The Storyteller (25 page)

‘Chaman?’ I blurted. ‘How does it feel?’

The singing stopped. ‘How does what feel?’

I looked at the rows of graves in front of me. Ruined manifestations of lust. Or was it love? The ultimate outcome was the same. The ending was without the slightest variation. They lay under the earth like scattered trinkets while the world continued to conduct its business above them. Brown, black, white, yellow. Different in ways and manners. Poisoned with prejudices. Obsessed with identity. What did it matter? The bones were of the same colour, the skulls uniformly hideous. So why was it important to know and learn? Strive for success?
Lie, cheat and hate when one was only destined to face darkness without remembrance?

The vagueness of my question had perplexed her. ‘How does what feel?’

‘I mean, what does it feel like…I’ve never had sex.’ It was a humiliating disclosure.

A short, bitter laugh, not directed at me but at herself. She embarrassed me by wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

‘Not even with a whore?’

‘Never,’ I whispered.

‘Have you tried?’

I had revealed too much to erect credible barriers of lies. ‘I haven’t given up. But no woman or…’ I wouldn’t hold back, I decided, ‘or male will have me.’

‘A man?’ Chaman gasped. ‘You…’ Her hand flew to her mouth and stifled a giggle. ‘You are one of those…’

‘One of what?’ I demanded testily.

‘What is called an AC/DC.’

I walked around a grave. ‘My feelings…my needs. They are not ugly. I am capable of loving. Is it wrong for me to desire a companion? Have I no right to imagine myself as a father, a husband or a lover?’

Her mood changed. She sounded uncharitable. ‘I have heard what you do at night in your corner of the godown.’

‘I don’t want to. But then at night loneliness takes a hideous shape and mocks me. I am possessed by a meanness that rises from somewhere inside me. I feel deprived when I see couples enjoying themselves. It doesn’t seem right that I should be by myself. I become weary of misfortunes. What else can I do but sidestep them and create more tolerable worlds to live in?’

‘The people in the
bustee
cannot be blamed for what you are,’ she said slowly. ‘No one else should be burdened with your misfortunes. Look at me. Should I be bitter and nasty for
what happened to me? For what I am? I don’t hate my father. I just don’t think of him. Occasionally, he crosses my life in a nightmare, as do other men.’

‘At least there are faces to punish in your mind. Men to rage against. People on whom you can unload the blame,’ I argued. I found Chaman’s passivity unacceptable. ‘What do I have? I stumble through my days, punching shadows, abusing unknown parents and cursing God. And he doesn’t respond.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I believe in his mistakes.’

‘Vamana!’ She was shocked and upset.

‘How can you explain such an accident then?’ I brought my face close to hers and tapped my chest.

Chaman did not flinch. ‘There are those who can rejoice about what they are. Others, like us, can be angry and twisted, but we have to accept what life offers without being cruel to ourselves.’

‘Never!’ I protested. ‘I can never accept myself for what I am. I have to recreate Vamana every day. Smash and tear myself apart and then build again. I have to shape the world into forms that give me meaning and control. Give life to people who suffer equally or more than I do.’

‘Is that why you tell such strange stories and talk to yourself?’

‘So you understand,’ I murmured. The anger left me suddenly.

In a way, we discovered our differences that night. It made me even more dissatisfied and alienated. I had harboured the assumption that Chaman shared my attitudes and there was a commonality in our offensive against life.

There was nothing more to say. I realised she hadn’t answered my question. We waited for the night to journey across the city like a slowly passing storm. The conversation
lapsed into silence. I didn’t tell Chaman about Meena. She wouldn’t have approved. The silence became a refuge, a forest with many diverging tracks. We walked on separate paths without faltering or looking over our shoulders with regret.

The concerns of the approaching day stalked me. The police would be on the hunt, looking for me in bazaars, questioning people and writing notes. I wondered how I would be described.

Long hair…no, no…short and curly. It’s hard to tell. He wears a wig. The face? Very ugly. A mole on his left cheek…or is it the right? A broad forehead. Ears like a bat’s outspread wings. We think he changes his appearance…He is not a djinn. But he carries a knife…Yes, he is dangerous. Of course there is such a person! It is not our job to mislead the public by creating fictitious characters. What would be the benefit to us?

Contradictions. Confusion. Mythical births of many lives. The reality and nature of my existence would be the source of conjecture. Were gods visible? Certainly to those who believed. Maybe…Never. Glimpses and sightings. Clumsy storytellers with anecdotal narratives about meetings. Nothing in the bazaars would give them definitive leads. They would return to the
bustee
and search in the rubble. Fossick all around Meena as she rested. Nothing much to report. Little success. Ram Lal’s rising anger over his failure. But he is a tenacious dog…

I suspected that Jhunjhun Wallah’s money was likely to promote treachery and loosen tongues. The police would hound Baji. I couldn’t expect much sympathy from her. I had told her only about the noise of harmless firecrackers. A little mischief intended to scare the businessman and his family. Fun guaranteed in exchange for a few token hours in gaol, provided there was an empty cell. Only I was to escape, we had agreed.

It was certain that Ram Lal would visit the
hijras
to tell them about the damage. Threaten. Cajole. Abuse. Whatever worked.
My fear was the alluring power of bribes. No more harassment. A fixed period of truce during which the police wouldn’t demand payment. The poison of greed would begin to take effect. In addition, there would be recognition and adulation. The gratitude of the entire police force. All that in exchange for luring a nuisance into a trap. Despite her murderous anger, Baji was not the type to cooperate with the police. But the younger
hijras
wouldn’t need much persuasion.

Every hour I managed to elude the police was a blot on Ram Lal’s reputation as an efficient officer. Whispers and rumours about corruption. I could see him poring over reports late at night, plotting strategies, issuing orders, taking phone calls from Jhunjhun Wallah and listening to his impatient bellowing for results, offering excuses and placating the businessman with limp excuses.

Soon, sir. Rest assured that we will have him in custody very shortly. He has nowhere to go outside the city. Yes, sir…yes, I understand. I have every available man looking for him. As you can appreciate, Delhi is a very big city…he is cunning! Cleverer than most petty criminals…

Of course I was cunning! But a criminal? A
petty
criminal! A most inaccurate appraisal of the enemy. The mark of a great general was the recognition of the qualities of a worthy foe. In that respect, Ram Lal was sadly inadequate. A mean and uncharitable fellow. Humph! Such a lack of appreciation for an artist…a storyteller…a healer…a comforter…a reformer. I had to make a living, didn’t I? Look after myself and seek compensation when a wrong was done. A true artist was sensitive to social injustice and mobilised all resources at his disposal to redress the wrong that was being perpetrated. Did Ram Lal ever consider that making people homeless was unjust? Did he understand that he was impinging on my freedom when he arrested me in the bazaar?

The trouble with policemen was that their minds were diseased with authority and their souls tainted with corruption. They knew nothing about the beauty of words or the designs that they created. Had Ram Lal ever paused to look at a spider’s web? Unlikely. Even if he did, he would only focus on a squiggly blob at the centre. His immediate reaction would be to kill the spider. It appeared ugly and dangerous. The fact that it could create with delicacy and beauty, something deserving of admiration, would never occur to him.

I mulled over the possibilities to ensure my safety. I could seek Manu’s help and hide above the shop in the loft where he slept. The only snag was that the police were there regularly to let him know they hadn’t forgotten him. I thought about leaving the city. Immediately I heard the cackle of Ram Lal’s laughter.
He ran like a scared rat. Delhi is rid of another pest.
To be branded a coward, a recreant, a milksop, a vermin scuttling out of the city in terror of the police, the butt of insufferable jokes, a victim of cheap stories…Never. I made up my mind to stay.

‘This is the first time I’ve heard you talking so clearly to yourself. You mumble a lot.’

I thought Chaman had fallen asleep. ‘Ah…there are things on my mind.’

‘I have never known anyone who can change his voice as much as you can. How do you manage it?’

‘I don’t. There are others inside me,’ I said weakly.

‘I could have sworn that there were different people talking.’

‘Maybe there were.’

‘Vamana, I am not joking! Why can’t you ever tell the truth?’

‘Does a butterfly ever fly in a straight line?’

We lay on the ground between two crumbling graves in a corridor of peace.

I couldn’t help thinking that if Chaman were to die, then burial was more desirable than cremation. It was a selfish preference based on my need to locate something physical about her in death. A mound of earth, a slab of stone, low cemented walls…anything to reassure me that there was a visible presence, that she was there under the earth in a different form. I never doubted that we would still manage to communicate. People from the past and the future were visible through the mind. An immutable presence in the surge of time.

Dawn began to wipe away the darkness. It crept upon us like a ghost ship furrowing through a calm sea. Chaman lay beside me, tired and lifeless. I kissed her forehead and felt the sanctity of a new day. There was the weight of sleep and the echo of a solitary question. What had kept the ghosts away?

A scream.

The tip of a burning arrow tunnels through the darkness, penetrating layers of a delicious dream. Once more the night is empty. The trickster is unable to perform any further. Pity. He was a good-looking lad—strong shoulders, a flat stomach beaded with sweat, the mounds of his buttocks like the browned tops of freshly baked bread. Hot and spongy. His crotch was provocatively covered with a piece of leather, revealing everything to the mind’s lens. His hips gyrated slowly, responding sensuously to the sound of a flute. The hands and arms were in constant motion, twisting and turning, as though they were made of molten wax. He looked pure as the desert sand, worthy of my attention. For an instant I caught his eyes across the flames. The shadow of fate crossed his face.

What is his name?
I could barely hear my voice.

He is the dance of the night
, the nomad whispered.
That is as much as you need to know.

Innocent?

The man motioned towards the sky.
Is the moon tainted? Only his mother’s hands have touched him.

Here, in the desert, anything was believable.

How much?

Ten gold pieces. Not a significant amount for a rich merchant.

They knew what I was worth. The caravan of camels was laden with riches.

Agreed.
My eyes were riveted to the boy. A frown had replaced the smile of Heaven. Did he know about the fever of desire?

Across the fire my hands sought him. I wanted to feel his weight on my lap and feed him grapes. Whisper extravagant promises. Did he know about a stranger’s love or about the ache of remembrance in the glare of the morning’s light? The pain in my loins was like walking barefoot on bits of broken glass.

He stepped back as though I were an unpleasant apparition. The nomad grabbed him by the neck.

No. Let him come to me freely. Without fear. Leave us now.

We waited as the fire drooped and began to die. The desert had taught me all about patience. The stars faded and the sand began to blow in our faces. His defiance began to crack in the chilliness of the desert air. He was ready.

It was warm under the blanket. A sob of capitulation. He dived under the layer of fur and clutched my robe in a gesture of submission. I did not mind waiting. My hands soothed him. Comforting words. I had reaped the bounty of a patient conqueror.

There…that scream wrenched me away to the dull side of life where I am forced to live sometimes.

‘Sher Mohammad?’

Was that a door closing? I call his name again. Well, there’s another one gone. Was it time for him to appear before a
judge? Or was he taken to provide entertainment for drunken policemen? To be pushed and tossed in the air, kicked and beaten. Behind its grandeur, this has always been a city of wanton cruelty and excessive violence.

Men do not last long in this filthy dungeon. There was a butcher who had poisoned a policeman’s meat. A
fakir
who convinced women about the energising power of his sacred penis and fucked his way through villages until he reached Delhi where he found the women less gullible. Then there was the young man accused of stealing from a politician. They all came with their apprehensions under control. Eventually the darkness clawed into them and set free the ghosts and monsters caged inside.

They were led away, broken and garrulous, eager to please.
Hah huzoor…Jeh huzoor…We will massage balls and suck cocks as long as we can feel the sun on our skin and see some of the world again. Anything
…Weak fools! Do they not know the story of death and the silent blackness of eternity? I could have told them, had they bothered to ask.

As for me, I am a survivor. Night is my real mother. She shelters, nourishes and comforts me. She is my playground and the womb of my hopes. The guards had a bet on how long I might last. The taunting has stopped. Instead, they whisper among themselves and search the cell with torches when I don’t answer them. The fat one doesn’t say how the carpenter is progressing.

The other day I lay in a corner and pretended that I was ill. Two guards came inside. They prodded me with a stick and nudged me with their toes when I groaned. Suddenly I sprang up with a ghoulish laugh and jumped on the back of a guard, pretending that he was a horse. After considerable effort, the other fellow managed to pull me off, but not before I had bitten his hand. They dropped the torch and ran. Heavily armed
guards marched inside. They ensured that I would not speak or move easily for several days.

The darkness hasn’t unhinged my mind. I don’t cry or plead for mercy. That bothers them. They now think that I was mad before being brought here. My behaviour is erratic. Sometimes I talk rationally to the guards who bring in my daily share of
roti
and water. They don’t come inside the cell, but curiosity drags them into conversations with me. We talk about unimportant matters—the city’s heatwaves, the rising prices, and ways to make a living. I have spoken to two of the guards about their wives and children, and where they live. I have made it a point to remember their addresses. At other times, I maintain a surly silence, or ignore them and talk to myself in different voices. I mumble incoherently, make feral sounds and voice fragments of conversations. I often pretend that I am in a trance and sometimes I chant a mantra.

‘Are you possessed by a spirit?’ a young guard asked me.

I stuck out my tongue and panted like a dog. Then I tilted my head upwards and summoned my gruff voice. ‘He does not own me.’

In the dim light of the hurricane, I saw him step backwards. But he wished to know more. ‘Who?’ He leaned forward. ‘Who?’

My silence provoked an outburst of vile language.

Just before Sher Mohammad’s arrival, several men in long white coats visited me. They must have been important people. Prison officials and guards brought in equipment and lights. They chased away the darkness and left me vulnerable. I was made to lie down on a makeshift bed. The cell was transformed into a pit full of snakes. They were long and thin, lying on the floor and hanging off the walls. The machines made a low humming noise, flashing green and red lights. They stuck small pads on my temples and the back of my head.

The oldest of the visitors spoke to me. I was suspicious about his politeness and the gentleness in his voice. ‘There is nothing to fear. We won’t harm you.’ He smiled. ‘We want to know you and help you, Vamana. Can you close your eyes, please?’

I obliged and shut myself off from these intruders. I resented their presence and the assumption that I needed help. They had penetrated the darkness and invaded my sanctuary. I began to retreat, desperate to reach safety. They pursued me through the foliage until I was surrounded, almost at the edge of a cliff. I turned to confront that old man from the white building. I thought we had met long ago.

Do you have a favourite toy? Vamana? Is there a toy you like very much?

Yes…a…Her name is Meena.

Where does she live?

Where no one can find her.

Who gave her to you?

I took her from a shop window.

She really isn’t a toy, is she? She is like you or me. A person. Where did you meet her?

She is a toy…and…and also what you said.

Where did you meet her?

At a wedding.

Tell us about Dilip.

An opening. A slide and a dive. Once over the edge, they would never find me. Hands grabbed me.

No, Vamana! Tell us about Dilip. Dilip!

He’s the beast who wanted to harm her.

Tell us about the beast.

It has the head of a tiger with a burning ring through its nostrils. It had a tail…a body covered with hair. I caught him hurting her.

How was he hurting her?

He tried to create his life inside her and then lied to her.

Did she cry for help? No, Vamana! Stay! Vamana…

The voice receded into a fog. The cell was in darkness, as I remembered it. The damp hardness of the floor. A strange dream, I thought. Then my hand touched a dead snake.

A guard returns with a lantern, a bucket and a broom. He holds the light above his head and peers between the bars. Whatever he sees assures him. There is a grunt of satisfaction. He steps inside the unoccupied cell, mumbling to himself. He sloshes water on the floor. The bristles of the broom scratch the cemented surface. There is a small hole in a corner of each cell. It is clogged with filth. The water breaks the lumps of stale shit, scattering granules of excreta. The stench rises and permeates my cell. I shout in protest.

‘Fuck up.’

More water. My toes feel moist. I retreat into a corner. It is as silent as it was inside the church that afternoon I sought Jesu again…

The church doors were not bolted from the inside. I pulled without exerting much force. The hinges squeaked and the massive slabs of veneered wood moved towards me. The inviting coolness of the deserted hall. Another world—calm, clean and orderly. Without the odour of humanity. Did God smell?

Fortunately Father Daniel was not to be seen. My business was with the man on the cross. I wandered to the front pew, close to the forbidden territory.

That’s far enough. You have a clear view from there.

I spun around. There was no one in the aisle. There was a compulsion to be near him. I climbed the wooden steps.
The candle stands gleamed with a discomforting radiance. I rubbed my hands all over them.

Jesu, I have to talk. I must know…

Close-up, he was massive. I sat on the rug under the cross.

Jesu, whatever I have is being taken from me.

Patience, I told myself. Patience. He was a busy man.

Jesu, can you save Chaman? You have brought back the dead. Is there anything you can do for her?

I looked up at the crucifix. Pieces of varnished timber nailed together. There was a crack on his ankle. His nose was chipped.

He did not meet my stare. A sad, gaunt face that looked down at the floor. Was he dejected because of his inability to fulfil everyone’s needs?

Just this one request, Jesu. I beg you.

‘
Ai…ai…aai
!’

I didn’t hear him coming. Father Daniel stumbled up the steps, waving his hands wildly. His eyes were glazed and his speech was slightly slurred. ‘Off! Off! Vamana, isn’t it? You must get off the altar!’

‘I have to talk to him!’ I made no move to leave.

‘Who?’

‘Jesu.’

He watched me hawkishly to determine if I was being funny.

‘Well, you can do it from down there!’ he growled. ‘
Jao
!
Jao
! If you want to pray, kneel down, close your eyes, and think of whatever is troubling you.
Can
you pray?’

‘No.’ I moved reluctantly. There wasn’t much chance of contact with Jesu in front of the padre.

‘Here! Kneel with me.’ He followed me down. ‘Hands together. Raised! Like this. Now say, “In thee, O Lord do I put my trust. Be not far from me. Unto thee, O Lord, did I lift up
my soul…” Vamana! The house of our Lord must be treated with respect!’

I assumed that he did not approve of the way I was scratching myself. ‘My backside is itchy,’ I said apologetically. ‘It won’t affect my prayer.’

He glared at me, unconvinced about my sincerity. ‘We will try again.’

Eyes shut, I muttered after him: ‘“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer.”’

I peeked out of the corner of my right eye. Beads of saliva dotted Father Daniel’s lips. His mouth worked furiously in a voiceless prayer. His shoulders shook and tears dribbled down his cheeks. I couldn’t think of a reason for the remorse in his voice. Maybe he was feeling something I ought to have experienced.

‘“Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.” Pray! Pray! Don’t stop now! “For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me—”’

‘What sin?’ I interrupted. All I had intended was to seek Jesu’s help to cure Chaman. Instead, I had been tossed into a mire of confusion with words that made little sense. I had heard the word
sin
often enough and was constantly troubled by its elusiveness. Supposedly, it was both an internal and external adversary that figured prominently in most lives. Different signposts that indicated human wickedness. Well, I couldn’t figure it out at all. Murder and rape—yes! Abandoning babies—most certainly! But what else was sinful? Life was about eating and shitting. About outwitting the police and telling stories. Living with desirable women in one’s fantasies. Fleshy women, moist and delirious with passion. Dreams of young men with flawless skins and strong hands. Time spent in locating God…

‘Have you sinned, Father?’

He stopped praying and his eyelids snapped open. He looked embarrassed, as though I had stumbled on some hideous secret. ‘We…we…are all…all sinners!’ he stammered.

‘All I want is for Chaman to be cured.’ I explained who she was and the nature of her affliction, as I understood it. ‘
I
have not sinned.’

‘Faa…ther Daan…iel!’ A happy call, full of affection and contentment. It was the maidservant who had brought me the
thaal
of food the day I was beaten up by the police. She stifled a giggle when she saw me.

‘I am busy praying, Rekha,’ he said curtly. ‘Whatever it is can wait.’

Rekha ran out of the side door. Father Daniel mumbled once more.

‘Father!’ I had no desire to be involved in any further confessions of wrongdoing. ‘Can you tell me about Heaven?’

He looked astonished, but did not dodge my query. ‘Imagine a city…’ he began slowly and then paused to look at me. ‘A walled city of jasper and gold. Twelve pearled gates. A city lit by the glory of God. A place without night.’ He paused and gulped, as though he were himself awed by the splendour of such a place. ‘New Jerusalem, nourished with a pure river of the water of life. And, on each side of the river, the tree of life.’

‘The inhabitants attended by virgins and young boys?’ I whispered suggestively.