A Beautiful Lie (6 page)
Authors: Irfan Master
‘There’s no danger of that because I slept on the roof. I have done since we agreed the plan.’
I stared at him with my mouth hanging open.
Chota laughed. ‘Don’t you think you should get going? You’ll be late for school. I’ll see you later.’ And with that he waved goodbye and sauntered back to his vantage point.
At a complete loss for words, I turned round and sprinted towards the dying tolls of Mr Mukherjee’s rusty bell.
As we all settled down, Mr Mukherjee stood at the front of the class looking very pleased with himself. He had his pocket watch in his hand and kept looking at it every few seconds.
‘Settle down, everybody, and let’s start the day with numbers.’
Collectively, we let out a low groan which hung in the air. Numbers first thing. Nobody was ever pleased with that except Saleem, who smiled.
‘OK, OK, I know, but we do have work to do and if we don’t do numbers now, we won’t get a chance again until Monday.’
Suraj shot his hand up. ‘Why can’t we do numbers later in the afternoon, Masterji?’
Mr Mukherjee was almost hopping from foot to foot with barely contained excitement.
‘Because, young man, we have a special guest coming to talk to us this afternoon.’
Another murmur bounced around the small room but this time with a very different tone. He had our attention now. I looked across at Manjeet and shrugged.
How special could he be?
Mr Mukherjee cleared his throat. ‘Today, boys, we have an extremely special guest and you must be on your best behaviour. If you behave really well, next week we can go to the maidan in the afternoon and play cricket.’
This time, a huge cheer reverberated around the packed classroom.
He must be special
, I thought.
Mr Mukherjee shushed us again and put away his pocket watch.
‘This afternoon, we will be visited by Prince Sanangpal Tamar, Crown Prince of Jaisikander and the last remaining heir to a true Rajput bloodline.’
A hush settled on the class. Mr Mukherjee had organised ‘special’ people to visit in the past. Once Bapuji had come, bringing with him an assortment of fruit and vegetables from the market, and Doctorji had visited too, examining a few of us with his stethoscope – but never a prince. We started on our numbers but there was a sliver of excitement in the air.
Sanangpal Tamar of Jaisikander, heir to a kingdom that went back over four hundred years, was a short man dressed in traditional princely regalia with a large, white turban threaded with gold sitting very smartly on his head. He stood at the door waiting for Mr Mukherjee to announce him, at which point he marched in looking straight ahead and then spun on his heel to face us. Mr Mukherjee hurriedly pulled up his own chair for the prince, who lowered himself slowly into a sitting position, back straight with his chin jutting upwards. He propped his right leg on to his left thigh and rested his long, curved talwar sword across his thighs. As silence descended around the room, he subtly tipped his head at us in greeting.
‘Do you live in a palace with elephants?’ blurted out Suraj.
Mr Mukherjee jumped to his feet and was about to give Suraj a good telling-off when the prince held up his hand to still Mr Mukherjee, who sat back down and glared at Suraj instead.
‘Yes, young man, I do live in a palace but not with elephants. They have their own place of residence. They can be a little smelly to live with.’
Even under the watchful glare of Mr Mukherjee, the class giggled and began to relax.
‘Young man, I live in the mountains of northern India, far from here. It’s a wild yet beautiful place with striking vistas, valleys and ravines. The people there are strong yet hospitable and will always offer you a cup of cool water and some modest food. They have little to spare but they understand the etiquette of hospitality. My palace overlooks the Kanak Valley and has been the seat of my family for many years. I am the fourth Sanangpal Tamar and the sixteenth prince of Jaisikander.’
The class was spellbound. The prince sat upright in the chair and spoke elegantly and clearly about himself and his people. He had a particular way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the room and he seemed totally at ease in our dusty, cramped classroom.
I remembered what Bapuji had said about some of the princes in India’s various regions. ‘Cruel, vain and corrupt,’ he’d called them and felt that as long as the titles they held were just titles, then that was acceptable. ‘They belong to India’s past and now it is the turn of the people.’
And look how that’s turning out
, I thought to myself. I stared intently at Sanangpal Tamar for signs of cruelty but he looked like any other man except that he spoke really well. He also didn’t chew tobacco and spit from time to time. His beard was well oiled and his cream kameez was spotless. In the grimy market town we lived in that was the most impressive thing. I looked down at my shirt and saw a big stain. Rubbing at it only made it worse. Mr Mukherjee was beaming now and when the prince stopped talking he stepped forward.
‘Now, who has sensible questions for the prince?’ he asked, glaring at Suraj once more.
It proved to be a futile attempt by Mr Mukherjee as everybody in the classroom was much more interested in asking some not very sensible questions.
‘How many rubies do you own?’
‘Not as many as I once did.’
‘Do you have any tigers?’
‘Tigers are not to be owned. By anyone. They are wild and need to be free.’
‘Have you had anyone killed?’
‘Only little boys who asked silly questions,’ the prince replied with a wicked grin on his face.
Mr Mukherjee looked around the classroom in horror and when his eyes met mine he raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘
Bilal, ask a sensible question. Quickly!
’
Forming a question in my mind, I put my hand up slowly and waited for the prince to spot me through the forest of raised arms. He answered a few more questions patiently then saw me. Pointing, he nodded. I cleared my throat.
‘Prince Sanangpal Tamar, my bapuji said that kings and princes are often cruel, vain and greedy. Is this true?’
Mr Mukherjee looked as if he couldn’t breathe.
The prince sat up even higher in his chair and looked right at me.
‘This is a good question, young man. Kings and princes have often been cruel, vain and greedy, but not all are like that. Many care about the people who live on their land and will dispense justice so that any disputes are settled fairly. Their responsibility is to bring trade and wealth to their kingdom so that not only does the royal family prosper but so do the people.’
Mr Mukherjee had settled down and didn’t look so red in the face. I put my hand up again and the prince nodded at me.
‘But there are no longer as many princes or kings. What can you do now to help the people? What power do you have now?’
A pained expression flickered across the prince’s face but he gathered himself and spoke clearly. ‘It is true we no longer have as much power as we once did. Times have changed but as long as I have people who live on my land and need my care, I will be their prince. India has changed and is still changing. But the reason I am here today is to tell you this: you are the dream of India.
You carry the ideal of this country wherever you go. No matter what happens in the next few years, remember that and hold on to it. I believe in all of you and you must all believe in Mother India.’
A hush descended on the class and only the ticking of Mr Mukherjee’s pocket watch filled the little room with a clipped sound. Was India’s time running out? I dreaded to think what would happen if the ticking were to stop. As Mr Mukherjee was thanking the prince for coming, I leant against the wall and closed my eyes. Princes, politicians, poets and historians. It made no difference. They only offered words – sounds made to inspire people and give them hope. Lies to make us all feel better for a while. It seemed to me that in a world full of liars, being a first-rate liar was the key skill you needed. Opening my eyes and looking at the prince, I thought perhaps it was the only skill you needed.
Suddenly, I heard a yelp from one of the boys ahead of me. Manjeet bowled into me and we both went down in a stampede of feet and arms.
‘What? What’s the matter?’ I shouted.
He looked at me with a mixture of fear and excitement and pointed to the middle of the room. No words came out of his mouth. I pushed my way through and froze. In front of me not three feet away was a snake. A king cobra! To make matters worse, it was angry and trying to pin one of the boys with its hypnotic swaying. What was a snake doing here and how had it got in? Then it hit me. Chota. The snake was his diversion! Somebody was on their way to our house. I looked to the window just as a little pebble sailed through. Everybody was frozen in place unable to tear their eyes away from the rhythmic swaying of the king cobra.
I lurched towards the door without looking back.
Can’t wait!
I thought and ran out on to the street.
Chota was waiting for me outside the school.
‘A snake?’ I cried.
‘It’s the three holies! They’re a few streets away,’ Chota said, running alongside me.
No! It would be difficult to get rid of them.
We heard stamping feet behind us and saw Saleem and Manjeet coming up fast. Without stopping, we sprinted for my street. Chota and I arrived before the three holies, Manjeet and Saleem hard on our heels.
‘What happened with the snake?’ I asked them.
‘Mr Mukherjee cleared the classroom and told us to go home. The prince left for a ceremony in the market square,’ replied Saleem.
From up the street we heard sounds of feet approaching. The three holies consisted of the Reverend James, Pandit Gohil and Imam Ali. Despite their differences, they were fast friends and would roam the streets of the market town admonishing people for not attending the church, temple and mosque respectively.
‘Look casual,’ I whispered under my breath to my friends and turned to face the three holies.
‘Blessings on you,’ said the reverend.
‘Assalamu Alaikum,’ said the imam.
‘Namaste,’ said the pandit.
Smiling, I tried to casually block my door.
‘Son, we’ve come to see your bapuji,’ said the imam, making to move past me.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, holding my ground.
‘Yes, prayer will bring him relief,’ said the reverend.
‘I’m sure it will but I’m surprised you haven’t heard,’ I said, leaning against the door.
‘Heard what?’ asked the pandit.
‘Oh, I thought you’d know. It’s contagious.’
‘What’s contagious?’ said the imam, stopping.
‘What Bapuji has. It’s very catching.
You only need to be there a few seconds and you’re likely to get it,’ I replied.
‘Get what?’ asked the reverend uncertainly.
‘It’s flesh-eating . . .’ chipped in Saleem.
‘First your skin falls off . . .’ I continued.
‘And then your hair . . .’ said Saleem.
‘You’re welcome to come in, though,’ I said, pushing the door ajar.
‘Perhaps we should come back another time,’ said the reverend.
‘Yes. It might not be a good time right now,’ said the imam.
‘Tell him he’s in our prayers,’ said the pandit, moving away.
Turning quickly, the three holies scampered off down the street and disappeared down an alley.
Watching them go, I turned to see Chota, Manjeet and Saleem rolling around on the ground, holding their stomachs with laughter.
‘I’ve never seen them move so fast,’ said Saleem, tears in his eyes.
‘That was very funny,’ chuckled Manjeet.
‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ I replied.
The market town had had a fair share of royal persons visit in the past but it was always an occasion when they came. I’d imagined that even in these strange times people would be excited and happy that the prince was here but instead I could sense a tension in the crowd.
I moved closer to the circle of people surrounding the prince and elbowed my way to the front. The town mayor was speaking to him animatedly and the talk was turning to politics. The prince looked bored and he caught my eye. He whispered something to his manservant next to him and pointed in my direction. I looked behind me to see what he was pointing at and turned to see the big man stop in front of me. He looked me up and down and thumbed in the direction of the prince.
‘The prince wants to speak with you, boy. Come with me.’
Feeling a hundred eyes on me, I involuntarily took a step back but somebody in the crowd behind shoved me into the manservant’s arms. I turned to glare but was quickly ushered towards the gathering of elders and committee members. The prince was sitting on a chair over which a square of azure material had been draped. His talwar still rested over his thighs. He finished talking with the mayor and then turned his attention to me.
