The Storyteller

by Adib Khan

  ‘I’m not!’ I defend myself stoutly. ‘They made a mistake.’

  ‘Why should they gaol you for killing a snake?’

  ‘Because it was a politician’s pet.’ I smile mysteriously, as though I am privy to profound secrets.

  Those sitting opposite me lean forward slightly. ‘How did you kill the snake?’

  ‘I bit off its head.’ Lips curled, I reveal my canines. I lift my handcuffed hands to my mouth and rub the pointed tips of my teeth with my thumbs.

  The man on my left stops leaning on me. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. I know they are watching me, but I won’t be harmed.

  I wonder if the judge will be more understanding than the old man who declared me to be a social misfit. I never intended to stab Dilip repeatedly. Scare him, sure. Maybe inflict a shallow wound, perhaps a cut. But then he acted in such a dishonourable way that I had to punish him. He abandoned her. When I am angry, I cannot think clearly. I see red streaks in front of me, and my head crackles with the sound of a raging fire. He shouldn’t have…He shouldn’t have. I wish my eyes hadn’t witnessed what my mind had foreseen. A fresh surge of anger engulfs me.

  In the middle of an open field. Rain, lack of shelter and regret. It was foolish to throw away so much money. I retrieved some of the soggy notes.

  A persistent desperation had crept into my life. I envisaged the shadows of malicious demons prowling in search of me. When I eluded them, there was Chaman sprawled on a straw mat, coughing blood, her body shaking uncontrollably as the insane disease continued to punish her. I flirted with extreme measures to end her suffering…and mine. Rat poison dissolved in warm milk. Suffocation. A more messy and bloody ending as she slept. Possibilities only. Agitated reflections of my helplessness. But such dark imaginings made me feel wretched. I was quite incapable of doing any more than watching and agonising as life filtered out of her.

  The damp and bleak openness of the field were galling reminders of my plight—hunted by the police, dumped by my associates and shunned by those I had served. I decided to risk Baji’s wrath—the fury of her words and the pain of her blows. But I didn’t think she would betray me. On my way to the haveli, I decided to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. I composed a lengthy speech, full of contrition and devoted to a syrupy praise of her generosity, compassion and wisdom. I rehearsed the words, injecting sincerity into the delivery, decided on my facial expression and practised the supportive movements of my hands. I imagined the scene and made minor adjustments to what I intended to say. As she attacked me with abuses, I would sob, grab her ankles and mumble how sorry I was for my misdeeds. In the end she would scowl, relent and point me to a corner for the night. Depending on her mood, I might even get the leftovers from her dinner.

  The calmness of the steady rain washed over me. Rhim…jhim…rhim…jhim. In the distance, the sky had cleared to reveal a buttery slice of the moon. A shy, half-smile of a woman in a bazaar. If only I could reach up and take her to the safety of a home…

  Although the entrance door was ajar, I hesitated and did not walk into the courtyard. I peeked through the opening. Gulbadan was frying puris. A table had been set with porcelain plates on a white tablecloth. Baji was immaculately dressed in pink and white, her face glowing with make-up. She laughed and talked with her guest, and at one point she briefly held his hand.

  I felt cold. It seemed as if a trusted friend had pushed me off the edge of a cliff. There was fear and bitterness, but also the exhilaration of danger. Emptiness and intimation of impending death. I knew him. I didn’t have to see his face or hear the murmuring of his voice. The Devil could be perceived without the details of his physical appearance.

  Baji’s deep voice dominated their conversation. She was telling him how she loved going to the cinema. Romance and adventure films. Nothing that ended sadly and made her cry. A happy conclusion made her feel as if there were justice in the world.

  ‘Films should end with a young hero embracing his love and securing their future. No killing or unnecessary deaths. Ram Lal jhee, what sort of films do you watch?’

  I could barely hear him. He rarely had the opportunity to go to the cinema, he said. Work and family occupied most of his evenings.

  Baji beamed her approval and smothered him with questions about his wife and children. Ram Lal’s replies were brief. He had been married for fifteen years. His wife was a nurse. They had two children—a girl who was ten, and a boy aged eight. His daughter was performing well at school, but he was concerned about his son’s progress.

  ‘Raju struggles with sums,’ he said slowly, as though reluctant to make an admission of familial weakness to a stranger, ‘and what can you do without mathematical skills these days?’

  Gulbadan placed a bowl of firni on the table. Ram Lal scooped several spoonfuls on his plate and finished the dessert in a hurry. His chair squeaked, and he looked around him as though he didn’t trust the company of hijras.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I must leave now. So we agree about the dwarf?’

  Baji nodded stiffly. I had the impression that her face was shadowed with misgivings.

  ‘There is no going back,’ he warned her. ‘We cannot allow a dangerous criminal to roam the city. In return,’ his voice softened, ‘we will not disturb you and your companions as long as you don’t commit serious crimes. For the time being, we ask nothing else in return.’

  Ram Lal stood up and headed for the door. I had to scramble into the darkness across the lane.

  I followed Ram Lal from the safety of some distance. He had a rigid manner of walking—head still, straight shoulders, and coordinated movement of the arms in the motion of twin pendulums. He lived in a ground floor flat of a run-down, two-storeyed building. Ram Lal’s wife opened the front door, but she was immediately pushed aside by two excited children. He picked up a child in each arm and kissed them in turn. His wife stroked his back as he stepped inside. She took a step with him and then turned around to shut the door. For a moment she hesitated, her eyes, it seemed, fixed on the spot where I stood. It was unlikely that she had seen me in the shadows. I did not move. Slowly the door closed.

  Through an open window I could see a brightly lit room. Ram Lal appeared in a T-shirt and shorts, rubbing his hair with a towel. His children grabbed his hands and dragged him to a table strewn with books and papers. His wife staggered in with a pile of clothes and dumped them on a small table wedged in a corner. She ironed each piece of clothing with methodical care. Occasionally her husband turned to talk to her, but most of the time he was preoccupied with the children. The Ram Lal I watched was a different person to the policeman I knew. He laughed frequently and appeared to be relaxed. I kept visualising the man with a foot on my neck, chain-smoking and flicking ashes on my face and head.

  I crossed the lane and crouched under the open window. Audible voices. Ram Lal coaxed his daughter to learn about Ashoka’s rule in India. He was equally patient about helping his son with numbers.

  ‘I am sleepy,’ the boy protested. ‘No more.’

  ‘A few more sums,’ Ram Lal said soothingly. ‘Let’s try working with a few larger numbers. Now write, twenty-seven plus eleven, thirty-four plus nineteen, forty-one minus fifteen. Another ten minutes of work and then a story.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Have I ever broken one?’

  ‘What is it about?’

  ‘It’s a very special story,’ Ram Lal chuckled. ‘Your father’s in it.’

  ‘Tell us!’

  ‘It’s about a wicked dwarf and how I will catch him.’

  ‘Is he dangerous?’

  ‘Very dangerous.’ Ram Lal’s voice was low and sinister. ‘And sick.’

  ‘Will you kill him after he is caught?’

  The rain spat on me again. There was a flurry of movement inside. Hands reached out to close the window shutters.

  I ran to the side of the house. Peeling plaster and an unlit window. On the opposite side there was a narrow alley blocked by a brick
wall. It appeared to be too high and slippery for me to climb over. Suddenly there was a light. I scratched my arms and legs on the jagged edges of the bricks. Vamana’s story. And I couldn’t listen. Did he have the talent to turn me into a worthy adversary? Or was I destined to enter the ranks of gutter villains—brutal, devoid of feelings, incapable of dreaming and without any understanding of beauty? I felt cheated, deprived and angry. I had made plans about Ram Lal’s flat. Now they had to be forgotten. I had seen his children and glimpsed him as a father. I had some thinking ahead of me.

  I didn’t deliberately head towards Meena’s home. I had no fixed destination in mind. I was too busy grappling with an unanswerable question. Will you kill him after he is caught? Would he try? I wanted to ask him myself and goad him into a reply. I became agitated. Shadows chased each other through empty streets. They merged and then separated. A wolf howled at the end of the hunt. The moon grieved behind a fluff of cloud. What was the conclusion of Ram Lal’s story?

  I walked purposelessly, preoccupied with betrayals and the harm they caused. I was not surprised by Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers. The years we had spent together shrivelled into a few unsentimental memories. It was an arrangement of convenience. They were efficient at their jobs, and I added an unusual variety to mould us into a successful team of pickpockets. It occurred to me that our lack of commonality and disinterest in each other was actually a binding force. I couldn’t remember an occasion when we had squabbled over our efforts or what we had gained from our ventures.

  Farishta…he was different. I liked him, and sometimes we spent our evenings drinking thari, smoking ganja and talking. I think he was fascinated by my ability to remember stories and by my inexhaustible creations that he found so offensive. Farishta never questioned his fate or expressed any resentment against the limitations of his circumstances. Meaning and purpose had no place in his scheme of thinking. He was a poor man and a thief, destined to die one day. One day. That was the only vague landmark in the misty landscape of his life. Mortality did not bother him. Poverty had no effect on his thinking. His mind was overwhelmed by the sheer privilege of being alive. He was unnerved by my railings against life and my rebellion against the impositions of a world that was not prepared to accept me, even if I conformed to its arbitrary rules. He treated my mode of thinking as if it were a disease that might infect him and jeopardise the arrangement of his universe.

  ‘Why are you so angry?’ he asked me one day. ‘What are you fighting against?’

  ‘Whatever each day brings.’

  ‘Fate cannot be influenced.’

  ‘Quite possibly. But that I make an effort makes me feel grand and strong. Sometimes I stand between the railway line and the mango tree at night and look up at the stars. I shout abuses into space and say all that I think is unfair about life. There is, of course, no response, beyond the occasional howls of sleepless dogs. But I like to think that the silence is not one of indifference but of guilt and failure. It makes me feel as though my complaints have been registered, that someone has listened and acknowledged the validity of my anger. I feel good about that. I know that the next day will bring no relief. Nothing will change. I shall wake up to the stench of garbage and the sounds of men coughing and children crying. But for that moment, when the stars appear to shiver in fear of my anger, I am satisfied.’

  ‘You are a strange person,’ Farishta murmured. ‘You say things that are beyond my understanding. Why do you spend so much of your time seeking failure?’

  I think I managed a bland smile.

  As I walked, I transformed most of my acquaintances into mortal enemies—vile creatures with talons and fangs, long, snaky tongues and hideous features. I battled with the image of Baji. I was still in a state of mild shock after seeing Ram Lal having dinner with her. She must have determined that revenge was justified. I could not deny that some form of punitive action was well deserved. But to collaborate with Ram Lal…

  I arrived before I knew where I was. I stood under the streetlight, staring at the building across the lane. She was probably asleep under a mosquito net, naked under a thin sheet. A film of perspiration moistened her breasts. What were her dreams? Did she wander across other lands, stopping to talk to strange men? Did she ever come across me in her travels? Could a woman ever sense the intensity of a man’s desire for her? She might recognise the intention in his eyes, but could she possibly know about the fierce heat in his loins?

  I looked up towards the window. A gaping darkness teased me with infinite possibilities. Perhaps I could crawl up a pipe or climb a ladder to reach her. The urge to be close to Meena built up like a storm. I could feel a force trampling over caution. My head throbbed, and my vision blurred. Sleep. Rest would calm me down. I thought I might sit on the floor with my head leaning on her door.

  I crossed the lane and went in. Just inside the entrance, a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. I crept up the steps. There were inexplicable shadows. Restless, changing shapes. Was that a noise? I paused to listen. Only the mischievous play of a tired mind. There it was again! Someone in pain. More steps. I saw the shape of my darkness grow and move against a wall. The beginning of a familiar roar of the sea grew in my ears.

  They stood near the door of her flat. Clothes rustled. Did I hear Meena crying?

  ‘I do love you,’ he whispered, ‘but my parents won’t hear of a marriage to a widow.’

  I moved closer.

  ‘You could have told me before we…Are you tired of me?’

  ‘Not really…’ He hesitated. ‘But we are nearly the same age. And that can be a problem. I must respect my parents’ wishes.’

  She turned to go back inside.

  Why, Meena? Why did you run away? I offered you a shelter. No betrayal.

  There can be no reason for such a desire.

  Doesn’t love mean anything?

  I never said I loved you.

  Is fidelity too much to ask in return for what I have done? Remember the risks I took to rescue you? Why have you treated me so treacherously? What have I done to make you believe that we are enemies?

  The enemy is inside your head.

  I could not remember the last time I had cried.

  The knife was a heavy burden in my hands. I raised it and brought it down repeatedly, plunging and slashing. I felt powerful as Dilip fell. My hands were sticky and wet. His blood. Through a haze I heard Meena’s cry for help. I turned and calmly made my way down the stairs.

  I found a tap in a street corner. I washed my hands, feet, my entire body. I buried the knife under a pile of garbage.

  A faint breeze stirred desire and confusion. I dozed under a tree in the company of ghoulish creatures. A white serpent slithered around me. I have nothing inside. It appeared not to listen and entered the hollowness like a giant sword. The days and years were all one moment. The seasons had rotted and lay in a crumpled heap. What were these darkened streets crowded with the accusations of an overbearing silence? Who lit the flames inside my head? Was my life nothing but a pause after an unintentional mistake? Then I heard her screams. The penance of eternity would not silence them. That was my hand rising in the immensity of the night. My voice. Let me add to the stories of jealous love. Eager demons scrambled around me. Even in their ferocity they looked sad. Yes, tell us about ourselves…

  A clear morning was sobered by the lingering regret of hellish remembrance. I had enough money for tea and a slice of bread. Curiosity (or was it perverse vanity?) was too powerful a force to resist. I made my way back to the lane. Nothing unusual. An ordinary sight on an ordinary morning. The noises of an overcrowded city. Rattling carts and beeping horns. Pedestrians on their way to work. Idle children and stray animals.

  Cautiously I peeked around a bend. Further down, where Meena lived, a part of the lane was cordoned off with ropes. A police van was parked nearby. Two policemen stood at the entrance of the building, waving away inquisitive strangers. I did not doubt that eventually Ram Lal would visit Meena. C
ould it be that at this moment he was with her inside, listening to her lies?

  A lunatic! Her eyes would widen with fear. A madman had chased the stranger and stabbed him as he sought refuge inside the building. The noise had brought her out. No, she didn’t know the victim.

  Did she have a clear view of the offender?

  A shudder and a timely pause. Yes…a dwarf. Someone she knew. A casual servant she had occasionally employed to help her with the shopping. Eeks! Such an ugly creature! Compassion had misguided her. He was dishonest with petty cash. He stole fruits and vegetables.

  Was she certain that she had recognised him? What was he wearing? Could she describe him?

  I imagined the look on Ram Lal’s face. A mask of professional curiosity slid into place. But behind the façade, the eagerness…the hatred…the thrill of closing in. A few words of consolation. He sympathised with her traumas. Would she consider testifying against the midget? The police were willing to guarantee her safety. Oh, the midget would soon be in custody. Could she think it over? A pause and then a faint, cold smile. Furrowed eyebrows. An expression of puzzlement. There were certain inexplicable factors the police would have to investigate. A piercing stare. The man was found partly naked. There were blood stains on his trousers. Why was he without a shirt? His clothes had been examined. This was a delicate matter, but there was other evidence on him…He was a stranger? Or did she have some intimate knowledge of him?

  Splendid! He knew she was a law-abiding citizen. Her safety and anonymity were assured. He would be in touch. No, he didn’t care about marginal details. Such personal concerns didn’t interest him. Superfluous matters, incidentals unworthy of any further investigation, unless…All settled, then. Her cooperation was appreciated. The stranger? Serious wounds to his arms, legs and buttocks. Serious enough for surgery. A few weeks in hospital. He would hobble around on crutches for a while. Nothing too rigorous for quite some time, if she knew what he meant. No questions?

  I waited. Ram Lal didn’t appear. Two other policemen replaced the men on duty. The ropes were removed and the van driven away.