The Storyteller

by Adib Khan

  At the church, I hesitated near the door. Would Jesu appear to chastise me about my behaviour? I would apologise and then ask him where Meena lived. Jesu could tell me. He knew everything. Everything. He was capable of turning water into sharab, calming storms, healing lepers, restoring sight to the blind, bringing the dead back to life, feeding a huge crowd with a meagre supply of food, walking on water. That’s what Father Daniel said, his face livid with rage after I asserted that Jesu was great because others told stories about him. Could Jesu make me tall? I had asked seriously, contemplating the nature of miracles. In my mind, that would have been easier than bringing the dead back to life. Father Daniel was goaded into expressions of greater fury.

  It occurred to me that Jesu had been evasive on any matter even remotely connected with women. He was likely to say that Meena was in the same world as I, or, pressed further, that we lived in the same city. But my serious concern was the embarrassment I would have to endure if he asked whether I had any new stories to tell. Would he understand the grief at my incapacity to create? What was I to say? Jesu, I have lost my sight. I am blind inside. The sap has dried up and now there is barrenness within me. Can you turn it into the landscape I once possessed? Whenever I had asked for help, he had said nothing but looked at me with sad eyes. That was a torment worse than a police beating.

  What has happened now? Can these fellows do anything efficiently? There is a loud bang. The van shakes and then becomes motionless. They have opened the doors. There are voices locked in accusation and attribution of blame. Now I can hear them distinctly.

  ‘Here?’ A tone of shock at what might be an absurd suggestion. ‘It can’t be done here. It’s too close to the road. We must find another place.’

  ‘But we have already dug a hole. It won’t take long.’

  ‘This place crawls with college students! They come here for their nightly business.’

  A nervous laugh.

  ‘Enough! This will have to do. There is little time. We have to push the van back all the way.’

  There are hands on my head, my face. I am dragged out and made to walk. The blindfold is removed. I am grabbed by the neck. Judging by the uncluttered view of the stars, I think we are in an open field.

  ‘Baas!’ A voice cracks sharply.

  A stick whacks me on the back of the legs. My knees buckle and I fall to the ground.

  ‘No! We cannot.’

  ‘Vikram has gone back for the shovels.’

  Whispers, tantalisingly beyond hearing.

  My indiscretion (or was it vanity?) has been my undoing. But is it entirely my fault? Shameful treachery! Hideous, unforgivable, wicked betrayal! The bastard son of greed and darkness. Betrayal—the scourge of man. It is everywhere. Just ask Jesu.

  My betrayer’s face floats past me. Sly, smiling, without a hint of remorse. I can see again. Grey, black and smudges of white. A wheel begins to crank inside me. There is a surge of thrill as images begin to assemble slowly. They waver but do not dissolve in the fading darkness. Slowly I focus them. The thrill of revival is tempered by my recollections of the final hours with him. I hugged the shadows and followed him to a street corner. ‘A business meeting,’ he had said. ‘It won’t take long.’ There was another man. A brief conversation. Heads nodded in mutual agreement. An envelope exchanged hands. A handshake. Manu looked to either side and then began to walk briskly. I felt ashamed for being suspicious…

  ‘There are all kinds of stories about you in the bazaars.’ Manu grinned.

  I detected a touch of awed admiration in his voice. I refrained from an instant response. The pause made him look at me. He shifted uneasily on the stool.

  ‘Who? What are they saying?’ My pulse quickened. Recognition, at last. Fame and adulation to follow. Was I destined for greatness after all?

  Dressed in white, I rode in a car. Elegant waves to the chanting masses. A casual flick of the wrist, and the garlands were tossed into the crowd. Roars of appreciation. Handclaps. I requested that we stop. Handshakes for adults and kisses for children.

  Vamana! Vamana! Va…ma…na! Creator of worlds! Master of minds! Emperor of words!

  ‘Interesting stories. I heard one today.’ Manu was being irritatingly coy.

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘We could go tomorrow or the next day and listen. Imagine hearing about yourself! Being a part of Delhi’s history!’

  ‘Was I praised?’ I asked apprehensively.

  ‘Most flattering, I can assure you.’

  What might they say about me in the future? Would I be elevated to the status of a vazir or an ageing emperor? A general with the gift of planning and executing brilliant martial strategies? Hah! Would someone, with a bold imagination, reinvent me as a hero of awesome proportions? Vamana—the warrior, poet, storyteller and lover?

  ‘Shall we go?’

  I needed no further incentive. My body was covered with goose pimples. Oh, the thrill of it! Stories about the storyteller. It sounded as pleasurable and intense as fondling a woman’s breasts or stroking the crotch of a young male. Oooh! The steamy gush of pleasure!

  It was a pleasant morning with a hint of winter’s chill. I enjoyed a huge breakfast and then sat outside the shop, feeling bloated and sluggish. Manu was anxious to leave. There was a certain nervousness about his movements that I can now recall. His hands shook and he walked around nervously inside the shop. He avoided looking at me. The young boy, who assisted him in the shop, was yelled at and smacked on the head for dropping a kite. We walked to a small bazaar and wandered through the dusty walkways.

  ‘He was here yesterday,’ Manu mumbled. His eyes darted everywhere.

  The preoccupation with myself prevented me from asking why he felt it necessary to mumble in an overcrowded cauldron of noise. I was envious, curious, angry and excited by the man who was enjoying such success by telling people about Vamana the dwarf. Now, why hadn’t I been inventive enough to narrate stories about myself?

  They haven’t even noticed that I have picked myself up from the edge of the ditch. I could have slipped into the night if it weren’t for the rope around my waist. The other end is tied to the wrist of one of the men. The gaoler had lied all the time. I am not to be hanged.

  The men are sitting on their haunches, gossiping—three of them, judging by the glow of their cigarette tips. Their topics of conversation are unfamiliar to me. They talk about school fees and working wives. There are complaints about housework and domestic chores that were once the exclusive domain of women.

  ‘My wife is a nurse. I don’t like her working. True, the money she earns helps us to meet our expenses.’

  ‘But the sacrifice?’

  ‘Exactly! When I come home, I see her in uniform, ready for the night shift. She writes down everything that I am expected to do and then reads it out to me. I have to warm my dinner, clean and wash, supervise the children’s homework, put them to bed…I’ll tell you, my father never had to work this way.’

  ‘Next we will wear saris at home.’

  ‘Shameful!’

  ‘My wife brings home work like an uninvited guest. If I ask her to do something, she tells me she has papers to correct and lessons to prepare for the next day. Once I lost my temper and pushed her. Nothing serious. And what did she do? Packed up and huffed off to live with her parents. “I can support myself,” she said. “I am not dependent on you.” It was several months before she returned, and that too only after I pleaded with her.’

  ‘I am less fortunate than both of you. My wife had to give up her job as a shop assistant to take care of our retarded son. We will have to look after him as long as we are alive. After that…it’s in Bhagwan’s hands. We don’t know what will happen to him.’

  Ungrateful wretches! They talk as if familial life is a curse to be endured. They should live in my body and experience the perpetual coldness of being alone. There is no joy in a life without love. If there is a heaven, then perhaps I could request the company of a wife, a brood of childr
en and friends. Friends, did I say? Hah!

  ‘There!’ Manu cried suddenly, pointing to a masked man walking in a circle.

  He was beating a drum and attracting the attention of passers-by. A modest crowd had assembled. The man was dressed in a monkey’s costume with an absurdly long tail that trailed in the dust behind him.

  ‘Aao! Aao! Aao!’ the monkey-man called. ‘Listen to my tales of this city and its people.’

  An uninspiring beginning. The voice was flat and his movements were stiff. Manu nudged me to move forward.

  ‘Brothers and…’—he must have noticed the absence of females—‘more brothers! Once again, a kissa about Delhi. What else is there? The story of our city is the story of life itself.’ He paused to pass a bowl among the listeners. ‘Whatever you can, whatever you please, will be gratefully accepted.’

  A few coins clinked and the bowl rapidly made its way back to the monkey-man. I began to feel quite superior.

  ‘From Tomar Rajputs to the Chauhan Rajputs, from the Sultanate of Delhi to the great emperors, from the Angreez to what you see today, this city has been the playground of bhadshahs, the sanctuary of fakirs, the haven of poets, the inspiration of lovers, the graveyard of conquerors and the home of ordinary people like yourself and this humble narrator! As can be expected, there are as many stories about our city as there are stars in heaven. Today…’ He paused to look around him. I saw Manu moving away from me. ‘Today, I shall tell you…no, not about an emperor or a conquering villain…not about djinns or magicians…but about a storyteller. Not an ordinary human, like you or me, but a dwarf—a shrunken, miserable creature with a twisted vision of life. A midget so ugly that animals ran for shelter when they saw him. A mind so warped that it could only have been forged by the Devil. A thief, a liar and a pervert!’ The crowd murmured and inched forward. ‘If we had a museum to display the great villains of our city’s history, the dwarf would find a prominent place among the scoundrels who have plagued Delhi. His name—’

  ‘Toad! Lying vermin!’ I couldn’t help myself. To be vilified in this manner was beyond all limits of tolerance. I shouted and stomped my feet to emphasise my protest and then rushed towards him.

  A whistle blew. Hands reached out to grab me. Pandemonium. The crowd dispersed, leaving a handful of grim-faced men. The monkey-man ripped off his mask and joined the struggle to subdue me. I was flung to the ground and my hands pinned behind me.

  ‘Well done! Tie him up. Hands and legs.’

  I recognised the voice. Soon he would call Jhunjhun Wallah and claim that he had kept his promise. The echo of defeat grew louder in my ears. I closed my eyes and escaped as they bound me, pursued by the sound of Manu’s laughter.

  ‘There’s Vikram.’ There’s no enthusiasm in the voice.

  A lantern approaches.

  ‘Vikram?’

  The light is raised in acknowledgement. There is a violent tug on the rope. Unable to retain my balance, I stumble. They pounce on me. It is a short fall. My hands are free to feel the emptiness in front of me. I crawl a few paces. I rub against the granules of crumbling earth. I can hear them breathing. A sob. I raise myself on my knees.

  The dull sound of a club striking something solid. There is a sharp pain at the back of my head. I can immediately feel the swelling and hear the drums. Is that a laugh? My face aches. I cannot move my hands to touch the pain. Thudding noises of feet, as if devils are dropping from hell.

  Ripples of pain spread all over my body. Fires ignite in the darkness. I have no control over my limbs. I feel simultaneous blows to my head, back, arms and legs.

  The fools! Don’t they know that I can tunnel beyond their grasp and leave the pain behind. I close my eyes and prepare to escape. A light flashes in front of my face and then begins to recede. I am dragged back by happy noises. My entire being feels as if it has been torched. My head is hell itself. The devils are laughing. Scrambling feet.

  Is that the human sound of death? Clever, malicious death, extracting an inevitable win. Will it reveal its shape or is it the darkness itself? I am lost in a mist, suspended between what I have known and what I am able to imagine. What sights are these? I pass the moon and the wailing witches who mourn the discovery of their secrets. Now I also know. The necessary nonsense that lovers speak. I have heard such words on earth.

  Someone giggles above me. ‘Not here in the open!’

  ‘I am bursting!’

  My face feels wet. The rain has arrived swiftly and revived me. I cannot move my head.

  Another nervous giggle. ‘We can’t do it here! There may be snakes and scorpions on the ground.’

  A groan. Impatience and disappointment. If only I could spring up and surprise them. Sound a warning about the grief of bringing misfits into the world.

  My eyelids are like massive gates closing slowly to shut out the world. The darkness is not an obstacle. It is strange that as I lie in a ditch I should catch a glimpse of a mullah signalling to me. But who is this other creature in sight, hovering over me, uglier than anyone I can imagine? He has one eye on his face, the other in the nape of his neck.

  Why do you lie in this open grave?

  Who are you?

  The Angel of Death. Are you a believer or an infidel?

  Neither.

  Choose! The believer’s tomb is a verdant garden. The infidel’s is crowded with seven-headed snakes.

  Who are they behind you?

  The black angels who interrogate the dead about their faith.

  I am Mankar.

  And I am Nakir.

  But I am not dead yet. Am I?

  Possibly not.

  Know that the believer’s narrow and dark grave will become spacious and full of light.

  For the infidel, the tomb closes to crush his ribs.

  Know that on Judgement Day the graves will burst open and the dead shall rise to be led to a plateau. All creatures will gather from the seven heavens and the seven earths, with angels, djinns, and devils for company. The Heavens will be ripped open and the sky scattered. The sun will hide and mountains crumble. The seas will boil and Hell’s hungry voice will be heard in roaring fires.

  Are you a believer or an infidel?

  Neither. I choose to see the sights and hear the sounds of both places.

  Repent and believe!

  Otherwise the Pit awaits you. Know that there are several compartments of Hell. Its fire is unknown to man. It can scorch and it can freeze. The colour of fire is black. Black!

  There you will lie manacled, with fire all around you. You will be pierced by many swords, your forehead shattered, your flesh, skin and hair burned.

  But that is not the end. You will be given a new skin for the torment to begin again. There is no end. There are only the howls of devils for company. Repent!

  I should like to see the other place.

  Paradise is only for the righteous. For those who believe. The path to infinite bliss is over a bridge that stretches over the fiery Pit. It is sharper than a sword’s edge and narrower than a strand of hair.

  Show me.

  Only the upright will walk across in safety.

  Those with hardened hearts and burdened with sin will slip and fall into the Pit.

  Take me to the other side and guide me through whatever is there.

  It is not in our power to take such liberties.

  At best we can take you across and leave you near the river.

  If Hell is full of torment, then it must be also a place for stories.

  In pain the sinners cry of what could have been. They lie to forget their anguish. The devils tell of horrors that await them for the rest of eternity.

  And in Paradise?

  Angels soothe the souls.

  I am being taken beyond the brightness of stars and the darkness of space. Over and above. There is no sound or sensation of movement. We traverse barren plains and burning deserts. There is the bridge! It extends above the coils of rising smoke.

  The black angels Man
kar and Nakir drop me. As I fall, I hear the cries and the chanting. Pain gives birth to words. I forget about the fires and the stench. I want to join those who writhe in agony…

  Have you seen enough?

  They catch me and we move upwards again.

  There…the other side.

  We can go no further.

  What sounds are those that numb the mind?

  The voices of angels meant for visitors.

  We have to leave you here.

  They disappear before I can tell them about my fascination for the Pit. I wish to hear more from those in pain. Against my will I find myself walking towards the river. Someone is waiting for me…

  19

  Like a god I will descend

  An early morning. Hazy and touched by the chill of approaching winter. He lies still, eyes closed. Heaven and Hell have faded away. Raging fires and calm orchards. Agitated demons. Serene angels. Music and cacophonous sounds. Gone.

  I am somewhere in-between, he concludes. A reluctant admission.

  There is pain. A persistent drumbeat inside his head. The noise of a primitive beginning. Untouched jungles and exotic birds. Naked people copulating without guilt. Louder…louder. A tribal celebration of what the instinct grasps and whatever is beyond understanding.

  His arms, legs, chest and back feel as if they have been under a heavy roller. He is unable to curl his toes or flex his fingers. Weak sensations swim in his legs. The monstrous erection throbs and then begins to subside like a sea after high tide. His crotch feels hot and sticky. He is thirsty. There is a dryness in his mouth. An acrid taste of disappointment. He knows where he is, fixed in time and space. Mortality’s limitations gall him.