‘Me,’ answered Hanuman, and was lost in a fit of laughter. I crawled out to crouch behind him, still afraid of the moving silver circle swinging from Yama’s waist-band.
‘Not a very good jest,’ said Yama primly. ‘Stand aside. It is his time.’
‘Not yet, great prince,’ said Hanuman, lowering his head, suddenly obsequious. ‘Grant him a little more time in this harsh world; he has unfinished business.’
‘Can’t be done. Stand aside.’
‘He is my brother by blood.’
‘Even monkeys are mine, at the last. Move.’
‘He is a poet.’
‘They especially are travellers to my kingdom.’
‘He is a poet who called to me for protection.’
‘A perpetrator of mere doggerel calling to an ancient tree-dweller,’ snorted Yama. ‘Stand aside.’
‘Do you know who I am, Yama?’ hissed Hanuman, rising, and suddenly he towered above the sorrowful god, his red lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth, muscles shifting like cables beneath the white fur. ‘I am Hanuman; I live through the voices of men and women and the dreams of children; I defy you. I spit upon your clumsy ironies and your little indignities.’
Hanuman reached out, snarling, and Yama stepped back quickly. They faced each other silently for a moment, and I felt the very air come to a stand-still. Then Yama’s face twisted into a smile.
‘What, then?’ he said. ‘I can’t just let him go. Can’t be done.’
‘Oh, he has something for you,’ Hanuman said soothingly, small and amiable again. ‘He’s a poet. He was going to tell them what happened to him; a sort of story, you see.’
‘I don’t want to know what happened,’ said Yama. ‘I was there for parts of it. They all come to me. I know what happened.’
‘I won’t tell what happened,’ I stammered eagerly. ‘I’ll make a lie. I will construct a finely-coloured dream, a thing of passion and joy, a huge lie that will entertain and instruct and enlighten. I’ll make The Big Indian Lie.’
‘Too easy,’ said Yama. ‘I’m an easy audience. It’s no great trick to entertain me. Anything that will divert me from what I must do every day I’ll take. No, that’s too easy.’
‘I’ll entertain you and them,’ I said, desperate, gesturing at Abhay, Ashok, Mrinalini and Saira. ‘They’re a fine audience, educated and discriminating, gentle and discerning. How’s that for a wager? Suppose, suppose that in my telling I lose a part of them, then let me lose life. Suppose a part of them, say half, turn away, bored, then let it be the bottom of the sea.’
I must confess that I said this without sufficient thought. I was weak with fear, irrational and impulsive. Then, I would have bargained away kingdoms, gold, love, anything, for a minute of this precious awareness of life and living. Then, I didn’t think about the monster that I was about to face, about this fearful adversary —an audience. Yama, however, seemed to realize what I had let myself in for. His lip twitched.
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘fine. Let’s say, half of the audience at any time, on pain of death. Let’s say, for three hours an evening.’
‘Hold it,’ snapped Hanuman. ‘That’s too much. Let’s negotiate.’
As they whispered, as proposals and counter-proposals circled each other like war chariots, I noticed my soon-to-be-audience, my jury, staring at me, bewildered. I pulled myself up onto the bed and typed a short synopsis of the events that had just occurred. I need not, I think, describe the expressions on their faces as the words and sentences appeared on the white paper; suffice it to say that Abhay walked around the room, reaching out into the air with trembling, searching fingers, finding, of course, nothing. Finally, he faced me, hands clenched.
‘This is insane,’ he whispered. ‘Crazy. I can’t be talking to you.’
‘Why are you so afraid, Abhay Bhai?’ said Saira, a little peevishly. ‘Hanuman’s here.’
Hanuman hopped over to me.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘How’s this? At least half of the audience is to be kept in a state of interest for a total of two hours each day. If, at any time, I judge that more than half of your audience is bored for more than five minutes, you will pay the forfeit. Boredom is to be defined as an internal state, externally recognizable through signs such as shifting restlessly, talking to neighbours, playing with shoe-laces or other items, drooping of eyelids and nodding of head, et cetera, et cetera. Do you accept me as judge?’
‘You are Hanuman, the best of monkeys. I accept.’
‘Fine,’ Hanuman said, smiling. ‘We’ll start tomorrow. Our friend here will have his scribes draw up a contract, which we’ll read carefully before signing.’
‘Read it all you want,’ said Yama. ‘My scribes are faultless. I’ll be back tomorrow at six. Be ready.’
He motioned with his arm, a great sweeping gesture that curved his limb like a striking snake, and a large black throne appeared in a corner, a throne with square corners and blunt contours and a blackness that is the colour of empty space, speckled lightly with the far-away glinting dust of stars. He stepped out of the room.
‘Tricks,’ sighed Hanuman, ‘tricks and fancy dress, that’s all he’s good for. Well, sleep well. Think well. I’ll be back tomorrow’
‘Thank you,’ I said, bowing to Hanuman, my friend and my refuge.
‘Ah, nothing, it’s nothing,’ Hanuman said. ‘You’re a poet and I’m your friend.’
And then he was gone, flashing out through a half-closed window.
I was tired and needed to think. Quickly, I told the rest about the story-telling that was to come the next day; again, Abhay reached out, trying to find solid tactile evidence of the presence of Yama’s throne, and again his fingers, unfeeling, passed through the surfaces of what only I could see.
Later, I lay awake, listening to the crickets and the swish of wind through the plants outside the window, turning my head occasionally to peer at the black throne in the corner, a slab of greater darkness in darkness; faint diamond-points of light flickered deep within; I tried to cast my mind back and bring up memories that could be transmuted into stories, but could only think of the richness of the world, of its verdant profusion —the delightful perfume that issues from queen-of-the-night as its flowers slowly open, the croaking of frogs, the silver light of the moon and the mysterious shadows, the swaying of the tree-tops and the way voices carry at night, the way a soft hip fills the palm of a hand, solid and comforting. Overpowered, I thought: we are blessed, and how strange it is that we can learn to hate even this, that we forsake these gifts and seek release; the sheets are cool and smooth below me, and this I am grateful for, I can feel the breath slide in and out of me, and this I am grateful for; surely, this must be enough, to feel these things and to know that all this exists together, the earth and its seas, the sky and its suns.
THE BOOK OF WAR AND ANCESTORS
now
THE CONTRACT WAS DRAWN on fine golden paper, smooth to the touch, in both Sanskrit and English. Hanuman and I pored over it, and, sure enough, there were no mistakes, no subtle clauses in fine print that would return to haunt us.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Do I sign in blood, or what?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Yama, holding out a quill. ‘If that’s the sort of thing your taste runs to, you won’t last long.’
‘We’ll see,’ I said, scribbling my name in red-inked English at the bottom of the scroll. I had sent Saira out to the maidan with instructions to bring back as many young friends as could be persuaded to abandon their games of cricket, swearing them to secrecy and promising a great story. If I was going to face an audience which could, at any moment, become my executioner, I wanted the odds stacked in my favour. I wanted an audience full of young faces eager for tales of adventure and passion and honour, full of young minds still susceptible to the lures of unearthly horrors and epic loves; even as Yama settled himself into his black throne and Hanuman found a perch on top of the doorway, I heard the murmur of young voices in the cou
rt-yard, speaking Hindi and English accented with the rhythms of Punjabi, Gujarati, Tamil, Bengali and a dozen other languages. The door opened and Saira walked in, looking pleased with herself.
‘how many,’ I typed.
‘Four teams,’ she said. ‘Maybe fifty. It wasn’t easy, I tell you.’
‘The whole court-yard is filled,’ said Mrinalini, opening the door a crack.
‘thank you,’ I said to (typed at) Saira, who was clearly not to be underestimated. ‘what did you tell them.’
‘What you said to tell: secret-secret, a story, nothing about you. Here,’ she said, ‘this is how you make capital letters. The shift key, you know’
A, she typed, AB, ABC…
Hanuman swayed from the rafters, hanging by an arm and a tail.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s your narrative frame?’
‘My what?’ I said.
‘Your frame story?’ He looked hard at me, then dropped down to the bed. ‘You don’t have one, do you?’
‘No,’ I said, shame-faced. ‘I was just going to tell it, straightforwardly, you see.’
‘Don’t you know this yet? Straight-forwardness is the curse of your age, Sanjay. Be wily, be twisty, be elaborate. Forsake grim shortness and hustle. Let us luxuriate in your curlicues. Besides, you need a frame story for its peace, its quiet. You’re too involved in the tale, your audience is harried by the world. No, a calm story-teller must tell the story to an audience of educated, discriminating listeners, in a setting of sylvan beauty and silence. Thus the story is perfect in itself, complete and whole. So it has always been, so it must be.’
‘If you say so,’ I said.
‘I do, and who am I?’
‘Hanuman, the most cunning of the dialecticians, the perfect aesthete.’
‘And don’t you forget it,’ Hanuman said. ‘I’m listening.’ He rocketed up suddenly, into the rafters, round and around, laughing. Then he crouched in the corner between two beams, his red eyes twinkling at me, an enormous smile on his face.
‘Enough,’ Yama said. ‘Begin.’
I looked around. Mrinalini was seated just outside the door, ready to read out the typed sheets to my little allies in the court-yard. Ashok and Abhay sat next to each other, behind the desk. Saira sat next to me, on the bed, holding sheets of paper and spare rolls of ribbon. I could hear the birds outside, in their thousands, and see the leaves on the hedge outside the window, turned gold by the setting sun.
‘All right. Listen…’
The Strange Passion of Benoit de Boigne.
WHEN THE BLACK MONSOON CLOUDS began to appear on the horizon, Sandeep walked out of the forests at the foot-hills of the Himalayas and went, pausing often to breathe in the cooling air, to the ashram of Shanker. Here, he was received courteously by Shanker and the other sadhus, who brought good food and clear water. After he had eaten and enquired after the progress of their meditations, Sandeep sat back and said:
‘I have heard a tale.’
Shanker rose to his feet and brought soothing tea and a cushion to Sandeep. Finally, when all were seated in a little circle around Sandeep, Shanker said, softly:
‘We are eager to hear it, sir. Tell us.’
And Sandeep said:
‘Listen…’
In my wanderings through the dense green forests of the foot-hills, I happened upon a clearing where soft grass grew under foot and sunlight hung in golden bars through the branches above. Weary, I sat on a smooth, black slab of stone and opened my bundle; as I raised my last apple to my lips I saw a form on the other side of the clearing, a dark form lost in the patchy shadows and in the green, black and brown of the trees behind. I rose to my feet and walked over, my feet sighing against the dense grass.
‘Namaste, ji,’ I said, folding my hands in greeting, for it was a thin, wiry, dark-skinned woman, dressed in bark, seated cross-legged on a deerskin, head bent over so that her shaggy black hair hung down to brush her shins. She was peering, unblinking, into her cupped hands.
‘Namaste, ji,’ I repeated, with no response forthcoming. I knelt down and saw that she was staring, with a wild intensity, into a little water that she held in the bowl made by her palms. Her face was emaciated. I looked around and noticed the grass growing over the edges of the deerskin, the dead leaves caught in the dark hair and the fingernails that had grown till they curled around, twisted and fantastic. Remembering, then, our first poet, who too had stared at a mystery in cupped hands and found poetry, I resolved to stay in the clearing and serve this woman who meditated upon water, probably seeing things I could not imagine. For a long time, I do not know how long, I attended to her needs, picking the twigs out of her hair and carefully cutting her nails with a sharp knife, while she sat like a statue, never once blinking or looking away from the secret in her hands. Every day, I laid wild fruit and a cup of fresh water by her side. About once a week, I woke to find the rough earthen cup empty and the fruit gone. I suppose I should have felt fear, but looking at her face, weathered and lined, not young or beautiful, I could feel only warmth. I could not imagine that she could do me any harm; I was, after all, her shishya, her disciple. One day, I knew, she would look up at me and smile.
The seasons passed, and still I stayed, and soon I grew so used to the routine of foraging, cutting grass and cleaning up that I expected nothing from her, no explanations, no gratitude, no smiles. In that clearing, in that world of sunlight and rain and night sounds, I felt that I should pass the rest of my days, perhaps the rest of time, serving my silent mistress. The wind moaned through the branches, and I felt as if we had both vanished into the light and dark of the forest, melting away until we were nothing but two particles in the huge surge of life that swirled around us, ebbing and flowing according to the rising of the sun and the rhythm of the rain.
So, one morning I came back to the clearing with a handful of ripe tamarind and two chikus. Putting the fruit on the deerskin, I picked up the cup and was about to walk away when I heard:
‘Thank you.’
The voice was husky and deep. I sank to my haunches and peered through the thick black strands that hung down like a curtain. The cupped hands slowly rose and the water splashed over her face and chest; she looked up at me, then, large dark eyes twinkling, and smiled, smiled a happy child’s smile that revealed a large gap between her front upper teeth.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said. I nodded, unable to speak. ‘Have you been here for very long?’
I nodded again, and then burst out with all the questions that had accumulated over the long silent days. She shook her head, and would not tell me her name or where she came from. She did tell me, however, that she had fled from the world of men and women, disgusted with its inconstancy and the ephemeral nature of its pleasures. Fleeing, one day she had found herself in that clearing and had resolved to find the solution, the reason, the secret, or die. She had seated herself on the deerskin and had settled her gaze on something distant, neither near nor far, and had disciplined her breathing till she felt how it fuelled her body at each moment. Much, much later, a monsoon storm whipped around her, roaring and snapping, and she heard a voice cry out of the maelstrom —‘Your will is too harsh; your austerities burn the inhabitants of all three worlds; what is it you want?’ And she replied —‘There is no completeness; nothing endures, nothing lives; there is only change, unreasoning, unreasonable; only birth and death repeating the same story each time, yet different; why?’ The voice laughed —‘Why, you know already; look in your hands.’ As she looked down into her hands, rain-water dripping from her forehead made a little pool that she held carefully, and in the pool she saw love, birth and death, poets and warriors, books and armies, the wheel turning, turning. When she awoke out of the dream, she saw me putting fruit at her side. When I would not be satisfied with this explanation, she laughed a little and told me of what she had seen, making, you see, a story of it. This is what she told me. Like Valmiki and Vyasa, who are our elders, incomparable and dazzling, she sp
oke of honour among men, and of true love long remembered, as in the stories of kings and demons that are told to children by old people, but do not think that this story is untrue, because it is itihasa —thus it was; let this story appear among you, as it happened long ago, and it will clear your heart and cleanse your soul, but beware, for it is no story for those with weak stomachs and nervous hearts —it has in it the heights of passion and the depths of loneliness, the tender wounds of love-making and the hideously cheerful, grinning death-faces of the battle-field. Remember, the players and the play, the song and the singers are the same, there is no difference, remember and listen. Listen .…
‘My life has been a dream,’ Benoit de Boigne was often heard to say in Parisian drawing-rooms as his life drew to a close, and was understood, by the fashionable, secretly-contemptuous inhabitants of those rooms, to mean that his adventures in the far-away, unreal land of Hindustan now seemed fantastical and fictional. But when de Boigne, wiping his face and passing a hand over his eyes, muttered ‘My life has been a dream,’ he meant that he had encountered, in that far-away, unreal land called Hindustan, the unbearably real sensations and colours of a dream, had felt unknown forces moving him as if around a chess-board, had felt the touch of mysteries impelling him from one town to the next, from one field to another.
Even as he grew up in Chambéry, in that part of Europe known as Savoy, a hot wind whistled through the soul of Benoit La Borgne, later known as Benoit de Boigne, bringing with it fancies very much out of place in the simple priest’s home that he was born in. In that quiet place of gentle candlelight and musty piety, La Borgne read, again and again, an ancient, tattered copy of a book called The Romance of Alexander, with Stories of Aristotle, by a Prussian officer named Blunt. La Borgne read, and dreamt of hidden treasures, turbaned warriors and princesses in distress; he played strange, wild music on an out-of-tune piano, took fencing lessons and surprised his master with the ferocity and determination of his thrusts. He spent much of his time at a stream that ran through the family’s property, where a water-mill rotated endlessly, grinding, crushing; he liked to go inside, to sit on old wood and watch the wheels spin, driving the faithful machinery in predictable patterns. The workers in that mill grew used to the sight of Benoit La Borgne seated with his chin cupped in a hand, hypnotized by the regularity of the click-click-clicking gears. In that even, metronomic motion, the boy and then the man found a kind of peace; as the myriad grains, gritty and jostling against each other, descended into the hopper to emerge as finely-ground, white, even powder, La Borgne nurtured the other world within him, entertained and enthralled.
Red Earth and Pouring Rain Page 3
