by Adib Khan
Barey Bhai inquired about my progress.
Slow.
He asked again a few days later.
Slow.
The same reply after another week. Barey Bhai’s temper ignited, and the demon inside him raged like a monsoonal storm. He abused us for our incompetence, and then turned on himself for an unforgivable lapse of judgement. ‘One more week,’ he said ominously.
Chaman and Lightning Fingers doubled their efforts. Farishta and Nimble Feet cajoled, scolded and slaved over me. ‘Ay yoh, Vamana! Pay attention and try harder!’
‘We do not want to lose you,’ Chaman panted. ‘Harder, baba…’
Otherwise, otherwise…My mind was unable to grasp the sinister implications of what was left unsaid. I was not yet wise to Barey Bhai’s response to failure, or the indifference with which a life could be extinguished.
They were not much older than I. Yet their multitudinous experiences with the hazards of survival had wisened them far beyond their years. For every action there was a motive. Behind every motive was the instinct for self-preservation. Adversity made them even more determined to cling to life. But at this point in our communal life, they were not entirely selfish. A trickle of kindness flowed like an underground stream in an arid land. For some reason they were desperate for me to succeed. They schemed and concocted, sweated and lied. Perhaps they perceived me as a profit-making commodity, an oddity bound to attract attention and pity.
Before the fateful week ended, I was declared efficient enough to be unleashed in the narrow lanes and crowded bazaars of Old Delhi. Another few days without the exaggerated reports of my progress and, I was to deduce much later, my mangled, decomposed body might have been accidentally found in a ditch or an open field. No identification. No one to claim the corpse. A brief stop by a police van. Hastily scribbled notes. No formal inquiry. An inconclusive report destined for a quiet disappearance among the thousands of unsolved cases. The eradication of a worthless life, among so many, could hardly be expected to create a fuss.
Chandni Chowk. Hot. Dusty. Smelling of offal, urine, stale cooking oil and poverty. Once the pride of Moghul opulence. It should have been allowed to die with dignity, its life stored in stories and in the memories of successive generations. The Moonlight Bazaar was overflowing with shoppers and bargain hunters, vendors and curious tourists.
‘Vamana, jaldi karo!’
I had stopped near a stall crammed with plastic trinkets, glass bangles and costume jewellery. Unfamiliar voices echoed around me.
‘Memsaheb, you like this lovely model of Taj Mahal? Special price for you! Please! Make an offer. Memsaheb…’
‘Dhig, dhig…Dhung, dhig! Watch the monkey’s dance! So wonderful this morning’s tamasha!’
‘You want carpet? Silk, wool, Persian, Kashmiri! Moghul antiques? Old daggers? Rajputana swords?’
‘Sexy films? Women and men? Men with boys? Girls with themselves? No problems! Whatever satisfies!’
‘Hot pakoras and sweets! Sherbet made from ancient and secret recipes! Guaranteed to keep you cool. Ek dum! Pucca promise.’
A one-eyed man harassed two embarrassed male goras. ‘You want to fuck? Young girls! Firm breasts and tight bums! Hah? How much you pay?’
Here was the living story of this city splashed in an array of colours. Magicians, snake-charmers, ear-cleaners, fortunetellers, tea shops and stalls crammed with dazzling coloured garments. Cows munching on mounds of rotting vegetables. Squatting children shitting behind the stalls. Crows, dogs and rats. Bicycles and hand-pushed carts. Coolies carrying huge baskets of vegetables and fruits, hens and loaves of bread on their heads. Nothing orderly, nothing safe. Excitement bubbled from the unpredictable. An alert mind cooperated with instincts on full throttle.
And the females! Perfumed, sweaty, pretty and ugly. I brushed against them. Startled, they turned. A fleeting glimpse was enough to register fear and disgust on their faces. A woman stifled a scream and turned to whisper to her companion who giggled. No one was indifferent to me.
I disciplined myself for the trial that awaited me. I wandered around the bazaar as I had been instructed. Time peeled off its mask to reveal the grandeur of an era when emperors ruled. The past began to speak in seductive voices. How could the mind remain dormant? I chased the years away…
Bare-bodied workers toiled under a relentless sun. A large pool took shape at the centre of the square. The water rippled under a full moon. Chandni Chowk, as it was…Ali Mardan Khan’s canal flowed with sweet, unpolluted water to feed the pool built by Begum Saheb Jahanara, the Emperor’s favourite daughter. There! The splendour of imperial processions. Bejewelled animals. Splendidly dressed noblemen with attendant slaves. I was among them, in silken robes and a muslin turban studded with rubies and emeralds, astride a white horse. The weight of gold and pearls marked me as a prince, a dwarf prince…Well, one of the Emperor’s illegitimate sons perhaps?
An endless pageant of music and dancing. Magical shows, fire-eaters, jugglers and fakirs who pierced themselves with swords and walked on beds of burning coal. Pigeon racing and poetry recitation. Celebrations of a regal life dedicated to worldly pleasures and wastage. The gaiety and…yes, the inevitable sadness. The cruelties and destructive energies of conquerors. Communal groans of suffering. Curses. Spells. Lies and intrigues. Hordes of ghosts and vengeful spirits plotting downfalls by stirring worldly ambitions.
Hooves pounded across the parched land and raised the dust of ephemeral achievements. The history of Delhi was the story of the world. It had known everything within the grasp of human achievement. The timeless eyes of the city had witnessed the procession of centuries. And I saw some of it. Dynasties. Emperors. The massacre of Delhiwallahs by the Qizalbash thugs of Nadir Shah. Ahmed Shah Abdali’s invasion and the tyranny of Ghulam Qadir Ruhela. The fearless raids of Jats and Mahrattas. Such loss! The Peacock throne being carried off. White foreigners from a distant island. Glories vaporised into faded dreams of what had once been…
The palm of Chaman’s hand stung my cheek. I was supposed to be alert and watchful for their signals. This was not the place for daydreams. Shrewd eyes had spotted a victim.
‘Vamana!’ Lightning Fingers whispered, nodding in the direction of an old woman haggling over the price of watermelons. She carried a tatty handbag.
I continued to walk ahead, ignoring the glares that threatened a painful retribution. Twists and turns. I enjoyed leading them into confusion. I ducked under a shop. Leadership roles had suddenly changed. Fierce whispers. ‘Vamana! Barey Bhai won’t be pleased! Vamana?’
From under the raised floor of the shop, I saw him in front of a stall that sold sandalwood paste, soap, rouge, kajal, body oils and attar. Dressed in saffron-coloured kurta and white dhoti, he was a slender figure of irresistible sensuality. A face to set my dreams aflame. Thick lips reddened with paan juice. Long eyelashes. Glowing cheeks and delicate hands. Those long, slim fingers could have stroked away all my pain. A corner of a handkerchief peeked out of his side pocket. I didn’t care if there were a fortune stored there. My fingers would have preferred to touch his legs and caress his back. My legs trembled and my hands itched. Desire hardened. I went around the shop and crept up behind him. A hessian bag, resting on the ground beside his left leg, caught my attention. Its bulge made me curious. He was bargaining over the price of perfume which, the shopkeeper insisted, had been imported from Iran.
Someone brushed past me. Guiltily I turned. Scowling faces, disinterested in the dramas around them. Vendors shouted. Housewives argued. Shoppers jostled each other and fingered the items on display.
It was so easy. I simply picked up the bag and walked away. It felt as if I had stolen him. An animal panted inside me. Louder. Closer. I imagined a cry. ‘Thief! Stop him!’ Cold hands around my neck. A crowd administering instant justice.
Nothing.
I squeezed through a narrow opening between two stalls and entered a less crowded by-lane. The numb shock of my sudden triumph was replaced by
a giddy sensation. My chest puffed, and I whistled an improvised tune. The noise of the bazaar receded into a distant din as I contemplated the accolades for my success. Barey Bhai’s commendations. Baji’s praise. Prayers of thanksgiving. The astonishment of Nimble Feet. Lightning Fingers’ dance of delight. Chaman and Farishta, quietly contented. I had proved myself. I was among the best.
Back in the godown I waited patiently, disciplining myself not to open the bag. I intended to share my success with them. They returned in the afternoon. Faces froze in disbelief as I held up the bag in a boastful display of my achievement. A moment of silent anger. Chaman reached me first. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently. Abuses. Accusations. Incoherent yelling. Voices bounced off the walls and assaulted me. Dark memories of Vijay stared at me. Strange noises bubbled from within. I broke loose and returned to the tangle of rusty chains, iron rods and wooden planks in the godown.
‘Are you mad?’ Lightning Fingers shouted. ‘Do you think people carry money in such large bags?’
‘You must immediately hide what you take!’
I sought refuge behind some broken bricks.
Nimble Feet followed me. ‘You are a danger to our safety! Do you realise what could have happened?’
Yes. Yes. Yes! I wasn’t thinking. My head throbbed and my vision blurred. There was adequate space for me to crawl inside an empty tea chest lying on its side.
‘Our survival depends on trust and caution!’ Lightning Fingers fumed. ‘You do not have a life of your own here! We are a community of thieves. One identity! Together we decide what to do.’
I could hear Farishta moaning in anguish.
‘Vamana, come out. You won’t be hurt.’ I believed Chaman. I stuck my head out of the tea chest and mumbled that I had been rash. The contrition in my voice silenced them. I emerged hesitantly. They were locked in vigorous argument. The voices dropped when they saw me. Chaman stomped her feet on the floor and shook her head in disagreement.
Suddenly beams of sunlight strayed through the perforations in the ceiling and speckled a section of the wall. My thoughts strayed to the man I had robbed. Desire ignited. A shower of sparks. I grew and soared beyond the hopelessness of my surroundings. He lay naked on his stomach, his body exhaling the smell of manhood. I rubbed his back with perfumed oil. He breathed gently. Did he have hair on his chest? The idea repulsed me. I imagined a clear skin dotted with brown nipples and a deep navel.
You have strong hands.
Your back. It is…it is…
Beautifully shaped? He undulated in agreement. Divine hands had crafted the buttocks.
Yes! My hands wandered down to the silent ravine.
I know. You may go now.
What?
You can go.
I thought…
‘You will say nothing to Barey Bhai. Do you understand?’ Chaman stood glowering over me. ‘Nothing!’
I nodded, eager to please.
‘Another chance, Vamana. Last one,’ Farishta warned.
Chaman spread a piece of cloth on the floor. They tossed in an assortment of items—a cigarette lighter, coins, a fountain pen and a key ring. ‘More!’ Chaman urged them, throwing in a crumpled five rupees note. A packet of cigarettes. A handkerchief and a coin purse. ‘Not a word about this!’ Chaman gathered up the corners of the cloth and tied them in a knot. ‘Vamana, stay here.’
They bolted the door from the outside. I was punished with hunger and loneliness.
In their anxiety to protect me, the bag was forgotten. I dumped the contents on the floor. Two wigs. Small, brass containers of different shapes. A large hand mirror. Several lipsticks. Wads of cotton wool. Small brushes. A file. Combs. Hair clips. A booklet on make-up. Feverishly I threw them all back into the bag and carried it to my side of the godown.
My sleeping corner gave me a privacy no one else wanted. Stacks of weathered terracotta tiles and piles of broken bricks almost created the illusion of a room. A small opening in the wall, where the tin had rusted, admitted adequate light during the day. I even had the luxury of an old mattress with bits of rusty spring sticking out at different angles. The whole area was perpetually damp and smelly. I had wedged the mattress tightly in the corner where the rainwater didn’t leak.
What I treasured most was a deep hole under some wooden planks that lay near the tiles. It was an accidental discovery. I was carving my name on the floor with a nail. It slipped out of my hand and rolled under a piece of wood. The noise of a fall made me curious. I wriggled a finger through a tiny opening. It was like hanging in space from the edge of the world. I managed to drag the planks to one side. The hole gaped at me, inviting an exploration. I resisted the impulse to jump in. My imagination wandered into the possible dangers. Mice. Cockroaches. Snakes. I threw in a brick. A squelching noise. Scuttling feet. I tossed in more bricks and tiles. Silence. I lowered myself over the edge and felt an uneven surface with the tip of a big toe. The hole was big enough to swallow me. It was fun to sit there and pretend that I was the emperor of an underworld.
I, Vamana, banish all men over two feet tall.
I, Vamana, will graciously receive all gifts, honour and adulation of my royal subjects.
I, Vamana, promise to love the women of my domain and take a new wife every month.
I, Vamana, shall rule over this kingdom until the sun withers and the night conquers the world.
The hole became my hiding ground for stolen possessions. Magazines, clothes, books, toys…I was determined not to share them with others.
I read the make-up instruction booklet and then balanced the mirror on a pile of bricks. Oooh! The wet cotton wool felt cool on my cheeks. I patted my face with a piece of cloth and rubbed in the cream with the tips of my fingers. Powder and rouge. Kajal. Lipstick. I worked diligently with eager hands. The larger of the two wigs fitted my head snugly.
I shied away from looking into the mirror until…until the urge was overwhelming. I remembered the look of revulsion on the face of the woman I had encountered in the bazaar. The speechless shock of a first meeting. Eyes lowered. The pulse quickened. The face—coy or genuinely shy? I scanned it with anxiety. No traces of fear. I stepped closer.
My…my name is Vamana.
She was…well, not exactly beautiful, but fresh and sparkling.
I am Kamini from the timeless garden.
May…may I?
Of course. I am one of yours. Whatever pleases you.
Eyes closed, I leaned over to touch her lips. Smooth. Cold as a winter’s ocean.
Will you go away with me?
Where?
Over the empty palaces and graves, across the astonished moon and beyond the jealous sun.
Only if you talk to me about things unseen.
What shall I say?
Tell me about the floating country where nothing grows old. Where the debris of ruined lives cannot crumble any further. Where the wind cries because it can only strum the vacant space. The trees are without leaves, shrivelled and black. A land where restless shadows wait for memory’s return.
There is no love in such a place.
Nothing to hate either.
And if I do…Will you stay with me forever?
I cannot do the impossible.
For a lifetime then?
Only if a man does not come along.
But I am a man!
You are a distorted image formed by the reflection of sour dreams in the fading afternoon’s light. You are…
I didn’t feel the pain immediately. There was a red streak on the cracked mirror where my fist had struck a savage blow. Then a throbbing in my right hand.
Kamini?
She had disappeared. I wrapped my hand with a rag and hid the bag in the hole.
Barey Bhai was generous that evening. He did not complain about the outrageous cost of maintaining us. With roti we had the rare luxury of a spoonful of vegetable and a stale barfi afterwards. Later we heard that a mysterious accident to one of the children in the bustee h
ad prompted the tenants to pay their monthly rents without any obvious coercion from Barey Bhai’s thugs. The day’s takings were presented to him before we ate. Chaman fussed over my contribution. ‘An impressive collection for his first day, wouldn’t you say? He didn’t bungle at all.’
Barey Bhai looked at Lightning Fingers who nodded his agreement. ‘He’s a natural talent!’
Barey Bhai grunted and pocketed the cash with the aggrieved air of a man who had been paid an inadequate wage after a day’s hard labour. He examined everything else with painstaking care. It was an inflexible ritual observed with a religious solemnity. We were expected to remain silent as we sat on the floor in front of the raised platform. It was his bed as well as his throne from where he ruled us. He picked up each item with his right hand and held it in front of his eyes. Slowly, very slowly, he rubbed it with his fingers. He caressed, pinched and pressed, as though making a tactile assessment of its worth. If it was deemed to be worthless, he transferred it to his left hand before tossing it to a remote corner of the godown. Our eyes followed the trajectory of the object, and we made a mental note of where it landed. Later, there would be a scramble to collect the discarded pieces, not so much with the purpose of selling them, but to satisfy a starved instinct for personal possessions. What he thought could be sold, Barey Bhai touched with his lips and rubbed on his forehead before storing it in a sack that was collected every morning by one of his helpers.
The next day, before I set out with Farishta on the weekly chore of delivering packets of charas and ganja to specified addresses, I spoke to Chaman. She frowned and expressed her misgivings about my proposal. It was too risky. What I suggested would attract undesirable attention. Over the past year the police had become increasingly unreliable.
The mention of the word police made me even more determined to pursue what I had outlined to Chaman. I had unpleasant memories of Vijay and all those men in khaki, bullying and badgering me about the incident with Mrs Prasad and, later on, the fire. Unfeeling, brutal and thoughtless men. My heart lurched at the possibilities. To thwart, frustrate, annoy. I could not deny the additional appeal of the associated danger. Emergency meetings to draw up plans for my capture. Men combing the bazaar, hunting a shadow. Policemen with injured legs and pride. There was the certainty of notoriety. Stories would evolve about the elusive dwarf and his acts of daring defiance. Social gossip. Coverage in newspapers. Radio and television…Too much!
