A Beautiful Lie (23 page)

Epilogue

60 Years Later

A hush descended on the assembled crowd as I finished speaking. I looked out over a sea of faces staring up at me. The silence stretched on, filling all the empty spaces in the air. I looked at the deep blue night sky, shimmering stars peppered haphazardly across the large expanse. When the invitation to celebrate sixty years of independence had arrived, urging me to visit the market town, I had been horrified. My whole adult life had been spent trying to forget what I’d done but I had never truly been able to escape the past.

In my professional life, my instincts had led me to become a lawyer.
A defender of the truth
. My many years of service had finally elevated me to the exalted position of Chief Justice.
Who better to spot a liar than a liar himself?
The market town committee, seeing my name in the newspapers, had invited me back to tell my story. Eventually, I had convinced myself that I needed to confess to the town, and the thought of finally unburdening myself after all these years was tempting.

Well, I had told my story – all of it – but the silence of the crowd was deafening.

Sniffing, I could smell something in the air.
Twitching my head this way and that, the smell triggered an old memory in me.
Monsoon is coming
.

The crowd still had not stirred. Picking up my piece of paper, I crumpled it into a ball and gathered my stick. The town mayor looked from the crowd to me in confusion and moved forward to help me. This was not the story he had been expecting. I waved him away and teetered off the stage. Addressing the crowd, the mayor broke the spell of silence by thanking me for coming. The crowd began to stir in the market square but a strange quiet still hung in the air.

At the side of the stage, I found an upturned barrel and sat down on it. Another memory tugged at me, of Mr Pondicherry and his favourite barrel in the shade. ‘In this barrel,’ he would say, ‘is contained a sea of stories.’
He had a story for any occasion
, I thought, chuckling to myself. Standing on stage for such a long time had left my legs cramped and stiff. Rubbing them gently, I tried to bring them back to life.

As I sat there, a steady stream of people started to gather around me. They came in groups and individ­ually. Slowly but surely, they came. Some touched my feet in blessing and others shook my hand. Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters all came. Old men, watery eyes shimmering, shook their heads and patted me on my back, reliving the past through my words. Friends and family of those in my story smiled in remembrance, thanking me gratefully. Many just touched the hem of my kameez and moved away quietly while many others cried softly and stood near me. Looking around at people’s faces, I felt the weight of my burden become heavier. I had hoped that by telling my story I would feel better. Relieved. Instead it felt as if the revelation would bear me down.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a young boy hovering on the edges of the crowd.
He looks strikingly familiar
. The crowd slowly began to disperse and when everyone had finally left, he shuffled closer, head bowed respectfully.

‘Bilal-ji, I heard your story. It meant a lot to me. You see, I’m Doctorji’s grandson.’

Ah. That was it. Such a familiar face
.

‘My bapuji’s name was Bilal. My name’s Gulam,’ he said.

‘Gulam was my bapuji’s name. It’s an honour to meet you, son,’ I replied.

‘No, no, Bilal-ji, what are you saying? The honour’s all mine,’ he said, shaking his head and bowing down to touch my feet.

‘Your grandfather taught me a great deal,’ I replied.

‘I still miss him. He stayed in the town and continued working as a doctor until he died. He continued visiting the local villages too.’

‘Of course he did,’ I replied, smiling. ‘He said he would. Doctorji was a man of his word.’

‘Bilal-ji, please can you wait here? I wasn’t sure you were coming today so I didn’t bring it with me. Please will you wait here for me? I’ll be right back.’

‘Of course, I’ll be right here,’ I replied.

Making myself comfortable, I leant against the wall. The town had changed little. The market still stood with all the alleys and backstreets still intact. If anything, it seemed a lot bigger now and attracted much trade from all parts of the country.
Bapuji would have been pleased
.

Gulam returned, breathing hard and doubled over, clasping his knees.

‘Stand up, son, you’ll get your breath back quicker that way,’ I said, remembering myself when his age.

He looked at me curiously and stood up. ‘I was always running from place to place and Grandfather used to say that to me.’ Gulam produced a crumpled envelope from his pocket. ‘When my bapuji died, as his only son I was responsible for organising his possessions. Going through his files, I found a large box of Grandfather’s things and in it was this envelope. It said
To my good friend
Bilal
on it but I wasn’t sure who it was for. Until now. Perhaps because you left abruptly he never forwarded it to you but I think it’s right you should have it.’

Taking the envelope from him, I froze. Looking up at Gulam’s curious expression, I turned the letter over in my hand. My heart quickened and the stars in the sky seemed brighter, sharper. Opening the letter carefully and unfolding it, I gasped. It was a letter from Bapuji dated 14th August 1947. My eyes swam as I tried to focus on the scrawl in front of me. The first few lines looked as if they had been written by a child, the letters oversized and strangely spaced. What followed was a bolder hand written in a flowing script.
Bapuji must have tried stubbornly to write the letter and when his strength gave out, somebody else must have taken over
. I looked up at the young boy, my hands trembling.
Doctorji
. Forcing myself to look at the letter, I began to read.

Dear heart,

Of all the things I wanted to do before I died, the most important was to write you this letter. I am proud of many things, Bilal, but I am proudest of being your bapuji. I couldn’t have asked for a more courageous boy and knowing this, I know you will be an even greater man.

I don’t even have the strength to finish this letter but Doctorji is here helping me. My boy, he told me about your oath and the lengths you’ve taken to keep the truth from me. Dear heart, what did you take upon yourself ?

Bilal, you are my India. You are my dream. What you have done, the gift you have given me is branded on to my heart. When you receive this letter, please realise that when I found out, I cried, not in misery but in joy knowing I had a son like you. I beg you not to blame Doctorji for telling me. The righteous old fool felt he had no choice. I know that you of all people know how that feels.

Please tell Rafeeq I am proud of him too. Despite our arguments, tell him I have never forgotten him. I hope he finds peace both in the world and in his heart.

I will end this letter now. The thought of leaving you is too painful. I leave you my most prized possessions, my books. I know you will look after them. Perhaps every time you pick one up, you’ll smile and think of me.

Bapuji

Hands still trembling, I stared at the letter. A few minutes passed and the words became lines and shapes, memories and pictures.

‘Bilal-ji, are you OK?’ asked Gulam, concern etched on his features.

Folding the letter carefully, I placed it in the envel­ope and clutched it tightly. In my other hand, I still held the crumpled piece of paper I’d had on stage with me. Smoothing it down, I tried my best to flatten the edges. Curious, the tall young man with Doctorji’s serious face looked at the piece of paper.

‘Everybody lies,’ he said, reading aloud my hastily scrawled prompt.

I handed him the creased paper.

‘Bilal-ji, what shall I do with this?’ he asked.

‘Whatever you like,’ I replied and moved past him. ‘It no longer belongs to me.’

Glossary

Anaar Gully
Hindi for ‘Pomegranate Alley’

Aseel
A bird bred specifically to take part in cockerel fights

‘Assalamu Alaikum’
‘Peace be upon you.’ A greeting used by Muslims throughout the world

Banyan
A vast fig tree with many roots, traditionally used as a meeting place or as shade for meditation or teaching.
The national tree of India

Bapuji
Common Hindi term for ‘father’

Bhai
Common Hindi term for ‘brother’

Bhen
Common Hindi term for ‘sister’

Chai
Common Hindi term for ‘tea’

Chapatti
A flat, round bread cooked on a griddle

Charpoi
A portable string bed

Chota
Common term used to describe children. Used in this context by Bilal and his friends to describe Chota as the ‘little one’ or ‘shorty’

Chuppal
A simple type of footwear, like sandals or flip flops

Daal
Lentils. A popular dish in India

Dacoit
Common term for ‘bandit’

Dhoti
Traditional men’s garment, worn wrapped around the waist and legs

Diva
A small oil lamp that is lit and placed around the home. It has a single wick and is usually brightly coloured

Ghungroo
A musical accessory tied to the feet of classical Indian dancers, consisting of small bells and cymbals

Guru
A Hindu or Sikh religious leader

Imam
A leader of congregational prayer in a mosque. Also a religious teacher or leader

‘Jai Hind’
‘Victory to India’ or ‘Long live India’

Ji
A form of address for elders, strangers or anyone meriting respect

Kabir
An Indian poet, mystic and philosopher (1440–1518)

Kameez
A traditional Indian shirt

Kara
An iron bracelet which serves as a reminder for Sikhs to follow the morals of their faith

Kathak
One of the eight forms of Indian classical dance, origi
nating in northern India

Kirpan
A sword or dagger worn by many baptised Sikhs at all times

Lassi
A yogurt-based drink, similar to a smoothie

Ma
Common Hindi term for ‘mother’

Maidan
A large open space often used for playing cricket and for meetings etc.

Masterji
Common Hindi term for ‘teacher’

Monsoon
Seasonal winds that bring heavy rainfall to all of India

‘Namaste’
‘I bow to you’ or ‘My greetings’.
A greeting used by Hindus throughout the world

Nawab
A Muslim prince or landowner

Pandit
A wise or learned man in India. Often used as an honorary title

Peepul
A tree that is traditionally revered in India

Saree
The traditional dress for mainly Hindu women, worn wrapped around the waist and draped over the shoulder

‘Sat Sri Akaal’
‘Blessed is the person who says “God is truth”.’ Used by Sikhs throughout the world when greeting other Sikhs, regardless of their native language

Sitar
A stringed instrument that is plucked. Predominantly used in Indian classical music

Tabla
A popular percussion instrument used in Indian classical music

Tagore, Rabindranath
A famous Bengali poet, novelist, musician and playwright (1861–1941)

Talwar
Common Hindi and Punjabi word for ‘sword’

Some Historical Notes from the Author

14th
August 1947 saw the birth of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, a nation state separate from the predominantly Hindu India. Pakistan was made up of two regions: West Pakistan on the Indus River plain, and East Pakistan, which is now known as Bangladesh. At midnight the next day – on 15th August 1947 – India won its freedom from British colonial rule.

The break-up along religious lines resulted in the movement of about 14.5 million people – Muslims going to Pakistan from India and Hindus and Sikhs going in the opposite direction. Many people lost family, friends and homes, with communities cut in
two during the upheaval. It is estimated that over
1 million people died in the violence during this period.

Although it is over sixty years since Partition, conflict between India and Pakistan continues to this day, with large-scale communal violence still occurring. The far-reaching and often devastating consequences of Partition on every aspect of Indian and Pakistani life are as evident today as they were on the stroke of midnight on 14th August 1947.