The Storyteller (19 page)

I broke into a song about freedom and desire. My voice scratched the morning’s calm. The cheeriness was too much for them.

‘Not only were you absent from the funeral, but you have no respect for the old man!’

Kaka’s death saddened me. Without retaliation, I absorbed the abuses they hurled at me. What these people did not understand was my immunity against poisoned words. There were impregnable walls around my feelings. I rarely opened the solitary gate. I had allowed Meena to enter and I was already questioning the wisdom of such a move. In the space inside, there was no grand building to protect. The wind howled in the open and told me about my loneliness. But it was nothing unbearable. What I was denied, I was determined to create. Quite simple, really.

Nimble Feet frowned when I appeared in the godown.

‘I just heard about Kaka.’

‘Two dogs were nibbling at his feet when he was found. A strange way to die with your feet sticking out of the entrance.’

‘The cremation?’

‘Everything had to be done quickly. His body was swollen and beginning to stink.’

I went to Kaka’s shelter—a shapeless, tacky dwelling made of tin, cardboard and plywood. Inside there were three men playing cards.

‘There isn’t room for anyone else.’ The man spoke without looking up.

‘There is always room for an angry ghost.’

I walked out in the morning sunlight and pulled hard on one of the bamboo poles that supported the buckled roof of Kaka’s shelter. The entire structure collapsed. I ignored the pained yells of the men trapped under the light rubble.

In the godown there was considerable misunderstanding about our visit to the
hakim.
I had intended it to be like a family demonstration of our support for Chaman. Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet tried to dissuade me from accompanying them.

‘We can take care of everything that must be done,’ Farishta insisted.

I remained adamant.

‘There is no need to crowd the
hakim
’s house. There are always too many people waiting to see him.’

I reminded them that I was the one who had insisted on taking Chaman to the
hakim.
Chaman appeared silently to hand me a mug of weak tea made from used teabags we collected from the roadside restaurants in the old part of the city.

‘
Roti
?’ I asked hopefully.

She ignored me and returned to making tea for the others.

‘I won’t be any trouble,’ I assured them.

I wanted to discuss a few of my own problems, like the pockmarks on my face, the pimples and the splotchy skin. I was prepared to be reasonable about what he could do for me. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of shrinking the size of my head. As for my height, even miracles had their limitations.

It had taken us hours to persuade Chaman to seek the
hakim
’s help. She had no money; it was not convenient during the day; she was feeling better—they were unconvincing excuses. The sight of her fatigued face, the rashes on her arms and neck, and the torturous cough that shook her violently as if the devil were jumping inside her, made us resistant to her pleas. She would go, even if we had to carry her by force.

The previous evening we had been surprised by Baji’s generosity. Apprehensively we had approached her about a loan for the
hakim
’s fee and to cover the cost of medicine.

‘Take it!’ She thrust a sheaf of ten rupees notes into Farishta’s hands. ‘Take it and don’t worry about paying it back. Chaman is dear to all of us. She must be cured.’ Baji insisted that we travel in a taxi instead of taking a bus or walking.

Baji made me think about our uncharacteristic lack of selfishness. We did not fight over the money or palm some of it for our own use.
Chaman is dear to all of us.
We were instantly able to recognise the truth of Baji’s observation.

I accepted Chaman’s presence as the most vital feature in my life. She was my mother, sister, friend…even God in the limited way I struggled to understand the possibility of such an entity. But, close as I felt to her, I was unable to pretend that I understood Chaman. Often she isolated herself in a shroud of silence, staring moodily into the distance. Sometimes she cried at the oddest of times, like that rare occasion when we went for a walk in the park.

It was a mild Sunday afternoon. We had decided to forget about an unprofitable week and Barey Bhai’s abusive threats by strolling in the open and munching peanuts bought with some money Chaman had set aside. We sat on the scorched grass, watching courting couples, boys playing cricket and elderly men and women walking leisurely. Suddenly Chaman became very quiet. Her eyes rested on a couple sitting on a bench and chattering. Near their feet, a young boy played with a ball. When he tried to kick it, he fell over. It was funny watching him, except Chaman did not laugh. After several attempts he yelled in frustration and ran to his mother. She sat him on her knees and bounced him gently. The father reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair and offer him a sweet.

Chaman burst into tears. She shook her head when we inquired if she was ill. Was there something upsetting her? I asked.

‘You won’t understand,’ she sniffled, wiping her eyes.

‘Female silliness,’ Lightning Fingers said to me later. ‘It has to do with things inside them. The impurity in their blood, the way they feel.’

I nodded, unconvinced by his explanation. Later, I decided to ask her myself. She had smiled and stroked my head. ‘For a moment I wanted more than what life can possibly give me. I was jealous of what I couldn’t have.’

‘Is there something we can give you?’

Chaman threw back her head and laughed. In my confusion I laughed with her. She placed an arm around me. ‘We should talk more,’ she suggested. ‘I am flattered that you try to understand me. I know a place where I sometimes go by myself at night. It is strangely comforting to be surrounded by invisible eyes.’

‘You haven’t told me why you cried.’

She gave me a friendly push. ‘I am not going to.’

We were relieved that we didn’t have to contend with Barey Bhai. We rarely saw him. I suspected that he was working for Jhunjhun Wallah and being generously paid for his treachery. The businessman might even provide him with a coterie of young boys for entertainment…we hoped. The slum dwellers were not yet entirely against him.

Overnight, a sturdy shelter had been erected next to the godown. The door was padlocked, and it was rumoured that a television set had been installed there. People chose to believe that if it hadn’t been for Barey Bhai’s cooperation, such a luxury would have remained as a broken promise.

‘All it needs is an electrical connection!’ Farishta was unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

‘And one of those round things you can see on top of buildings.’ Lightning Fingers was not opposed to the gift from the businessman.

A taxi took us as far as it could. The narrowness of the lanes in Old Delhi presented the Sikh driver with a legitimate excuse to dump us at some distance from the
hakim
’s house. Rudely we were told to get out of the vehicle. An abusive argument flared over the fare. The Sikh wanted more than the amount registered on the meter, claiming that the rusty contraption was faulty. We refused to comply. I climbed on top of the car’s bonnet and jumped up and down, crying, ‘Thief! The taxi driver is robbing us!’

Chaman reached inside and beeped the horn. Passers-by stopped and looked at us suspiciously. The driver swore in Punjabi and snatched the money from Farishta’s hand. I barely had time to jump off the bonnet before the taxi roared away.

We made our way through sinuous lanes and smelly alleys, pausing to ask for directions. The
hakim
? Yes, people knew where he lived and worked. A famous man and a saintly
physician. He was blessed with the divine gift of healing the seemingly incurable diseases. Sometimes his miracles didn’t work, but that was because God was reminding him of the limitations of mortality. He lived just beyond the next lane. A double-storey house on the left.

There were patients outside the front door. A vendor had parked his food trolley on the edge of the lane. Business was brisk.

‘Food is the cure for all illnesses!’ the vendor pronounced periodically, convincing a timid-looking man to buy a second serving of mutton kebabs. ‘Everything is freshly made from wholesome herbs and spices.’ He rattled off the variety of food on offer, banging a spoon on a tin plate to emphasise the morning specials for the early customers. He paused to look at me with disdainful suspicion. ‘Bargain prices, but nothing is free!’

‘The leftovers?’ I ventured hopefully.

‘Allu dum…chaat…shami kebabs…boti kebabs…allu puri…garam parathas
…Leftovers? There are never any leftovers!’ he thundered.

Farishta called me to go inside.

A dismal, ill-lit room was crammed with
burqa
-clad women and crying children. They sat on wooden stools and benches. Others seated themselves on the floor. We found a tiny space in a corner for Chaman. Meekly she sat down and rested her head against the wall. Farishta was given a numbered card by a young man with a goatee beard, wearing a skullcap. There was a sturdy door leading to an inner chamber. It squeaked open to let out a patient, followed by a young assistant. He called out a number in a sombre voice, as if a criminal were being summoned for judgement. He paused to scan the room for new arrivals before he ushered in the next patient. We waited quietly, our silence reflecting the measure of anxiety we shared.
Chaman had fallen asleep almost immediately, her head cushioned on my satchel.

I occupied myself by thinking about the free lunch for the poor at Jama Masjid. I knew the
mullah
responsible for distributing
kichri.
He was an old man who accepted my presence among the beggars and the children without a fuss. The first time I turned up for the monthly feed, he looked at me with discerning eyes and asked my name.

‘I am hungry,’ I said boldly. ‘I haven’t eaten for two days.’ It was a lie.

He responded by ladling an extra serving of
kichri
on my battered tin plate. Ever since (I cannot possibly guess how many months or years have passed), I have been one of a handful of constants in the long line of changing faces that mills around the steps of the mosque. The old man and I never spoke after that first time. A brief ritual had developed between us. He paused in front of me, the bucket of
kichri
held in his left hand. His eyes widened in recognition, and I was acknowledged with a grunt and a nod of the head. My grin had no effect on him. Under his breath he muttered a blessing for Allah’s forgotten creatures and served me two large scoops of rice and lentil. Regularly I was given a piece of bone with shards of tendon that had not dissolved in the white and yellow mush. I was eager to see the old man and hear his whispered blessing. The words had assumed a special significance for me. For the rest of the day I felt fresh and contented, as if I had been given a bath with soap and holy water.

The assistant called our number. Lightning Fingers woke Chaman, and we helped her into the
hakim
’s chamber. It was a hot, airless room without a window. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, illuminating the buckled shelves where the medicine jars were stored. Rows of glass containers were filled with labelled powders. On a table there were several mortars and pestles of
various sizes. The assistant took a handful of dried leaves from a wooden box and crushed them into tiny particles. A pungent smell permeated the air and made me sneeze.

The
hakim
was younger than I had expected. He was a robust-looking man with a flourishing beard and sparkling eyes. He was out of place in the gloomy room with its threatening shadows.

Chaman sat quietly on a stool. Lightning Fingers looked at Farishta who nudged Nimble Feet. It was left to me to break the embarrassing silence and describe Chaman’s symptoms—tiredness, rashes all over her body, poor vision, a nagging cough and loss of weight. She had little appetite and found it difficult to sleep at night. The
hakim
listened politely. He closed his eyes and stroked his beard. Chaman appeared to be uninterested in her condition. She looked demurely at the palm of her right hand, scrutinising the lines as if she were on the verge of figuring out what Fate had determined for her.

The
hakim
reached out and felt the pulse in her wrist. He grunted and pressed his index and middle fingers against her throat. With his other hand he prodded the back of her head. Next he checked the inside of Chaman’s mouth and throat. The rashes on her arms occupied him for some time.

‘Aah…’ The
hakim
gulped and paused to give himself an opportunity to find the appropriate words. ‘I would like to…to examine your private parts.’

‘Many men fuck me.’ Chaman looked at him without flinching.

‘Chaman!’ I was angry, hurt and bewildered by such a frank admission to a stranger.

Sullenly we filed outside, smarting from the stark vulgarity of her confession. It was as if she had betrayed us all by revealing a communal secret.

‘She is very sick,’ Farishta whispered.

‘We all are.’

They turned to look at me with unbridled hostility.

‘Why do you say that?’

I chose to examine my fingernails.

‘Vamana?’

‘The world is a sick place.’

‘Oh!’ There was relief that the remark wasn’t directed at them alone.

We waited until the assistant stuck out his head and called us back inside the chamber where the
hakim
was busily mixing powders from different jars. He spooned equal quantities on pieces of square, white paper and then folded them into tiny packets.

‘Four every day,’ he instructed.

‘Will you be able to cure her?’ Farishta asked innocently.

Chaman laughed. A bitter noise that silenced the questions I was about to put to the
hakim.

He looked at us gravely. ‘I have to be honest. I cannot promise to do the impossible.’ He looked at Chaman who nodded firmly. ‘It is a new illness. A very serious illness. But with my medicine and Allah’s help…’ He raised his hands in the air.