The Storyteller

by Adib Khan

  ‘I know that!’ I said sharply. ‘But can you talk to them?’

  ‘Have you ever communicated with those who are not humans?’ I admitted that I had. ‘If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be much of a storyteller. You see, in my own way, I am also a storyteller. We fabricate, add and paste whatever is missing in our lives. We imagine the outlandish and the unacceptable. We tell tales to ourselves and believe in them to bring us comfort and make us feel nobler than we are. Sometimes there is a desire to be perverse and seek what is unacceptable to the community. Often our stories help those who are afraid to imagine for themselves. We plant the seeds of their own desires in their minds, and there they germinate and grow.’

  ‘Should…’ I hesitated. ‘Should her life be extended, if possible?’

  ‘Is that your wish or hers?’

  Behind the charade was a perceptive man, maybe even a wise person. Greedy, yes. Dishonest in many ways. But blessed with the gift to see beyond what his eyes revealed. He explored and understood the yearnings of lives that languished in the dark.

  ‘Am I wrong to have such a wish?’

  ‘That you must decide. I won’t suggest that you take your friend on a pilgrimage to a saint’s tomb. But you could take some herbal medicine for her. I won’t charge you.’

  I declined the offer.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help her?’

  He nodded, a little sadly, I thought. ‘Make her feel that she is not alone. I have nothing more to say. There are others waiting for me to create new lives for them.’

  Manu was instantly by my side when I left the chamber. He was fuming at the way he had been treated. ‘And after all that I have done for him!’ He wouldn’t explain why Pagla Jan owed him any gratitude. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Strange things,’ I replied. ‘Matters without substance, but full of meaning.’

  ‘You are lying,’ he concluded decisively. ‘I can always tell when you want to avoid a question. Your answer makes no sense. Very well, I shall not ask what he suggested for Chaman.’

  He did not sulk or appear to be resentful.

  I accepted his offer to stay with him simply because I had nowhere else to go. The cemetery was the only other place of safety, but with the onset of the monsoon season there was little scope of spending restful nights there.

  ‘You will be safe,’ Manu assured me. ‘The police don’t check the loft any more. They don’t bother to climb up the creaky ladder. The fat ones are too scared. Besides, they have learned by now that I am not stupid enough to store anything up there.’

  I expressed some reservations about my irregular hours. ‘Sometimes I go out late at night.’

  Manu did not seek an explanation. ‘I will show you a way to enter and leave the shop when it is locked.’

  We stopped at a dhaba run by a friend of Manu’s and ate kebabs and mutton biryani. I felt sluggish and drowsy after the rich meal. Outside it was muggy. Dark thunderclouds massed for another onslaught on the city.

  ‘Did you know that there is a new storyteller in the bazaars?’ Manu gobbled the last of the sweetmeats and licked the syrup from his fingers. ‘A friend of mine heard him in Chandni Chowk.’

  Even in my state of contentment I felt as if needles were pricking my skin. My chest heaved and I had difficulty breathing.

  ‘He calls himself Hanuman and wears a monkey’s mask and a tail. But he couldn’t be as good as you.’

  My thoughts raced ahead to the possibilities that confronted me. There were open doors leading into unlit corridors. I couldn’t see my way clearly in any of the passages. I wavered between caution and recklessness. A hot flush of anger surged through me. It was the worst kind of opportunism I could think of. I suspected Baji. This was her revenge. One of her own was taking over.

  ‘He is careful not to reveal his face. That has aroused considerable interest. He tells the story about a dwarf, my friend tells me.’ Manu eyed me warily, as though he expected an explosive reaction. ‘Shall we go to see a film?’

  Manu’s choice was a spectacle with no shortage of heavy-bosomed girls and overweight villains. There was a colourless hero, equally at ease with guns and swords, riding horses, singing frequently and romancing two of the doe-eyed beauties when he wasn’t chasing his nefarious enemies.

  In the past, when Manu and I frequented the cinema, we sat in the front row, ate peanuts, talked and leered at the skimpily dressed heroines who gyrated their hips, displayed as much of their anatomies as they could without stripping, and sang about the true loves in their lives.

  Our limitless fantasies were set free in What if…? It was a game we played after a show had reached its inevitable conclusion with the villains either in prison or shot dead, and a loony-faced hero embracing his beloved. It was customary for me to begin the game with several suggestions before Manu ventured to join in.

  What could happen if she decides that she does not love him?

  What if he has an incurable illness?

  What if she discovers that he has weak erections?

  What if she meets a gentle, kind dwarf and falls in love with him?

  What if…? What if…?

  Once Manu realised that a story could be expanded in any direction, he joined in. It was common for us to bump off the hero at the beginning to rid ourselves of an irritating impediment to our designs on the girl. Manu and I became rivals for her favour. Near the climax we met on top of a moving train, on the edge of a cliff, on the back of a giant bird, at the bottom of the sea. There was no shortage of weapons. Swords, daggers, chains and axes. Clubs, guns or pistols. We fought until one of us was killed. Who would be victorious was a sore point of disagreement.

  Once we tried a compromise, unsuccessfully, and supposed that the heroine came between us and managed to stop the fight. Who would she choose? Who was the better man? Looks were never a consideration. We pretended that beautiful women were attracted to ugly men who were different from the image of the ideal male.

  What if she liked tiny men?

  What if she liked fat ones?

  What if she liked tiny men with big heads?

  What if she liked fat men with fingers missing from their hands?

  Well then, she would have to conclude that you couldn’t give her much pleasure in lovemaking. Her choice would be the tiny man with the big head and all his fingers!

  You trapped me unfairly there!

  Shall we begin again…?

  On this day there was no such frivolity. We walked back to the shop in silence. Manu showed me how to lift a loose flap of the tin wall at the back and enter.

  The loft was dark and musty. I slept on a straw mat in a corner. Manu lay down on a mattress and began to snore almost immediately. A short nap, I resolved. Chaman would be waiting. As for…I couldn’t bear to think of her name. She could lie where I had left her. A mild punishment for her unforgivable transgression.

  16

  Burden of change

  ‘The time approaches,’ he whispers. ‘Can you hear the sound of death?’

  Whoopee! Through the dawn air I shall fly, shrieking with delight, defiant and unrepentant. Can the memories of a lifetime be recalled in a succession of quickly moving images? How will I feel in my new clothes, with loose strands of a coir rope irritating the skin under my chin and hands tied behind my back? I shall refuse to be blindfolded. I want to see the fading stars and the silhouettes of silent trees. Why should I deny myself a final glimpse of a bruised world that insists on releasing me from this warped shell? Will they grant a last request, or am I to die a reluctant virgin?

  A gathering of men in the slaty murkiness of dawn, whispering awkwardly, discomforted by what they are about to witness. An unknown man lurks behind me, waiting to kick the stool from under my feet. What will his feelings be for the rest of the day? Will he agree to listen to a story? And then the colossal moment, loaded with uncertainty…Ta-ta!

  ‘What about the trial?’ I ask impatiently. The other two prisoners were taken awa
y earlier, perhaps yesterday.

  ‘Your name wasn’t on the court’s list.’ He laughs as if he has belatedly grasped a joke. ‘You do not exist, except in this prison. This is like an independent country within a country. We have our own rules here. It would be so simple to let you out. Don’t you wish to disappear in the night?’

  ‘No.’

  That spoils his fun.

  I am lonely. My only wish is not for human company but for the small bottle of ashes that Farishta handed to me. It was more precious than all the stories of the world. More valuable than all the money I have ever stolen. But I have no regrets about what I did with it. It was a comforting farewell to Chaman. She would have approved.

  Under a full moon it wasn’t difficult to detect the destruction caused by Jhunjhun Wallah’s thugs. A large area had been cleared and the debris piled high in several places. Parked tractors and bulldozers. They hadn’t reached the godown, but it wouldn’t be long now. I crouched behind the rubble, alert for any suspicious signs of movement. Warily, I approached the godown. The emptiness was filled with Ram Lal’s laughter. Only a matter of time before we had him. It was all too easy in the end.

  Once inside, I groped my way to Chaman’s corner. She wasn’t there. What made me panic was the bare floor. My hands searched for the mattress, the bricks and the buckled plank of wood she used as a shelf, the jars and bottles and the rusty tin trunk in the corner. Nothing. My search became more frenzied.

  ‘Vamana?’

  There was a tremble in Farishta’s voice. He rested his head on my shoulder and cried. I stroked the back of his neck and murmured words that shared his loss.

  ‘It’s not the bustee,’ he sniffled, crawling away from me.

  Suddenly I felt cold and afraid. ‘Where is Chaman?’

  He ignored my question and lit a candle. We squatted on the floor. He handed me a bottle. I shook it and held it close to the flame.

  ‘We cremated her yesterday. We didn’t know where you were.’

  Grief was the sensation of being lacerated by shattering glass. Deep incisions. A gradual build-up of pain. The awareness that life was oozing away and not caring about it.

  ‘We came back to gather our things. Chaman lay down for a nap, complaining of tiredness. That was it. She went without a sound.’

  ‘Was she in much pain?’

  ‘I cannot say. When I returned just before noon, Chaman looked frail…but cheerful. She was all dressed up. Make-up. Hair carefully brushed and tied. “Like it used to be,” she said, looking at herself in a hand mirror. We even laughed about some of the men she entertained. We ate roti and dhal. Then she lay down on her side. About an hour later she hadn’t moved. I tried to wake her. I thought she was pretending. Her face was masked in calmness.’

  A distant train. We often talked about catching it some day. A long journey to remove us from the clutches of Barey Bhai. Go north to the mountains where the air is forever clear and the streams cold and thick with sluggish fish. Find a quiet village and build our lives again. Every day would be calm and patterned, without pain or fear. We would find and share peace.

  The train was close now. A piercing whistle. Rattling wheels. I added to the discordant sounds. The walls of the godown shook, and a piece of loose tin banged against timber. I imagined the dogs barking. Then it all passed and the melancholy quietness of a new reality returned.

  ‘I have never seen you cry.’ It was an awed whisper, as though Farishta had witnessed a miracle. I pressed the bottle against my chest. ‘We took the body to Nigambodh Ghat and cremated it. Chaman never told you about the money she had saved for her funeral. It was buried in a jar in the ground between the wall and the mango tree. She gave me instructions a few days ago. You were to light the fire.’ Farishta paused and looked at me. ‘Chaman didn’t tell you about the money because she thought you might use it for yourself. She told me exactly what had to be done. At the time I laughed. Perhaps she knew how close she was to death. Two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-seven rupees.’

  ‘That much?’ I couldn’t really comprehend such a large sum of money.

  ‘Two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-seven rupees,’ he repeated slowly. ‘All to be spent on her cremation. She wanted sandalwood and the best quality ghee. Fresh flowers and incense sticks. They didn’t cost that much. I managed to save most of the money,’ Farishta boasted. ‘Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers worked that out and demanded their shares.’ He reached out with his right hand. ‘I saved some for you.’

  I ignored the offering. ‘Did you get the best of everything she requested?’

  Farishta sensed my hostility and withdrew his hand. ‘It didn’t make sense to waste so much money. She was properly cremated. In the end it’s all ashes, washed away by rain and scattered by wind. It was entirely my idea to save the ashes for you.’ He pointed to the bottle.

  ‘All of you profited from her death. It was her money, to be spent as she had wished.’

  He scratched the back of his head. I could tell that he was apprehensive about the tone of my voice. ‘She…ah…Chaman would have wanted us to be happy, don’t you think?’

  ‘The money, Farishta. I want the money you pocketed.’ I expected him to resist with a string of excuses. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had lied about spending the money or laid the blame on Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers. I must have sounded threatening. He reached meekly into his pocket and took out a roll of notes held together with two rubber bands.

  I snatched the money from him. ‘Is that all that’s left after expenses?’ I bluffed, as though I knew exactly how little he had spent on the cremation.

  ‘We had a meal afterwards. It was an expensive feed.’

  ‘There’s more money in your other pocket,’ I said casually, taking out the knife and running the blade over my chin.

  He handed me another bundle of notes without protest.

  ‘The life we knew is finished. Without Chaman…’ I said, mostly to myself.

  ‘You sound like Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet. They want nothing to do with their past here.’ He stood up and swallowed hard. ‘We could do well in another big city. Mumbai or Calcutta…Perhaps not.’

  ‘Have you found a place to live?’

  He gave me the location of a bustee on the northern outskirt of the city. ‘And you? Where will you live?’

  ‘Wherever,’ I said vaguely. ‘For some of Chaman’s money, will you show me exactly where she was cremated?’

  ‘Yes!’ He stepped back, looking embarrassed by the eagerness of his reply. ‘We could go there at sunrise.’

  ‘I have to wait until the shops open.’

  We agreed to meet at Nigambodh Ghat next day.

  ‘I could sleep here,’ Farishta suggested, ‘then leave in the morning.’

  ‘I would like to spend some time by myself.’

  Our eyes met briefly. Whatever he saw made him decide not to pursue the matter any further. He picked up a sack and headed for the door. ‘The money…’ He stopped and looked at me over his shoulder. ‘I have expenses.’

  ‘So has Chaman.’ I continued to stare at the candle flame.

  My corner of the godown remained untouched. It was possible that the spirit of Hamilton Saheb had protected my belongings. I wondered if Jhunjhun Wallah knew about the Angreez and, if he did, whether the knowledge had in any way influenced his decision to leave the godown till the very end. Perhaps some day I might return to inhabit a corner of a building that might rise here.

  I removed the covering from the top of the hole. There she lay, looking chaste in repose. Who could have thought that she was capable of such betrayal? And then to be deserted herself…I did not take out the make-up kit and the wigs. I went outside and brought back broken bits of bricks, stones and pieces of wood. I worked tirelessly until I felt there was enough. I covered her with the rubble and formed a mound that resembled a grave that the Christians or the Muslims might use to bury their dead.

  I went behind the god
own with my satchel and the bottle of ashes. I sat in my customary spot, on the lowest part of the wall, under a branch of the mango tree. A lone sentinel with the dream of a battle that could not be won.

  Vamana, you can come inside now.

  I never responded to Chaman’s call. Eventually she would come out and sit next to me. She eroded my resentment with small talk. She was chirpy, as if nothing had happened. Sometimes there were things to eat, bits of stale sweetmeats or a mango. An arm would slide across my shoulders and comfort me. She dragged me into her dreams. The sea was gentle and the sky without darkness. We planned to live among people incapable of inflicting harm on us. I told her about the songs of rivers and the tales they had to tell.

  ‘Some day,’ she would whisper. ‘Some day.’

  We sat there, often until dawn.

  The emptiness was scary. It washed over me like a cold wave and made me shiver. Under a full moon I played my flute to upset the silence. Music was the only voice that reached the dead and revived the past. Later, I slept under the tree, holding the bottle of ashes in both hands.

  The labourers arrived at sunrise. The tractors and bulldozers spurted into life. Shortly afterwards, a van arrived and unloaded several armed policemen. I sneaked away as they began to pull down the front part of the godown.

  Most of the shops in the bazaar had not opened. Sluggish shopkeepers were hauling in their stocks of fresh food for the day. The aroma of frying puris and parathas wafted in the air. Children with large brooms swept the rubbish from the shop fronts and stored them in neat piles. Narayan was sitting on a stool, surrounded by baskets of flowers, sipping tea. He looked much older and more haggard than I remembered him. A young boy bent down to scoop up handfuls of water from a bucket. With a flick of his wrist, he sprinkled the water in wide arcs and moistened the flowers.

  ‘This is an unholy sight so early in the morning.’ Narayan frowned when I greeted him. ‘I have just finished my morning’s puja. I must have forgotten a part of the ritual. The gods are not pleased with me. What is it that you want?’