The Storyteller
Authors: Adib Khan
In memory of Dennis Davison
My soul itself may be straight and good; ah, but my heart, my bent-over blood, all the distortions that hurt me inside—it buckles under these things. It has no garden, it has no sun, it hangs on my twisted skeleton and, terrified, flaps its wings.
Nor are my hands of much use. Look here: see how shrunken and shapeless they are: clumsily hopping, clammy and fat, like toads after the rain.
And everything else about me is torn, sad and weather-beaten and worn; why did God ever hesitate to flush it all down the drain?
Rainer Maria Rilke, from ‘The Dwarf’s Song’,
The Book of Pictures
(1902; 1906)
2 Delhi’s hottest and shortest virgin
5 Unable to walk on firm surfaces
Terrible truths that lie within
He stands on a gold paved road.
There is no sky or wind. A place without dreams, he is told. There is nothing to imagine here…The absence of shadows and dark corners makes him uneasy. Everything he sees is bathed in the glow of a soft, even light. His nostrils twitch suspiciously. He can smell the ripeness of pomegranates and apricots.
Why is this place without the sun?
Disapproval creeps into his voice.
Without the mystery of night and the promise of stars?
He pauses to listen. The sound of flapping wings.
The storytellers of Paradise! Here, too, they rise above everyone else.
He is exultant in his assumption.
What are their dreams? How do they imagine? What worlds do they create?
Here you must not question
, the guide responds patiently.
Whatever you see, you know. What you know is all. There can be no doubt about perfection.
He frowns and scans the distance for a horizon.
And beyond…?
His hands are extended in a gesture of uncertainty.
There is no beyond. If you are to be allowed here permanently, you must cleanse yourself of the danger of curiosity and the burden of memory. If! For the moment you are only a visitor.
But I must know!
There is nothing to seek other than what is here. To remember is to search for the barrenness of the discarded husk. Memory is the passage to the other side. There must be no desire for what has been left behind.
Why am I forbidden to question?
Questions are the weapons of fallen angels. The fuel for the black fires you saw on your way here. Know that there is only one Creator, and that His design is faultless. He forged the Heavens and the earths and whatever lies between them. His intention is to reveal what is true. Of this, mortals have no knowledge. Come
…
He follows reluctantly.
A gleaming barge of ivory, gilded with silver and pearls, awaits them on Kawthar.
One of the rivers of Paradise
, the guide points out.
He is dazzled by the resplendence of what lies in front of him. The banks of the river are shaped from silver. The water is calm. Its surface does not reflect his disfigured face.
Drink, if you are thirsty.
He sniffs the unfamiliar fragrance of musk before bending down to scoop up a handful of water. He drinks greedily and then grimaces. It is like dipping his lips in honey.
On the barge he is invited to sit on cushions covered with green brocade and silk. He sinks into the softness, troubled by the restraints imposed by immortality. There are no ripples as the barge glides smoothly towards the middle of the river where it straightens to follow a self-directed course. He leans over the side to look at the water. The riverbed is layered with corals and pearls.
The river is without secrets.
That is its purity.
It does not speak to me in riddles. I am unable to wonder.
Now
…The bearded guide turns to face him.
Observe the marvels of the Creator. Accept the true faith and you will know bliss. For an orphan there is infinite compassion and forgiveness, even though your mortal life has been dedicated to mischief. Demonstrate humility, contrition and acceptance. Forget that you can imagine, and all will be forgiven.
A sweeping movement of the right hand.
The blessed citizens you see on thrones beside the river sip perfumed wine from silver goblets. They are like emperors and can be denied no pleasures. For company they have boys and houris. There! The Fountain of Selsabil that gushes ginger-flavoured water.
His eyes are riveted on the dark-eyed
houris
and the slender boys graced with eternal youth. He salivates. There are familiar stirrings.
He is informed about the pearly palaces. There are seventy courts in each palace, and seventy houses in each court. In every house there are seventy couches, with a
houri
reclining on each one.
I want to be in such a house!
he exclaims delightedly.
Tell me more about the fair virgins and those exquisitely shaped boys!
Numbers mean little to him, but the promise of such variety is exciting.
The guide ignores the request.
Heavenly food is manna, quails, honey and milk. Gaze upward and desire a bird. It will drop immediately, roasted and ready to eat. The flesh of bulls, grazed in the gardens, is a delicacy. Observe the trees in the orchard where the fruits are always ripe.
Momentarily he is overcome by the splendour of the spectacle. There is only one nagging worry.
Am I permitted another question?
An admonitory silence. A look of pity.
Since your place here is not a certainty, ask. But only one!
I have always thought
…He pauses to wonder.
Aren’t there any stories told in Paradise?
The guide is visibly offended.
Let me ask you a question. Why should there be a need to tell stories when there is nothing other than perfection? Lies can only encourage dissatisfaction and rebellion. There is no reason to introduce poison into what is pure. A soul must be calm and without blemish. Bliss is conditional on submission to the Creator’s Will. It is the only way to peace.
Peace? I only know about the roar of angry seas and the vengeance of storms,
he says slowly.
I understand suffering and the howls of anguish. I know about pain, diseases and ugliness. I transmute them into words. I, too, am a creator. I submit only to the purity of what I imagine.
Then this is not the sanctuary for you.
The guide shakes his head sadly.
There is another place, full of fake creators and their tales. You have seen what lies in the Pit.
This
…He looks around him once more, unable to comprehend the notion of eternal perfection. He is fearful of boredom with the predictable and unbroken routine of luxury. There is a growing conviction that he will be unable to suppress a longing for what is not here.
This is not the way I imagined Heaven,
he confesses reluctantly.
The guide is astonished by such an admission.
At this point the visitor recognises the bearded advocate of heavenly delights.
I know you! You are Mullah Hafiz from the mosque. When did you
…
No more questions!
I…I cannot accept such restrictions. I am a storyteller. It is impossible not to believe in the unknown. There must be a horizon, a beyond that keeps receding, that can never be
reached, except by imagining. All that there is becomes visible by asking and speculating. The mind is a gigantic eye that can see into eternity…and beyond. It is forever awake. It cannot be nourished here. A place without stories…that is a denial of existence.
He looks up defiantly.
As for Heaven, it must remain an unattainable pleasure. You imagine Paradise and attempt to grab what has been created, knowing that it cannot be possessed. But the glimpse, and the yearning that follows, is the source of hope, of all desire to be.
He thinks about the ageless
houris
and the innocent-faced boys.
For me,
he says in a tone of wonderment,
Heaven is a state of knowing and having what others have only told me—a wife, children and the songs of a river. A full belly and a permanent shelter. All that I dreamed of in mortality. All that I still desire. I do not care about God or the angels or any of this
…
There is a terrifying noise, as though universes have collided. The sensations of a sudden fall. He travels through darkness, afraid but defiant.
I am a storyteller,
he keeps repeating to himself.
It is my destiny to seek and reveal the imperfections of creation and the terrible truths that lie within. I cannot simply accept what others say, or what the eyes and ears tell me. I will not abandon memory. My true guide is what I see inside
…
A heavy veil of blackness presses against him. Silence. He can barely open his eyes. He is lying on his back. Somewhere. The pain is excruciating. Mortality returns to torture him.
He remembers, but not from the beginning.
The gaoler comes towards him. Grinning.
A transient flight
Huh? A dawn hanging? Is the fellow dead serious or what?
Am I to be sent hurtling into another dimension because of my fidelity to my imagination? I, Vamana? The storytelling dwarf, slum dweller, tormentor of police. Oh, all right! Pickpocket and drug courier as well. One has to survive in this city of extremes. Surely my misdemeanours are unworthy of such harsh punishment?
Choo mantar!
May the poison of scorpions and the curse of bearded witches afflict the perpetrators of such wanton cruelty! I wish I could cast a spell…
Does anyone deserve this kind of treatment? Would it be merciful justice to be awakened before the stars had faded and dreams disappeared? If I must die, then let it be before the mind begins to drift into uncharted territory to meet those who are not of this world. On the stroke of midnight, perhaps? I could accept that as a more appropriate moment to finish my business with this life. In the still darkness of a guilt-tormented world, it may be possible to believe that another universe awaits me. But at dawn? Just as rested limbs begin to stir, and
illicit lovers, drunk with the illusions of beauty and contentment, separate; when beggars are briefly blessed with peace, and storytellers are caressed by the mist from the enchanted forest; as an innocent day, untarnished by the selfishness of an uncaring population, prepares itself for another arduous journey; when a
mullah
’s call evokes a splendid vision of orchards and springs, angels and demure virgins…Not fair! Not fair at all.
My protests are dismissed with a splattering of foul words.
And when will the inauspicious day arrive?
The gaoler does not know.
‘Who can say?’ He shrugs his shoulders and continues to eat. The odour of a ripe mango makes me hungry for a woman. I would settle for a smooth-skinned young man. I am not choosy.
‘But I haven’t been tried!’
‘What is the point of a trial for the guilty?’ The palm of a hand slaps against fat and skin. I hope the mosquito managed to escape.
A string of meaningless abuses.
‘I shouldn’t be here!’ I protest spiritedly. ‘There is no reason—’
‘Reason? Why should there be any reason? Your appearance is enough to keep you here. Such ugliness defaces our city. Gives it a bad name.’
I am in one of two special cells built underground. A small skylight, reinforced with iron grilles, offers me a glimpse of freedom. Just outside the door, the feeble light of a candle accentuates the gloominess of a rapidly fading day. It is a kind of perverse luxury that I should be the sole occupant of a cell in this overcrowded prison. Solitary confinement for abusing a guard and head-butting him on the side of his leg. I thought the attack was justified, considering that I had seen him stealing a
chappatti
from my meagre ration of food. My isolation was a warning, I was told as they flogged me. A few days of extra hardship to change my behaviour. Hard labour during the day. I have even thought of ways to extend my stay here. Not that it is pleasant in this filthy confinement, but at least I can be alone with my imaginings, uninterrupted by the pleas of petty criminals begging forgiveness.
This heat is the devil’s cursed breath. Coarse granules of dried-up puke are like grains scattered across the floor. The steamy stench of shit and piss is like a hot, sharp knife penetrating my nostrils. I am aware only of my own presence. Perspiration drenches me. I can taste the saltiness of the sea. The torn singlet clings to the welts across my back. For a time it felt as if my body had been doused with kerosene and set alight. A burning sensation remains. It is bearable only when I let my mind fly beyond these appalling conditions. My breathing is difficult to control. It is heavy and uneven. A fit of coughing seizes me.
‘Are you afraid, midget?’ his voice teases. ‘Do you feel a weight in your stomach? Are the limbs cold? Don’t soil your pyjamas. We won’t give you a bath or new clothes.’ He shuffles away.
Darkness has begun to leak into the rectangular patch of the visible sky. A solitary star peeps between the grilles in the ceiling. I resent its distracting presence. Is it watching me? Cold. Unwavering. Remote and without mercy. I wonder what awaits me beyond the endurance of an agonising moment. Will some part of me survive and leap across this life to unravel the secrets hidden beyond the stars?
Of course I am afraid. Curious. Even a little excited about the prospect of a unique discovery. A mystery ride.
‘It won’t take more than a few seconds,’ the gaoler had gloated. ‘Whoosh! For a second, the freedom of a bird. Then…snap! Heh! Heh! Heh!’
I click my fingers. Can the neck break so easily? Will the last sound of this life be the crowing of the prison’s cock ushering in a new day? Is a fading moon destined to cry behind a fluff of cloud? Am I to hear my own sob in the absence of anyone else to mourn for me? Will I have an erection just before I am ushered away? My senses tingle. Will it hurt? What if the fall isn’t forceful enough? I shiver involuntarily. It’s all in the mind, I console myself. Pain, pleasure and lust. Everything happens in the corridors of the mystery dome where we create the circumstances of life.
The experience of a bird, eh? I like the idea of a transient flight. The exhilaration of weightless freedom. The sensations as I plunge…And my final thoughts? How many pictures can I cram into that fall? What regrets? Who will I remember? Will Maji appear, books in hand, and chide me for my profligacy? Scold me for tearing and eating the pages of a dictionary? Or her husband? Brrh! Cold and humourless. No, not him. Will I imagine the widow palpitating for my presence?
Now, there’s a thought for heaven. She lies naked in bed, her limbs rubbing against the sheets, the cave of life oozing with nectar. If I could only see her once more, standing at the window, gazing at the horizon with those sad eyes. Will the wretchedness of failure stab me again? How I wish it were in my power to make her forget the sailor at the bottom of the sea! I could tell her a story…
His body softened gradually and then disintegrated. Bits of flesh nibbled by creatures of the deep. And in the end a skeleton rests in the silence of the ocean, waiting for the world to explode. Let me help you to forget
…
And her lover? That wretched Dilip who could never love her as I. I should have been an artist of many talents—singing praises of her beauty, painting her portrait, writing about her. Evenings spent in silent gardens.
Meena, I love you.
Words rehearsed and uttered, but not in her presence. Oh, the
cowardice of discretion and the agony of regret! The hours spent under the streetlight across from her window, playing my bamboo flute. The torn notes, letters that were not posted, clumsily written poems. Maji should have taught me how to write more skilfully. Always the same message.
Meena, I love you.
I should have risked her anger. The laughter of incredulity and then the words of derision. She did not know. Never suspected. Her slave, her servant, was simply there to make life easy. If only the bitch had been loyal. Ah Sita, why couldn’t you have appeared to teach her about fidelity? Father Daniel? Telling me stories from the Bible, feeding me leftovers and lecturing me about the sins of the flesh. The kind priest with eyes that had lost their sheen. But the devil was still riding on his back.
And what about your sin, Father? I remember that scalding summer’s afternoon when Rekha called you. Didn’t you follow her and mount her, your black buttocks quivering as your holy rod drilled her? And did you utter delirious words as though you were in the embrace of divine ecstasy? Was that the experience of God’s kingdom forbidden to me unless I mended my ways? Even though you could not make Paradise as enticing as the
mullah
did, I learned from you that day, oh holy one! I learned. But still, the lingering memory is one of your kindness. With you I felt worthy. Almost human. And, of course, my surrogate family of prostitutes,
hijras
and thieves—liars and cheats. Treacherous, with one exception. Where are they now? Barey Bhai…Farishta…Nimble Feet…Lightning Fingers…Baji. And Chaman—the only enduring love I have known. My feelings for her were as pure as unripe fruit. Friends? Hah! Is that scoundrel with the missing fingers sleeping well?
Faces emerge from the walls and begin to scream. The torturer—is he coming back? I close my eyes. Is he slim and young? Delicate hands and long fingers curled around the butt of a whip. Taut flesh and long limbs…Oooh!
But maybe the torture will soon end. I will dangle from the end of a rope. No pain. It’s like immersion in warm water. I could float forever…Painless death. Without fear. The relief of a daring escape. A celebration. My imaginings have never glorified death. There is nothing serene or dignified at life’s end. No hovering angels or divine music. The purity of a guiding light was a lie. Perhaps I should have eased troubled minds with visions of tunnels echoing with reassuring voices? A giant lotus floating on a river of emeralds? A ride fit for a monarch.
Shanti
…
Shanti
…What I have never known in my broken life. Peace.
Doubt bursts open, dangling strands of fear. What if death is not instantaneous? The asthmatic gasps for air. My short legs pumping up and down in a pathetic protest against a humiliating termination. Blurred faces of men waiting patiently. The dying glow of silver in a lifeless sky. A cock crows. I am dragged back to stand on the stool…
It is almost comical when I visualise it. I have to laugh. How perverse is this life when it begins on the wrong track. Even in death I cannot get it right!
Those who live a life of sin can rarely die in peace.
Father Daniel! Father Daniel! But it was so much fun. Didn’t you find it so? Preach away, holy man. There are lessons in your lies.
A key rattles against an iron bar.
‘Wouldn’t you like to be free, midget? Walk out of the gate and never see this prison again? Go somewhere on a train? Another city, maybe?’
I sigh. The whiff of freedom…
