The Storyteller (13 page)

Despite her erratic kindness, I found it extremely difficult to share Chaman’s conviction that Baji actually liked me. Oh, I was vaguely aware that a mutual dependence had developed between us. If I didn’t visit her for a few days, a message was sent to the godown, demanding my presence. I responded without delay
because there was the strong possibility of being fed or given a small sum of money, but never both on the same day. Besides, there was the chance that she would amuse me with her unpredictable behaviour, like the time she grabbed the milkman’s cock and squeezed it as if it were a cow’s udder because he dared to remind her of the back payment she owed him. The fellow howled and begged her forgiveness for making a mistake with his accounts. It wasn’t so much the pain that compelled him to forgo a significant sum of money, but the dread of an impending curse that was bound to follow the stream of abuses and the physical assault. Baji preferred not to have confrontations with women, but I had heard her threaten females with demons in their wombs or rancid milk in their breasts.

Baji’s hands held a special fascination for me. They were strong, masculine and restless. She had supple fingers that kept moving like a dying spider’s legs even when the rest of her body was still. Sometimes I imagined her massaging me, twisting and bending my limbs until they cracked in protest, digging into my flesh and creating the most exquisite sensations of pleasure. Ever since that first day, when she seized my hand and forced it to roam over her crotch, I wanted to see her naked. There was something deliciously tempting about a body with large nipples and a dong. I longed to feast on her nudity, letting my eyes roam over the available variety. It proved to be an impossible wish since she took the utmost care not to expose herself unduly to anyone who was not a
hijra.
I had heard that she flashed herself at parties. But that, I concluded, was intended to bluff, shock and embarrass people into giving her troupe of singers and dancers more food and money. At heart she was quite a puritan. When she bathed, a tarpaulin screened the area around the well, and a couple of
hijras
stood on guard. I was frequently told to wear more clothes and not expose myself quite as much as I did.

‘It’s not good for your skin,’ she said stiffly when I teased her about advising me on modesty.

Was I drawn to the man or woman in her? Or was there a disguised beast that attracted me? A creature that wanted to drag me into the mystery of its dubious identity? There was nothing simple about the way I reacted to Baji’s presence. Part of me continued to be slightly apprehensive about her animal strength and aggression, her wild eyes and foul language. But I also craved her kindness and the flashes of tenderness she was capable of demonstrating at unexpected moments.

On this occasion, I was able to relax. Her voice was soft. ‘Barey tells me you did well yesterday. We are pleased.’

‘The police…’ I hesitated, wondering if I should elicit sympathy for a helpless victim of brutality, or attract their admiration for my heroic fortitude.

‘Yes, yes. It happens all the time. You must learn to evade them and settle for only a few beatings each year. Offer them…’ She checked herself. ‘Your body is not of much use, is it?’

‘I am perfectly functional!’ I responded indignantly.

The
hijras
turned to look at me. Amusement was etched on their faces.

‘Offer them cigarettes, money, even
charas
, although you must be careful that you are not dealing with an uncorrupted policeman. But that is rare.’ Suddenly she became suspicious. ‘Why have you come?’

Gulbadan reminded her.

‘Yes…oh yes! We have borrowed you from Barey to perform with us.’

‘Perform?’

‘Tell stories to wedding guests. Entertain them. It must be something cheerful!’ She glared at me in a way that suggested she hadn’t forgotten or forgiven our previous conversation. ‘A marriage is a happy occasion.’ She wrinkled her nose to
indicate that she believed otherwise. ‘You won’t be performing in the main event.’

I didn’t understand what she meant. ‘How can I tell a story and not be in the main event?’

‘What an ass this pigmy is!’ Baji thundered, expectorating in the spitoon nearby. ‘Singing and dancing! That is what I mean by the main event. I want you to keep away.’

My immediate impulse was to walk out after bashing her with a mouthful of
galee.
How dare she give priority to singing and dancing! What madness to relegate the purity of words to an incidental event! The moment of hot anger passed quickly, leaving me tremulous and scheming. An abusive outburst would have been disastrous. I hadn’t quite figured out the relationship between Barey Bhai and Baji, or the specific reason for his uncharacteristic subservience to a
hijra
, beyond the fact that she had saved his life. But I knew that had I vented my feelings and insulted her, the retribution would have been swift and severe.

‘Baji, has Mohammad Shafiq given us an answer?’ Neera, one of the older eunuchs, enquired.

‘Not a very satisfactory one.’ Baji indicated that she wanted Gulbadan to comb her hair. ‘At first he couldn’t decide. Then, when I threatened that we would turn up and embarrass him, he relented and offered us an insultingly small sum of money. I demanded more, plus food and expenses.’ She turned to Neera. ‘I want our largest pots to be taken and filled with
biryani.
We shall eat well for several days.’

She outlined the details of the performance. Meticulously, she chose the songs and dances, the jokes and the variations in movements. The emergency measures were stressed on us. There was no scope for questions. No dissent. Baji determined what everyone would wear—clothes, jewellery and make-up.

‘Barey said the police tore your clothes.’

‘Beyond repair,’ I said emphatically, thinking that I was to be offered a set of new garments.

‘We will wrap you with a saffron-coloured cloth and decorate you with trinkets. Wear your wig. The children will love the spectacle.’

‘Children?’ I was aghast at her proposal.

‘You have to entertain them.’

‘But I don’t know children’s stories! Nothing that you would approve!’

She sighed in exasperation. ‘Everyone knows children’s stories! Make one up. Something about a handsome young
rajah
and his beautiful
rani.
A monstrous villain. Not too evil! An ending to make the children happy. And no tricks!’

The wedding of Mohammad Shafiq’s daughter was scheduled for Friday afternoon. When we reached the house, the guests were already crammed in the rooms and in the front and back yards, awaiting the bridegroom and his entourage. We arrived in taxis. I shared a ride with Chunnu and the heavy copper pots that rattled and clanged as the vehicle weaved through the traffic.

Baji looked dazzling in a green sari. She was decked in jewellery and garlanded with flowers. The heavy make-up hid the lines on her face. She smiled, giggled and wriggled her bottom. The young taxi driver was rewarded with a tip and a kiss on his cheek. I was pleased with my appearance. I had to endure the torture of a scrubbing before a
chaddar
was wrapped and pinned over my shorts and T-shirt. Gulbadan had shaved me and applied make-up. Her deft fingers could not perform miracles, but I wouldn’t frighten anyone, she assured me.

Mohammad Shafiq rushed out to meet us. He was a thin, nervous man who sweated copiously as he spoke to Baji. He handed her an envelope and directed Chunnu to the side of the house where the food was being prepared.

‘Everything is almost ready.’ He dabbed his forehead with a large handkerchief. ‘We are a traditional, God-fearing family…’ His mouth twitched, as if he were apprehensive about our intentions. ‘I request you not to do or say anything offensive. Some singing and dancing. Nothing provocative, please! I don’t mind if you leave before the guests have departed.’

He grimaced when Baji blew him a kiss. He stumbled and hurried back inside. Curious eyes surveyed us as the harmonium and the drums were tuned. Mohammad Shafiq’s wife made a belligerent appearance, despite her husband’s plea for restraint. ‘
Nahey
Begum!’ he whined. ‘It is not safe to confront them.’

She looked at us with undisguised contempt. We were not welcome, she told us bluntly. Our appearance was disgraceful. Baji did not engage in a quarrel. She farted quite deliberately. The explosive vulgarity of a wordless reply was entirely unexpected. It plugged Begum Shafiq’s diarrhoea of words and left her confounded with embarrassment. Her eyes widened. She clapped a hand on her mouth, turned and ran inside the house.

Baji performed a
Bharat Natyam
that drew an enthusiastic round of applause. I had never seen her dance before, although I knew she had been formally trained in a dance school for
hijras
in Panipat, to the north of Delhi. Her limbs appeared to be made of molten wax, and her movements were fluid and bewitching. Her face was radiant with the joy of an experience that was beyond explanation. It had to be felt. It was as if there were, somewhere in her being, a singular force that dictated the expression of arms and legs, hands and feet. This was the beauty she pined for in the ordinariness of her existence. She was able to create it from within, and for a few moments I believed that she released the creatures imprisoned inside to tell the audience about her splintered life.

A plate was passed around the guests. The collection amounted to about a hundred rupees. Clearly it did not please Baji. She sang two
ghazals
that were immediately followed by the entire troupe accompanying her in a lively folk dance. They whirled and jumped, singing in unison. Banu beat the
dholak
with frenzied vigour, whipping her head from side to side, as though she were possessed by a demonic force.

This was unrestrained fun. I decided to join in. My size and lack of rhythm upset the harmony of the dancing. I was hissed and abused by the
hijras
as I twisted and turned among them. I didn’t care about my awkwardness. The energy belonged to another life. I felt light-headed and bold. I was tall, virile, capable of impossible deeds.

‘Vamana! Find the children!’ Without losing her balance, Baji kicked me on the buttocks. ‘Get out! Out!’

I stumbled but managed to regain my balance. I moved out of the range of Baji’s feet and continued to create unrhythmic havoc. The guests encouraged me. They whistled and shouted. There was laughter, clapping and merriment. Women had gathered on the verandah and were pointing in my direction. I paused momentarily to fix my clothes.

That was when I saw Meena. She stood quietly without demonstrating any enjoyment of the spectacle. I drank her, ate her, lavished her with my love and merged with her in an instant. I willed myself into believing that she was not in my imagination. I blinked. She did not disappear. Her black hair was intertwined with flowers and tied in a large bun. Brown eyes and an oval face. Fleshy lips and large breasts. I undressed her and explored the joy I perceived her to be. She was a striking misfit in my world of imperfection. The vitality drained out of me. There was at once the song of hope and the shriek of despair.

I pushed my way to the verandah, my head bumping against flaccid thighs and brushing soft garments. She did not notice
me. Her eyes looked beyond to the distant houses, as if they enclosed a part of her life she now wished to reclaim. A discernible sadness shadowed her face. I could not bear to think of her in any kind of pain. Such beauty was not intended for unhappiness.

Let me carry your burden. Please…

Who were those around her? Laughing hyenas and snarling leopards camouflaged in human clothes. Disguised jackals and hungry
choraels.
Fanged predators…waiting. My eyes were not to be deceived. I had to protect her, take her to safety. The world was gashed and too flawed for her. She had to be whisked away somewhere quiet, to a sanctuary where the human mind had not learned about the sins of betrayal and destruction. A place where my flute could emit the pure note of innocence…

Eyes closed, we arrived. The calmness that I had promised. The land waited patiently. The sea gurgled a quiet welcome. The waves danced only for us. The trees whispered their concern of a time to come. We were as the first couple without the infection of knowledge.

You have brought the sadness with you. What is it that cannot be forgotten? I…I am the shepherd.

Why have you brought me here?

To protect you. Don’t you know? To keep you for myself. Let me draw out the hurt. This love is too pure to be shared. I am the sole possessor. Will you
…

What the fuck! I was being dragged by the hand. I broke loose.

‘Vamana, you are supposed to be in the backyard! Baji wants you to entertain the children!’ Gulbadan grabbed my arm. ‘I can tell when you are daydreaming. A silly grin is fixed on your face and your eyes are open but do not see.’

I turned to look for
her.
A space between two faces. ‘Look what you did!’ I stomped my feet and abused her.

‘What?’ Gulbadan was startled. ‘Baji—’

‘Frig Baji!’ I growled and headed off to find the children.

They would know fear and suffer the agony of sleepless nights. A story, eh? I would tell them one that was unlikely to be forgotten.

They were scattered beyond the backyard. It hadn’t taken long for the boys to dirty their clothes playing football in an adjacent field. The girls amused themselves by talking and playing hopscotch. Blissful relief. They didn’t need entertainment. Expectations about a storytelling dwarf had not been evoked. I did not exist.

She was inside. I didn’t know her name. There was a strong urge to look for her. There was an additional temptation for entering the house. I wanted to retaliate for the way Mohammad Shafiq’s wife had glared at us. I imagined her horrified shriek if I went inside.

But what could I say to the woman who made me tremble and perspire?
Bibi…I want to be your servant. No payment. What will I do with money?
Disastrous words that were bound to arouse suspicion. Her husband…The thought seared me like a burning rod laid on my back. Marriage and children. A man who shared her bed…touched her and entered her. The images floated past endlessly. I would have rather been in a pit crawling with venomous snakes. Torture. Mutilation. Murder. Nothing was too severe a punishment for whoever he was. Jealousy was a palpitating heart. A bitterness in my mouth. A heat inside me. A rage…the uncontrollable desire to hit out at the world. Even tears…