The Storyteller (15 page)

I managed to arouse curiosity and pity. The woman was more vulnerable.

‘You can sense the presence of the past inside.’ I turned to face her, ensuring that she saw the front of my torn T-shirt with the slogan NO DISCRIMINATION emblazoned in red.

‘The world is full of illusions. We behold here what we imagine.’

I had no idea about the identity of the writer, but the words sounded weighty. The woman smiled warmly.

‘No loitering! Come along, please!’ The guide spotted me and urged the tourists to keep moving.

I made an obscene gesture at him.

‘Ladies and gents!’ he called loudly. ‘Take care not to talk to touts! There are thieves who pose as guides.’

The couple hesitated, and then quickened their steps to catch up with the others.

‘Wait!’ The woman turned and called. She scrounged around in her handbag and fished out a crumpled five rupees note.

The rest of the morning was barren. I didn’t have an identity tag to certify that I was an authentic guide employed by the government. I approached a young Indian couple. Rudely, the man shooed me away. I stepped in front of the woman and made a circle with the thumb and index finger of my left hand. In a rapid motion, I thrust a stiff middle finger of the right hand in and out of the gap. She blushed and walked off rapidly with her indignant husband. A policeman threatened me with a
lathi
when I persisted in following two young foreign women.

I strolled back inside and managed to lift a wallet near the Pearl Mosque. A tall
gora
was busily clicking his camera, unaware of the danger lurking behind him. Naïve or careless? He was no challenge. A smooth extraction without any sense of danger or excitement. The wallet was old and limp. A few bits of papers with names and addresses. No money.

In the bazaar a shopkeeper offered me a few rupees for carting some newly arrived goods to the back of his stall. The work was boring. The incentive to add to my meagre sum of money made me determined not to quit. I sweated and grunted as I moved the boxes. My arms and back ached. I felt dizzy. I asked the man for a bonus, considering the effort it had taken. The irascible old fellow abused me and flung three one rupee notes at me. I would have left quietly if he had not continued to make fun of my size and the way I looked.

‘What a head!’ he taunted. ‘A mottled pumpkin with a wire mesh on top. No one can mistake you for a human. Who were
your parents? Discarded deformities in the creation bin?’ He invited a couple of neighbouring shopkeepers to look at me.

‘We could keep him in a cage and display him to the tourists.’

‘Would you like a job without pay? We will feed you and let you sleep in your cage at night.’

‘Well, ugly? You could be quite an attraction.’

‘An ugly attraction!’

They laughed. The sound of their merriment attracted a number of passers-by. I struggled to breathe. My face burned as though it were close to a fierce fire. The noise they made amplified the drums in my head. My hands trembled and my eardrums ached. A compulsive force welled up inside me like a tidal wave, brushing aside reason and flattening caution. I dived straight at the old man’s leg. I head-butted his kneecap and bit into his calf muscle. His howl of pain scattered the onlookers. He lost his balance and fell on his knees.

‘A bomb!’ someone shouted. ‘There is a bomb in the bazaar!’

I released my hold on the man and gathered the money scattered on the ground. It wasn’t difficult to lose myself in the mêlée that ensued. People screamed and shoved each other as they ran. Several policemen raced inside, their
lathis
raised above their heads.

Outside, workers were cordoning off a large area in front of the gate. A fat man, dressed in white shirt and trousers, supervised the job. A haze blurred the brightness of the late morning. The city was fully awake. Buses honked and cars tooted. Vendors called in shrill voices and homeless urchins harassed tourists for
baksheesh.
Indifferent pedestrians halted the traffic and strolled across the open space in different directions. Nothing unusual. Just the chaotic norm of Delhi. I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of the T-shirt and hobbled towards a
dhaba
for a drink of
chai.

I went behind the roadside restaurant, too preoccupied with the incident in the bazaar to take any interest in the hub of activity in the small clearing dotted with
jamun
trees.

‘Who were your parents? Discarded deformities in the creation bin?’

I couldn’t rid myself of the words that clung to me like leeches. I seethed with anger at the faceless couple that had created me. At that moment I searched for an adversary—someone I could ridicule and insult. I wanted to offend humanity with my mere presence, with my breathing, my appearance and the space I occupied. I forced myself to believe in God as a force that had allowed me to evolve into what I was. I raged at its incompetence. But there was also a strange sense of comfort to be derived from the blunder. Divinity kept retreating into darkness as I pursued with questions that couldn’t be answered. Why this body? This face? These hands? The strength of unfulfilled desires? What was the purpose?

I slurped tea and allowed the anger to ooze out of me. My mind explored possibilities. I could leave the nastiness of Delhi and seek the seclusion of a remote hill. Wander through villages, narrating stories in exchange for food. Alternatively I could adopt a life of contemplation in Ajmer, near the tomb of Khawaja Moin-ud-din Chisti. Among the Sufis, in the company of
fakirs
and
dervishes
, I wouldn’t be an oddity. I could accept indifference. A life without brutality, calm and predictable.

Then I remembered what Baji had said in one of her frequent moods of fierce defiance. She spat and hissed the words, eyeing herself in a hand mirror, her fingers applying make-up to her face.

‘For creatures such as us, there is no shelter. No place to hide. We can run away from others, but never from the burden of ourselves. Even in the remotest corner of the world there will be a clear mirror to reflect our anguish. We eat and shit.
There is blood in our veins. Our minds perceive and we think. We feel and desire, create and destroy. Above everything else we crave love. But we are not entirely human, others tell us. What are we then? I’ll tell you. We are the scars of a world obsessed with the removal of its defects. What can we do? Self-destruct? Never! We must continue to survive as well as possible. The mere act of living is a victory against the bristling malice of Fate.’

The vision of a life without the colours, the turmoil and the dangers of Delhi faded as quickly as it had appeared. Besides, Meena hadn’t spurned me. I couldn’t recall a look of revulsion or a backward step. Tuesday came after Monday, before Wednesday. After Monday…

‘Shooting begins at two o’clock!’ A voice boomed through a megaphone. ‘Everyone in front of the Lahore Gate at one o’clock sharp! Make-up crew, touch-ups for the rehearsal please!’

I spotted a man with long black hair, dressed in a blue caftan. He sat upright on a cane chair among scaffolds, cameras and trolleys. Servants fussed around him. A man brought him a plate of
pakoras
and sweetmeats. There were cold drinks and wet towels. He snapped his fingers and commanded immediate attention. A young woman, carrying a tray, hovered near him.

‘Yes,’ he nodded.

Deftly she applied make-up on his face. She giggled intermittently as he slid an arm around her waist and kneaded the flesh with thick fingers.

‘Oooh, Mr Kapoor!’ she squealed, moving even closer to powder his face. ‘You are so bold!’

His response was a dreamy smile. His hand slid down her backside to stroke her bum. A barber snipped away with a pair
of scissors, removing strands of unruly hair. Two servant boys held mirrors, one in front of his face and one behind his head. Mr Kapoor viewed the back of his neck, admiring the wavy darkness of his hair. He appeared to lose interest in the woman, engrossing himself in smoothing the thick coils on his head. There were loud expressions of flattery as Mr Kapoor turned his neck and looked at his reflection from different angles.

Several costumes were brought out to him. He chose a pair of white jodhpurs and a matching shirt studded with gold buttons. The other garments were flung to the ground. Suddenly he stood up and stretched himself, yawning like a lazy rhinoceros. ‘Munshi!’ He had a deep, booming voice. ‘
Yar
, can you do something about my stomach?’

Several men circled him with a large piece of canvas. He changed and then had another look at himself in a full-length mirror held by two men. ‘Munshi!’

‘We have already tied a cummerbund around your stomach and waist, Kapoor Babu.’

‘Then why am I looking like this? So…so ungainly? Why are you being paid? I want to look slim! Graceful in my movements. Are there any large overshirts?’ He prodded his cheeks with unsympathetic fingers. ‘My face…The make-up makes me look fleshier than I am. The moustache looks villainous. Munshi, I order you to do something!’

Munshi went into a huddle with a group of helpers. There were vigorous nods and head-shaking. Munshi, a
dhoti
-clad old man, was agitated. He gesticulated with his hands and shook a stern finger at the make-up girl. Mr Kapoor stood near them, clutching a hand mirror in which he searched for his facial charms.

‘I have an idea!’ he announced triumphantly. The talking stopped immediately. ‘In the sword fight, just before I meet Ahmedullah Khan and kill him, let my opponents be ugly men.
It shouldn’t be too hard to find people with unattractive features. Get some fat men, short and bald. Men with pimples and flawed skin. Protruding teeth. Yes! I shall look very handsome by comparison. Cinema is all about fooling people into believing what is not there!’ Lovingly he patted his cheeks.

‘Kapoor Babu…’ Munshi wrung his hands in abject apology.

‘What is the problem now?’

‘Kapoor Babu, the extras have already been hired. We have trained them for several hours. The director himself chose the men.’

‘He can pay them off. I must see Ashok immediately.’ Mr Kapoor frowned and walked around in a small circle. ‘Where is he?’

‘In front of the Lahore Gate, arranging—’

‘Call him. Now!’

Two men ran past me. Munshi wiped his face in a towel and walked towards the largest of the tents.

The director arrived soon after, smoking a pipe and twitching his shoulders. He wore a straw hat and dark glasses.

‘Yes, Ajit?’

‘A change of plans, Ashok.’

‘By whose authority?’

Their voices rose gradually to a tumultuous bout of abuses. The words dried up and the scuffle began. Men ran to them, spouting words of reconciliation. The adversaries were forced apart and led to their chairs. Hand
punkahs
fanned the air over their heads. Food and drinks arrived on large trays. Shoulders, arms and legs were robustly massaged. Cigarettes were puffed and betel nuts chewed. Munshi flitted between the two men, conveying messages and pleading with them to declare a truce.

Sullen faces. Whispered agreements. A limp handshake. The director fired a series of instructions in a voice suggesting that he still fancied himself in command.

‘All right,’ he conceded with an expansive gesture of his hands, ‘find some people. Whoever you can. Eyeless, toothless, beggars,
chamars…
Anything that can move and follow basic instructions.’

Aaaah…the noise of my heart! Dark curtains parted to reveal the panorama of a new life. To be viewed by people across India! A convincing performance would have to attract the attention of filmmakers. I could move to Mumbai. Live in a mansion with Meena. A house built of white marble…on a hilltop where the morning mist curled around us like a sleeping snake. A flag, with my own insignia, to flutter from the terrace. The kingdom of Vamana…And inside the house, the walls of every room to be covered with money. Crisp notes. What would I wear? Silk garments threaded with gold…A throne studded with precious stones. Rides on horses and in cars. Servants to salute me whenever I appeared. Cooks and personal tailors. Musicians and gardeners, bowing and murmuring words of rehearsed flattery bound to please me.
Does his Highness require anything? You look very well, sir
…A snap of my fingers and worlds would change. Beautiful women drifting through the room, hopeful of my attention. Handsome young men with gentle hands and sinewy limbs. Meena would understand and forgive me. My nights were to be shared with her only. Of course, a place for Chaman. She would never have to work again.

I did not realise how close I had crept to the tents. I sprinted towards Munshi, my hands raised to attract his attention. ‘I can use a sword!’ I shouted, spontaneously demonstrating with an imaginary blade. Such deftness. So much elegance. A scream to denote my warrior’s breeding and unbridled ferocity. A barbarian’s cry of victory. The whimper of death’s agony. Whatever. ‘
Yah hoo
!’ I overdid it slightly, stumbled and nearly fell on my face. I repeated the cry.

Was I an apparition? A trick of the imagination? A demon that had escaped from the murky depths of Hell? Had it been twilight instead of late morning, the shadow of the supernatural might have shaded superstitious minds and made my performance more convincing. I could have possibly awed them into an immediate acceptance of my prodigious talents. A silence of amazement.

Munshi took a threatening step towards me. ‘
Jah Bhag
!’

‘Wait! Munshi, look at him!’ Ajit Kapoor moved between us with an unexpected agility. ‘What a face! It reflects the spirit of invaders—brutish, ugly and destructive. Without moral sensitivity. He’s perfect!’

Perfect.
My chest swelled with pride and my head tilted upwards. It didn’t matter in what context he had used the word.
Perfect. I was perfect.
I wished Meena were listening.

The director walked up and examined me. Male faces peered at me. The make-up girl retreated into one of the tents. And I thought I had looked at her kindly.

‘Name?’

‘Vamana.’