A Beautiful Lie (14 page)

‘Bilal, my bapuji said something to us all the other day. Something about –’

‘Bilal,’ croaked Bapuji from the other room.

Leaving Saleem to sip his tea, I grabbed the blanket from my bed and covered Bapuji, pulling it up to his neck. He woke suddenly and smiled at seeing me.

‘I was still dreaming,’ he said.

‘You’re always dreaming, Bapuji,’ I replied, chuckling.

‘Not always – nowadays I sleep more than anything.’

Propping him up on a pillow, I handed Bapuji his steaming hot tea. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the bamboo outside the window and bathed his face. Under that bright light, his skin looked translucent and I could make out the veins under his skin. I tried to look away but couldn’t take my eyes from the paper-thin skin, sunken eyes and wispy hair. In that half light there was more of a ­resemblance to a human skull than a human head. I watched as
Bapuji leant into the light, letting the warmth bathe
his face. Watching him bask in the sunlight reminded me of a flower leaning into the sun to catch its most potent rays. It was nature’s way, Mr Mukherjee said. To bloom, to live. Taking the cup from him, I kissed Bapuji on his forehead and helped him settle down into the bed. His eyes already looked heavy again. As I turned to go, he clasped my hand gently.

‘Bilal, I feel like I’m slipping away,’ he said quietly.

‘Don’t say that, Bapuji.
You’re still here,’ I replied.

Squeezing my hand, he nodded. ‘You’re right, I am. But I’d still like to be a part of the world in some way. You haven’t brought me a newspaper in a while, Bilal. News of the outside world would perk me up, I’m sure. Bring me a newspaper, will you?’

‘Of course but the problem is, erm . . . that there’s a strike on at the moment. You might have to wait a little while for the news.’

‘Strange. It must be a serious strike for the news­­papers not to be delivered. Still, it’ll be over soon, surely?’

‘By next week it should all be over and I’ll get a paper for you. Now rest and I’ll check on you later.’

‘OK, Bilal, OK,’ he replied, closing his eyes and holding the blanket close to his chest.

I walked back into the other room, where Saleem was still squatting and sipping his tea.

‘Did you hear that?’ I asked.

He nodded and took a deep gulp of his tea. ‘Yes. What do you have in mind?’

‘We need to go to see Mr Singh and convince him to print a paper for us,’ I replied.

‘Just like that, ask him to print it?’ Saleem asked.

‘Yes, just like that.’ And with that I marched off with Saleem following behind me.

Chapter 27

On the other side of the market, behind the spice section, stood Mr Singh’s printer’s yard. We walked quickly through the market and I noticed that some of the stalls were eerily empty. Approaching the yard, I tried to dredge up what I remembered about Mr Singh but couldn’t really think of anything useful apart from that he was about the same age as Bapuji. I vaguely remembered Bapuji visiting him when he needed something printed for the committee. Standing in front of his door, I tried to think of the best way to tackle this.

‘What are you going to say?’ asked Saleem.

‘I’m not sure but play along, will you,’ I said, knocking on the door.

Mr Singh didn’t look the slightest bit happy to see two boys standing outside his door. He looked down at us, his bearded face wearing a scowl.

‘What do you want?’ he growled.

‘Hello, Mr Singh. We’re here because we need your help please,’ I said.

‘Help with what?’ The frown deepened.

‘Well, we’re doing a school project and one of the tasks is to create a special newspaper. Most of the class are going to handwrite their newspapers but we thought it would be good if we could get ours printed. We really want to make an impression, don’t we, Saleem?’

Saleem looked at me with bug-like eyes and nodded slowly. I nodded back at him and slapped him on his shoulder.

‘I wish I could claim the idea as my own but it was Saleem here who thought it up,’ I said cheerfully.

Mr Singh turned his attention to Saleem and scowled, clearly blaming him for disturbing him that particular day. Saleem busily inspected a pebble with his toe. Mr Singh still had his hand on the door and blocked the entire doorway with his considerable bulk. He gently swung the door back and forth as if he hadn’t quite decided what he wanted to do.

‘So Mr Mukherjee sent you?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Saleem was really bothering the pebble now and was visibly wilting under the glare of Mr Singh’s attention.

‘No, no, no, absolutely not.
We can’t tell Mr Mukherjee for two reasons. One, we want it to be a surprise so that he’s impressed with our initiative. And two, we don’t want anyone in the class to find out or else they’ll all be here knocking on your door, bothering you and asking you all sorts of daft things. We don’t want that now, do we, Mr Singh?’ I asked confidently.

‘No, we really don’t,’ replied Mr Singh and, sighing, he opened the door to let us in. ‘You’d better come in then, but don’t touch anything or sit on anything or ask any daft questions.’

‘No, Mr Singh, we won’t,’ I replied, grabbing Saleem by the arm and pulling him into the house.

Mr Singh disappeared into another room and left Saleem and I to grin at each other for having made it this far. When Mr Singh returned he sat down on a stool. It looked like it had seen better days and supporting Mr Singh’s bulk couldn’t have helped.

‘Now, where’s the text I’ll be printing? Let me warn you, I won’t write or edit it for you. You have to prepare your own text and have it ready for printing. Also, I can only print you a front cover, two inside pages and a back page. That’s my maximum for this kind of thing and even that’s being generous, let me tell you.’

Looking over at Saleem, I smiled. ‘Of course. We’re just in the process of putting the text together. It’ll be ready in the next few days. We want it to be perfect. I’m sure you understand, Mr Singh.’

Growling and shifting on his rickety stool, Mr Singh waved his hands impatiently. ‘Just have it here by Friday or else I might change my mind.’

‘Friday is exactly when we were thinking of, wasn’t it, Saleem? We’ll get it to you before then, no problem.’

‘See that you do. Now don’t you have to go to school or something? Go on, off you run or you’ll be late.’ And with that he ushered us out and slammed the door shut behind us.

I beamed at Saleem. He put his arm around me and started walking me in the direction of the school.

‘Now there’s just the small matter of writing the thing! And what happens when Mr Singh reads it?’ asked Saleem.

‘One day at a time, Saleem, that’s all I can do at the moment,’ I replied.

Saleem nodded his head and we dashed through the strangely empty streets.

Chapter 28

Arriving late at school, we hid behind the door waiting for the moment when Mr Mukherjee would turn his back and write on the blackboard. Manjeet, who was sitting at the back, saw us and made two spaces for us either side of him. Timing it just right, we tiptoed into the classroom just as Mr Mukherjee had turned to highlight something on the board. Sitting down quickly, we attentively stared at the board, looking as if we were absorbed with what he was saying. I settled down to the comforting sound of Mr Mukherjee’s voice, all the while thinking about how I would put the newspaper together.

What will I write? I’ve never written so much in my life
.

As the day wore on, I became more agitated at the thought of what I’d undertaken.

Write a newspaper? What was I thinking! And what if Mr Singh tells somebody? Or what if he decides to ask Mr Mukherjee about the ‘school project’? What if he comes to the house to see Bapuji?

When you tell the truth, nobody bats an eyelid. When you lie, still nobody bats an eyelid. The only difference is how you feel. The worse you feel when you lie, the more problems you’ll have. I decided not to feel bad about anything.

A sharp dig in my ribs interrupted my thoughts. The schoolday was over and Mr Mukherjee was finishing up.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow and don’t forget your books. Everyone can go except Bilal and Saleem – I’d like a quick word with you two.’

Shuffling our feet, we waited for the class to empty and went to stand at Mr Mukherjee’s desk. He continued to gather his papers and files while we stood there trying not to look at each other. Saleem was doing a little dance from one foot to the other and scrunching up his face. Finally, Mr Mukherjee looked up.

‘So, why were you so late this morning? The schoolday starts at the same time every morning. You both live five minutes’ walk from the school.
There are boys here that come from the neighbouring village and they’re always on time. So tell me, what’s your excuse?’

Saleem was still jiggling about and didn’t look as if he was capable of saying anything so I cleared my throat.

‘Well, Masterji, erm . . . Saleem came to my house so we could go to school together. I made some tea for Bapuji and just as we were about to leave, I realised that I’d forgotten to mix his medicine so I had to do that quickly. Saleem said he would wait for me and so we were both late coming in.’
It’s getting easier and easier to lie
.

Mr Mukherjee looked right at us then stood up and checked his pocket watch.

‘That doesn’t explain why one minute you weren’t in my class and the next you’d magically appeared. Why didn’t you just wait at the door and explain that when you arrived rather than sneaking in?’

‘We didn’t want to disturb your lesson, Masterji. We just thought . . .’

‘No, you’re lying. And what is the matter with you, Saleem? Why are you pulling such faces at me?’

‘Masterji, sir, I really need to go to the toilet.’

‘Off you go then. I don’t want a puddle in my classroom, not after the flood we had with Amit last time. Go on.’

Saleem walked out of the classroom on tiptoes being careful not to make any sudden movements.

Mr Mukherjee removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

‘What’s going on with you, Bilal?’

‘Nothing, Masterji, nothing is going on with me,’ I replied, shrugging my shoulders.

‘I know it’s a difficult time for you with your bapuji . . . but you still need to . . . let these things out. You can’t keep your feelings bottled up or else one day you’ll explode.’

Better to keep them bottled up than let them out
, I thought.
Who would understand them?

Mr Mukherjee sighed and sat me down. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he squeezed gently.

‘Is there anything you would like to tell me?’

‘There’s nothing to tell, I-I . . .’ Stuttering, I tried to shrug off Mr Mukherjee’s hand but he held firm.

‘Tell me, please,’ he asked.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Masterji, really . . . I, er . . .
There’s nothing,’ I replied, feeling tired all of a sudden. Mr Mukherjee’s hand felt as heavy as a sack of potatoes.

Saleem came back into the room and stood by my side. He put his arm on my other shoulder.

‘Tell him, Bilal,’ he said quietly.

Stung, I looked up at him.
Don’t betray me!

‘You can’t take it all on your shoulders all the time, Bilal. I can help you but so can others. Tell Masterji.’

What is he saying?
Shaking my head, I was inundated with thoughts, memories, ideas, lies, plans, dreams . . . I doubled over feeling my insides crunch with pain. Mr Mukherjee knelt down next to me and spoke to me gently while Saleem looked on worriedly.

‘Breathe, Bilal, and relax. Your stomach has a knot in it and you need to relax. Breathe.’

Taking a few deep breaths, I felt my stomach slowly relax and the tension turned into a dull ache. Saleem sat on the floor next to me.

‘I’m not going anywhere. Tell me. Start from the beginning,’ Mr Mukherjee said, sitting back down.

I glanced at Saleem and he nodded encouragingly. Looking into Mr Mukherjee’s face, I noticed his eyes were soft and gentle, like Bapuji’s.

‘Everybody lies . . .’ I began.

When I’d finished, Mr Mukherjee looked like he was in a daze. He produced his pocket watch and began to pace the classroom.

‘Maybe he needs to go to the toilet too?’ Saleem whispered in my ear, trying to make me laugh. But I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

I’d just told Mr Mukherjee the truth and although it had been difficult, I felt a lot better. The weight that had been on my shoulders felt lighter. Mr Mukherjee finally stopped pacing and sat back down. I could see his jaw clenching and his eyes looked tired.

‘Bilal, I love your bapuji for all he’s done for me – he fought to get me this job. When I heard he was going to die . . . Well, I was devastated, so God only knows how you must feel . . . Shame on me for not visiting him but having to see him like that, it’s hard to bear.’ Mr Mukherjee straightened in his chair and put on his glasses. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about what you’re doing but I will say this. Because I love your bapuji, because I can understand why you, his son, would do this for him, because I can only guess how difficult this must be for you . . . I will help you. I’m not sure how yet but I will.’