A Beautiful Lie (8 page)

‘Mr Mukherjee doesn’t look very happy, Saleem. Can you guess what I’m thinking?’

Saleem looked at me and shook his head. ‘Not unless you’re thinking about the ripe mango I hid on the roof last night that I just know Chota will have found and eaten.’ He pulled a face and scowled.

‘I’m being serious, Sal. I don’t feel good about this cricket match.’

Saleem smiled but it wasn’t one of his usual smiles. There was concern in his eyes, though he hid it quickly. He nudged me playfully and pointed at Mr Mukherjee.

‘You always worry so much. You’re more like Mr Mukherjee than you know. Always nervous about what’s going to happen next. What about right now, Bilal? Let’s have fun now and leave tomorrow to, erm . . . tomorrow.’

I tried to suppress the unease I felt. It was hard to tell with Saleem if he was worried, scared or even the slightest bit nervous. He always appeared happy and always remained calm. I envied him that.

We trooped out of the classroom in a big crowd despite Mr Mukherjee’s best attempts for us to file out in pairs. He followed at the back of the group, trying to keep us in some kind of order by waving his arms and loudly reciting the rules of etiquette when outside the classroom.

We arrived in a flurry of noise, kicking up dust, our voices joining and merging with the constant chatter of the market. I noticed Mr Pondicherry sitting on his barrel in the shade smoking his pipe. Checking to see where Mr Mukherjee was, I strolled over to say hello. He looked up and smiled.

‘Ah, Bilal. How are you, child?’

Throwing my hands in the air, I shook my head in amazement.

‘How do you do that, Mr Pondicherry?’ I asked and sniffed my shirt. ‘Is it the way I smell?’

Mr Pondicherry threw back his head and let out a long and wheezy laugh.

‘I can’t reveal all my secrets, can I? Are you all here to play cricket again?’

‘It’s our reward for being good or something like that.’ I kicked a large stone against the wall and shuffled around.

‘Stop bothering that damn stone, Bilal.’

I looked up at him and frowned. Mr Pondicherry turned his sightless gaze on me as I continued to nudge the stone at my feet with my toe. It felt odd looking at Mr Pondicherry because I knew he was blind. His world was dark yet I never felt he wasn’t able to see. If anything, he saw more than everybody else. Looking down at the jagged stone on the ground, I glumly thought that some things weren’t really worth seeing.

‘I can sense your unease, Bilal.’

How can he always sense how I’m feeling?

‘Bilal, you have something you need to get off your chest. It’s not good to hold on to such burdens, son. Visit old Pondicherry later and I’ll see if I can lighten your heart with a story.’

‘I’ll come soon and I’ll keep an eye out.’

Now it was Mr Pondicherry’s turn to frown.

‘And pray tell me what you’ll be keeping an eye out for?’

I bent down and picked up the stone and squeezed it in my hand. The sharp edges bit into my flesh.

‘Trouble, what else?’

Chapter 16

It was the hottest time of day and the maidan off the market square was mostly deserted. Only madmen and a few soothsayers sat talking to themselves in the bright glare of the sun. When I’d asked Bapuji what the difference was between a madman and a soothsayer, he’d replied rather cryptically that ‘many argue there’s no difference.’ I shook my head at this and wondered at my bapuji’s ability to always be mysterious and never give me a straight answer about anything.

All around the dusty maidan the market continued to thrum with activity. A cricket match was often a welcome respite for the traders from the rigours of selling and shifting goods to and fro but I noticed something right away.
The air felt charged with a sort of electricity I’d never sensed before. I stood still and scanned the stalls around me. I had to blink as the number of stalls, colours and smells hit me in a rush. Shading my eyes to adjust to the sunlight, I focused on a few stalls that were immediately familiar. Anand stood at his fruit stall looking over his wares. I blinked to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.
Anand never stands
. He constantly moaned about his aching knees and had had a stool made especially to support his considerable bulk. A few stalls down, Sandhu sat deep in the shade watching over his spices and seeds. I could just make out his red turban, which in the deep recess of his doorway looked blood red. Next to his foot rested a long and gnarled stick.
Sandhu never sits
. He was always moving around making people laugh as they passed his stall, and I’d never seen him with a stick. My stomach convulsed in a series of jabbing pains that made me grind my teeth. Glancing towards our rabble, I could see Mr Mukherjee still struggling to organise two teams.

Saleem strolled over. ‘We’ll be lucky to get a game in before sunset at this rate.’ He saw my face and stopped. ‘What’s the matter, Bilal? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened. Yet. Can’t you sense it? It’s different around here – Anand is standing and Sandhu is sitting! It’s all upside down.’

Saleem frowned and moved past me. ‘Go and enjoy the game. I’ll get Chota and send him down. I hope he hasn’t eaten my mango, the little thief.’

Saleem left and a minute later Chota flew past me giggling like a maniac. I turned round to see Saleem on the rooftop swearing at the top of his voice.

‘I ate his mango. Come on, before he starts chucking stones at me!’

I waved to Saleem and jogged with Chota into the glare of the afternoon sun to join the play. Manjeet stood at the crease, grinning. Even without the turban giving him a few extra inches he was the tallest in our class. I’d never seen Manjeet in a shirt or a pair of trousers that actually fitted his gangling frame. Manjeet’s mother always complained that she made clothes to fit him one day but by the next morning they were already too small. The sun glanced off his orange turban as he hit yet another ball into the sky high over our heads. One of the key factors in winning was to have Manjeet on your side because once he stood in front of a wicket you couldn’t see round him or past him.

The field had been set out after a lot of wrangling, a few arguments and finally a shouted rant by Mr Mukherjee, who had threatened and cajoled both teams into starting. I watched Suraj standing a few feet away from me, sucking on a mango.
He always has food with him
. Noticing I was watching him, he looked over and offered me a little bit of the pulpy mango he’d been chewing on. I held up my palm to say no thanks and heard the heavy thud of bat on ball. Turning quickly towards the crease, I tried to spot the ball and relaxed when I saw it had been hit in the opposite direction. Looking across at Suraj again, I noticed he had sat down and was now slowly peeling a banana.

I had positioned myself near the market end of the maidan and could hear some of the talk among the stallholders. Only snatches of conversation filtered through to me but there was something about the flavour of what was being said that made me feel anxious. The taste was bitter, like when you ate a bad mango and it tasted really sour but you had bitten into it thinking it would be sweet. A lot of the people had expressions on their faces as if they’d just had a taste of bitter mango. They looked decidedly uncomfortable and nervous. A few shuffled their feet and one or two looked as if they were ready to bolt. Manjeet thwacked another ball far to my left, giving me the opportunity to casually turn round again and look at the market. Now I noticed people standing around in groups and although there were people milling about everywhere, anybody who knew the market could see that standing in a group meant something.

I turned away from the scene, moving towards Mr Mukherjee on my left. He had also positioned himself quite close to the edge of the maidan and stood rigidly as Manjeet prepared to face another delivery. Shaking my head to clear it, I tried to focus on the game. Vickesh was up next to face Manjeet and he was one of a very few who actually could bowl. The only thing was, Vickesh often thought it was an international test match as opposed to a friendly game in a dusty maidan. He would measure out his approach carefully, counting each step with the utmost care. When he was ready he would lick his forefinger and test the wind. Only then would he nod at Mr Mukherjee to let him know he was ready. Approaching at speed, Vickesh’s first delivery almost toppled Manjeet’s turban. Holding up his hand, he mumbled his apology, ‘Sorry, still finding my range.’

Adjusting his slightly skewed turban, Manjeet glared at Vickesh and gripped his handle, furiously thumping the ground with the bottom of the bat. The next delivery was a bit more sensible and a lot slower and Manjeet promptly dispatched it high over our heads into an alleyway beyond our modest pitch. Chota flew in the direction of the ball, barging into the other boys, then disappeared into the alley. The game came to a standstill as at least ten people, including Mr Mukherjee, began to look for another ball.

Knowing how long it would take to find one, I walked over to a shaded part of the maidan and sat on an upturned crate. Stretching my neck to look at our rooftop, I tried to spot Saleem but the sun was obscuring my sight and I turned back to the market. As my eyes re-adjusted to the sunlight, I saw a small group detach itself from the edge of the market and briskly walk towards another group near Anand’s stall. I stood up for a better view but there were too many people milling about and I couldn’t see what was happening. Skirting around the edge of the maidan, I moved towards the two groups. Just as I was about to approach the entrance of the market, a stick appeared from out of nowhere and stopped me in my tracks. Pulling up short, I took a step back in surprise. Mr Pondicherry sat on his weathered barrel looking at me curiously with his sightless eyes – or rather, not looking.

‘Pondicherry-ji, I didn’t see your stick there,’ I stammered as the stick held me steady.

Shaking his head, Mr Pondicherry stood up gingerly.

‘That’s because it wasn’t there until you decided to go past, Bilal. Is this how you keep an eye out for trouble, by running towards it?’

Craning my neck to look over the crowds, I turned back to Mr Pondicherry and sighed. It was no use lying to the old man – his magical sixth sense sniffed out a liar at ten paces.

‘I was just curious,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

Mr Pondicherry leant heavily on my shoulder and sighed in return.

‘Just like your bapuji. What’s made you so jumpy?’

I climbed on to the barrel and looked at where the two groups had now met and were exchanging what seemed to be heated words. Describing the scene to Mr Pondicherry, he nodded his head in under­standing.

‘Been happening a lot recently with those two groups. Young boys full of anger, working themselves up in dark alleys and then gathering here for a confrontation in full view. Your brother is with one of these groups, isn’t he?’

Grimacing, I nodded my head and mumbled an incoherent reply. I could see Mr Pondicherry staring at me from the corner of my eye and I jumped down to stand in front of him. He faced me and prodded me with his finger.

‘I’m not judging, boy. These are strange times. Your brother always was a hothead, quick to temper.’ He shuffled back to his barrel and perched on it, laying his gnarled stick across his thighs. ‘It’s only words at the moment. Let’s all pray that’s where it stays – here in this place at least. How’s your bapuji holding up?’

‘Fine, he’s fine. I’ll tell him you asked after him.’

Mr Pondicherry growled at me. ‘Ha! Can’t lie to old Pondicherry, boy. Go back to your game and come to see old Pondicherry soon.’

Twisting my neck again to see what was happening in the market, I almost crashed into Mr Mukherjee, who had noticed me talking to old man Pondicherry and had come across to find out what I was up to.

‘Bilal, what are you doing?’

‘Nothing, Masterji, just fielding. Mr Pondicherry called me over, sir.’

Mr Mukherjee folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, and how did he know that it was you he was calling?’

I cursed inwardly and made my face into a mask.

‘Well, he didn’t call me actually, he just heard some shuffling and called out. I thought he might have been in distress so I went over to see if he was OK.’

Mr Mukherjee unfolded his arms and pursed his lips. Sighing, he put his arm around my shoulders and started walking me back to the maidan. A ball had been found and the match looked set to continue. Not surprisingly, Chota still hadn’t reappeared. It was quite a task trying to keep up with Mr Mukherjee’s long stride and I found myself jogging along to keep pace while he muttered to himself and looked at his pocket watch. This was the closest I’d been to his watch and I almost gasped at how beautiful it was. Engraved silver framed a white watch face, blocky roman numerals with intricate hour and minute hands delicately keeping time. Mr Mukherjee saw me staring at his watch and deftly slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

‘You’ve been acting strangely recently, Bilal.
You and your friends. It’s something we need to talk about because it appears to me that something is bothering you, and that in turn bothers me.’

‘I’m fine, Masterji,’ I said, looking him right in the eye.

‘You and I will have to talk. Soon.’ I knew he was serious because he lifted his right eyebrow and shook his head.