The Storyteller

by Adib Khan

  ‘It’s been some time since I’ve seen you.’

  ‘The last time you were here, there was a near riot,’ he reminded me. ‘Your stories create more mischief than all the deos in the universe.’

  I remembered how quickly the crowd had turned nasty after I’d narrated a story about a Brahmin girl’s marriage to an untouchable. Narayan had hidden me in a basket, covering me with leaves and branches. Later he pulled me out and fed me.

  ‘How’s the bustee?’ Narayan lived there once, making a living by stealing flowers and selling them on street corners. He saved like a miser and eventually went into business for himself. Even then I suspected that half of his morning’s stock was from private gardens raided during the previous night.

  ‘It’s been pulled down.’

  He took the news indifferently. ‘That’s been the story of this city.’ He looked at me warily. ‘What sort of trouble are you in now?’

  I shook my head in a firm denial. ‘I just want some flowers.’

  He looked around and then pointed to several baskets behind him. ‘Yesterday’s pick. Half price. Help yourself to a bunch or two.’

  ‘I want the freshest and the best you have.’

  His mouth opened and his eyes narrowed into slits. A dark suspicion fermented behind them. Narayan behaved as if he knew I was up to some trickery. ‘They are not cheap. Soon uniformed drivers from hotels and servants of the rich will arrive and buy them by the basketful. Cannas, roses, marigolds, dahlias.’ He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. ‘Cash! They pay before they even touch a basket.’

  He gasped in disbelief when he saw the money in my hand. He massaged his face and stood up. ‘Chai!’ Narayan snapped at the boy. ‘Now! And two plates of puris.’ He turned to me with a note of respect in his voice. ‘One or two baskets? A mixture of flowers?’

  I felt slightly giddy. ‘The entire lot. Can you arrange a cart and have them delivered?’

  With a crooked index finger he counted the baskets. ‘All?’ He counted them again. ‘Of course! As much as you like! The people from the hotels will have to go to my cousin and pay a higher price. He’s greedy, you know. I must charge you for the delivery, plus a baksheesh for the fellow with the cart.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said indulgently. ‘Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Are you working for someone rich, Vamana?’ I detected a tinge of jealousy in Narayan’s voice. ‘Is it a marriage or a birthday celebration?’

  ‘Someone’s wish is being fulfilled. How much?’ We negotiated a price. ‘It’s for someone who has already been cremated,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Very noble, very noble,’ he muttered. Narayan licked his thumb and continued to count the money.

  ‘I still think you are charging too much.’

  ‘First-class marigolds and cannas,’ he assured me, ‘picked at dawn when they are touched by dew and at their freshest. Where shall I send them?’

  We made the arrangement and ate breakfast.

  ‘That will be another twelve rupees,’ Narayan concluded, ‘for your food. I will pay for my own, if you please.’

  Foamy grey clouds had gathered over the city and killed the earlier promise of a calm day. A storm boomed in the distance. Jagged lines of lightning threatened to split the sky. Vultures and eagles whorled in the air, and the normally listless pedestrians hurried to their destinations. The rain fell heavily. Roads flooded and vehicles were stranded. I was forced to find shelter near the walls of Salimgarh. The storm behaved like a maniac, venting its destructive madness on a helpless city, until it exhausted itself. The empty clouds moved on. The sky cleared rapidly. A radiant sun emerged from hiding, displacing the tyranny of the storm.

  The sadhus on the roadside looked disconsolate after the rain had disrupted their meditation. Their chillums were wet, and their portable kerosene stoves would not ignite. I stopped to ask for the way to Nigambodh Ghat and was soundly abused. One sadhu, with a flourishing white beard, pointed vaguely in the direction I was headed.

  Farishta was waiting in the pavilion when I reached the cremation ground. He was agitated, walking around in little circles and kicking the ground.

  ‘This is madness,’ he complained, running his hands through his wet hair. ‘Others have been cremated here after Chaman.’

  There were hardly any ashes over the stone hearth. Lumps of charcoal and smashed flowers. Bits of broken clay pots. The only other people in the vicinity were sweepers scrounging among the remains, moving systematically from one pavilion to the next. We waited for the cart to arrive. Farishta tapped his toes impatiently and refused to look at me. Greed, rather than the memory of Chaman, had dragged him back to the cremation ground.

  ‘Do you feel her loss?’ I asked savagely.

  ‘It has passed,’ Farishta replied sullenly. ‘I have to think of myself now.’ He reminded me about the expenses he had incurred in his new accommodation. A month’s rent in advance. Payment for a few necessities—a straw mat, a kerosene stove, a cooking utensil, a monthly contribution to the bustee’s only man with a television set, some clothes and a trunk. ‘I deserve a little comfort,’ he said defiantly. ‘I am nearly forty years old. My fingers are no longer flexible. I cannot run fast and my back hurts. I don’t want to live as a thief any more. What?’

  I stared at him. He was now a stranger who had quickly adapted himself to a new way of life. The entire burden of change fell heavily on me. Circumstances and the deliberate decisions of others were forcing me to alter my ways. I was bewildered, lost, resentful. Meena had departed from both my worlds, and Chaman’s death was like being involved in a horrible accident. A part of me was blown away, but I was still conscious and able to see the damage and feel the hurt. The bustee had been flattened and the godown torn down. The police were pursuing me, and now Farishta had declared his intention to begin another life.

  ‘You suggested a life in Mumbai or Calcutta.’

  He shook his head grimly. ‘That was yesterday. You helped me make a decision. I shall stay here. Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet are looking for work in a factory. I shall train to be a cobbler,’ he announced proudly. ‘There’s plenty of work in the city. And you? Even if you move to another place, you won’t be able to draw a crowd to listen to your stories.’

  That angered me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘The old ways are dead. Now people want to watch stories on television. All you have to do is get one of those big eyes on the roof, and the world comes to you. Everyone wants to watch moving pictures, the way it is in the cinema. You don’t have to listen to words and imagine the scenes any more. That is hard work. It’s much more enjoyable just to watch. You feel like a rich man with many servants doing the work for you. Songs, dances, beautiful women. They are all there in front of the eyes. In colour too!’

  There was unmistakable malice in Farishta’s voice. I sensed that he wanted to say more. Like our bustee, I was destined to disappear without a trace of being embedded in the city’s long memory.

  ‘The others?’ I inquired vaguely. ‘Maybe some of us could have moved together to another bustee.’

  ‘Are you mad or what? No one waited for anyone else. Once it was known that Jhunjhun Wallah’s assistant was handing out money to those who were leaving by early afternoon, there was a rush to get out. Chaput! End of anger and all talk of resistance. No goodbyes and no time for sentiment. No one even felt cheated. Jhunjhun Wallah had promised much more. Remember?’

  A pushcart rattled its way towards us.

  ‘What’s this?’ Farishta shrieked. ‘A basket or, at most, two baskets would have been enough!’

  The two men pushing the cart thought as much. They stood there shaking their heads when I asked them to empty the baskets on the hearth. The flowers were piled high and attracted the attention of the sweepers.

  ‘Now what?’ Farishta’s eyes were glued to the money I held in my hand.

  I paid the two men an additional baksheesh. I felt warm and generous when the men smiled and thanked me. To a
nnoy Farishta, I gave them some more money. He looked devastated.

  From my satchel I brought out the incense sticks I had bought at a shop along the way to Nigambodh Ghat. Farishta helped me to shove the spindly sticks in the cracks around the hearth. I lit each one and then stepped back to watch the wisps of smoke drifting upwards. I knew Chaman was smiling at me.

  ‘Are you satisfied now?’ I said loudly, looking towards the river. Farishta’s presence did not inhibit me. ‘Is everything the way you wanted?’

  A gust of wind blew the smoke towards the Jamuna. I piled the notes and the coins on the ground and asked Farishta to count them.

  ‘Only a few hundred rupees!’

  I pocketed the coins and gave him the notes. ‘There! Go and buy yourself a better life.’

  We didn’t say goodbye or exchange lies. We used the silence to snuff out our past, just as death terminated life. He turned around and walked towards his future. Their future.

  The sweepers had moved even closer, their eyes glued on the pile of flowers. I sat on the edge of the hearth and looked at the river stirring with life. The recent rainfall had enabled it to rise. Dhobis and sadhus dotted the banks of the Jamuna. I remembered Kaka telling me that this was where Delhi began—at Nili Chattri, a little further downstream, the temple that marked the place of the Ten Horse Sacrifice. Then there was Indraprastha, waves of invaders with their own gods, much later, the Moghuls, the goras. A continual cycle of birth, destruction and rebirth.

  And the stories! One built on the other like bricks piled up to shape a building destined never to be completed. Kissas receding into a past when the mind and heart believed that man was privileged to live among the gods. I had no desire to visit the temple. I wanted to imagine it all and travel backwards to an age when gods and goddesses felt it safe to come down to earth and dabble in human affairs.

  A fresh wind stirred and the storm clouds rumbled once again. But there was no urge to leave. I felt as if the soul of the city were here, and I could claim to be one of its nourishers. I went down to the river and wet my feet. The water was black and muddy. Soon it would begin to flow smoothly again and speak to those who cared to tune in to what it had to say. The river was the most ancient of storytellers, a hoarder of tales, immortal and generous to those who sought its grace. I walked further into the water and immersed myself.

  It rained for the rest of the afternoon. When I returned to the hearth, the mound of flowers had diminished quite significantly. The sweepers had disappeared. I was reluctant to leave. I was convinced that my departure would betoken the finality of my farewell to Chaman. As long as I stayed, she was here with me in close proximity. But it didn’t seem right to keep the bottle of ashes. She had already carved a luxurious dwelling in my memory. That would suffice for both of us.

  I returned to the riverbank with the bottle. I prised open the lid and dumped the ashes in the water. For an instant, the mass of grey rocked on the water’s surface and then dispersed as a weak current moved it away. I stared into the bottle. It was like holding the world empty of all meaning. I flung it into the water as far as I could. It bobbed up and down several times and then sank with a gurgling noise.

  I cheered myself with the coins I had kept. They felt heavy in my wet pocket. There was enough to buy me a double serving of kulfi. Maybe even some kebabs and tikka.

  There was a sprinkling of elderly people when I walked into the church. Down on their knees, heads bowed, they mumbled the words that Father Daniel pronounced clearly on the altar. He did not notice me as I slipped into the back pew. More words. Singing and chanting. Murmured words of worship. It was all very grim. But did they ever have a conversation with Jesu? Or did he avoid them because he was tired of hearing the same words spoken in an unvaried tone every day?

  ‘And may the Peace of the Lord be with you!’ Father Daniel boomed, making the sign of the cross in the air.

  ‘And with you.’

  They turned to each other and shook hands. Some embraced and kissed. Father Daniel came down and spoke to them. As they filed towards the door, someone noticed me. A woman stifled a scream. They bunched together and eyed me as if I were an exotic animal in a zoo. The women crossed themselves.

  ‘I am not Jesu,’ I assured them.

  ‘Ah, Vamana!’ A smile of recognition broke through the worried look on Father Daniel’s face. ‘You frightened everyone.’ He held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘It’s all right. Everything is fine. Vamana’s harmless.’ He spoke calmly and ushered them to the entrance.

  There were lingering looks over shoulders. A few whispers. Father Daniel went out with them and shut the doors behind him. After some time he returned and called my name several times. I acknowledged him from the front pew.

  ‘There you are! I thought you might have left through the side door. Do you know what old Mrs Watt said when she saw you? “There’s a devil inside the church!”’ He chuckled. ‘What can I do for you today?’

  I asked him if I could spend a few moments by myself, talking to Jesu. He looked startled and started to say something.

  ‘It won’t take very long. I must ask him an important question.’

  He looked at me warily before nodding. ‘But don’t go up to…’ He didn’t complete what he wanted to say. Instead, he turned and left.

  I sat under the cross. Jesu appeared as soon as I closed my eyes. He spoke first.

  I have never seen you looking so sad.

  That’s because someone died.

  I know. And you loved her.

  Is she…Is there a chance that Chaman is alive in some way in another place?

  Humans must not know everything. They would not survive if they did. Curiosity would wither away. The mind would cease to seek. And then what would someone like you do?

  Just this once, Jesu. Please!

  You must find out for yourself.

  How?

  That is an unworthy question. Use the powers you have.

  But I have none!

  You are being lazy. Create her as she was. Believe without knowing. Visit her.

  But that is unsatisfactory. I want more than what the mind can offer. I want what is real!

  Is this conversation real? Am I?

  ‘Vamana?’ Father Daniel’s voice sliced into my consciousness. ‘Are you all right? You were talking to yourself. How do you manage to speak with such different voices? Can you come down, please?’

  The interruption was most untimely. I controlled myself. ‘That was Jesu.’

  ‘Of course. He never fails those with serious intentions. And did he convince you of the virtues of the Christian way of living? Did he answer your questions? Has he brought hope into your life?’

  I glimpsed the smile he tried to contain.

  ‘He does not give me the answers I would like to hear.’

  ‘Did you ask him the right questions? That is most important.’

  ‘Sometimes he answers my questions with his own questions.’

  ‘That is the mystery of religion. Its eternal fascination,’ Father Daniel sighed. ‘There is meaning in wonderment and speculation. God’s ways are complicated.’

  I must have looked unconvinced and disappointed. He offered me food. I said I wasn’t hungry and left the girja. I didn’t think I would speak to Jesu again.

  17

  A death wish lurking

  There was a procession of workers on ring road. I joined the demonstrators who had attended a meeting to protest against their working conditions. Textile workers, people employed in the steel and iron foundries, field workers, craftsmen, sweetmakers, cobblers and government employees carried placards and banners that proclaimed their grievances in several languages.

  ‘And which industry are you from?’ A man in a black T-shirt and white trousers startled me.

  ‘Entertainment,’ I replied nervously. I had just extracted a box of matches from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Do you like working in the circus?’

  ‘
I am a storyteller.’

  ‘But in the circus, surely?’

  ‘No, I work on my own.’

  ‘Do you make much money?’

  ‘I am unemployed at the moment.’

  ‘Oh. So what are you protesting against?’

  ‘The police.’

  The man stared at me and made a strange noise. It sounded like a snorting horse. He looked nervously to either side of him and then walked forward rapidly to join those in front of the procession.

  I slowed down and slipped behind the workers who appeared to be unmindful of what was around them. A woman in a white sari dragged herself on weary feet, complaining loudly about the noise and the lack of discipline among her younger fellow workers. There were three men immediately in front of her, laughing and chattering, shouting the odd slogan against governmental corruption and the exploitation of employees by greedy men. Further to the right, an old man puffed on a cigarette and read from a pamphlet to an attentive companion.

  Frustrated with failure, I slackened my pace even further and dropped behind the marchers. Besides the box of matches, my efforts had yielded an empty coin purse, a rusty pocketknife, two rupees, a crumpled letter, a packet of condoms and a small notebook.

  I did not return to Manu’s shop. The sky had cleared. A pleasant breeze tempted me to lie under a tree. The ground was damp and felt cool against my skin. I could not bear returning to the emptiness of the field where the bustee had been. I envisaged the barrenness. My past had been pounded and shovelled into heaps of debris. Memory would defiantly rebuild all that there was. In the silent murkiness, my life would continue to flourish without unpleasant disruptions. I had the power to restore Chaman to her youth. Perhaps Jesu had been right after all.

  Tiredness flowed through my limbs. My senses felt drugged. There was no pain. Only a delicious sensation of drifting. I floated on the water of the Jamuna…

  Who was this dark-skinned woman standing on a pile of stone blocks? She beckoned me. I crossed the river to reach the opposite bank. I noticed that she had huge hands.