The old woman, who had been sitting on her haunches, paddled up, frog-like, to the cot. Her bony, black and spidery hands sank into Sujata’s fat arms. She smiled as she began to knead Sujata’s flesh as if it was dough for making chappatis.
‘What is wrong with you today. Go! Do what I said.’
Daadi raised her hands penitently. She continued with her massage.
‘Bus! I told you, enough. Anyway, it’s time you went. Take the boy and go. You can sort the lentils and rice tomorrow. One more thing. Don’t let Bal play with dogs. Dogs here are mad. They’ll bite him. Then he’ll go mad also.’
‘Malkin, there are no dogs or cats in the village.’
‘One or two wild ones have been seen. God knows where they come from. Billu, our watchman, has been told to drive them away and keep watch by the shut gate at night. They sneak in, I suppose. Can’t stop them. Specially cats. I hate cats.’
‘What about monkeys and rats?’
‘You’re joking! Monkeys are sacred. Rats too, though we kill them. Arrey, what’s all this giggling? Get out! Go, go, before I lose my temper.’
Chapter Two
Jaswant Singh, the village herdsman, was a tall, thin man with blood-shot eyes. He was seldom seen without his large, bright red turban, which consisted of many yards of thin twisted muslin, giving it a rope-like appearance. He carried a stout staff, at the top end of which were tied, like a bunch of grapes, shiny brass cattle bells. Early every morning he entered the village to collect goats, sheep and cattle, from homes that had hired his services, and would shake his staff as he went from one end of the village to the other, punctuating the jingle-jangle of the bells with full-throated farm animal calls. The bells signalled his employers to free their animals from their briars, while the calls were for the animals. They responded with excited bleats and moos and, without much coaxing, meekly followed him into the low hills beyond the River Kunti. At the rear of this procession was thirteen-year-old Asif, expertly mimicking Jaswant’s calls, while the occasional knock on the ground of his bamboo staff, kept the straying animals in check.
On this particular morning, Bal and the old Bhil woman stood by, watching and staring with sheer wonder at the gathering and flow of animal life.
‘Arrey! Asif!’ The woman called above the noise of the melee. ‘This is the boy. Here, take him with you. He is not yet seven years old but he’s big for his age. Look after him. Does he need a danda like the one you have got?’
Asif glanced at his staff, which now he carried across his shoulders with studied nonchalance. ‘I’ll make him one,’ he called back, ‘a small one, when we get there,’ and coming up to them he took Bal’s hand and drew him alongside.
‘Mind, you take good care of him.’
‘Don’t worry, Daadi, he’ll be all right. I shall be an elder brother to him.’
‘Good. Then I’ll keep my promise. I’ll feed you; and you can sleep in my jhoopri, with him. Here take this. Lunch for you both; bread, pickles and an onion to share.’
Asif’s mouth began to water. Daadi’s lime and mango pickles were famous in the village and earned her a useful income. He also knew that she was an excellent cook, and the memory of the brinjal curry that Bal once shared with him, made his tummy rumble. Of course, Daadi did not know that Asif had tasted her cooking nor was she aware that the two village orphans were already firm friends, who had met secretly during many hot afternoons, while the adult world took a restful break from their morning labours. Bal, who had started to admire Asif’s physical agility, listened avidly to his wild stories, marvelling at Asif’s cheek, resourcefulness and self-confidence. Once, at their secret hide-out behind a disused shrine, under an old spreading banyan tree, they sat together, peeling and chewing sugarcane, which Asif had foraged from the fields, till the sticky, sweet juice made them retch. At another meeting at that same secret rendezvous, Asif roasted two bunches of green gram over a makeshift fire, sharing that loot with his new friend. He wouldn’t say how or where he acquired his plunder and though Bal begged to be his accomplice in any future raiding expedition, he refused. ‘No, you’re too young. You’ll get caught and then they’ll catch me also. I’ve got a hungry mouth to feed: mine. I don’t want to starve. You’ve got someone to feed you. I have no one. Sometimes, when I’m hungry, I have to beg for food. I hate doing that. I’m no robber. I take no more than I need.’ Bal asked if Asif went to the temple, as he did, on feast days, when the priests distributed puris and semolina halva. ‘Asif, it’s free; and it is good and tasty.’ The older boy shook his head. He explained why he couldn’t. ‘Most people here are Hindus. The priests give food that has been offered to their idols. I’m Muslim. That food is forbidden to us.’ When Bal asked: ‘What’s Muslim?’ Asif scratched his head and after some fruitless thought, solemnly replied: ‘Muslim is not Hindu. My name, Asif, is Muslim name.’ But Bal insisted Asif went to the temple. ‘When they give out food, the priests won’t refuse you.’ Asif shook his head again. ‘They know I’m Muslim. I was not found, like you, for anyone to claim. My father left me with the butcher, Abdul. I cried. I was four, but I remember crying. I never saw my father again. Soon I realised Abdul’s family were angry with my father for leaving me with them and for not returning to collect me. Abdul felt he had to give me a home, but his wife was against it. So he took me to old Hamid, our water carrier’s father, who told me stories of the great prophet and taught me that Muslims must never enter Hindu temples. He did not live long and I was taken to the headman, who declared I was an orphan and made me work with Baba Jaswant Singh. I can show you the difference between a Muslim and a Hindu.’ Asif felt under his shirt and undid the knot that held up his check, kilt-like langothi. ‘Look,’ he said. Bal stared intently at his penis. ‘This means,’ Asif said, pointing to his circumcision, ‘I’m Muslim. Let me see yours.’ In the dark of Asif’s hideout they peered at each other’s penises till an inner stirring, far beyond their comprehension, made them giggle involuntarily.
Now, recalling that encounter, Asif put his arm round Bal once more and looked at him curiously. Tales and rumours had reached him too. ‘You think you’re Hindu? But you’re not, you know. So, what are you?’
Bal frowned. ‘I don’t know. Daadi is not my mother. This much I know.’
‘Of course, she’s not your mother. She is old. She’s very black. You are not.’ Asif spun his bamboo stick round his neck, and caught it neatly in both hands.
‘I have no mother…how did you do that?’
‘I’ve no mother, too. Oh, that? Easy, look!’ He caught the stick again, and this time held it in front of him horizontally above the ground and jumped over it. ‘But everybody has a mother. Women become mothers. They have babies. I know all about that too.’ He pointed to a fallen tree trunk under the shade of a neem tree. ‘Sit for a while. Jaswant is slow today. It’s burning hot. We’ll soon catch up.’
‘Tell me, Asif. Tell me about women and babies.’
Asif shook his head. ‘Not now. Some day. If people find out I told you, they’ll beat me. Grown-ups are cruel. All grown-ups want some excuse to hit and beat you. Don’t know why. And when they see a grown-up beating a child, they don’t try to stop it. “Good, they say, that’s what the boy needs.” But I don’t let them. I run away and hide and wait till they forget. It is not fair. They can do what they like.’
‘Tell me about women. How they become mothers? I won’t tell.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you. Not here. When we get out there, out in the grazing fields.’ Asif jerked his head in Jaswant’s direction. ‘When he’s asleep. I’ll tell you. Oh, look there! There. See that bull and cow…’ he giggled. ‘See what the bull is doing? Men do that to women. The same thing. Then the women have babies…same like cows.’ A strange, inexplicable excitement made Bal shiver. Asif smirked. He dug Bal in the ribs. ‘Don’t tell anyone. Kasam! Promise!’ He held his right hand to Bal and
hooked his little finger. Bal linked it with his own, tugged at it, and nodded. Asif had taught him that this ritual meant they had taken a solemn oath. ‘One evening,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll take you to Govind Singh’s hut. There’s a hole from which you can see inside. I’ll show you what he does to his wife Gauri.’
‘Govindji, who is in charge of the well at Bodi? But Gauri? I thought Gauri is his daughter. Is she not?
Asif shook his head sagely. ‘She is his wife. After he’s had his dinner, he…no, no, forget it. You’ll make a noise and then Govind Singh will thrash us. Forget it. But you’ll soon find out. It happens everywhere, all the time.’
Bal made a face and gave a philosophical shrug of his little shoulders. ‘Anyway Daadi, won’t let us. She says it is bad to peep. What people do in their own jhopri, she says, is private.’ He waved his hand dismissively.
Asif glanced at him curiously. ‘People say you’re clever. They call you: “little man”. You talk like a man, sometimes…’He yawned and stretched himself. Bal copied him. A sharp call from Jaswant made the two boys jump up.
When the herd reached the grazing grounds at the foothills north of the Kunti river, old Jaswant rested his staff against a neem tree, removed his turban to reveal a close cropped head of grey stubble, and with great care placed his turban at the base of the tree, rubbed his eyes, brushed his luxuriant, henna dyed moustache away from his full and sensuous lips, cleared his throat violently and spat. Then, looking about him with satisfaction, he stretched his arms and called out: ‘Asif! Listen, you and the boy. Keep watch. I’m resting.’ He hitched his dhoti above his knees, removed his white calico tunic, which he spread on a grassy patch under the tree and sat down on it, bare torso and cross-legged.
Bal started to walk up to him, but Asif pulled him back violently and placed a warning finger on his lips. ‘Daadi said he’ll teach me to be a herdsman,’ Bal said sullenly. ‘If I don’t go up to him, how will I learn to…’
‘I’ll teach you. Remember what I said yesterday evening? How important it is not to get on the wrong side of Jaswant Singh. He never talks. Gives orders only. Yes. He doesn’t teach. I learned by watching. He treats boys like animals. Make one mistake and he’ll prod you with his stick. That hurts. Or, he’ll pull your ears. That hurts worse. There’s nothing to being a herdsman. Watch and copy. Use your eyes. Never show fear. I know how to deal with him. He can be kind, but that’s when he will try to touch you in a way you won’t like. Keep away. He won’t chase after you if you stay away. He is old and forgetful.’
‘Where’s the boy?’ Jaswant bawled suddenly.
Asif pressed Bal down. ‘Keep low. Don’t answer. Don’t let him see you. If he asks again, I’ll speak.’ Jaswant did and Asif said: ‘I’m taking him to the gram field. I need help to keep the cattle away from destroying the crops.’
‘Good. You show him how.’
‘I will,’ Asif shouted back, ‘he’ll soon learn how. He’s a clever boy.’ Then he whispered to Bal. ‘Now watch! He’ll take his goolee, now.’
‘What’s goolee?’
Asif unwrapped his small white turban, found the end of it, undid a knot and took out a rolled up pan leaf. He opened the leaf to reveal a sticky looking small ball, the colour of molasses. ‘It’s a mixture of ground tobacco and ganja. Ganja, makes you all groggy and sleepy. I tried some once.’ He spat. ‘I was very sick.’
‘Then why have you got it?’
‘For him. When he hasn’t got any, he asks me. I give it to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he likes it. I don’t care. It knocks him out and gives me two, three hours peace.’ Asif gave a triumphant smile and from the top pocket of his soiled and torn tunic, brought out a packet of bidis. ‘These are for me.’
‘You smoke? Where did you get that?’
‘The bidi shop. I work there, some evenings, rolling bidis. I get five annas and one packet of these free. The golee I nicked. Worth the risk. When baba,’ he nodded towards old Jaswant, ‘doesn’t get his afternoon nap, he can be big trouble. He’ll call you and try to give you a chuma. A kiss.’
‘Now you’re frightening me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. He’s afraid of me. I shout at him: “Any funny tricks and I’ll tell the whole village you’re a gandoo!” That is someone who likes boys. He wouldn’t want that.’ Looking away, he added: ‘Do you think he heard me?’
Bal shook his head. ‘No, he’s sitting very still. His eyes are shut.’
‘Hindus don’t like to be accused of doing dirty things to boys.’ Asif, who was sitting frog-like on his haunches, scratched his chest through a hole in his tunic. Then he put a leaf brown bidi between his teeth and lit it with a match that needed several strikes before it flared. ‘Why are you staring like that? Oh, look! He’s chewing his golee.’
‘Can I have a bidi?’ Bal asked, tapping Asif’s elbow.
Asif stubbed his bidi in the earth and stood up. He shook his head. ‘No, Bal. I am supposed to take care of you. I promised Daadi. Smoking is bad.’ He sighed. ‘You know, I’ve said this before. You have beautiful eyes. When you look at me, like that, I could kiss you.’ Asif laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t. I’m no gandoo.’ He sat down again. ‘I’m hungry. I dream of food. Also of Malti. It matters little to me, whom she marries’
‘Malti? What’s that about? Is she…’
‘Yes, little Malti, The Bidiwalla’s daughter.’
‘The man who makes and sells the bidis you were smoking?’
Asif nodded. ‘Once she brought me some mango pickle rolled up in a puri. So I pulled her and gave her a big kiss on the mouth. Then I got scared. I thought I’ll be in trouble the next day. But she didn’t tell her father.’
‘But she’s older than you?’
‘She passed by me many times as I sat rolling bidis. Looking angry at me and tossing her head like this, all the time. You’ve seen her? She’s pretty. Then, when her father wasn’t looking, she gave me a big kick.’
‘Why?’
‘That was three weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘I have. I was with Daadi. She came with her mother to see Sujata maami. Yes, I remember now. There was talk about her getting married. That’s why they came. My Maami gave her a present of a sari and five rupees.’
‘Anyway, don’t talk about that kiss. Secret, okay.’ He watched Bal trying to undo the knot of his food bundle. ‘What are you doing? No, not now. After, baba’s goes to sleep. I’ll show you a nice place. Where there is shade and a small spring. We’ll eat there. Not long now.’ Asif picked up a stone and flung it with unerring aim at a dwarf date palm. The stone struck it with a thud. ‘That tree is dead,’ he declared.
‘If he sleeps now, when does he eat? He must eat during the day?’
‘Don’t let him hear you say “he”, say “Jaswant baba” or he’ll hit you—at six every morning, he has a gourd full of buttermilk and a bowl full of cooked ground maize. At six in the evening his wife gives him the same. Jaswant Baba tells me that it the best food in the world. That it makes you strong. He eats nothing in the middle of the day. But when he gets up from his afternoon rest, he has a drink. Fresh milk. He takes it from one of the cows. Yes, he fills his gourd—that yellow thing tied…I haven’t seen it today…it’s usually tied to his belt. Baba maybe old but he’s strong. All that stolen milk…’ Asif giggled. ‘No one finds out. He never takes it from the same cow. But don’t talk about this to anyone…or anything I tell you.’
‘Is he really old? How old?’
‘Seventy, eighty.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Not long…there, I told you. He’s out. Asleep now. Let’s go. Follow me.’
As they set out together, the bleating of sheep could be heard in the distance, and the whooping of the hoopoe bird seemed to come from nowhere.
The day was fresh, and the September landscape, following the rainy season, showed patches of green among the rocks and sandy soil. The hot afternoon sun emphasized the fragility of the greenery, which in a fortnight would turn yellow again.
‘You walk too fast,’ Bal complained. He stopped to adjust the strap of his sandal.
Asif turned and waited. He stood like a stork on one leg, leaning on his staff and resting the sole of his left foot against his right knee. ‘Leave it, the strap’s broken.’
‘You’re barefoot! Don’t you have sandals?’
‘Arrey, yes. Can’t you see? Round my neck. Yours have old tyre soles. These are leather, all leather. I wear them only when I have to. Watch out, near that babul tree there’ll be thorns. Later today, give me your sandals. I’ll get them mended. Mochee, the village cobbler, is my friend. I do him many favours.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Swear, I mean it, I’ll prove it.’
They shared their lunch and when they had finished, Asif took the boy to the far end of a field, where by a kirkar or thorny mimosa tree were three carefully placed rocks. Asif pointed to them. Then he knelt on the ground and lifted the largest rock. A bubbling trickle of water issued. ‘Nobody, not even Jaswant babu, knows about this spring. This is my secret. This is clean fresh spring water.’ He lifted the other rocks, releasing a gush of water. ‘There, make a cup of your hands like this. Tight. Scoop the water, like this. Now drink. I don’t let the cattle come here. See that pool lower down, away from the river? That is where they drink. They know where to go. On their own. The new ones follow them.’
A low whistle in the distance gave Bal a start. ‘What is that?’
Asif did not answer immediately. He bent down, drank deeply off the spring, then removing his small turban, wet his hands and passed them through his thick jet black hair. ‘That’s the 2-down, going to Bombay.’
Another low but prolonged whistle blew over the fields and a long trail of smoke above a row of dark green cactus revealed the location of the moving train. ‘It would take us less than ten minutes to get there,’ Asif said thoughtfully. ‘It’s so near. Those low bunds, field boundaries, are strong mud walls. You can run on them; zig-zag up to the railway.’ He slumped down heavily against the gnarled roots of the acacia tree. ‘Only ten minutes away from freedom,’ he sighed and covered his face in his hands.
In the Shadow of a Dream Page 4
