A Beautiful Lie (18 page)

The two bird owners returned holding cages covered in dark cloth. An old man, who had been sitting on an upturned crate at the edge of proceedings, slowly went to stand in the centre of the circle and raised his hand. The gesture knifed its way through the crowd and spread itself right to the edges of the cemetery. It was a call for quiet. He signalled for both men to come forward with their birds.
The silence lengthened as the men retrieved the cockerels and approached the old man. Their heads covered with dark cloth, the birds weren’t yet aware of their surroundings. The men stood opposite each other waiting for a gesture from the old man. Flicking his wrist, he motioned for the pieces of cloth to be flung back and the birds were held aloft. The crowd erupted, the sound and the fury raising us right off our feet. The birds were held a few inches apart, beak to beak, being whipped into a frenzy. Finally, at a signal from the old man, they were released.

The birds flew at each other, tearing and snapping. After a furious first exchange, they became wary and began circling. I watched as the dust that had been kicked up at the start began to settle.
They’re both so different
, I thought. The larger bird, the Ghan, was a rusty-brown colour with a golden bill. Strutting around, its yellow spurs looked dull in the bright light but sharp and vicious. The smaller Aseel was a Rampur, solid black, its crimson bill swinging left to right like a pendulum. His spurs were small but jagged and pointed. The birds stopped circling and closed on each other again. The Ghan went straight for the Rampur’s neck but the smaller bird was nimble and dodged the strike. Already, you could sense a pattern to the contest. The bigger bird pursued the smaller bird around the dusty ring, its strong, curved neck and short beak tensed and ready to strike. The Rampur, realising it was not as strong, employed a counter strategy, nipping at the larger bird and then darting away, banking on the Ghan wasting energy in chasing him. It was a dangerous strategy because it only needed one sledgehammer strike to connect and the smaller Rampur would be in trouble. It was a contest the mob could relate to.

The noise from the crowd reverberated through our deadly amphitheatre and sent vibrations right through my spine.
The roar of the mob was the ultimate release. The whole town had been holding its breath for weeks now and here it was all around me: raw rage, and relief at finally having let go. One way or another the mob wanted blood. Time slowed to a standstill. Everywhere I looked, faces and bodies were contorted into twisted, ugly shapes raw with emotion. Mouths were open, dark maws emanating a piercing sound. These were people I had known my entire life but in this arena we were all strangers, as if we had been told to leave our humanity at the cemetery gates.

Wrenching my eyes from the contest, I looked across and saw old man Pondicherry leaning on his stick directly opposite me, staring into the ring. I understood that it was no benefit being blind in this place at this moment. Old man Pondicherry was a storyteller and this scene in his imagination would be a lot worse than ours.

Saleem grabbed me tight and pulled me in close.

‘They’re not stopping, they dare not risk it – not with this mob,’ he shouted over the noise.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Usually they stop the contest, give the birds a break, but today it’s a fight until the end.
To the death, Bilal,’ Saleem shouted, his eyes reflecting the bloodlust of the crowd.

Of course it’s to the end. Nothing less will do today.

Only minutes had passed but already it felt like an eternity. The Rampur was still set on evading the attentions of the Ghan, who was now tiring a little. The strikes were still vicious but were less frequent. Frustrated, the Ghan rushed at the Rampur only to land awkwardly. Finally seeing his opportunity, the Rampur threw himself at the exposed back of the Ghan and cut him deeply. The squeal of pain that emanated from the Ghan’s throat tore through the crowd and, for a minute, there was a hush as the larger bird turned and for the first time in the bout retreated a few steps. Tired and hurt, the Ghan shuffled sideways, watching the Rampur warily. I could feel my heart drumming in my chest. Suddenly, like a firework, the mob erupted once more. This was like every battle the mob had ever fought. Against poverty, against hardship, against fate. A fight against every time they had been told, ‘This is just the way it is, so accept it and make the best of what you have.’

Strutting and more confident, the Rampur was now the stalker and pursued the Ghan around the circle. Stumbling and in pain, the Ghan clumsily moved away from striking distance but the Rampur was not to be denied and landed blow after blow on the Ghan’s exposed neck and back. We were hauled off our feet again as the mob sensed the end and pushed forward. A tidal wave of human anguish and anger.
The Rampur bobbed his head, sensing the killing strike. The birds leapt at each other, trying to land the final telling blow. In his haste the Ghan slipped in one final desperate attack and landed a vicious blow. Flinching but turning quickly, the Rampur finally saw the exposed neck of the Ghan and brought his beak down with all his force. Both birds spun away and retreated. The Ghan’s
black coat was streaked with crimson. The Rampur s
tood upright, eyeing the Ghan who, swaying, fell to the dust. A huge cheer shot into the sky as word spread like wildfire through the crowd. The Rampur tottered on his thin legs and, lifting his head slowly, took in the arena. Taking a step backwards, he fell sideways. Letting go of Saleem and Chota, I took a step forward and fell to my knees.
No!
I could see that the Rampur’s eyes were open to the sky. Glistening, they were the colour of pearls.

Chapter 36

As word of the Rampur’s fall spread through the crowd, I turned to see the human wave behind us crash and break into a thousand little pieces. Chota slammed into me, closely followed by Saleem, as the circle of humanity broke. Grabbing them both, we scrabbled away from the onslaught. I saw the owner of the Rampur cradling the Aseel in his hands. Fights and arguments were breaking out everywhere. Old man Pondicherry still stood in the same spot. Dragging Chota and Saleem with me, I ran to him.

‘Pondicherry-ji, we have to get out of here! Now!’ I told him.

Turning to me and smiling tenderly, he said, ‘No. I have to witness this, Bilal. For my sins, I am a witness. Leave now, and don’t look back. Never look back.’ Waving, he trotted away.

Screaming at him, I told him to stop but he didn’t turn around.

Saleem grabbed my arm and pulled me away, leading us up the hill towards the cemetery gates.

My vision swam again and colours started to bleed into one another – but it was no longer beautiful. It was ugly. Men set upon each other with rocks and stones. Others ripped branches from trees and used them to batter at figures cowering in the dirt. As we climbed over graves, we saw others who had brought knives and machetes and were cutting swathes through fleeing men. Crimson streaks bled into white cotton and for an instant the mix of colours was beautiful again.

The hill became steeper and we had to use our arms to clamber up. We could smell smoke. As we climbed, a hand grabbed my leg.

‘Help me, help me! I don’t want to die,’ screamed a voice. But I couldn’t see his face, just a hand that scrabbled through the dirt and held on to me.

Chota kicked at it, shouting. Kicking out as well, I dislodged the hand and stared as it disappeared. Chota nudged me and we continued to climb only to be confronted with a wall of fire. Holding fast to the muddy slope, we turned to see a vision of hell. There was fire and black smoke clouds everywhere. People crawled on their bellies towards loved ones who lay unmoving in the midst of graves. Others pursued victims through the smoke and upon catching them, pounded them until they stopped screaming. My vision still swimming in among the blood and smoke, I saw colour haemorrhaging. All around were strewn flowers. Red roses bled into yellow flowers. White petals sunk into brown mud. Pink petals were kicked up into the air and rested on motionless bodies. I looked up to see Chota and Saleem standing over me.

‘It’s not a dream, is it?’ I whispered. ‘Did I faint?’

Saleem hauled me up and nodded. ‘I think so. We turned and you were lying on the ground.’

Chota scrambled up the hill and whistled down at us. ‘Come on, we’re close to the top. It all looks quiet,’ he said, waving us up.

Saleem pushed me forward and we climbed up to where Chota sat, his head peeping over the edge of the low incline. Peering through the gloom there was little indication anybody was still alive.

‘What do you think –’ began Chota, only to be stopped by Saleem.

‘Shh! What was that?’

Listening carefully, we all heard the sounds of shuffling and scratching directly in front of us. A figure suddenly emerged, disappearing just as quickly.
There!
To our right, another scrabbling sound and another apparition appeared, his hand on his head, vanishing into a billowing smoke cloud. All around us now we could hear sounds of movement and other sounds, wrenched out of human throats. Sounds of sobbing, pain and a low keening that cut through the smoke.

Chota grimaced and covered his ears. ‘Is that a dying cat or something?’ he said, making a face.

Putting his arm around him, Saleem said nothing and looked at me.

What now?

We had little choice but to go through the gloom. Still watching me, Saleem gritted his teeth determinedly and blew out his cheeks. Removing his scarf, Saleem tore a long strip and pulled us close.

‘Tie this around your waists, that way we can’t be cut off from each other. It’s not far now. Don’t stop, no matter what, just keep walking.’ Taking another determined step, Saleem pulled us forward into the gloom.

Instantly we were blind.
Trying to carefully pick our way over and around graves, we stumbled slowly forward. Shapes flitted in and out of the gloom around us. We walked for what seemed a long time but it is difficult to gauge the passing of time when you are holding your breath.

Saleem suddenly stopped. Signalling for us to do the same, he went down on one knee.

‘I think we’re lost,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘We should be close to the path leading into the main part of the cemetery but I have no idea where we are.’

‘It’s not your fault. Look, the smoke will clear soon and we’ll be able to see where we have to go. Maybe if we sit here for a minute . . .’

I knew as soon as I spoke that that was a bad idea. Sooner or later one of those apparitions would stumble over us and then who knows what they would do. Saleem understood and straightened up again.

‘I think it’s best if we keep moving,’ he said.

Taking tentative steps, we moved on. The keening sound was now closer to us and continued to ring in our ears. Chota was bent low, eyes flitting left and right trying to pin down each sound. I’d never seen him so panicked. Saleem had slowed to a crawling pace. A man came running right towards us, bursting through the cloying smoke, screaming. Horrified, we watched him hold his face – or what was now left of it – his flesh burnt and blistered. Saleem hurriedly pulled us out of his path. We stared as he flew past, clothes still smouldering. As he disappeared, his scream mingled with the keening to create such a heart-rending cacophony that we all knelt down and covered our ears. When we could no longer hear his screams, Saleem and I stood up and felt a tug from the cloth binding us together because Chota still cowered on the ground, a haunted look in his eyes.

‘Chota, Chota? It’s OK, he’s gone. We can go on,’ I said, kneeling back down next to him.

‘Go where? This isn’t our world. Where are we going to go?’ he asked.

‘OK, OK, we’ll wait here for a while, Chota, OK,’ I said soothingly.

Chota pulled his knees in and sat rocking back and forth, wild eyes scanning the murk around us. Saleem still stood peering into the gloom trying to make out the cemetery gates. Feeling a sharp pull on the knot at my waist, I pulled him back.

‘What is it, Saleem? What do you see?’

‘I . . . I thought I saw somebody but he’s gone again,’ he replied. ‘There he is again! Mr Pondicherry! Mr Pondicherry! Here! We’re over here.
Mr Pondicherry?
’

Out of the billowing smoke clouds came old man Pondicherry, his stick sweeping the hard earth in front of him.

‘Saleem, boy, is that you?’ he asked, stopping in front of us.

‘Mr Pondicherry, we’re lost and don’t know the way out,’ I said quickly.

‘Bilal too, and who else do you have with you?’ he asked, his sightless gaze settling on Chota.

‘Chota’s here too,’ replied Saleem.

‘Well, you can’t stop here. There’s no telling who’s haunting this gloom. Follow me.’

Scrambling to our feet, we followed closely behind as he led the way, his stick tapping on broken branches, heavy rocks and cracked headstones. The apparitions continued to move around us but the keening wail began to fade as we moved forward. Just as suddenly, the cemetery gates loomed above us and we walked through, relieved and bone-weary.

‘Somebody tipped a large barrel of oil and lit it,’ Mr Pondicherry muttered to himself. ‘With all that dry brush on the ground . . .’

‘How did you find your way out?’ I asked.

Mr Pondicherry sighed. ‘I’m an old man, Bilal. Any friends I ever had are either buried or have been spread to the four winds.’