The Storyteller (27 page)

‘It was intended to be a joke.’

‘You mean a foolish act of revenge for what he is doing to your
bustee.
In life, it is crucial to know what one should not do. Some of us are more limited than others. Even I would
never have thought of crossing Jhunjhun Wallah. But
you
! If you saw the Devil, you would want to cut off his horns instead of hiding.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You are not to come to me again. I shall inform you if you are needed.’ He rubbed his hands as though he were brushing off specks of dirt. He rose to greet a man who had just walked in. ‘
Aarey
Vinod! These days I hardly see you. Have you forgotten your friends?’

Salim Jaffrey’s dismissive mannerisms flustered me, but I was more disturbed by the recollections of what I had heard about him. His treachery had blighted the lives of those who compromised his safety.

Chaman wasn’t pleased with me either. ‘What else have you done?’ she demanded. ‘Several policemen forced their way into the godown and wrecked everything inside. They beat up Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet. They demanded to know where you could be found, abused me and left.’

‘Did they find anything?’

‘What could they find inside?’

My relief was immediate.

‘What is so funny?’

‘Nothing. There is nothing funny about the police,’ I assured her. ‘I want you to come with me to a church.’

‘What?’ She was baffled and suspicious. ‘You have said and done some strange things lately…’

‘Have you ever been inside a
girja
?’

‘Once,’ she responded cautiously, her eyes narrowing.

‘Then you know something about Jesu?’

‘He’s the man who hangs on walls. The Christian God.’

‘I want you to ask him for his help. He can cure people with miracles.’

I didn’t expect the outburst of hysterical laughter. It offended me. The customers inside the
dhaba
were looking at us and whispering. Salim Jaffrey came outside and told us to leave.

Chaman was exhausted after the bout of uncontrollable shrieking. We rested under a tree.

‘Is that why you asked to meet? So you could take me to a
girja
to talk to a figure carved in wood?’

‘It is…just like a
murthi.
A figure that you pray to.’

‘And what can Jesu do that Hindu gods cannot?’ She became quite aggressive. ‘Gods do not speak. They remain silent and soak up our worship. In return they offer nothing.’

‘I talked to him about you. He brought back a man from the dead! The
girja
is not too far from here.’

She looked at me like the unbelieving mother of a child who has spun a clumsy lie. Chaman couldn’t walk quickly, and I had no difficulty catching up with her.

‘I went to see Baji,’ she panted, looking straight ahead. She began to limp quite noticeably. ‘I went to see Baji,’ Chaman repeated pointedly. ‘She is furious with what you did. There were bruises on her face.’ I remained silent. ‘Well?’

‘Will you at least try talking to Jesu?’

‘No. I have no faith in alien gods.’

The rain intensified. We managed to catch a taxi. As a precaution, I left the vehicle some distance from the
bustee
and walked the rest of the way. I hid behind one of the remaining shacks and waited for Chaman’s signal to indicate that it was safe for me to return to the godown.

I was eager to change into the new T-shirt and shorts I had stolen from Sardar Bazaar.

‘Look respectable!’ Baldev Singh had instructed. ‘Otherwise I won’t allow you to go inside. Remember, you don’t know me. Don’t forget the extra supply…’

I had already packaged a quantity of
ganja
in a paper bag. It surprised me that he made no further demands. I would have willingly done more to enter a big hotel to look around and pick pockets. Baldev Singh knew nothing about my mercenary
motives. I had only expressed a desire to experience the visual luxury of a reputable hotel. Baldev Singh was one of Salim Jaffrey’s regular customers, and over a period of time his dependence on drugs had increased quite significantly. I had begun to save from my own quota of
ganja
ever since I discovered that he was employed in one of the largest hotels in New Delhi.

‘Eight o’clock!’ he insisted. ‘Not before. Understand?’

Of course I didn’t understand. Some time late in the evening, I assumed.

A sliver of light. In the gloom of twilight and in the wretchedness of the rain and wind, it was a comforting sign to tell me that there was no danger.

‘There’s a
roti
and some spinach,’ Chaman called from the darkness of her corner.

‘Ah huh.’ I rushed to my corner, even more appreciative of the debris that separated me from the rest of the godown.

Chaman sensed my anxiety. ‘Nothing has been taken.’

I uncovered the hole and took out the make-up kit and clothes. Meena was asleep. I resolved to spend the later part of the night with her.

Chaman joined me for the meagre meal. In the light of a candle, she looked frail and ghostly. Although she denied it, I was convinced that her eyesight had deteriorated. Her face was wrinkled and the skin on her arms hung loosely like residual flaps of leather.

‘There was a time when we ate together.’ She sounded tired. ‘Even Barey Bhai, in his own aloof way, was part of the family.’ She felt the sadness of desolation, as I did.

‘We hardly ever work together now. I must see the others about finding a place to live.’

‘Will you go with them?’

‘We will go together,’ I said sharply.

‘I don’t think I am wanted any more.’

I gave her the glass bangles I carried in my satchel. ‘I paid for them.’

Her smile of delight more than compensated for the money I had spent. She slipped them on her left wrist and extended her arm to admire them. ‘This Jesu…’

‘He can help you!’

‘How do you know?’

‘That’s what Father Daniel said.’

‘Who’s Father Daniel?’

‘The padre in the
girja.
’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I have spoken to Jesu myself. I have! It’s in a different world. You must believe what you see with your eyes closed. I shut my eyes…and he appears. We talk. We are almost like good friends.’

‘Vamana!’ It was a choked cry of despair. ‘Why do you insist on fooling yourself?’

I finished eating. The hunger remained.

‘You have to believe whatever happens inside,’ I said sullenly. ‘I cannot ignore it.’

‘Isn’t it best to leave it in there?’

‘It’s the truth,’ I insisted. ‘The mind does not lie to itself.’

‘But it does to others.’

‘That is necessary for survival.’

She was tired. I suggested that she lie down. Her fatigue enabled me to dress without the apprehension of being observed. I disciplined myself with a very light touch of make-up. No lipstick. No eye shadow. No foundation cream. A dab of powder and a smidgen of blush. Decidedly a male with a glow on his cheeks.

Chaman was asleep on her mattress. I sat close to her to negate a nagging feeling that she was drifting away from me.
I was like a man stranded on a shore, watching his boat moving further to the sea. At first its shape was distinguishable, but then it became smaller…a dark smudge, a dot, and then only the meeting point where the sky dipped into the water. Perhaps that was when one began to believe in the lie of a God.

Outside the rain had stopped. There were puddles everywhere. Shadows headed towards me. I moved sideways and crouched behind a small pile of bricks. Familiar voices. Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers. Farishta was a step behind them.

‘…a lot of money!’

‘We cannot just ignore it. Think of what it can do for us. A new life. On top of it, the police will drop all charges.’

‘It’s still a betrayal of one’s own. Chaman won’t agree.’

Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers stopped in mid stride.

‘Who’s asking her?’

‘Her opinion doesn’t matter any more.’

I nearly jumped up to confront Lightning Fingers. I did not care for the dismissive manner in which he spoke about Chaman. But it was the unease in Farishta’s voice, and the faint note of protest, that held me back. They walked past, making plans without mentioning names. Unpleasant conclusions hatched from the snatches of conversation I heard.

The sky cleared. A few stars appeared and the evening was suddenly cold. I caught a bus and then rode on the back of a bullock-drawn cart that carried bales of cotton. As I walked, I kept thinking about betrayal.

There was frantic activity in front of the hotel. Sweaty
goras
disembarked from two large buses and were shepherded inside through massive glass doors. Young men, dressed in black trousers and white shirts, piled suitcases on several trolleys. There was Baldev Singh, standing erect and imperially aloof in front of the entrance. He looked splendid in white trousers and
a maroon jacket, buttoned at the collar, with a gold and black sash around his waist. The turban matched the colour of his jacket, and the white gloves were spotless. He was a handsome man with intense eyes, a beautifully groomed beard and a sensuous moustache that would have felt divine brushing against my bum.

He saw me and jerked his head casually in the direction of the doors. I dropped the packet in the usual place, behind the pots of red, white and pink flowers, and then walked inside through a revolving door. I pretended that I was inside a spinning space. I went around several times until I saw Baldev Singh looking ferociously at me. There were
goras
sprawled on comfortable seats, standing and talking in small groups, and arguing with the Indians behind the counter. Most of them were elderly people and appeared to be highly irritated.

‘It wouldn’t take half as long, even in a moderate hotel back home,’ an old woman claimed, tapping the floor with a walking stick. She shrieked and moved back as she saw me grinning at her. I liked the necklace she was wearing. ‘Look George!’ She tugged his arm and jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘You don’t expect to see something like
that
in a luxury hotel!’

I abandoned my promise to be discreet and well behaved. As she watched in a posture of horrified stillness, I licked one of the glass panels with the full length of my tongue.

‘Did you see that, George? He put his germs all over the glass!’

George, who was fat, bald and seemingly immune to unpleasant surprises, patted her between her shoulders. ‘This is India, dear. One has to accept the reality of nightmares here.’

I was awed by the luxury of the place. This was a part of Delhi beyond my dreams. Its size was staggering. Clean…so uncomfortably clean! The floor gleamed like a plain of burnished copper. Above, it appeared as if stars had gathered
together in a brilliant cluster. The walls were decorated with huge paintings. Invisible hands had banished poverty from the city. A few, who noticed me, frowned as if they were unable to reconcile my presence in their company.

There was a room carpeted in green. A glimpse of handsome men and beautiful women drew me inside. Princes and princesses. Glowing faces and flawless skins. Delicate. Unreal. At that moment I could have believed in the
mullah
’s Paradise. It wouldn’t have surprised me if there had been a sudden flash of light and celestial voices. God might have rested here. Wingless angels glided noiselessly with trays of food and drink. I hid behind a potted plant and allowed my eyes to feast on the heavenly sights. But there was no urge to linger. I thought of darkness and smelly lanes, noises and fumes, crowded bazaars, the raunchy laughter of whores, the cry of beggars and mutants. That was my Delhi.

My interest waned quickly, and I headed towards a corridor with shops on either side. Carpets, wooden carvings and brass artefacts. Silk scarves, leather jackets and handbags. I touched a scarf—the softness of a woman’s thigh. The shopkeeper saw me and roused himself from the comfort of his chair. I hurried along. Behind me, the echo of his voice calling someone.

Further down the corridor, a slab of polished wood stuck out from the wall above the door. The figure, painted in white, looked like a faceless man. I stood near the door, undecided whether to go in and explore the strong smell I associated with shopkeepers and the little white balls of napthalene they used to repel insects. The door opened and a
gora
lurched out. His eyes were glazed and blood-shot, and his speech was slurred. He placed a finger on his lips when he saw me. ‘Shhh! I…I am aush…aushleep. Go back into my dream! Go on…’

This was too easy. A leather wallet peeked out of his hip pocket. Its bulge excited me.

‘Takshi! I need a taxi. Must go. Bye-bye!’

I pointed in the direction of the lobby. He turned, and in the next instant his wallet was in my satchel. The man paused and scared me. I prepared myself to run past him.

‘There! A taxi made of gold! Fit for my Injun…Indian mish…mistress. She’s a prin…cess, you know. Fucks like one too! Huh? How did you shrink?’ He shook his head. ‘Am…amazing country this!’ He bowed and nearly fell over. ‘That way, you said? Thank you! Thank you!’ He staggered away, pausing to kiss his shadow on the wall.

I tiptoed inside. A feeling of reverence gripped me, as though I were in a place of worship. Everything was white and clean. I heard whirring noises in the ceiling. Two
goras
were up against a wall, pissing into white bowls. I watched them closely. Another man was washing his hands and looking intently at his reflection in the mirror.

‘Eh? Look at what we have here, fellas!’

They looked at me and grinned. I ignored them, tossed my head back defiantly and went up to one of the white bowls attached to the wall. Here one could piss with dignity, I thought. It wasn’t until they gathered behind me, laughing, that I realised the bowl was too high. I couldn’t face the humiliation of walking out. I held my penis in both hands and stretched it as far as I could. It looked like the raised trunk of an elephant. I aimed for the bowl, but at the last moment the head turned slightly to the right. The piss gushed out with such force that it hit the wall tiles and bounced back to splatter my face and clothes.