by Adib Khan
‘Would you like to tell me one of your stories?’
I wouldn’t say anything more, I decided. There were more questions. Lengthy pauses. Questions again, hammering me like hailstones.
‘Would you like to tell me something about yourself?’
‘My name is Vamana. I come from the sky.’ I couldn’t help myself. The words slipped out before I realised that I had spoken.
‘Yes?’ He waited.
I managed to elude him again.
A different school. And another one after that. There were excuses to get rid of me. Abnormal behaviour. My presence was a disruptive influence. Children were scared of me. Parental complaints. I was rude to teachers and did little work. I was dangerous. Dangerous? Was it my fault that someone left a box of matches in the playground? I was only curious to see if pretty, orange tongues could reach up and lick the ceiling of the classroom.
More punishment at home. Vijay’s yelling accompanied his kicking and punching. Maji stopped speaking to me for several days. I was confined to my room. One morning I accompanied her to the library where she worked.
‘This is most unusual, Mrs Dev!’ The balding man shook his head, unable to take his eyes off me. ‘I am not at all certain whether I should have agreed to this arrangement. Just remember! Any trouble, even a slight hint of disturbance and…This is a reputable library!’ He turned around abruptly and walked away.
‘That is the chief librarian,’ Maji whispered. ‘You heard what he said.’ An index finger wagged in front of my face like an erratic pendulum. ‘Behave!’
At my insistence Maji allowed me to sit under her table that faced a window. I felt secure in the tiny space, reading the books she provided. This was so much better than school. No scolding. Without teachers to instruct me. No arithmetic. The absence of other children was my greatest relief. I was spared the taunts and missiles hurled at me. Under the table the world was a quiet place where I found solace in the company of words and whatever I was able to imagine. When Maji sat on her chair, I was hemmed in on three sides. There was enough space between the table and the wall for me to stick out my head and view the sky and the potted plants on the windowsill. The sterile sameness of what I saw every day was reassuring. There was nothing that threatened or mocked me.
At the time, I did not understand the extent of my desperation to cling to my unexpectedly found haven. All that I vaguely perceived was the opportunity to be free from the interference of authoritarian figures and their feverish efforts to mould me into a cog of mainstream conformity despite my differences in mind and body.
Initially, Maji determined where I could go and what I might read. If the pattern of my unpredictable behaviour worried her into confining me to the immediate vicinity around her table, then my meek acceptance of her rules was seemingly a cause for much greater concern. Her suspicion of my motives did not contend with the remote possibility that I might have found contentment in my strange environment. My own space. Solitude. A state of calmness. My aggression subsided. I said very little. Repeatedly Maji asked whether I was unwell. Her solution to what she perceived was my state of ill-health, was to feed me at regular intervals from a large tiffin-carrier crammed with savouries, a cooked lunch and a variety of sweetmeats.
Reluctantly, Maji accepted my reclusion. I was not even reprimanded when one day I wandered outside the room to browse among the bookshelves in the main reading area. My only misdemeanour, that fortunately remained undetected, occurred when I tore two pages from a book with coloured pictures of monsters and demons, and swallowed them. Maji’s colleagues began to relax and accept my presence. Instead of unbridled hostility and uncharitable comments, I now received the occasional smile and the odd greeting.
And how many days, months, years did I pass, soaking up words and imagining distant worlds? I cannot tell. I was an adventurer, too busy with discoveries and learning to be conscious of time. The tentacles of my mind reached into sunlit landscapes and dark chasms. Gradually I lost the fear that I might run out of places to discover.
But it wasn’t as if my life was entirely peaceful. There were tedious visits to doctors and people called specialists. I was observed, measured, questioned, probed and prodded. They told Maji what she obviously did not wish to hear. I was a hypopituitary dwarf who displayed symptoms of diastrophy. Words! Sometimes they made no sense. I reacted by dragging down a dictionary from her table and immersing myself in definitions.
Maji’s bravery was a shield that warded off the pity and spite of strangers. In front of her garrulous relatives and friends she bubbled with enthusiasm and praise for my unorthodox education. But I knew…Her despair in her private moments hurt me more than she could have imagined. At home I avoided her husband. More than anything, I managed to guard my nocturnal secret. My extended afternoon naps under her desk were a source of some concern for Maji. Had she even remotely suspected the reason for my fatigued slumber, I might have lost the freedom I had inadvertently discovered. But she didn’t know. It all began one tortuous summer’s night, long after I had first appeared in the library with Maji.
Darkness devoured the city after the molten heat of an unforgiving sun had paralysed Delhi. I lay in bed watching the night sky crowded with the traffic of distant stars. Noises. A muezzin’s drone of resigned submission. Late night vendors with their pushcarts of leftover food. Stray dogs howled, as if they were mourning the pillaged city of kings and poets, the ruined centre stages of nobility and treachery, the scene of grand deeds and abominable wickedness. Scattered around, bare-bodied men slept in courtyards and terraces, on charpais or on straw mats, in lanes and on footpaths. In sleep they were oblivious to the stink of overflowing gutters. The droopy henna trees were homes to sleepy sparrows and crows. And, of course, what the senses couldn’t grasp—Delhi’s past, teeming with restless victims. Spirits…ghosts…shadows.
‘Aao sunno yeh raath key kahani…’ A young voice. An invitation! Come and listen to night’s story.
How could I possibly resist? My room seemed like an insufferable prison. I rushed to the window. It was my telescope to a world I often observed in minute detail. I had a deep-seated longing to experience its diversity, to merge with its mystery and become a part of its allurement. I resented the predictability of my life. Library and books were fine. But at home: bath, dinner and bed. I was not allowed to go out by myself, and it was rare to be taken anywhere by Maji. When there were visitors, I was confined to my room. In the house I was no more than a prisoner with the privilege of restricted movement. Any whiff of the outside world was like the aroma of food to a starving person.
A light bobbed unsteadily in the lane. It winked and beckoned me like Miss DeSouza’s eyes. I tugged and heaved in an effort to widen the space between two of the iron bars in the window. They were firmly set in the wooden frame and refused to budge.
‘Aao sunno yeh raath key kahani.’
It was my voice! How could it be? The rest of me had to go. I crept to the kitchen, climbed on a chair and unbolted the back door. The feeble arc of a solitary streetlight was just around the corner. I walked rapidly. A black cat slunk out of an alley and ran in front of me. It purred and licked my foot. An omen of good fortune, I decided.
‘Tell me the story of the night!’ My plea was loud enough to awaken the homeless men sleeping on the edge of the gutters. A groan. Mumbled curses. Then…then…in the distance, a light. I closed my eyes and shook my head. The light did not disappear.
They were standing under a tamarind tree. Alert. Sensing danger. Gasps of surprise. Backward steps.
‘A creature from the depth of the night!’ a reedy voice piped. ‘Born from an evil spirit.’ There was no malice in the tone.
Curious faces. A raised stick. Dark orbs assessed me. Hesitation. A tentative touch. The reassuring texture of skin and flesh. Other hands crawled over me, feeling the contours of body and face. Chaman, Lightning Fingers, Farishta and Nimble Feet.
‘Baas!’ The command snapped from behind the tr
ee.
Slowly he emerged. Was it a mask hiding his face? Bloodsoaked lips snarled and spat globs of mucus-tainted saliva. I stared with a perverse fascination at the sight in front of me. Even in those days Barey Bhai was a huge man who constantly chewed paan. I derived comfort from his ugliness. A shiny, bald head. Sagging jowls. Piercing, small eyes. Lifeless, like a snake’s. His belly curved outward from his chest and then sagged under the weight of skin and fat.
‘Why did you follow us?’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and hurt me.
‘I…I wanted to listen to the night’s story.’
He was incapable of looking kindly at anyone. His stare drilled and explored the hidden depths in me. ‘We are the night,’ he grunted. ‘Those who can ride on the horses of the mind listen to us. Our voices are for the sleepless and the miserable, the sick and the starving. We induce dreams, ease pain and administer the medicine of hope to those who cannot bear to face another day. At dawn, we disappear with the stars and allow the world to believe that life is what people see and no more.’
Seductive words. I wanted to be close to this man and learn from him. Much later I came to the conclusion that his felicity for telling lies was Barey Bhai’s in-built immunity against the crushing disappointment of thwarted dreams. I did not feel uneasy among thieves working at night.
‘I want to go with you!’ I blurted thoughtlessly, convinced of my instinctive affinity with what he had said. This was the reality to which my entire being was attuned. No restrictions. No beginnings or ends, but a flow of consciousness heedless of time.
An astonished silence. Then a cackle of incredulity. ‘Of what use are you to us?’
‘None!’ the others chorused.
His face came closer. A lantern was held above my head. ‘You are too ugly to have any appeal for men. Even desperate women won’t want you near them.’ His hand snaked out and gripped my crotch. ‘Hmm…pity. What can you do that may be useful to us?’ His fingers squiggled like oversized worms. ‘Hah? What?’
The pressure eased. It was not altogether an unpleasant sensation.
‘Stories…I can tell stories.’
He removed his hand. ‘What stories? From children’s books? Fairy tales? Lies for the rich. What stories?’
His voice made me cringe. I had managed to anger him.
‘My stories,’ I said firmly.
‘Tell us one.’
I thought I heard the cry of a baby. A gusty wind sprang up suddenly, as if an unseen force were intent on disrupting what I had to say. With a twig the girl traced a circle in the dirt. A solitary incense stick was lighted and stuck in a mound of earth. We sat cross-legged under the tamarind tree. Eyes closed, they chanted words I did not understand.
‘Begin.’
Blurry images whirled inside my head. My eagerness to narrate a compelling tale overwhelmed me into a state of mute stillness.
This is a story about a blind thief who stole from children…Let me tell you about this ancient city that will be cursed with violence again…Do you want to hear about the woman who gave birth to a python? Once there was a deformed boy born to a very handsome couple…
But the words were trapped in an infinite pause. I could only gawk at him. The wind moaned its own story.
He stirred, stroking the baldness of his massive head. ‘You are not worthy of our trust. We do not know anything about you.’ The girl turned to him and whispered. ‘We will give you a chance.’ He frowned at her and turned to me again. ‘We want you to experience the night. Know the city when it chooses to reveal itself. Perhaps you will be useful in other ways. You will hear our sound again. But just remember…’
I understood the threat in his voice. ‘No one will know,’ I promised. I lied when he asked me where I lived. I gave the impression that I had no one to look after me.
They disappeared across a field, leaving me to listen to the troubled whispers of the night. The sky flamed with headless snakes and drunken gods. Giant hawks swooped down on shivering hills. Trees wept under a quilted sea. Living dreams of things unknown. Times beyond the coldness of years. My mind funnelled through the darkness, creating a reality that could not be shared with anyone else. Some time after midnight, I retreated. Home. Bed. Imprisonment.
‘It’s all right! Vamana, it’s all right!’ Maji’s arms were around me. ‘A bad dream.’
‘They did come!’ I insisted through the haze of drowsiness.
‘Nightmares can appear to be real.’ She looked amused. ‘Who were they?’
I turned my face away. The sun poured through the window in a golden stream. The night had drifted away, anchoring itself on the edge of memory. The morning light sealed the tunnels and erased the sharpness of experience. There were the sounds of a new day. The morning sky was pale and innocent. The assurance of what the eyes could see. You will hear our voices again…I waited every night, my face pressed against the window, eyes scanning the dimly lit lane.
When they finally came, it was as if Death had arrived, not as an ending, but like an enticement to enter another life. I slipped away with apprehension and a measure of uncertainty. We roamed the streets, sharing our lies with the night people. Stealing, talking, selling. Small paper packets changed hands. Merchandise pulled out from hessian sacks. Nods. Whispers. Break-ins. Sometimes I heard the muffled cries of babies. It didn’t take me long to figure things out. Not that I cared. The excitement and intrigue of Delhi absorbed me completely.
Seven cities. Layered in time. Each with most of its riches hidden away. Voices buried under the earth. The ghosts of unknown storytellers. Turkman Gate. Chandni Chowk. Ajmeri Gate. Purana Qila and Qudsia Bagh. Red Fort. Jama Masjid. Landmarks and monuments corroded and silenced by time. In my own fashion I restored them to their former glories. Sounds, happenings and people. Rebirths. What I did not know was not an impediment. I lighted the areas of darkness with conviction. After all, who could say what was the truth of the past?
But there was always the irritation of dawn. Everything that mattered had to be submerged and hidden from the tyranny of daylight. Then…How could I say how many days had passed? I could have just as easily guessed the number of strands of hair on my head. I was ready, I insisted. Regrets? Hah! Yes, I was sure. Old Delhi was now my home. I had become adept at merging with the shadows when the police vans passed by. I became the night. Slippery. Transitory. They began to ask for me—the thieves, pimps, beggars, drug dealers and whores.
The dwarf? His stories…
If there was any regret to dampen the excitement of my final departure, it was for leaving Maji. Had I been selfless enough to be fully appreciative of her protection and love, I might have faltered. Ungrateful wretch! Insensitive brute! I know, I know. I have no defence. I was guilty of a myopic self-concern to seek a life that promised to free me from the imprisonment of a time-segmented routine. I was compelled by the desire to belong to a community of outcasts who did not judge people solely by their appearances.
Vamana! Time to wake up. You must not be so lazy. Vamana, come and eat…Put the books away…wash…change…Remember, only half an hour for reading in bed. You must sleep for at least eight hours…
And on it went, the droning and the nagging prompted by a wariness of my penchant for the unusual and the unexpected. Day and night were strictly separated by Maji’s expectations of what I had to do at specified hours. She tried to counter my waywardness by imposing a suffocating routine on my life. The sun became my enemy. My activities were regulated by its movement. I rebelled and followed my body in rejecting the common notions of normality. Naah! Such a life was beyond my tolerance.
As it happened, there was a prickly sensation of loss that made me go back to the lane for a lingering look at the darkened house. With the exception of Maji, whatever I had known there was dead. My eyes remained glued to the window of my room, much in the same way as one might stare at the corpse of a loved one. It was an act of quiet desperation. I wanted to strengthen the remembrance of those moments that I dee
med to be precious. Maji’s words of encouragement. The times when she touched me with gentle hands. Prayers that she mumbled for my wellbeing. Her concern when Vijay yelled at me.
Once I turned away, my past transformed into inert images that appeared occasionally as residues of an overcrowded imagination. But in times of distress, I resorted to the memories of my evenings in Maji’s kitchen and, sometimes, the haven under her table in the library. I remembered the gentle company of friends who resided permanently in my imagination.
That first night I slept under the stars after a meagre meal of roti and dhal. Little was said as we sat in a field and ate. The absurdity of my situation didn’t strike me immediately. I knew nothing about these people except their names. There were three boys, the girl, and the man with the monstrous head. Barey Bhai. Big Brother. I recognised his bullying authority of leadership. But beyond that…I did not think it necessary to ask. What was important was their acceptance of my person. After our initial meeting, there was no suggestion that they considered me to be an oddity. They did not laugh at me again. No snide remarks or bullying. I basked in the warmth of belonging.
‘And when the sun is up?’ I ventured to ask. ‘Where do we go then?’
‘It is rude to chase the night away!’ Barey Bhai snapped. ‘Listen quietly to what it says.’ He shuffled over to where I was sitting. ‘Boy, tomorrow has no meaning. It only comes alive when it is transformed into the present. Sleep now, and let your dreams teach you.’
The hessian sack wasn’t much of a bed. I smelled the grass and the freshness of the air. Above me, the cranium of the universe. Space beyond lifetimes. Even with wings I couldn’t have covered the distances. Only the mind…only the mind, like a gigantic ghost ship gliding across the silence of the spatial ocean. Forever.
I listened. It wasn’t the night but the noises inside. They came from the crevices under the sea. It’s all right to come out now. No one will hurt you…Docile sharks and singing mermaids resting on conch shells. I sank deep into the warmth.
