The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (12 page)

Absolutely right, Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle boisterously butted in. I agree with you one hundred percent—such problems abound in religious stories. In fact when Sita returns after her ordeal in the forest, and doubt is cast on her purity—

Mother put her hands to her ears. I don’t want to hear that! I know all about your objections!

They both laughed, sharing a secret from a wealth of common memories, and it seemed that Papa for a moment was by himself.

Sita had been kidnapped by the wily Ravana, who assumed the shape of a wounded doe to appeal to her soft woman’s heart and entice her to approach, while Rama was out hunting and Lakshmana, who should have looked after his sister-in-law, was distracted. Ravana took Sita to his fortress-isle Lanka, later called Ceylon, from where Rama, Lakshmana, and Hanuman with his troop of monkeys rescued her after an epic battle.

Another thing, Papa said. This business of monkeys building a bridge to Ceylon—

Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle replied, if you knew about the sheer genius of Indian monkeys—

I’ve seen them, replied Papa.

Mahesh Uncle went on, I was in Simla once as a cadre for
the Congress Party. Gandhiji was visiting and…in any case, the monkeys there are the cleverest little fellows you ever saw.

There followed a hilarious tale of the antics of monkeys, to demonstrate to my father that they were smarter than many humans and could very well have built some kind of movable bridge to take Rama to Ceylon to rescue Sita.

The Africans should use monkeys to fight the British, Papa said, perhaps smarting from having been pushed out of the limelight. But, he went on, these African monkeys are not as smart as their Indian cousins.

Mother threw a look at her brother to keep him quiet.

Myth and reality often got mixed up in our lives. In Mother’s eyes, the supposed leader of the Mau Mau, Jomo Kenyatta, who had been imprisoned at Kapenguria, with all his wiles was the demon Ravana himself. Sometimes it was the Mau Mau that collectively became Ravana. And I, somewhat evilly perhaps, always wondered if she sometimes saw Rama and Sita as her brother Mahesh and herself, and Africa as the forest of exile. And Papa as the monster Ravana who stole her away? And as wise but erring Dasaratha, my grandfather Verma, whom Mahesh Uncle had called a traitor? But that whole comparison was monstrous and I would be embarrassed by it.

When Rama’s exile was the subject of the stories, it was never far from our consciousness that Mother and her brother shared a deep sense of exile from their birthplace, Peshawar, a city they would never be able to see again because it had been lost to Pakistan. And since Peshawar was the ancestral home also of my dada Anand Lal, the rest of our family could somehow share in that exile, though not with the same intensity.

Rajat’s Toy Store was selling masks for the festival, depicting the faces of the main heroes and demons of the Ramayana story. And so on a Saturday in the parking lot of our shopping centre, the great battle began for the liberation of Sita and the conquest of Ceylon. I was the only possible Rama. I was Indian, this was my story; I had a name to match, Vikram for
victor. Bill, who liked to win battles, backed off. But who would be the monkey king Hanuman, and who the ten-headed demon king Ravana? Bill would have loved to be the mighty, terrifying, and havoc-wreaking demon, with island for fortress and ocean for the moat around it. But Ravana ultimately had to lose, and the fortress had to be set aflame. Furthermore, Deepa and I reminded him, one of Ravana’s heads was that of an ass, because the demon had a truly stupid side to him, for why else would he provoke invincible Rama and court disaster? So Njoroge happily became Ravana, a character for whom I have always harboured some sympathy for all the forces allied against him. And Bill had to be the monkey, a role he accepted as a grudging sportsman. Now who would be Sita the fair bride? If Deepa became Sita, Njoroge would steal her from me, only to be forced to relinquish her in his final humiliation and defeat. Deepa did not care for this conclusion. Besides, she was my sister, as she pointed out to my eternal gratitude, to clinch the matter. Oh was I happy to have fair Annie beside me, my Sita, as hand in hand and beaming with pleasure we traipsed in the jungle of my father’s store aisles and among the tea tables of Mrs. Arnauti, and even up to Lakshmi Sweets, where we received burfis. Annie had stuck a rosebud in her hair, Deepa showered bougainvillea upon us as we walked, and Bill-Hanuman behind a monkey mask leaped and bounded and chattered and whooped wholeheartedly all around us. And finally Njoroge with his ten-headed mask, as the demon Ravana who had been lurking in ambush among parked cars, stole my bride and took her to his island of boxes and a potted plant, and Hanuman went to fetch her with sword and sticks. After the last pitched battle, scarecrows were made of Ravana and his cohorts, with appropriate demon masks as heads, which Bill-Hanuman then put to flames with a matchbox, to the cheers of delighted shoppers. But in the end Sita could not be Rama’s any more, for when a spiteful public cast doubts on her purity, the earth split open where she stood and took her away. We could not leave out that conclusion and
be true to the story, could we? I had to lose my Sita. Deepa knew that ending too well, which was another reason why she would not be Sita. And Mahesh Uncle always reserved his strongest objection for this treatment of Sita, which when he raised it in our home, would prompt Mother to put her hands to her ears in mock protest.

The day of Diwali arrived and that afternoon uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents were all crowded noisily in our sitting room for the celebration. Most of us were on the linoleum floor and it was the time for family stories and games. The servant was rolling in a trolley laden with tea stuff, Mother hovering watchfully behind him, when one of my aunts began a filmi song, which she rendered beautifully. It was Sunanda Auntie, the family nightingale. She stopped abruptly in mid-verse and pointed naughtily at Mohan Uncle beside her. He was required to sing, beginning with her last syllable, and the game of anantakadi was thus underway. Everybody’s turn came—even Dadaji sang a few lines by the legendary Saigal, there was “Baa, Baa Black Sheep” from one of my cousins, and Mahesh Uncle recited an Urdu ghazal. Anything passed, provided the rule regarding the last syllable was followed. And so in that spirit, when my turn came, following Papa’s “It’s a Long Way to Tipperaree” what could be better than to show off to the cousins with—

He said to the Pharaoh

Let my people go, oh go

said Jomo

Let my people go!

Rendered with a flourish. There was a momentary pin-drop silence. And then I caught a movement in the periphery of my vision, and sudden as a bolt of lightning a resounding slap landed on my cheek. It was from my father, who had swivelled on his haunches beside me and was leaning over me in rage.
My mother had screamed. Exchanging a brief fearful look with Papa, I stood up and ran to Mother, my head pounding and cheek burning, tears barely restrained: completely completely crushed.

Badmaash! Where did you learn that obscene song! Papa shouted, now up and glaring at me as I took shelter in my mother’s arms. And she pleaded with him with her eyes.

Someone in school taught him, no doubt, Mahesh Uncle said, with a meaningful look toward me, and I nodded in a hurry.

Who
? Papa exploded. He must be reported, jeopardizing people this way—

You don’t want to get involved, Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle said, you don’t want to be a target now.

Papa realized the wisdom of that comment and sat down, and I ran to my room to shed my tears freely.

I sat on my bed, staring at the door I had shut behind me. Why did I sing something so obviously offensive to my family? I had learned it and had sworn not to repeat it; in a part of my brain I realized that I had broken my promise so as not to be distanced from my family, not to have any secret separate me from them, because they were my precious everything. It had seemed so innocent, my singing; what did the song have to do with us?

My mother predictably came in after some time, brought tea and held my hand in silence. She looked beautiful that night in an orange and red sari that rustled and gold jewellery that chimed, her face made up, her eyebrows long and shaped, smelling like the sweetest sweetmeat. That is what Sita must have looked like in Ayodhya. My father was proud of her, of her beauty and of the fact that she was from India, a genuine article, even though he often despised that homeland as backward and barbaric.

Mahesh Uncle came in a little later, adjusting his black-framed glasses, and said, Do you want to get your family in trouble? You have no business learning such songs, the
police will lock you up, or your father…or your friend, whoever he is.

He met my eye, asked: Who taught you that song, Vic? Someone must have taught you. Who was it?

I did not answer, though I knew that he knew it was Njoroge.

He waited awhile then said softly, All right, then. But you be careful, young man. No more saying silly things—is that a promise?

I nodded. We exchanged the three-part Masai handshake, which we sometimes did to seal a pact. I tickled his beard to let him know I was back to my old self.

By the way, Vic, do you mind if I take your old bicycle with me tomorrow, there are some fellows at the sawmill who could use it to run errands. Even I could use it.

I said he was welcome to it.

And the pump, can I take it too?

Sure, I said.

We came out together and Papa greeted me warmly, ruffled my forelocks affectionately, and stroked the back of my neck, as he liked to do. He was a loving father to whom I had given quite a scare. He still had not recovered from his nighttime encounter with the eyeless man and the theft of his gun.

Soon the men started drinking and playing three-card flush, even Mahesh Uncle, who said jovially that he had no intention of being turned into a porcupine, for that was the fate of a man who did not gamble on Diwali night. This was the night Goddess Lakshmi smiled upon you, and it was good to start off the new year with a winning streak. Of course not everybody won, but that seemed beside the point. Mahesh Uncle, for one, was losing, and his face soon wore that characteristic frown. The women played cards by themselves, quiet and more dignified, using pennies only. My mother seemed to be having all the luck.

It was eight in the evening and the back door was open, for a while at least, Mother said, so that good fortune Lakshmi
had a chance to come flying into our home. I was playing carom against my cousins, with Deepa as my partner. With her little fingers she was no match for the older among us, and the two of us almost always lost.

Njoroge came and stood at the open door behind us, watching the proceedings in the house.

Psst, he said, beckoning with a hand. I’m playing, I said, I can’t come. Come, Njoroge said, beckoned again, and disappeared from view. The game was soon lost and I went outside, saw Njoroge waiting for me beside the back wall of our house.

So, what are you Indians celebrating tonight?

Diwali—

Heh?

When Rama comes victorious to his country, remember—after killing Ravana?

He nodded. He had played Ravana at the shopping centre, after all.

There is a lot of food—you Indians sure eat a lot.

Shall I go and bring some?

No.

Why? There is gulab jamun and—

It gives me diarrhea.

I stared at him. I had never heard that complaint from him before. Perhaps he was feeling bashful because he did not want to seem to beg.

At this moment Deepa walked out with a bowl of the very thing—deep-brown balls in a lake of enticing golden syrup. Give him a bite, I said to my sister. She cut a jamun piece with her spoon and let him taste it. He made a face at first, but then the syrup had its effect and he said, Sure is good. Is there more?

There was a sound at the back of the neighbour’s yard. A man was suddenly visible there, short and tubby, wearing a jacket and facing away; behind him came a large man in a greatcoat open at the front; someone else had gone on ahead of them and disappeared in the shadows. It became apparent
that a file of Africans was proceeding stealthily toward the fence at the back and disappearing through it. Some of them carried baskets, others walking sticks, one a four-gallon can.

I looked at Njoroge and he stared back, meaningfully, defiantly, as if to tell me he knew things, as if to dare me to tell my elders.

Mother’s figure stood framed inside our door and she said, There you are. You’re not supposed to be outside at night, the police will take you away. And you, Njoroge-William, what are you doing here—you should be home.

Her eyes, though, lingered thoughtfully in the direction where the file of African men had gone. She had seen something.

Come and light the sparklers, she said to Deepa and me; and then to Njoroge: You too, come in and play.

We all went in and she carefully locked the door. Here, Papa said, you kids—Njoroge, it’s late—

Everyone was staring at Njoroge. I will never forget the sight of Nirmala Auntie’s horrified expression as she took in my friend’s black-black Kikuyu face. It was as if her eyes had lighted on a monster. Is it safe? she whispered to my mother, who replied, He is only Mwangi’s grandson.

Sparklers were placed in our hands, and in those of my cousins, and were lighted by the adults, and for a few minutes we forgot everything, all our faces beaming and blinking as we waved our sparkling phuljadis in spiralling circles, round and round, and ran about, until finally we held only the cindery, glowing wires in our hands.

The next morning Mahesh Uncle left for the sawmill, taking with him two young Africans who were brought to him by Mwangi and who needed a ride to Njoro.

I don’t know what Mahesh is up to, Papa said irritably, he could get himself and all of us into trouble.

You know he sympathizes with the Africans, Mother said, but that doesn’t mean he is doing anything illegal.