shirt, yanking` him back roughly, and then something slammed into his head, sending an explosion of white before his eyes, which just as quickly turned to black.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  Mithun woke, opened his eyes, and then closed them again because it was so dark that the effort seemed pointless.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The voice, coming as it did from what appeared to be empty space, took him by surprise. Mithun sat up abruptly, bringing his head in sharp contact with what appeared to be an incredibly low roof.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ the voice asked again.

  ‘My head hurts. Who’s there?’

  ‘Just me,’ said the voice. It was soft, and yet somehow strident, the sort of voice that has seen much service.

  There was a sharp rasping sound, the unmistakable accent of a match striking stone, and Mithun found himself looking into the face of an old man in a torn, dirty Gandhi cap, worn askew on his head. It was a lean, lined face, weather beaten and grey-bearded, with a pair of gentle brown eyes.

  ‘It’s you,’ said Mithun. ‘Gubbara-wala. The balloon man.’

  The match went out.

  ‘Bhak!’ said the old man. ‘Third-rate matches. Well, I suppose those are the only kind.’

  A moment later he’d lit another.

  ‘Here, hold this,’ he said, holding out the match. ‘Yes, that’s fine, just a moment, let me find… Where did it—Ah, there we go!’

  From his pocket he pulled a pale, translucent balloon.

  He took a deep breath, then blew into the balloon. It swelled up, and as it did, it began to glow, filling the alcove with a thin, silvery light. The man gave the end a twist and let it go, and it floated up, coming to a rest against a rocky ceiling a few feet over his head.

  ‘Nothing quite like moonlight, is there?’

  Mithun glanced around at their surroundings. There wasn’t much to see, just rocks piled all around the small alcove where they were. Mithun pulled himself to where he could sit up, so he was now facing the old man.

  ‘Managed to get us under the arch,’ said the balloon man, and grinned, showing a set of strangely perfect teeth. ‘Cramped, but it’ll keep the weight out till they dig through.’

  Mithun wasn’t sure if it was the words or the tone they were delivered in, but he felt the cold stab of panic slice through his chest.

  ‘Ma!’ he shouted.

  The old man smiled, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry lad. You’ll be fine.’

  Mithun looked around. There was a distinct watery sensation at the very bottom of his stomach.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, you’d better be,’ said the man indignantly. ‘I had to run awfully fast to pull you safe, and I still don’t know if it�
�ll count. Or where that camel’s got to. But we’ll find out soon enough, I suppose and whatever will be will be. Oh, don’t look so scared, you’ll be fine, didn’t I say? They’ll save you, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t you mean us?’

  The old man chuckled. ‘No, I’m the only one saving me.’

  ‘I don’t understand, baba. We’re here together. If I get rescued, so will you.’

  ‘Well, you should understand. Makes perfect sense when you do. Just remember the rule.’

  ‘What rule?’

  ‘That in India, whatever is true, the opposite is also true.’

  Mithun blinked, realising that his fellow prisoner was not quite sane. He turned away, scrabbling at the rocks to his left.

  ‘Stop that!’ said the balloon man sharply. ‘Don’t upset the balance, you’ll bring them all down. Look at me, boy. Here. Look at me and take a deep breath. Alright, let it out. Slowly. Good, good. Feel better?’

  ‘No,’ said Mithun.

  ‘Of course you do. You just don’t know it yet. Alright, what’s your name?’

  ‘Mithun.’

  ‘Want to hear a story, Mithun?’

  ‘You think I’m six? No, I don’t want to hear a story.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to. How can you be part of the story if you won’t hear the rest of it?’

  Once again, he reached into a pocket, and pulled out a packet, from which he shook out three balloons, green, black and white.

  ‘That’ll be enough,’ he said.

  With that, he set to work, first blowing into the black balloon, then twisting and worrying at it with his callused hands as it grew, taking the shape of a bird. Except it wasn’t just a balloon bird, it was a real bird, a majestic black swan, feathers, beak and all. As Mithun watched, it jumped to the ground, and stood up and nodded at the old man, fluttering its wings.

  ‘H—how?’

  The old man winked at him.

  ‘Magic,’ he said.

  ‘Magic? How did you do that?’

  ‘Quite a silly boy, aren’t you?’ said the swan.

  Mithun felt his jaw loosen. He sat there, eyes bulging.

  ‘It talks?’

  ‘Of course I talk,’ said the swan. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘How can it talk?’

  ‘She, and thank you very much, young man. And he just told you how. Magic.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’

  The swan sniffed. ‘That’s why it’s called magic. If we knew, we’d call it science instead.’

  The balloon man seemed to have been paying no attention to this exchange. Instead, he’d been busy working on the green balloon, so now there was also a long, grass-green snake in the alcove with them, staring straight at Mithun.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the snake.

  Mithun could only stare.

  Finally, the snake broke the silence.

  ‘I apologise if I’m being rude, but do you talk?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ said the balloon man. ‘He’s just shocked, that’s all. His name’s Mithun, by the way.’

  ‘Not very bright, though,’ said the swan, and sniffed. ‘Boys of this age seldom are.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just scared,’ said the snake, uncoiling slowly and moving towards Mithun. ‘Do you need a hug?’

  ‘No—I’m fine! Stay away!’

  The snake retreated slightly, looking hurt.

  Said the swan, ‘Where’s the camel?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘This is terrible.’

  ‘Well, make the best of it.’

  ‘I am making the best of it.’

  ‘Must you always be in a bad mood?’ asked the snake.

  ‘Yes,’ said the swan. ‘You try cleaning your feathers in this land with more dust than air for the last—’

  It broke off suddenly, looking towards where the last balloon-animal-turned-real-animal now stood, a large white elephant, about as big as the balloon man himself. With a start, Mithun realised it had several heads—five in fact. The balloon man bowed, as did the other animals.

  ‘It is time,’ said the elephant in a slow, ponderous voice.

  ‘Are you ready to be heard?’

  ‘We are,’ replied everyone except Mithun.

  ‘Then begin,’ said the elephant, sitting down. ‘Who shall it be?’

  ‘Me,’ said the snake. ‘Where do you wish me to begin, Lord?’

  ‘I have always found the beginning to be as good a place as any. And the appropriate one in a hearing such as this. Tell your part of the story, and tell it true.’

  ‘I will indeed, Lord,’ said the snake, and hissed, the sound slithering away over the stones around them.

  ‘Listen to me now. Listen as I tell you the story of the wretched King Vikramaditya.

  VIKRAMADITYA AND THE CELESTIAL COW

  Long, long ago, long before this land carried this name or the one before this or the one before that, this was the kingdom of the good Raja Vikramaditya. Many stories of his wisdom and valour have been written, but this is not one of them, for it is about neither. But know that the king was revered far and wide for being as learned as he was generous, and a true man of dharma. It was said he had never once broken a promise and no man who visited his court left without what he had come for. A greater, more generous, more virtuous king than Indra, king of the gods, whispered some, and judging by the state of the universe, that may even have been true.

  Now, one day, there arrived in the court of Raja Vikram a rishi, a wandering holy man. Vikram received him immediately, for such was his custom.

  ‘Pray tell me, holy sire,’ he said. ‘What service may this monarch render you?’

  ‘Your protection, King Vikramaditya,’ replied the rishi. ‘And it is not for myself I ask it, but for another. For a while, I have made my abode a small ashram on the other side of the river. There I stay, alone save for one companion, a heifer. But now I must travel north for a pilgrimage, and it will be many a sunrise before I return. I cannot leave her there alone. Will you, O King, take her under your protection?’

  ‘Indeed I will,’ said Vikram.

  ‘Know this too, that she is no ordinary cow, for she was given to me as a boon by Kamdhenu, Mother of Cows. She eats only the greenest grass and drinks only the clearest water and her milk is sweeter than honey and has the power to cure any illness or ailment.’

  ‘I hear you, Gurudev,’ said Vikram. ‘It shall be as you ask. Leave on your pilgrimage when you wish and upon your return, she will be waiting here for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Maharaj,’ said the rishi. ‘I expected no less. May your years be long and your days filled with light.’

  So saying, he left, taking with him a cohort of the king’s men to whom he would entrust the wondrous heifer. Meanwhile, Vikram called forth his ministers to decide how best to care for the rishi’s cow.

  “Let us build an enclosure for her and make sure she is fed and guarded at all times,’ said one.

  ‘An excellent suggestion,’ said the king. ‘Let it be done.’

  And so a grand enclosure was built, with high stone walls and a sloping roof and golden tiles within and a whole host of soldiers without. The king personally oversaw the construction, and well pleased he was, for he knew it to be so secure that perhaps even Vayu, god of the air, would have trouble getting in undetected. And no matter how busy with his duties, he never failed to look in on the rishi’s cow every night, to make sure she was safe and well.

  Until one day, when a visitor arrived unbidden, one that set the entire palace aflutter with fear and excitement, for it was a nagin, a great she-serpent with a massive hood and scales as green as the gehu-stalks after the rains.

  The king received her immediately, for such was his way with visitors.

  ‘They say you never refuse someone who comes to you for help, King Vikramaditya,’ said the nagin. ‘And it is for your help I am here.’

  ‘You honour me, noble nagin,’ said the king. ‘Tell me what it i
s you wish for, and if it be in my power, you shall have it.’

  ‘My daughter’s life, maharaj,’ spoke the nagin. ‘She accidentally angered a rishi, and was cursed with a lingering sickness that will take her. Indeed, her time is almost up. There is but one thing that can save her.’

  ‘Say no more,’ answered the king. ‘I know what it is you seek, but my hands are tied, for the milk of the celestial cow is not mine to give.’

  ‘No, Vikramaditya, you do not understand. My daughter’s ailment is from a god’s curse. Just the milk of the cow is not enough. To be cured, she must partake of its flesh.’

  ‘Never!’ said the king, shocked. ‘The rishi left the cow under my protection. And on my honour I vowed to protect it, not give it away to be slaughtered.’

  ‘Does your honour involve putting the life of a cow over that of my daughter, Vikramaditya?’ asked the nagin.

  ‘I will give you my entire herd if you so desire, but this cow is not mine to give,’ said the king.

  ‘All the herds in all three worlds are no use to me if you will not do so,’ said the nagin.

  On and on they argued, but the king would not be swayed to break his promise and finally the nagin rose up on her tail. ‘So be it, Vikram, but I shall remember that you held my daughter’s life in your hands and refused to give it back, and you shall regret this day.’

  And then she was gone, leaving no trace of her ever having come save the furrows on every brow in the hall.

  ‘She will be back, Maharaj,’ said one of his courtiers.

  ‘I am sure of it,’ said Vikram. ‘But I will not seek shelter from the rain before the clouds come. Never let it be said that Vikramaditya exchanged his honour for safety.’

  But even though he spoke the words, he felt a dark foreboding in his heart, for even the gods thought hard before making an enemy of a nagin, and none had ever been known to renege on a vow of vengeance. Even so, he resolved to not show his trepidation, for a fearful king is inevitably soon a former king, and went about the rest of his regal duties.

  At the end of the day, he visited the cow’s enclosure, as he always did. The guards saluted him and stepped back to let him enter. And he did so, only to realise that the enclosure was now empty, the cow gone.