by Adib Khan
Most of us were instantly appeased by the allurement of a more tolerable life. Deprivation had made the slum dwellers desperate and gullible. Poverty induced despair and lethargy. Since life offered most of the people no glimpse of their potential, the capacity to imagine and strive for a better state had shrivelled and died. There was a passive acceptance of predictability in the abject routine of hunger, illness, vacant stretches of time, outbreaks of arguments and fighting, purposeless waiting, pain, fear, darkness. Adversity was the tenacious dictator of our lives. So when the bait of relief was dangled, they grabbed it with a reckless abandon. Me? I remained unconvinced. But then I was born with access to other worlds. Just fortunate, I guess.
Jhunjhun Wallah kept us waiting. Outbreaks of uneasy murmuring soon subsided.
‘You will not be asked to leave tomorrow, or the next day…’ He turned slowly on his feet and surveyed us. ‘For the time being, I will arrange for your entertainment every day! Songs, dances, news, stories—’
‘We already have a storyteller!’ someone shouted.
There was enthusiastic clapping. I felt compelled to push forward.
Jhunjhun Wallah was unimpressed. ‘A sto-ry…tel-ler,’ he said slowly. ‘Can this person show you pictures in colour? Show you beautiful women and handsome men? Present sexy scenes, songs and dances for your eyes to feast on? My—’
‘He can do anything if other minds are willing!’ I said loudly. ‘If people are not afraid to imagine.’
‘Who said that?’ Jhunjhun Wallah scanned the faces.
‘I, Vamana!’
‘I can hear the voice. But is there a face?’
The palm of a sweaty hand smothered me. Fingers clamped around my shoulders. My legs and arms thrashed in helpless anger. A brief struggle. A sharp blow to the back of my head was an undisguised warning. The world became a wheel in fast rotation. Only the voice was clear. Taunting. Prophetic.
No more gatherings in the smoky calmness of warm evenings. You will not be needed. Even the flute’s sound will be a distant memory. Vamana has to be silent. It won’t be necessary to call on you. We will see other lives and places for ourselves. With our own eyes! The sensations will be more intense than what the mind can imagine. We shall travel the world and hear strange languages. How does it feel to be made useless?
‘I would like to present this community with a television set for its entertainment. I will let you see with the eyes of the world!’ Jhunjhun Wallah boasted. ‘And when all the buildings are completed and the cinemas are functional, each one of you will be given free passes to the films of your choice…for a whole month. Let me make that two months!’
My muffled voice of protest was lost in the clamour of approval. I closed my eyes and steadied myself. There were shooting sparks and dust storms inside. Sand and stumps of rotting trees. Eyeless corpses, their tongues torn out. Those who were alive stared at me.
Can you teach us to dream again? Can you make us wonder and fear? Can you teach us to breathe life into words that now lie dying in the shadows of our minds? To imagine what the eyes cannot see?
Reluctantly I shook my head. Once the soul is blinded, you must accept your limits…
I lurched away from the crowd that was now in an agreeable mood, conversing excitedly about its saviour.
Barey Bhai! He had the strength and the influence. He must be able to see beyond the promises to the darkness that lay ahead. I decided to talk to him. It was his posture of obedience that deterred me. Head bowed, stooped shoulders, eyes lowered and a servile smile on his face. Jhunjhun Wallah had his hands on Barey Bhai’s shoulders, and whispered in his ear. Barey Bhai nodded and was rewarded with a pat on his cheek.
I turned around and walked back to the godown. It was necessary to be alone to calm myself. They couldn’t see, the fools! They didn’t understand how dangerous it was to have silly dreams implanted in their minds.
I didn’t expect to see Chaman. For an instant my irritation flared. She lay on a straw mat, her face gaunt and her eyes without lustre.
‘I feel tired,’ she explained apologetically when I expressed surprise at our unexpected meeting. ‘I haven’t brought in much money during the last few days.’
I emptied my pockets and gave her whatever I had. There was more money stashed away in the satchel.
Chaman squeezed my hand. ‘He won’t think that is enough.’
I went to my corner and uncovered the hole. I emptied the satchel and stuffed all the notes in my pocket. Chaman smiled wanly when I handed her the money.
‘There will be more,’ I promised, without a clue of how I would manage to find enough to satisfy Barey Bhai.
A fit of violent coughing shook her thin body. She turned her face away and held a piece of cloth over her mouth. I noticed the rashes on her hands.
‘Are you…are you not well?’
I was uneasy about asking her. Ill health and I were aliens. I couldn’t remember the last time I was sick. I was rarely afflicted with any ailment that seriously curtailed my activities. Bodily pain was a part of my life. It nagged me every day—swollen limbs and sore muscles, stiff back and headaches. I refused to think about the pain or dwell on its effects. Most of the time it was a satisfactory ploy.
Chaman did not reply. I offered her a drink of water. The increasing burden of her silence unnerved me. ‘Have you been to Mahmood Saheb for medicine?’
Chaman stared at me as though she didn’t understand the question. Mahmood Saheb was a hakimi doctor who diagnosed poor patients and sold them herbal medicine at a very low cost. He was a kind man, but did not enjoy a healthy reputation among the inmates of slums. It was commonly known that his medicine often provoked headaches and abdominal pain. But people were comforted by his exact explanations of their ailments and his assurances that recovery was an act of willpower that needed the stimulus of herbal medicine.
‘What is the illness?’ I was gripped by an unfamiliar feeling of concern for Chaman.
‘It is a new illness.’ She drank the water and asked for more. ‘One that will not leave me.’
‘How do you know?’
She looked away.
Footsteps. Nimble Feet and Farishta came in, followed by Lightning Fingers. Their grim faces told me how they felt about Jhunjhun Wallah. They knew about Chaman’s condition. Farishta took me outside.
‘She is very ill,’ he said fiercely. ‘Barey Bhai must not know. Understand?’
‘She won’t die?’
‘We don’t say such things!’
‘Will she?’
He looked at me venomously and went back inside. I could not understand what I had said to upset him.
8
No dream is perfect
I should be the only one here. Me. My smell. My thoughts. I resent being told that this cell will be crowded with other prisoners.
‘Only for the very dangerous,’ I insist.
‘You’re all dangerous,’ the gaoler grunts. ‘And evil. It’s been a busy week for criminals. There’s no room anywhere else.’
The noises—I time them to coincide with the squeaky opening of the door. A series of short, sharp barks, loud enough to drag their attention to the murky corner. Surprise is an essential aid for survival.
Slowly they file in. Ragged and desperate looking men. Surly. Defiant. Bristling with aggression and hatred of a world intent on punishing their crimes with an unforgiving severity. I have to convince them that I am quite mad…and violent.
Him? Look how small he is.
I mustn’t allow such thoughts to intrude and dispel their uncertainty. My territorial right has to be established without a prolonged fight. If they sniff a weakness…I cannot even think of the consequences. I wait until they are all inside. Then the howl. A loud, dark summoning of the hell inside me. A sound intended to disarm them into a terrified acceptance of my presence. I expose my teeth. Frothy saliva dribbles from the corners of my mouth. I roll on the floor and begin to grunt like a distressed pig.
; The gaoler bursts into the cell, screaming abuses. He threatens me with his stick. I press against a wall, my head lowered, and whine a note of feigned anguish. It is a piercing noise that ferments fear.
‘My name is Vamana.’ I have a naturally deep voice. It sounds as if the Devil himself has chosen to speak. ‘I live on raw flesh and blood. A deo fathered me, a snake gave me birth.’
Before doubt goads them into action, I jump on the back of the nearest man. He is robust and bearded, with long hair and wild eyes. He is startled and makes a belated effort to throw me off. With clawed fingers and teeth I cling to him. It takes several men and hefty blows from the stick to send me scurrying to a corner. The suddenness and ferocity of the attack have unnerved them. Only the gaoler approaches me. He goes berserk, yelling and waving the stick over my head. I close my eyes and prepare for a savage beating. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I cannot prevent a smile tugging the sides of my mouth. Success…
There I was, outside her house. Twice in the same day. The daylight hours had drained away into the night’s bottomless receptacle. The lane was deserted. The sound of the flute climbed on the trellis of silence, echoing the sadness of failure. Above me the feeble light flickered and died noiselessly. There was a full moon, splashing its radiance on a tired city. Loneliness began to settle over me like a winter’s fog. Still and dense. My eyes were weary. I looked up again at the lighted window. Was that her room? No sign of movement. Not a shadow. Hadn’t she heard my message on the flute? Or didn’t she care?
My lips were sore. I buried the flute in the satchel and listened to the fierce whispering of recent memories. I was up after midnight, gathering flowers in the cemetery. Nearly half a sack of marigolds. One fresh wreath. Must have been a rich mourner. Roses were expensive in the city. I wondered what she did with the bruised flowers. Had she enjoyed the packet of peanuts I pinched from the vendor? Did she wonder about the identity of the admirer who left the gifts at her door? Was it odd that I refused the payment she offered for helping her? No acknowledgement. Not even a fleeting smile.
‘Shall I come again?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want me to…’
‘Yes…yes, come and help me next Tuesday. It’s my day off work.’
I thought about sleeping on the side of the lane, next to the open gutter. It was as close as I could be to her. Besides, I was weary. My limbs felt weak and I was dizzy. Tiredness was a feeling of softness, a sensation of diffusing into the darkness.
That morning I skipped and ran all the way from the slum. My songs drew stares of amusement and good-natured heckling. Children followed me for a distance and then panted to a halt. I dodged and weaved as the odd missile was thrown at me. At that early hour, the sleepless night had no effect on me.
‘Yes?’ Her frown suggested irritation rather than recognition.
My anticipation crumbled to the ashen despair of impending failure. ‘You…you said I was to come today. To help with the shopping.’
‘Oh! Oh…yes.’ Her face registered a vague remembrance. ‘The dwarf from the wedding. I forgot.’
Forgot? How could she? No one forgets me.
Her eyes were red, and her sullen expression denoted a condition of deeply entrenched unhappiness.
‘My name is Vamana.’ I longed to reach out and touch her. Reassure her that whatever her problems, they were not beyond resolution.
Look at me, I wanted to say, whatever is making you unhappy can only be temporary. But this…everything you see is lasting.
She went back inside.
The flowers remained in my satchel. I could not think of an excuse for offering them to her. Love? Devotion? Admiration? Yes, all of those. But I was terrified of her scorn. I imagined her surprise and then a laugh of contempt. Words of ridicule. I was certain that she would reject me without hesitation if she knew the feelings I nurtured.
Meena, I shall create our relationship in a special place where you will feel and understand, accept and care. Ultimately you are powerless to elude me.
My hand crept inside the satchel to stroke the crushed flowers as though they needed solace. I meant to leave them for her. Her door would be the tombstone, and the flowers a token of the unattainable that could be conjured in the mind, as the dead are.
She came out with a large shopping bag and a leather handbag. Like a frisky dog I scampered after her. The market was crowded. Shopkeepers sprinkled water on fruits and vegetables, periodically moving the laden baskets wherever there was shade. The butchers and fishmongers had already lowered the prices of meat and fish. Business was brisk at the drink stalls.
Meena was careful with her money. She bargained, compared prices and bought sparingly. She was in no hurry. She strolled into shops that sold costume jewellery. Dreamily she picked up items—bangles, necklaces, earrings—and placed them against her neck, ears, cheeks and hands, examined herself in front of mirrors, checked the price tags, frowned and then put them back on the shelves.
I carried the shopping bag, slipping in pieces of vegetables and fruits whenever it was convenient to steal them. Her silence distressed me. Her demeanour suggested that I was not even a shadowy presence worthy of the slightest acknowledgement.
She showed signs of fatigue, stumbling twice and mopping her face with a handkerchief. I was delighted when she accepted my suggestion that we stop for refreshment. Meena was offended when I offered to pay for her drink. We sat on wooden stools under a canvas awning. I felt smug and important, sipping lemonade through a straw. It was a rare indulgence. But then life itself was a luxury that had accidentally fallen into my hands.
For the first time I caught Meena looking at me. Her eyes did not waver, nor did she sit back in an involuntary gesture of revulsion. Goose bumps sprouted on my arms. The bottle fell from my hands. The drink spilled on the ground as I made a clumsy effort to catch the bottle. I pretended I had had enough to drink and asked Meena if she wanted something to eat.
She appeared not to listen. ‘Do you know it is exactly two years since my husband disappeared?’ she murmured broodily.
The sudden flash of elation was impossible to conceal. But I managed to contain it within a grin. She wasn’t looking at me any more. I had been hugely worried by the sinister shadow of a male lurking between us. Now the distance separating us was basked in sunlight.
‘He worked for a shipping company.’ She sounded tired. ‘He left his ship in a port overseas and never returned.’
They were married for five years. Meena was a trained nurse who had met her husband in hospital. Sunil was admitted for minor surgery. And she was immediately attracted to his gentleness. He asked if they could meet, and within a few weeks Sunil sought permission to write to her widowed mother. They were married later that year.
‘Frequently he was at sea. I fretted and waited for him. But I was never insecure. It was bliss when he returned. We were saving to buy a small flat.’ She looked dreamily at the horizon, stroking her handbag as if to smooth away the wrinkles of Fate. ‘Have children. If only I knew why he left me. I will never understand.’
I scrounged around in my pockets and felt the contour of a couple of coins. Not enough to buy her anything to eat. I dipped into the satchel and touched the flowers again.
‘Perhaps life isn’t meant to be understood. Just lived. Those who prosper adapt to its circumstances without struggling or questioning adversity.’
She looked at me sharply, as if I could not possibly say anything that was meaningful. I immediately sensed her reticence.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’ Her voice hardened. ‘A stranger…a dwarf.’ Meena covered her mouth with her hand.
I thought she giggled. Perhaps the absurdity of our situation had suddenly occurred to her.
‘What is your name again?’
‘Vamana.’
‘How do I know you won’t run away with my shopping bag?’ Meena eyed me warily. ‘Why are you doing this? How do I know you can be trust
ed?’
I didn’t have any replies that wouldn’t trap me behind the crushing ridicule of truth. I wilted under her accusing stare. ‘I…I needed money. I wanted a job.’ I hoped that an exaggerated shrug of my shoulders convinced her about my motive. Any demonstrable show of intentions could only reveal what was honourable. The dark hounds of the jungle were muzzled and held on tight leashes. It was always night where my naked thoughts wandered without apprehension.
His voice saved me from further embarrassment. ‘Meena! We were to meet in front of the sari shop.’ He tapped the watch on his left wrist. ‘Half past ten, you said!’
Young. Smooth olive skin. Sleek hair and a luxurious moustache. Probably a hairy chest. Not my type at all. His sort attracted the females. They argued briefly over incidentals. Time. Meeting place. A lost letter.
‘Dilip, I am tired.’
The plea in her voice aggrieved me. I hopped off the stool and stood next to her. I scowled at Dilip. The sort of look that made people apprehensive about my sanity.
‘What’s this?’ His eyes narrowed as he stared at me. Curiosity, rather than fear, confronted me.
‘My servant,’ Meena said calmly.
My servant. My tool. My machine. My cart. Stark words that crushed hope. The blackness of dejection. Sounds began to buffet my ears, and a storm howled in my head. I was tempted to go home inside and shut all the doors and windows to the outside world. But it couldn’t be done here in front of others, not without drawing an unwelcome attention to my secret. My servant. At least I was hers in whatever capacity she wanted me. But the unfairness of it all kept niggling me. Why was it that my imaginary worlds could not be converted into sustainable realities? A servant! A menial helper. Someone whose weakness could be remorselessly exploited.
Later, when I thought about it, I had to admit that it was my connivance that brought me misery. Would I ever learn about the dangers of extravagant dreams? I tended to jump from reality to fantasy with an admirable felicity. But the other way was invariably an undignified fall. I carried so many bruises to prove the point. And yet…Their whispering made me curious. Was I the subject of the conversation? Was she saying things she didn’t want me to hear? Words of flattery. A confession of her desire for the rarity that had entered her life. Dilip, this may sound strange…I am attracted to him… I was off again, unshackling my dreams and allowing them to stride beyond control.
