by Adib Khan
Doubt bursts open, dangling strands of fear. What if death is not instantaneous? The asthmatic gasps for air. My short legs pumping up and down in a pathetic protest against a humiliating termination. Blurred faces of men waiting patiently. The dying glow of silver in a lifeless sky. A cock crows. I am dragged back to stand on the stool…
It is almost comical when I visualise it. I have to laugh. How perverse is this life when it begins on the wrong track. Even in death I cannot get it right!
Those who live a life of sin can rarely die in peace.
Father Daniel! Father Daniel! But it was so much fun. Didn’t you find it so? Preach away, holy man. There are lessons in your lies.
A key rattles against an iron bar.
‘Wouldn’t you like to be free, midget? Walk out of the gate and never see this prison again? Go somewhere on a train? Another city, maybe?’
I sigh. The whiff of freedom…
2
Delhi’s hottest and shortest virgin
‘Roti and water!’ The gaoler calls as he struggles up the cemented steps of the dungeon. ‘A real feast tonight, pigmy. I am feeling generous.’ He takes the candle with him.
I am angered by the way he keeps referring to me as midget, dwarf, pigmy, as though size were my only identity. I am a creature of many names and faces, with stories teeming in the alleys of my mind.
Didn’t I say that my name is Vamana? But wait! I have many names. Sometimes I am called Gulbaaz. Others prefer Chaalbaaz. Ironhead. Shitface. I am Naatha to those who have a fixation about my physical stature. Huth tahri! Does the name really matter? Beshakal…Langur…Pumpkinhead…Sunken Eyes…Baadsurat. Whatever pleases people.
I create amusement and revulsion wherever I go. I am tagged with unflattering descriptions. Children laugh and throw stones at me. I am pelted with rotten fruits and vegetables. Cats slink away and dogs cringe when I snarl and bark. Crones mumble prayers when I pass them. Young women cross the road when they see me coming towards them. Their steps quicken and they break into a run when I whistle. They shriek and seek the safety of the nearest shops as I chase them, my tongue wagging like a snake in agony.
What was that noise? Ah, it’s a rat nibbling on the mouldy bread I left in a corner of the cell.
Evening has changed its shade from dark purple to silky black. Boredom compels me to wander. Darkness has many roads that lead to other worlds suspended between dreams and awakenings…
I am back in Chandni Chowk. As it was in its days of splendour. Shops crammed with Persian carpets and rugs. Rolls of silk. Eyes dazzle at the sight of jasper and lapis lazuli, sardonyx and rubies. Gold everywhere. The heady sweetness of attar and rosewater. Mounds of cinnamon and cloves. Saffron from Iran. Tricksters and storytellers. I am among them. Jugglers. Fortune-tellers. Blacksmiths and craftsmen. Calligraphers. Sages and fakirs…Alas! The glory of Chandni Chowk exists now only in the mind. All that remains are tottering warehouses, dilapidated shops and the permanent stink of piss. The centre of the bazaar is permanently clogged with people and stray animals. This is not the age of tyrannical emperors riding on their imperial elephants and Arabian stallions decorated with precious stones and laden with chains of gold and silver. There are traffic jams and routine accidents. Smog. Dust and fumes. The exhalations of a dying city.
But then, can Delhi ever die? It is protected by djinns. And the storytellers have not disappeared. It is a precious and ancient crown that I have inherited. Delhi, without stories told by word of mouth, would be a desert stirred by a melancholy wind. Despite the ridicule of my appearance, people are curious about me. After they laugh, they listen.
I am unable to offer an unqualified assurance that I am not a bastard. I do not know if I was given a name at birth. After she found me, Maji called me Vamana. Oooh! I have always liked that name. Very perceptive of Maji. She couldn’t have known that my body was not destined to grow normally. Vamana. So prestigious. Vamana—the dwarf incarnation of the god, Vishnu. I have divine status. It is a highly appropriate name for a creator.
I often take audiences to my beginning. I was born long ago in a mansion by the sea…Where? they ask. Does that matter? Far to the south, if they must know, on an island where nothing is beyond credibility. Ah, they should have seen the place! Perched high on a cliff, it seemed to emerge from the sky, a residence suspended in the air, waiting for the gods to restore their faith in humans and return to live with them again. Under the sun, the white marbles of the palace gleamed with a celestial radiance. The sea never ceased to roar, and all day the wind carried the sounds of dolphins and seagulls. And at night, when the sky shook with the passion of immortals, mermaids sat on the rocks and sang the plaintive songs of finiteness.
I am the son of a rajah. My mother—a submerged corner of my memory reveals—was slim, with delicately chiselled features. She was renowned for her laughter. When she laughed it was as if godly hands were plucking the strings of a divine harp. My father ruled over a prosperous land. Time glided smoothly into the future.
And then came that terrible night of the full moon. The wolves howled and the sea mourned. I was born.
My father cried when he saw me. A hideous curse had suddenly fallen on the palace like a dark shadow, destined to blight his life. He gouged his eyes with clawed fingers and banged his head repeatedly on the wall. Despair choked him. But it was my mother’s nocturnal wail that roused the waves. In a moment of frenzied passion, she grabbed me from the cot and rushed out into the night. Standing on the edge of the cliff, she chanted words that raised the sea. The water roared like an army of warriors and climbed to an astonishing height to snatch me from her.
Aquatic hands carried me across the waves. What a journey! Sights and sounds no humans could have experienced. Past and present overlapped. Night and day merged. The universe revealed its secrets and dazzled me. I was barely a few hours old and yet unforgettable images were planted inside me in endless rows. The sun travelled and stars streaked across immeasurable space. Leaping time moved across generations and showed me all. Even now, the sea comes back in my dreams. It carries me in the palms of its gigantic hands and rocks away the pain.
A middle-aged woman found me on the sand. I was wrapped in dirty rags, sleeping contentedly.
‘A miracle!’ Maji cried. ‘Bhagwan has blessed me with a gift. The sea has yielded a human life!’ In her joyous wonderment she did not look at me closely…
On street corners and in bazaars, they listen in reverential silence and feel the mystery of what I have to say. Ordinary people—street sweepers, cobblers and vendors, factory workers and shopkeepers. Those who have not been stunted by the refinement of their cleverness. These are minds that have not had their shadowy corners destroyed.
Of course I don’t lie! No creation is untrue. Dreams are not for nights alone. You can live with them all the time. Familiarity makes them real. There are those who doubt and question. The curse of scepticism always spoils a good story. Privately, I have to admit that I do not know what happened before I was found on the beach. But how can anyone claim to know the definitive point of a beginning to anything? A life…a story. A beginning itself has a beginning that has its echoes in a distant origin…
Maji found me during her morning walk. She was convinced that destiny had sent her on a holiday to the coast of Goa. Her husband’s cautionary warnings were not heeded. ‘Who knows what one can find in a place polluted by centuries of foreigners?’
‘I do not care about his parents or their religion! I shall keep this child of the sea.’
He’s back, earlier than I had expected. ‘Well, pigmy? Wouldn’t you like to see the trees again? Live the low life of a thief? You will soon be sent back to breathe among the murderers and rapists. Bandits. Desperate people who will kill for a little more space. Wouldn’t you like to smell the fresh air outside?’
With my tongue I feel the reassuring sharpness of my canines. I have not filed them recently, but they can still puncture skin and sink deep into flesh. Hung
er makes me subservient. I mustn’t respond to his jibes. A whole roti and water. He said he was feeling generous. I recede further into the darkness, smashing a cockroach under my bum. Other insects scurry away.
‘I could let you go. No one would care. You are a small nuisance. Hah! Hah! Hah! A small nuisance! What’s one among so many? But…’ The voice almost becomes sad and drops to a hoarse whisper. ‘You have nothing to offer.’
I feel as though I am being accused of negligence. Dwarfs are known to be notorious hoarders.
‘No money…no possessions. Nothing of value.’
I make certain that my voice is barely audible. ‘I have treasures…’
Keys clatter on the floor. The sound of wind rushing through a tunnel. He grabs the bars. ‘Treasures?’ The whisper of disbelief. ‘Hah? What treasures?’
‘Let me tell you a little story…’
Aaah! He is breathing heavily. Curiosity has made him anxious.
Balam, a greedy and ambitious man, decided to seek his fortune in a rich kingdom beyond the mountains. On his journey through the forest, he met a hermit.
‘You look tense and afraid,’ the hermit observed.
‘I am going to the kingdom of Ameeristan to become rich,’ Balam responded. ‘I fear that I am lost.’
‘The kingdom can come to you if you wish.’
Balam was confused. ‘How?’
‘Throw away all your money. Now, get rid of the bag you carry.’
‘But now I have nothing!’ Balam protested. ‘I feel weightless, as if I can almost rise and fly.’
‘Look around you,’ the hermit said. ‘What do you see?’
‘Trees, the sky and those distant mountains.’
‘And what does your mind tell you?’
Balam reflected for a moment. ‘That I am free.’
‘Anything else?’
‘That I am rich.’
‘You are now blessed with the wealth of freedom. Let your mind soar and attain whatever treasures it desires. The kingdom of Ameeristan is now within you.’
Silence. The gaoler looks bewildered. Then he abuses me for wasting his time. Nothing original—my mother’s a whore, I am a sister-fucker. A bastard. A non-human. Worse than an animal.
‘I have an entire kingdom of stories…’
He snorts in disbelief, but I can sense that his eyes are riveted on me. I am encouraged to continue. ‘What would you like to hear? I can create them especially for you. Who would you like as the main character? A king? A lover? Demon or farishta? I can create a poet, an adventurer, a rogue or a scholar. A movie star. Whatever you wish. A soldier? A pauper? Politician? Fair or dark. Tall, short, round or slim. Something uncommon, if that is your wish. The story of this city, perhaps?’
The shriek of demonic laughter. ‘The dwarf without a name jokes! Stories? That’s priceless! Funny. So funny that you can do without food tonight. Feed on your humour. I’ll teach you to joke with me!’ He laughs even more loudly as he walks away.
The noise of my growling stomach will keep me company tonight. I mustn’t bait the gaoler if he comes back. I mustn’t. The necessity of self-control. ‘Self-discipline!’ Maji’s husband would frequently shout. ‘That is what Indians need!’
Alas! Such virtue is beyond me. Still, there may be a possibility that I can escape the noose if I am remorseful. I have to remain calm. Look contrite. Beg forgiveness. Mumble words of repentance. Offer myself to the guards and policemen. Lick, suck and grovel.
‘This ancient city has to be purged of all its undesirables,’ the judge had said. Aachaa. But what had I done to be condemned as an undesirable?
‘Although this is only a preliminary hearing…’ The judge paused to clear his throat and drink from a tumbler of water. ‘I am horrified by these charges. There can be no place in our society for those who thrive on dishonesty. The newly elected government is determined that there should be no room in our community for liars, cheats and mischief-makers.’ He looked at me over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Those who are barriers to technological progress are among the worst enemies of this country. You have deliberately wrecked cables, antennae and satellite dishes. For what purpose?’
‘They were the eyes and tentacles of monsters. I destroyed the enemies of the mind.’
He remained unimpressed. ‘We must rid ourselves of pimps and prostitutes. Crooked politicians. Unscrupulous businessmen, pickpockets and beggars. Adulterers, deviants, gypsies and spies. Irresponsible storytellers! People who prey on the weak minds of others.’
I received a nasty look. My grin did not help. ‘You must take these charges seriously!’ the old man admonished me. I was guilty of assault and implicated in the events that ultimately led to the death of a respected politician. I harassed women and set fire to properties. I demonstrated no respect for the rights of decent civilians.
Fact and fiction collided, merging into a concoction of exaggerations. I was a corruptive influence on those who listened to me. There had to be an insidious force within me, something that compelled me to fabricate such immoral and seditious tales. Did I ever feel guilty?
Feel guilty? Me? Every day of my life. I should have lied, sniffled and wiped away tears of remorse. The trouble is that I don’t cry easily. I have been too busy grappling with survival to pause and brood over my misfortunes. A gambling machine, that’s what this world is. And I have been a compulsive gambler on a losing streak. I think the judge expected me to break down and plead for mercy.
Did I ever experience regret?
‘But Huzoor…’
Brandishing a cane, a policeman moved towards me. I had to listen without interrupting. No arguments.
Didn’t I realise how dangerous it was to create illusions? My kissas were of no value to anyone. Nor could they be enjoyed. Such dastardly tales of perversion! They merely incited and provoked an illiterate population that bothered to listen. I was guilty of corrupting and titillating simple minds. The police had been in the audience, listening and taking notes.
‘Alarming!’ The judge frowned, flipping through a sheaf of papers. ‘Disgusting!’ It was a police report on my stories. ‘There’s not one…not one that can be considered suitable for the community. Mutilated beggar children. Diseased prostitutes. A man with…with, ah…oversized organs.’ He paused for the titter to fade away. ‘Infanticide! For…This is outrageous! Have you no shame? Fornicating priests. Incest. On it goes! Have you ever told a decent story? About love? Loyalty? An act of courage? Nobility? Anything about normal life and ordinary people?’ He glared at me. ‘I suppose not, judging by your sorry appearance.’
‘Huzoor! I also told ancient tales—’
‘Silence! Your mind is an infernal pit where the devil dances with mischievous delight.’ A despairing shake of the head told me that I was beyond redemption.
For a moment I was tempted to ask the judge if the court could make provisions for me to meet the nefarious dancer destined to continue his unchallenged control over my mind. Not in the infernal pit, of course. Somewhere else where I wouldn’t burn the soles of my feet. In an abandoned graveyard, perhaps, where the tyrant could be made to appear under the influence of magical chants. Or under the light of a full moon in a barren field, where I could pledge eternal loyalty to the wicked dancer. Maybe the court could employ a sorcerer to act as medium and facilitate our communication…
‘Gross vulgarity, indecent behaviour, bullying foreigners, using foul language!’ The judge’s face darkened. Anger choked the gush of words. He spluttered and reached for another drink of water. He might collapse and never recover, I hoped. Find himself a place in the orbit of darkness and come back in a few hundred years, recycled as a mute and impotent monkey.
‘Not guilty,’ I said confidently. Well, I wasn’t for most of the charges.
Take the case of Sri Pandey, the politician. Obscenely obese. Oily face, paan-stained mouth and rotten teeth. The butt of jokes. He was forever scolding us for being too noisy. Pandey Jhee—the moralist, espousing
the benefits of ethnic purity, a staunch defender of the caste system and fanatically in favour of deporting the descendents of conquerors and alien settlers.
We grew accustomed to a rear view of him. The fat man had a weakness. A flaw. A secret. He enjoyed being whipped on his hairy buttocks. The sight of the politician bending over, grunting like a sow in labour, was an unforgettable sight. Chaman flogged him with an unprofessional relish until his bottom was streaked with red.
We had a strict understanding with Chaman. When she entertained men in the evening, we were not allowed to stay in the godown, even if the weather was foul. The only exception was Sri Pandey’s visits. Chaman hated him and allowed us unrestricted access to the spectacle. We reached an honourable agreement to take turns with the viewing. Using a makeshift ladder, made from bamboo and pieces of wood, we climbed to the top of the unstable timber framework that supported the flimsy and buckled cardboard walls. The partitioned corner of the godown was exclusively for Chaman and her clients.
She relished the fact that we gawked at the spectacle of a bloodied political bottom and participated in his humiliation. ‘In exchange for your free entertainment,’ Chaman reminded us calmly whenever we complained about her unwillingness to contribute to the ‘look the other way’ collection that minimised police harassment.
There was never any serious possibility of being seen by the middle-aged politician as he was flogged. Fat Pandey had the habit of burying his face in a pile of pillows and lifting his backside for the lashing. The posture was such that it made any sudden upward and sideways movement of the head an impossible proposition. The whipping was administered with a leather strap in the light of two candles stuck to the floor on either side of the mattress.
