by Adib Khan
‘All right,’ he conceded with an expansive gesture of his hands, ‘find some people. Whoever you can. Eyeless, toothless, beggars, chamars…Anything that can move and follow basic instructions.’
Aaaah…the noise of my heart! Dark curtains parted to reveal the panorama of a new life. To be viewed by people across India! A convincing performance would have to attract the attention of filmmakers. I could move to Mumbai. Live in a mansion with Meena. A house built of white marble…on a hilltop where the morning mist curled around us like a sleeping snake. A flag, with my own insignia, to flutter from the terrace. The kingdom of Vamana…And inside the house, the walls of every room to be covered with money. Crisp notes. What would I wear? Silk garments threaded with gold…A throne studded with precious stones. Rides on horses and in cars. Servants to salute me whenever I appeared. Cooks and personal tailors. Musicians and gardeners, bowing and murmuring words of rehearsed flattery bound to please me. Does his Highness require anything? You look very well, sir…A snap of my fingers and worlds would change. Beautiful women drifting through the room, hopeful of my attention. Handsome young men with gentle hands and sinewy limbs. Meena would understand and forgive me. My nights were to be shared with her only. Of course, a place for Chaman. She would never have to work again.
I did not realise how close I had crept to the tents. I sprinted towards Munshi, my hands raised to attract his attention. ‘I can use a sword!’ I shouted, spontaneously demonstrating with an imaginary blade. Such deftness. So much elegance. A scream to denote my warrior’s breeding and unbridled ferocity. A barbarian’s cry of victory. The whimper of death’s agony. Whatever. ‘Yah hoo!’ I overdid it slightly, stumbled and nearly fell on my face. I repeated the cry.
Was I an apparition? A trick of the imagination? A demon that had escaped from the murky depths of Hell? Had it been twilight instead of late morning, the shadow of the supernatural might have shaded superstitious minds and made my performance more convincing. I could have possibly awed them into an immediate acceptance of my prodigious talents. A silence of amazement.
Munshi took a threatening step towards me. ‘Jah Bhag!’
‘Wait! Munshi, look at him!’ Ajit Kapoor moved between us with an unexpected agility. ‘What a face! It reflects the spirit of invaders—brutish, ugly and destructive. Without moral sensitivity. He’s perfect!’
Perfect. My chest swelled with pride and my head tilted upwards. It didn’t matter in what context he had used the word. Perfect. I was perfect. I wished Meena were listening.
The director walked up and examined me. Male faces peered at me. The make-up girl retreated into one of the tents. And I thought I had looked at her kindly.
‘Name?’
‘Vamana.’
‘Full name!’
‘Vamana.’
‘Address?’
‘Delhi.’
‘Probably lives in the streets,’ Ajit said impatiently. ‘What does it matter where he lives or what he eats?’
The director fiddled with the brim of his hat, unable to make up his mind. ‘His height will be a problem.’
‘Put him up on a table or a box!’ Ajit Kapoor pleaded. ‘Just imagine how effective a close-up will be! The glaring contrast of good against evil. The civilisation of Hindustan against invading barbarians.’ He smacked his hands together. ‘Everything we need to feed the communal ego. But wash him first.’
I was so overcome by the prospect of fame that I didn’t allow my instinctive dislike of Ajit Kapoor to fester into a dark hatred. He treated everyone as his inferior and, in the short duration of my presence in front of him, everything he said and did denigrated me. In his eyes I was less than human, merely a tool to enhance the lie of his image as an invincible hero.
I was told to stand to one side and await instructions. Gradually stragglers drifted in our direction. Labourers, bewildered beggars and startled vagabonds clutched rupees in their hands, unable to comprehend the reason for their good fortune. Some of the extras were asked to stay back. Others were paid and told that they would not be needed.
Boxes of costumes were brought out from one of the tents. Several tailors measured the newcomers, adjusted the clothes and stitched with speed and skill. They fussed over me the longest. There was nothing that was remotely near my size. The men held a quick meeting. They talked to Munshi and then went over to consult the director.
‘We must have him!’ Ashok insisted impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter if you have to cut up ten costumes!’
Further measurements. Two tailors marked, cut and sewed a shiny black material. A belt was clipped at one end and a scabbard modified for the shortened blade of a sword. Several turbans, studded with glass pieces, were tried on my head and then abandoned.
‘The largest size!’ Munshi bellowed.
Satisfied with our appearances, Munshi blew on a whistle. ‘Gather around everyone, after you have taken off the costumes. Don’t dirty them!’
We listened to his instructions without much understanding of what was expected of us.
A mean-looking man led us to a clearing behind the tents and rattled off the basics of swordplay. ‘Trick! It’s all a trick!’ he insisted. ‘It is whatever you can lead the eyes to believe. I don’t care if you have never held a sword or a knife. As long as the director thinks you are convincing, I am well paid. If he is unhappy, I bruise you. Understood?’
He was a selfish man intent on survival. We practised movements, brandishing wooden swords in our hands.
‘I want you to look malicious! Make noise—yell and snort. Animal sounds. Anything. You!’ He pointed his sword at me. ‘Kapoor Babu wants you in the action with him.’
I stood on a chair and waved the sword in front of me. Before I could snarl and make noises, I lost my balance and toppled over. Next I tried to prance around on a cardboard box that collapsed under the weight of my energetic footsteps. A table was brought out, but the rippled surface of the ground made its legs unsteady. The instructor clutched his bald head and let out a despairing shout. He muttered to himself and then sent a servant to request the presence of Ajit Kapoor.
‘Kapoor Babu, at what height do you want the dwarf?’
The actor couldn’t decide. My height was measured and it became the focal point of an animated discussion. Munshi and the director joined in. They reached an agreement. No trickery. I was to remain a dwarf at ground level, but someone endowed with magical power. A resourceful incarnation of the dark forces threatening the land.
‘Give him a spiked mace and a skull as well.’
But that wasn’t sufficient for someone of my stature. I was to have lightning and thunderbolts at my command to overpower the less gallant members of the army defending the honour of Hindustan. And more. The capacity to raise a battalion of armed skeletons towards the climax of the fight and lead a desperate charge against Ajit Kapoor and his small band of loyal warriors.
My inability to ride a horse cropped up as a serious setback to the director’s plans. Galloping away on a black horse with the swooning heroine sitting in front of me, Ajit Kapoor in pursuit, frantic music and a decisive confrontation on a hilltop were scripted as a prelude to the climax involving the supremely evil Ahmedullah Khan. My suggestion about taking riding lessons, with the heroine in my clutches, provoked disdainful looks. I was told to remain silent. More discussion.
Suddenly a jet of water crashed into my back with such force that I was knocked to the ground. A man hosed me, utterly indifferent to my wailing protests. A bar of soap was tossed at my feet with the yelled instruction to scrub myself clean.
‘All over!’ the man with the hose commanded. ‘Your hair, face, underarms, front, back…No! Don’t take off your clothes! Reach wherever you can.’
I shuddered at the painful memory of that day when I was dusted and cleansed before being hauled away to see Mrs Prasad. A group of beggars, standing on one side, had the hose turned on them without the dubious benefit of soap. I was directed to go behind the farthest ten
t and dry myself with a piece of rag.
The piercing shriek startled me. A scantily dressed young woman eyed me with fearful wonderment. Her companions, similar in age, called for help. Armed guards appeared and seized me with rough hands. I was thrown to the ground face down, and my hands pinned behind my back. A bony knee pressed on my spine, and a hand slapped the back of my neck. I tried to explain the circumstances of my presence, but the hysterical voices prevailed. A pervert had been spying on them. His intentions were entirely dishonourable. The director, actors, cameramen, make-up people—anyone who was in the vicinity—came running. Excited voices and lengthy explanations. The pressure on my back eased. I sat up, wondering if fame was worth all the unwelcome attention I was receiving.
The director had his arm around the young woman, breathing comforting words into her ear. She was good-looking in a sultry kind of way. Thick lips and a fleshy face. Big eyes that gave the impression of innocence and vulnerability. Her breasts attracted me. I imagined the large, dark nipples. I visualised her as a village maiden walking to a market, without bra or blouse, balancing a basket on her head. Shoulders straight, back erect, perfectly shaped hemispheres. Heavenly pillows for dreams.
‘I won’t have anything to do with it!’ she sobbed, shaking her head vehemently. ‘Nahey! Nahey! Nahey!’
The other women glared at me as though I were guilty of the most heinous crime imaginable.
If there has been a crime, it was committed somewhere up there! I thought of calling out. Blame nature. A man and a woman and their wanton lust. Fate. Can’t you understand, you foolish bitches? It isn’t my doing that I was born this way!
The women were escorted to a tent. The guards moved away. The others dispersed, taking care not to look at me. I was left sitting on the parched earth. The fierce sun and a hot breeze were now my only adversaries.
Chut!
It was at such times of stunned loneliness that I travelled to the distant country to calm myself and derive consolation from those more deprived than I. It was a pleasant journey along the bank of the serpentine river that echoed the songs of fishermen casting their nets for the daily catch. I paused frequently for a smoke and a chat.
I am on my way to see friends, I explained.
Where do they live?
Up in the mountains where the river begins.
How long will you be there?
As long as it takes to numb the misery of aloneness.
Sometimes they asked me about the people I visited. Naah! There wasn’t much point in telling them about lepers and mutants. The fishermen wouldn’t understand. They were mere mortals I passed along the way, accepting the dull mask they knew as life. What would they know about a place without prejudice?
I followed the sun to my left, and up the incline. The air cooled and flutes echoed a faint welcome. Nothing moved, except the sound. It floated towards me in gentle waves, caressing me with the notes of peace. The storm planted in the centre of my being subsided to an apologetic murmur. Shanti. Shanti. Memory dusted its shelves and rearranged the past.
There! The entrance to the cave. As usual, they waited outside with gifts of holy water and mountain flowers.
Baba ji, what have you to tell us today?
The world has not changed. We are still exiled in our minds.
You should come and live with us.
I am not immune to temptations the way you are. The world is a disease in my soul.
We sang and danced, celebrating the vitality of imperfection. A flawed God, who readily admitted his mistakes, rested in their hearts. I was among the limbless, the gangrenous and the ones with the extra fingers and toes. Twin heads with the same mind. Joined bellies and cylindrical shapes. Dripping flesh. Unchecked growth. But the coiled snakes of envy and selfishness had withered and died in their infancy. This was home, where I was wanted.
When will you come to live with us?
When I have finished my sentence.
Break loose and come to us.
Little do you understand what it is like to be imprisoned in the asylum of normality. I won’t be released until I have endured my share of suffering. That is my punishment for being an embarrassment to the world.
The sun dropped suddenly as the day let go. Those distant noises again. I bustled down the slope and passed the river. The fishermen had gone home. There was the open door. I had to go through…
‘Aarey Vamana, you look even holier than a saddhu in a trance!’ Munshi sniffed the air, keeping his eyes on me all the time. ‘Were you asleep under this hot sun? Sitting up?’
‘I was dreaming with my eyes open.’
‘What was the dream?’
‘Of home…my people…up in the mountains.’ I winked at him. It had the desired effect of unsettling him even further.
‘Rehearsal in a few minutes. The sword-master wants a fight between Kapoor Babu and you.’
I was to appear convincing by putting up a strong resistance. Fight with all my strength. From every side voices hummed in my ears. Advice. Instructions. Even encouragement.
‘Master ji, this fight must last for five minutes before we use special effects.’ The director held up his right hand with the fingers widely spread.
The bald man nodded and turned to Ajit Kapoor. ‘Kapoor Babu, I would like to show you a few more moves, if you please.’
The actor was brushing his hair energetically. The barber threatened to snip again, and the make-up girl pounced on the sweaty hero, armed with towels and an array of brushes, jars of cream, powder and false eyelashes…
Munshi coughed politely. ‘But this is only a rehearsal.’
Ajit Kapoor glared at him. ‘That is the trouble with you, Munshi. You are not an artist. You do not understand the need for authenticity at even the most fundamental stage of making a film.’
We were kept waiting until Ajit Kapoor was satisfied with his appearance. Then he deliberated on the choice of a sword. He tested the comfort of the grips, discarding a number of the mock weapons before settling for one that appealed to him. I was tossed a sword with a short blade.
‘Ready?’
‘Remember to move as a prince should—effortless elegance!’
‘Let us make this suspenseful. There must be a suggestion that the villain might succeed.’
In my anxiety to perform convincingly, I forgot that Ajit Kapoor was intended to strike first. Without any of the flourishes or fancy feet movements that I had been hastily taught, I swung the sword just below his knees and whacked him on his left leg. He grunted with surprise and pain and, before he was able to recover, I thrust the pointed end into his stomach. Well, that was my intention. I misjudged the height and poked him in the crotch. He dropped the sword and clutched his cock. His eyes watered and he sank to his knees, groaning with pain. In my enthusiasm for realism, I delivered a final blow on the top of his shoulder with the wild cry of a rampant warrior. I thought the job was well done, and at that point I was quite prepared to fake a fall and let Ajit Kapoor assume control.
Angry hands held me. The sword was snatched away. I was punched on the head and back. Someone kicked me. A voice calling for restraint halted the pummelling. I scrambled away on all fours.
‘No!’ the actor screamed. ‘Get him! Arrest the bastard! I will sue him for assault! Have him sent to prison for a hundred years!’
Angry voices pursued me. I turned around for a quick look. Fierce warriors were chasing me with raised swords. The situation warranted a quick retreat and I disappeared under a grocer’s shop built on stilts. I bounded past Lahore Gate, eluding a couple of policemen who had evidently been alerted by the shopkeepers to be on the lookout for a vicious dwarf guilty of bodily assault. With considerable difficulty I managed to climb on to the back of a truck as it pulled away with a load of rubble. Wheee! The thrill of fooling so many. I thought about the police constable and whether he would hear of me again.
Ram Lal, Ram Lal, catch me if you can! Do you have anyone to beat up today?
&
nbsp; I stuck out my tongue at the world and raised both fists in the air. The truck groaned, farted thick black fumes and gathered speed.
I walked into a meeting of the bustee dwellers. Barey Bhai was addressing them with a megaphone, making extravagant promises and threatening violent resistance if necessary. Roars of approval. Expressions of militant action. Jhunjhun Wallah was destined for a miserable failure. I moved among the crowd until I saw Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet.
I tugged Nimble Feet’s hand. ‘Who is Jhunjhun Wallah?’
His explanation was disturbingly simple. A very wealthy man, who had powerful connections with politicians, now owned the land and intended to build cinemas, restaurants and shops where we lived.
‘When?’
Lightning Fingers didn’t know.
A shiny black car pulled up on the dirt track to our side. Two vans followed. Muscular young men spilled out of the vehicles and positioned themselves in an arc behind us. A fat man, flanked by bodyguards, walked up to Barey Bhai. A paan-stained grin sliced his face as he grabbed Barey Bhai’s hand and pumped it up and down.
‘I like a man with loyalty to his neighbours! But Mohan, it saddens me to see such unnecessary hostility.’ He turned to us with a megaphone, handed to him by one of his assistants. ‘My name is Jhunjhun—’
Boos. Abuses. Threats.
‘My intentions have been much misunderstood. I am at the service of this entire community. The modernisation of India is my only purpose in buying this land.’ He paused and waited for his words to evoke curiosity and blunt the anger. ‘Bhaiyun aur bahenou!’ The pleading intimacy in his voice was ineffective.
‘We are not your brothers and sisters!’ we chorused strongly.
There were persistent hooting and loud suggestions about what could be done to his mother and sisters, in fact, to his entire family. The bodyguards were not discreet about moving closer to us.
Jhunjhun Wallah remained unperturbed. We were wooed with promises of resettlement—land, monetary assistance, subsidised building material from his factories. Then the businessman demonstrated how cunning he was. ‘And more…’ He trailed off into a teasing silence. Feet shuffled forward. ‘Much more!’
