A Beautiful Lie (19 page)
Authors: Irfan Master
‘I don’t understand –’ I began.
‘When you get old, boy, the only place where you can visit your friends is the cemetery. I’ve been there so many times, I could find my way out walking backwards, gagged and blindfolded.’
Once in the market square, Mr Pondicherry located his usual barrel in the shade and sat down. He looked out into the distance and shook his head.
‘I can still smell smoke,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Go now. Before long this whole square will be haunted by ghosts both dead and alive,’ he said firmly, waving his stick. ‘Go home!’
Ignoring Mr Pondicherry’s advice, we ran to our rooftop, rushed up the stairs and slumped down on the well-worn bags of rice. We all knew this would be the first place Manjeet would come. We sat in silence contemplating what we had seen and heard. A few minutes later, just as we were wondering if Manjeet
would appear, his orange turban poked through the
doorway. We all jumped up as we saw his blood-splattered white tunic. Saleem was the first to reach him and grabbed his arm.
‘Manjeet, this blood?’
‘It’s . . . it’s not mine,’ he replied, throwing himself down on to a sack of rice.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘After I lost you, I made my way as close as I could to the front. I was almost opposite you and tried calling to you but I was drowned out by the noise. When the ring of people broke it hit us hard on the other side and I tried to get out of the way. I saw lots of people fall and be trampled. I tried to find you but it was mayhem and I had no idea if you’d still be in the same place. I saw barrels of oil being tipped over and lit on the hill. The wall of fire was directly in front of me and I thought if I tried to go round it I could find my way out of the cemetery that way. I knew I needed to go up the hill but that meant going through the fire. I couldn’t see five yards in front of me for all the smoke. People were rushing at the fire and jumping through the flames. I took a few steps back and ran at the fire. I came out the other side not too hurt but right into a vision of . . . It was . . . awful.’
Manjeet paused and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his knuckles into his temples. ‘Men with sticks and knives were trying to kill each other . . . burn each other . . . I tried to get away but men kept rushing at me with sticks and knives . . . I
had
to defend myself . . . What else could I have done?’ asked Manjeet, looking up at me, bloodshot eyes reliving the nightmare.
Sitting down next to him, I put my arm around his shoulder.
‘Nothing. It wasn’t your fault, Manjeet. You did nothing wrong.’
‘Bilal’s right. You managed to escape and that’s the main thing,’ said Saleem.
‘But they would have killed me if I hadn’t . . . They saw my turban and came at me calling me terrible things. I even recognised some of them . . . What else could I have done . . . ?’ Manjeet asked again, imploring me to give him an answer he could bear to hear.
I could think of nothing to say. Manjeet had killed a man but he was still my friend. I wanted to help him, to say the right words that would make it better for him. Instead all I could do was sit with my arm around him while he quietly wept.
Smoke was still thick in the air as we sat on the rooftop in silence, each of us with our own terrible thoughts. It wasn’t long until we heard the wails begin around the town.
Standing up, Manjeet looked at us with glazed eyes and, mumbling to himself, moved towards the stairs. Without looking back, he disappeared before we could stop him.
Saleem looked over the side of the building.
‘He looks like he’s going home,’ said Saleem to no one in particular. Turning to me, he sucked in a deep breath. ‘I’d better be getting home too. My ma will be worrying.’
‘Yes, we should all go home, I suppose,’ I replied absent-mindedly.
Moving over to Chota, Saleem lifted him to his feet and made to shift him.
‘I’ll see you both later,’ I said.
‘I’ll try to get out tonight if I can,’ replied Saleem, still holding on to a dazed-looking Chota.
‘Saleem . . .’ I began.
‘Yes, I know, we’ll talk later. Get home now. If your bapuji’s woken up he’ll be wondering where you are.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘We’ll meet later,’ said Saleem, propping up Chota and disappearing through the doorway.
I watched them stumble down the stairs.
The next day, we all sat on the rooftop looking at the deathly quiet market. A vague memory nudged at me and I remembered seeing in encyclopedias photos of animal carcasses, bits of torn flesh still clinging on to the remains of jutting bones. Closing my eyes, I dredged up what the encyclopedia said next. After the predators had had their fill, next came the scavengers, the laughing hyenas. Well, the predators had been and the carcass of our town was revealed for all to see. Looking up at the sky, I saw clouds gathering.
What’s next? The scavengers
. I’d never heard a hyena laugh but I’d seen pictures of a pack and knew it would be an ugly thing.
Looking around the rooftop, I could sense that we were no longer the same group we had once been.
Manjeet sat with his back to the market, avoiding looking over at the cemetery, perhaps in the hope that if he didn’t see it he could learn to forget the Aseel fight and the fire. Turbaned head bowed, I noticed that the bright orange material had lost its glow.
Chota sat in his usual place, feet dangling over the edge. Even though everything had changed, Chota refused to.
Saleem sat the furthest away from me. I wanted to go and sit next to him. To ask him whether something was wrong. For him to tell me what was on his mind. But I was tired. Weary of bearing my own secret and unwilling to shoulder his. If I’d known what I know now, I’d have walked over, sat next to him and, putting my arm around him, spoken with him. Perhaps we would have laughed together one last time. But the moment passed. I didn’t know then that I would never see Saleem again.
There were two things about myself I had begun to hate. Not the usual things. I didn’t want to be taller or good-looking or better at cricket. But there were two things I wished I had never been born with.
Firstly, my awareness of others. How many times had I been having a perfectly good time only for it to be ruined by my acute sense of the people around me? Often, I would sit and tune into facial gestures, hand movements and the subtle flicker of eyes and mouths. Some days, I didn’t even feel I was really there as I sat among friends or family but rather that I was acting as a conduit for everyone else’s feelings. My second hated thing was my ‘skill’ for spotting what’s not said. The words behind the words. This was my speciality. And that’s when premonition takes over.
Premonition
. It was a word I’d learnt recently. Premonition was the dull ache in my stomach, the pain behind my eyes, the overwhelming feeling that something bad was going to happen but only I could feel it. And on this day I realised something.
That these two are related.
As I walked to Saleem’s house, I imagined asking Doctorji to use his scalpel to cut out my two defining character traits. I felt Doctorji making the first cut and flipping the top of my head open and saw my brain revealed. It would all be clearly marked for safe removal. Just like that, Doctorji could remove those two hated cousins and flip my scalp back on. And I would be free. Free of always sensing everything around me, free to live each day without worrying that something bad was going to happen. Free to just be.
Shaking my head to clear this vision, I took a deep breath and continued towards Saleem’s house. Houses in this area were built almost on top of one another but it was unnaturally quiet. A solitary old woman sat on her haunches to the side of her house, washing clothes. I stopped to watch her as she slapped the cloth against a raised stone. She was scrubbing it to death. Flinging it aside, she picked up another piece of material. A white saree. Raising it over her head ready to slap it against that hard rock, she stopped as she brought it down and held it close to her chest. As she held the bunched-up material, I saw the white saree was streaked with red.
Approaching the clearing where Saleem’s house stood, I felt the leaden weight of my thoughts.
Why did I come? I knew what I’d find but I still came. Why? Because I have to know. I always need to know. No matter how bad it becomes, I have to see it for myself
.
I walked through the door. There was nobody there. Saleem and his family were gone.
They’d left little behind. A few pots, an old broken charpoi and a few bolts of dusty-blue material leaning against the far wall. This was Saleem’s secret. He had known weeks ago that his family was preparing to leave but he had hidden it from me. Thinking back, I could remember all the times he’d tried to tell me but I’d been distracted.
I walked out to the yard towards the well and the end of the path. We had spent the summers here, doling out water to the surrounding houses and soaking each other to keep cool. It’s where we had sat and done our schoolwork, lounging in the shade of the peepul tree. Looking up at the tree, I narrowed my eyes to see if our little den was still intact. Climbing up, I scrambled through the branches and there it was, made of bamboo we’d lashed together with bits of twine and string. Dropping down to my knees, I crawled into the box-shaped den and looked out on to the small yard. Curling into a tight ball, I pushed my face into the musty straw. A part of my mind wondered if anybody could hear me crying but it was a stupid thought. I knew there was nobody left to hear.
A pigeon shot up into the sky.
Somebody is coming
. I shimmied up the two-storey building opposite our house, clambered on to the roof and looked down on to the maze of houses. I saw Chota a few streets away on our rooftop lookout, waving his arms at me. Waving back, I tried to spot who was angling their way towards our house. Whoever it was had picked a good time to come – it was almost dark and the streets were barely lit.
There!
A flash of white, the figure moving fast, flitting in and out of the streets.
There again!
Whoever it was knew these streets well enough to navigate at speed. Chota was still waving his arms around frantically, making odd gestures and pointing at me.
What is he doing?
Making my way quickly back down the side of the building, I went to stand outside our house. It didn’t matter who it was, I’d deal with them. I looked down the dark street and waited, narrowing my eyes. A hand on my shoulder made me spin round in surprise.
‘How’s it going, little brother?’
‘What –’ I began to splutter.
‘Shh! Before you start jabbering, let’s get in. I made sure nobody followed me here and even if they tried, I’d have lost them by now. Come on,’ Bhai said, stepping inside the house before I could stop him.
Following him in, I grabbed him by the arm.
‘What are you doing here? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come here and bring your troubles with you,’ I said, keeping my voice low.
‘No,
you
decided that I wouldn’t come here. I never agreed to any such thing. Now, stop getting angry and calm down. I just want a quick word with the old man,’ Bhai replied, taking a step forward.
Holding my hands out in front of me, I stood in front of him.
‘No. Bapuji’s sleeping and if you want to talk to him about moving away then you’d best leave. He doesn’t need to hear that and neither do I.’
My brother took a step back and lit a cigarette.
‘It’s getting serious out there, Bilal. How long do you think you can stay here before a mob finds you and flushes you out? How long?’ he demanded, waving his cigarette in the air.
‘It doesn’t matter how long. We’re not going anywhere. This is our home and this is where Bapuji is . . .’ I faltered.
‘Say it. This is where Bapuji is going to die,’ Bhai said. ‘And die not knowing the truth,’ he whispered, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at me.
‘What would you know about the truth anyway? What truth do you represent, Bhai? Smashing somebody’s head in with a stick isn’t any kind of truth I recognise. Is that the truth you want me to tell Bapuji about? I’ve seen what’s going on with my own eyes. If that’s the truth, I don’t want it,’ I said, spitting out the words.
‘Don’t talk to me with that holier than thou attitude, Bilal. Do you think that you’re some kind of angel of righteousness? That you’re above the blood and dirt the rest of us have to live in? You’re not. You’ve just found another way to stare this horror in the face. You’re just the same as us, the same as me. This lie is your hell, just as the truth out there is mine.’
Bhai’s words were like little razors cutting me in different ways. I saw myself in my mind’s eye, stockstill, mouth open, stunned at my brother’s words. He was standing there, dark eyes blazing like hot coals, his mouth making terrible shapes. Realising what he’d just said, he held up his hand but no words came out. I wanted to go to him, to hold my bhai and tell him it would be OK and that we’d be fine. But I couldn’t. Although there were only a few yards between us, they felt like a canyon, and we were standing on either side looking at each other over the divide. The fissure was too wide and too deep and the bridge across was burning.
