A Beautiful Lie (20 page)

Feeling tears stinging my cheeks, I brushed at my face and sucked in deep gulps of air.

‘You’re right. All that you say is true.’ My voice was barely a whisper. I pointed to the other room. ‘Go ahead. Bapuji deserves to know but I can’t tell him. I’ve carried around this lie for what feels like an eternity. Do me a favour and put us both out of our misery . . .’ I dipped my head and moved away from the entrance.

My brother took a step forward then stopped.
Do it, please, Bhai. Do it
. I could sense his mind racing. He took another step and walked into the other room.

When Bhai emerged, his face was ashen and his eyes were no longer blazing but were dull embers. He grabbed me by the back of my neck and pulled me towards him, our foreheads touching. When I was a little boy, he’d lean towards me and I’d automatically stop what I was doing and touch my forehead against his. Attached to one another like two magnets, we’d both laugh. This time there was no laughter but we both smiled a little. Letting go, he walked quickly out of the house and slipped into the alley. I watched him go, a white shape flitting in and out of the darkness.

When I couldn’t see my brother any more, I sat on my stool next to Bapuji’s bed. Muttering in his sleep, he turned and opened his eyes.

‘Bilal, I just dreamt your brother came to see me.’

I pulled the cover tightly over him.

‘It was only a dream, Bapuji,’ I replied.

‘I thought it might be. He just sat here and stroked my head for a long while. Then he leant in close and whispered into my ear.’

‘What did he say?’ I asked resignedly.

‘He said he was sorry,’ replied Bapuji.

‘That’s all he said?’ I asked.

‘That’s it. What do you think he was sorry about? I tried to stop him to explain but he left,’ said Bapuji.

‘I don’t know, Bapuji, but I’m glad he came,’ I replied.

‘Me too, Bilal,’ sighed Bapuji drowsily, ‘me too.’

Chapter 41

He saw me. I’m sure of it.
Clutching the medicine to my chest, I froze. The streets were deserted now and only mobs roamed the alleys, burning people in their homes. I’d finally managed to make Rajahwallah open his door and give me some medicine when I’d been seen.

I ducked into an alley.
What is that?
A set of feet shuffled nearer.
Somebody’s found me
.
If he keeps coming in this direction, he’ll practically fall over me. I have to move. Now
. Taking a deep breath, I threw myself forward and began to run without looking back. Hearing a yell, I put my head down and started to sprint. I knew these streets well enough.
I’ll lose him in the tangle of alleys sooner or later
. I took a left turn then a right then left again, trying to create some distance between us.

But he stayed with me, shouting things. ‘Run as fast as you can, little rat, but I’ll still catch you.’

I know that voice!
Desperate now, I entered a maze of streets and feinted to go right but spun and sprinted left in the hope of losing him. Running down a dark set of alleys, I emerged and couldn’t hear footsteps following me. In front of me were four alleys leading in different directions. Stopping and sucking in a deep gulp of air, I heard footsteps from the alley behind.
Choose, Bilal!
Taking a left, I sprinted down a long alley so narrow I had to shuffle sideways, slapping the wall with my hands to propel me forward. I shot out at the end into a square space and on all four sides were high walls. Running to one side, I looked up.
Too high!
I was trapped. I flattened myself against the wall.
Has he seen me go this way?
Sliding down the wall, I pulled my knees in and held them with my hands. I waited.

Seconds later he hurtled through the little opening and pulled up sharply. Seeing me in the corner, he smiled.

‘Almost, little rat,’ he said, panting. ‘You almost lost me but I grew up around these streets.’ Straightening, he took a step towards me.

I stood up.

‘What do you want with me?’ I asked quietly.

‘With you? Nothing. I want nothing with you or from you, little rat. What I want to do is remove you from the face of this earth, you Muslim scum,’ he hissed, almost spitting out his words. ‘You see, I know your brother and he’s hurt my brothers. He’s escaped me a few times already. When I heard he had a little brother, well, I knew it was a gift from the guru.’ He took another step forward. Producing a little bottle from his pocket, he looked at me and smiled. ‘You know what this is, little rat? It’s oil.’ Digging into his pockets, he produced matches. ‘And you know what these are, don’t you?’

Taking a step back, I looked at him in horror. Even after all I’d seen and heard, this was beyond anything I had expected.

‘You’re going to burn, little rat, and I’m going to hear you scream. Then I’ll go after your brother and burn him too,’ he said. Coming closer, he flicked oil on to me, dousing my shirt completely.
Then he began to laugh, match in hand.

‘Don’t do it,’ said a voice from the opening to the square.

We both turned to see Manjeet stride towards us.

‘I’d never have found this place if you hadn’t dropped your kara at the entrance,’ Manjeet said, producing a silver bangle.

The boy with the match looked at Manjeet in confusion.

‘Sat Sri Akaal, brother, what are you doing here?’ asked the boy.

Manjeet looked at me then back at the boy, and took another step. He was a lot taller than the other boy.

‘He’s my friend,’ said Manjeet quietly. ‘Put your matches away and leave. He’s not part of your fight.’

‘But he’s Muslim scum and his brother has hurt many of ours. This would be sweet revenge.’

‘No, leave here now,’ repeated Manjeet, taking another step to stand right in front of the boy.

Scowling, the boy retreated and growled, ‘And what if I don’t?’

Manjeet stood perfectly still and pinned the boy with a look. ‘If you don’t leave here right this minute, I’ll take that bottle and douse your face with it and burn it off. Just your face. I swear on the guru, I will.’

The hand that was holding the match trembled as he glared at Manjeet. Reluctantly the boy put down his match.

‘I know your brothers,’ the boy said. ‘What will they think when I tell them of this?’

‘Tell them. You think they’ll side with you? I’d be surprised if they didn’t rip the beard off your face, you thug,’ said Manjeet angrily, throwing the kara at his feet. ‘Now get out of here before I get really angry.’

The boy stepped around Manjeet, giving him a wide berth. Scowling at me once more, he disappeared from sight.

Manjeet turned to me and sighed. ‘Are you OK?’

I doubled over and vomited. Groaning, I leant against the wall to steady myself. Holding my stomach, I blinked tears away from my eyes.

‘No, not really, but I’m glad to see you, Manjeet,’ I replied breathlessly.

Slowly recovering myself, I stood up straight and looked at Manjeet. Neither of us said anything and an uncomfortable silence settled.

Don’t say it, Manjeet. You don’t have to say it
.

‘Bilal, I won’t be able to see you any more. My family think . . . that Muslims . . .’

I felt anger flare up inside me.

‘What about you, Manjeet? What do you think? You know me. I am not Muslims. I am Bilal. Just Bilal.’

Clenching his fists, Manjeet set his jaw. ‘It’s not that, I –’

‘What is it then? What’s the difference between you and me?’

‘It’s all changed, like you said it was changing. We shook our heads and laughed at you back then but it has changed. You tell me what the difference is. My family tell me I should join the struggle, that I should take a kirpan and . . . that I should burn people . . .’

‘But what do you think? What do you say?’ I asked desperately.

‘It doesn’t matter what I think!’ shouted Manjeet, his face set in a grim mask. ‘Don’t you get it, Bilal? You really think there’s a choice in any of this? We’re just kids. What choice do we have about anything? You think you’re in control? You’re not. No matter what you do, the choice has already been taken away from you. You might think you’re in control – and sometimes you might be – but when it matters, when it’s important, Bilal, there is no choice.’

‘There is always a choice,’ I whispered. Looking at the storm-flared sky, my heart filled up like a sinking boat, sadness welling up faster than I could ship it out with my cupped hands. ‘You chose to come after me even though you knew it would cause you trouble.’

‘I’ll always be your friend,’ replied Manjeet in a low voice. ‘We just can’t be friends. I’m sorry. I have to go.’

Looking directly at me, Manjeet backed away towards the opening. I watched as the orange turban I knew so well flickered and disappeared from view and drifted out of my life.

Chapter 42

The chairman of the market town committee, Ramprakash Gianwaral, stood outside our house shuffling his feet.

‘I’m sorry, Bilal. For you, for this town. Your bapuji was . . . is the finest man. And such a good friend,’ he said.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Gianwaral. I’m sorry he isn’t well enough to see you but I know he’ll be ever so glad to hear you came.’

‘Yes, I hope so,’ he replied. ‘Bilal, there’s this rumour going around that your bapuji . . . How can I say it . . . ?’

‘Yes, Mr Gianwaral, what rumour?’ I asked.

‘Well, that your bapuji doesn’t know – or rather isn’t aware of – er, the current situation. Is that true?’

I looked right at Mr Gianwaral. He looked back at me steadily, neither of us willing or able to look away.

‘Yes. It’s true,’ I replied.

Mr Gianwaral slowly shook his head. Scratching his beard, he produced a handkerchief and patted his forehead. The silence grew and settled like a heavy cloak between us. Folding his now moist piece of cloth into a little square, Mr Gianwaral pocketed it and looked at the open door behind me. Clearing his throat loudly, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Gathering himself, he stood up straight.

‘Quite right too. The truth is for the living after all. Tell him . . . give him my best, Bilal. My very best,’ he said, turning on his heel.

‘I will and, Mr Gianwaral, is it true you’re opening up a music room tonight? For a dance?’

‘It’s supposed to be a secret,’ he sighed, ‘but I suppose there are no secrets in this town, eh, Bilal.’

‘Is it true?’

‘Yes, a few of us sad old fools thought it would be a fitting tribute to . . . to our last few hours as a united nation. To our India.’ The words, heavy and choked, escaped from Mr Gianwaral’s throat.

‘I see,’ I replied.

‘I would have liked your bapuji to be there but perhaps under the circumstances it’s best he isn’t . . .’

‘No, best he isn’t,’ I agreed.

Mr Gianwaral took a step forward, put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Quite right too,’ he said, and walked away.

I should have kept my mouth shut instead of telling Chota about it when the two of us met on the rooftop. He immediately jumped up and literally dragged me on to my feet.

‘I don’t want to go, Chota,’ I mumbled.

‘Why not?’ he asked, excitedly hopping from foot to foot.

‘Because Bapuji is close now, Chota. The town is on its knees and dying. The last thing I want to see is a dance.’

Chota stopped jigging about and moved to the edge of the rooftop to look into the distance.

What can I say to him now he knows what I’m really like? There’s no more Saleem to lighten the mood, or Manjeet to keep everything calm. Just me and my misery.

‘Look, Chota . . .’

‘It’s OK, Bilal, I don’t really want to go that much. I just thought it would help take your mind off things leading up to midnight,’ he said.

Moving to stand next to him, I looked down at the desolate marketplace.

‘There are only rats left in the market now.
You can hear them skittering and squeaking when you walk past. Some of them are as long as my arm, you know,’ Chota said, holding up his arm and waving it at me.

‘Just as well you’ve got short arms then or else I really would be worried,’ I replied, smiling.

Looking up, I gazed into the sky and realised that this would be the last time the sun would be going down on this India.
Tomorrow it would rise on another India. One that was changed for ever. ‘
But I’m still here, India
,’ I wanted to shout. ‘
I’m still here.
’

‘What time does this dance start?’ Chota asked quietly.

‘I heard it’s going to begin just after the sun goes down and will stop before midnight,’ I replied. Making up my mind, I put my hand on Chota’s shoulder. ‘OK, I think Doctorji is going to visit soon so I’ll leave him a note asking him to watch over Bapuji and to let him know we’ll be back before midnight, then I’ll come with you to the dance.’