The Storyteller (34 page)

‘My wife is a nurse. I don’t like her working. True, the money she earns helps us to meet our expenses.’

‘But the sacrifice?’

‘Exactly! When I come home, I see her in uniform, ready for the night shift. She writes down everything that I am expected to do and then reads it out to me. I have to warm my dinner, clean and wash, supervise the children’s homework, put them to bed…I’ll tell you, my father never had to work this way.’

‘Next we will wear saris at home.’

‘Shameful!’

‘My wife brings home work like an uninvited guest. If I ask her to do something, she tells me she has papers to correct and lessons to prepare for the next day. Once I lost my temper and pushed her. Nothing serious. And what did she do? Packed up and huffed off to live with her parents. “I can support myself,” she said. “I am not dependent on you.” It was several months before she returned, and that too only after I pleaded with her.’

‘I am less fortunate than both of you. My wife had to give up her job as a shop assistant to take care of our retarded son. We will have to look after him as long as we are alive. After that…it’s in Bhagwan’s hands. We don’t know what will happen to him.’

Ungrateful wretches! They talk as if familial life is a curse to be endured. They should live in my body and experience the perpetual coldness of being alone. There is no joy in a life without love. If there is a heaven, then perhaps I could request the company of a wife, a brood of children and friends. Friends, did I say? Hah!

‘There!’ Manu cried suddenly, pointing to a masked man walking in a circle.

He was beating a drum and attracting the attention of passers-by. A modest crowd had assembled. The man was dressed in a monkey’s costume with an absurdly long tail that trailed in the dust behind him.

‘
Aao
!
Aao
!
Aao
!’ the monkey-man called. ‘Listen to my tales of this city and its people.’

An uninspiring beginning. The voice was flat and his movements were stiff. Manu nudged me to move forward.

‘Brothers and…’—he must have noticed the absence of females—‘more brothers! Once again, a
kissa
about Delhi. What else is there? The story of our city is the story of life itself.’ He paused to pass a bowl among the listeners. ‘Whatever you can, whatever you please, will be gratefully accepted.’

A few coins clinked and the bowl rapidly made its way back to the monkey-man. I began to feel quite superior.

‘From Tomar Rajputs to the Chauhan Rajputs, from the Sultanate of Delhi to the great emperors, from the
Angreez
to what you see today, this city has been the playground of
bhadshahs
, the sanctuary of
fakirs
, the haven of poets, the inspiration of lovers, the graveyard of conquerors and the home of ordinary people like yourself and this humble narrator! As can be expected, there are as many stories about our city as there are stars in heaven. Today…’ He paused to look around him. I saw Manu moving away from me. ‘Today, I shall tell you…no, not about an emperor or a conquering villain…not about
djinns
or magicians…but about a storyteller. Not an ordinary human, like you or me, but a dwarf—a shrunken, miserable creature with a twisted vision of life. A midget so ugly that animals ran for shelter when they saw him. A mind so warped that it could only have been forged by the Devil. A thief, a liar and a pervert!’
The crowd murmured and inched forward. ‘If we had a museum to display the great villains of our city’s history, the dwarf would find a prominent place among the scoundrels who have plagued Delhi. His name—’

‘Toad! Lying vermin!’ I couldn’t help myself. To be vilified in this manner was beyond all limits of tolerance. I shouted and stomped my feet to emphasise my protest and then rushed towards him.

A whistle blew. Hands reached out to grab me. Pandemonium. The crowd dispersed, leaving a handful of grim-faced men. The monkey-man ripped off his mask and joined the struggle to subdue me. I was flung to the ground and my hands pinned behind me.

‘Well done! Tie him up. Hands and legs.’

I recognised the voice. Soon he would call Jhunjhun Wallah and claim that he had kept his promise. The echo of defeat grew louder in my ears. I closed my eyes and escaped as they bound me, pursued by the sound of Manu’s laughter.

‘There’s Vikram.’ There’s no enthusiasm in the voice.

A lantern approaches.

‘Vikram?’

The light is raised in acknowledgement. There is a violent tug on the rope. Unable to retain my balance, I stumble. They pounce on me. It is a short fall. My hands are free to feel the emptiness in front of me. I crawl a few paces. I rub against the granules of crumbling earth. I can hear them breathing. A sob. I raise myself on my knees.

The dull sound of a club striking something solid. There is a sharp pain at the back of my head. I can immediately feel the swelling and hear the drums. Is that a laugh? My face aches. I cannot move my hands to touch the pain. Thudding noises of feet, as if devils are dropping from hell.

Ripples of pain spread all over my body. Fires ignite in the darkness. I have no control over my limbs. I feel simultaneous blows to my head, back, arms and legs.

The fools! Don’t they know that I can tunnel beyond their grasp and leave the pain behind. I close my eyes and prepare to escape. A light flashes in front of my face and then begins to recede. I am dragged back by happy noises. My entire being feels as if it has been torched. My head is hell itself. The devils are laughing. Scrambling feet.

Is that the human sound of death? Clever, malicious death, extracting an inevitable win. Will it reveal its shape or is it the darkness itself? I am lost in a mist, suspended between what I have known and what I am able to imagine. What sights are these? I pass the moon and the wailing witches who mourn the discovery of their secrets. Now I also know. The necessary nonsense that lovers speak. I have heard such words on earth.

Someone giggles above me. ‘Not here in the open!’

‘I am bursting!’

My face feels wet. The rain has arrived swiftly and revived me. I cannot move my head.

Another nervous giggle. ‘We can’t do it here! There may be snakes and scorpions on the ground.’

A groan. Impatience and disappointment. If only I could spring up and surprise them. Sound a warning about the grief of bringing misfits into the world.

My eyelids are like massive gates closing slowly to shut out the world. The darkness is not an obstacle. It is strange that as I lie in a ditch I should catch a glimpse of a
mullah
signalling to me. But who is this other creature in sight, hovering over me, uglier than anyone I can imagine? He has one eye on his face, the other in the nape of his neck.

Why do you lie in this open grave?

Who are you?

The Angel of Death. Are you a believer or an infidel?

Neither.

Choose! The believer’s tomb is a verdant garden. The infidel’s is crowded with seven-headed snakes.

Who are they behind you?

The black angels who interrogate the dead about their faith.

I am Mankar.

And I am Nakir.

But I am not dead yet. Am I?

Possibly not.

Know that the believer’s narrow and dark grave will become spacious and full of light.

For the infidel, the tomb closes to crush his ribs.

Know that on Judgement Day the graves will burst open and the dead shall rise to be led to a plateau. All creatures will gather from the seven heavens and the seven earths, with angels, djinns, and devils for company. The Heavens will be ripped open and the sky scattered. The sun will hide and mountains crumble. The seas will boil and Hell’s hungry voice will be heard in roaring fires.

Are you a believer or an infidel?

Neither. I choose to see the sights and hear the sounds of both places.

Repent and believe!

Otherwise the Pit awaits you. Know that there are several compartments of Hell. Its fire is unknown to man. It can scorch and it can freeze. The colour of fire is black. Black!

There you will lie manacled, with fire all around you. You will be pierced by many swords, your forehead shattered, your flesh, skin and hair burned.

But that is not the end. You will be given a new skin for the torment to begin again. There is no end. There are only the howls of devils for company. Repent!

I should like to see the other place.

Paradise is only for the righteous. For those who believe. The path to infinite bliss is over a bridge that stretches over the fiery Pit. It is sharper than a sword’s edge and narrower than a strand of hair.

Show me.

Only the upright will walk across in safety.

Those with hardened hearts and burdened with sin will slip and fall into the Pit.

Take me to the other side and guide me through whatever is there.

It is not in our power to take such liberties.

At best we can take you across and leave you near the river.

If Hell is full of torment, then it must be also a place for stories.

In pain the sinners cry of what could have been. They lie to forget their anguish. The devils tell of horrors that await them for the rest of eternity.

And in Paradise?

Angels soothe the souls.

I am being taken beyond the brightness of stars and the darkness of space. Over and above. There is no sound or sensation of movement. We traverse barren plains and burning deserts. There is the bridge! It extends above the coils of rising smoke.

The black angels Mankar and Nakir drop me. As I fall, I hear the cries and the chanting. Pain gives birth to words. I forget about the fires and the stench. I want to join those who writhe in agony…

Have you seen enough?

They catch me and we move upwards again.

There…the other side.

We can go no further.

What sounds are those that numb the mind?

The voices of angels meant for visitors.

We have to leave you here.

They disappear before I can tell them about my fascination for the Pit. I wish to hear more from those in pain. Against my will I find myself walking towards the river. Someone is waiting for me…

An early morning. Hazy and touched by the chill of approaching winter. He lies still, eyes closed. Heaven and Hell have faded away. Raging fires and calm orchards. Agitated demons. Serene angels. Music and cacophonous sounds. Gone.

I am somewhere in-between
, he concludes. A reluctant admission.

There is pain. A persistent drumbeat inside his head. The noise of a primitive beginning. Untouched jungles and exotic birds. Naked people copulating without guilt. Louder…louder. A tribal celebration of what the instinct grasps and whatever is beyond understanding.

His arms, legs, chest and back feel as if they have been under a heavy roller. He is unable to curl his toes or flex his fingers. Weak sensations swim in his legs. The monstrous erection throbs and then begins to subside like a sea after high tide. His crotch feels hot and sticky. He is thirsty. There is a dryness in his mouth. An acrid taste of disappointment. He knows where he is, fixed in time and space. Mortality’s limitations gall him.

I don’t
…
I don’t want to function as a human. I have levitated and sprouted wings. I should have disappeared permanently inside those unravelled secrets.

It had been a long night of…well, a thousand hours. Or was it more? Much more. His mind had been an expanding universe reaching out to touch the extremities of whatever had been invented. Truth. Lies. Dreams. Reality. Heaven. Hell. Wonderment, rather than cynicism, made him recall the journey of a trial death. And now that he was back, he resolved to question the
mullah
and talk to Jesu again.

There was contrition and self-recrimination. He was unable to clutch and keep what had been within his reach. Ultimately he had failed himself and crash-landed back to earth because the gravity of the flesh had been too strong a force to overcome.

He permitted himself a smile at what he had said. He recalled enjoying the mortified look on the
mullah
’s face. Spurning Paradise was not difficult. No more frontiers, he was told. Nothing to strive for. No yearnings.

Everything is here. Whatever you desire is yours.
The rewards of a believer, if only he would repent and renounce, choose the righteous way.

Renounce? What do I have to renounce?

You must not imagine. Here, we must not be infected with the make-believe.

That was a demand beyond fulfilment. An absurdity. He had looked around him. Then he thought about the distraught creatures and their cries of torment. What possibilities were in their pain! He empathised with the suffering.

Rays of sunlight prick his eyelids. He can see. Faces. Young. Curious. Peering into the ditch. The tip of a stick prods his navel. He manages to emit a sound. The children jump back.

‘An alien! From the moon!’ a squeaky voice cries.

‘A ghost!’

‘Ghosts only appear at night!’

There is a war-like cry as they run around the ditch. Now there is only one face leaning over cautiously to reconfirm what they have all seen. Gruff voices frighten the boy. He springs back and runs from the field. His companions drop their sticks and stones and follow him.

It takes several attempts for the prostrate figure to speak.

‘Let me tell you about places and beings you can never imagine. Orchards and rivers beyond the stars. Fires that never die. There are those who can fly. There is no sun, and yet there is always light. Darkness infinitely deeper than the night. No birth or death, and whatever we experience in-between is not known.’ The note of conviction in his voice pleases him. There is energy and eagerness he thought were lost.

There is no urgency to leave. Sensations have deserted him. His mind wanders to the bazaars and the streets. Noises filter into his ears. Throngs of shoppers. Glistening midriffs and shapely bums. Dark eyes and curious smiles. He sees himself standing on a wooden crate. A bright costume with protrusions on the shoulder blades. A new make-up kit. Red lips, fiery eyes and a painted tongue. He would learn to move as if he were on a cushion of air.

The police will not report their bungled effort. Lies will blanket their inefficiency.

There is no one missing. A miscount, perhaps? We have so many. It is easy to make a mistake in the confusion of the overcrowded prisons. Over the years we’ve had dwarfs. Not many. No, we cannot recall anyone recently.

It was intended to be quite different. A few more blows in the right places.
You have a head as hard as a rock
! That had probably saved him. They swung murderously and missed frequently, unable to adjust to his lack of height. They would
have had him in the end as he lay in the ditch, but for the lusting couple who had headed their way.

He shuts out the morning light. Darkness is more bearable, like being inside a shack with a storm raging outside. He would travel south. Nagpur. Hyderabad. Bangalore or Mysore. So many more stories to be told. The two-headed boy who knew the past and the future. The beggar with the spitting snakes in his hair. The woman with a breast on either side of her navel. He smiles.
Like a god I will descend.
He likes the comparison.
Like a god…

‘My name is Vamana,’ he struggles to mutter. ‘Incarnation of Visnu. Consort of Indra. My task is to nourish the world. My intention? To reveal the truth. Now listen to what I have to say…’

Words once spoken are never lost.
His eyelids collapse.
I am blessed with immortality.
A faint glow of accomplishment spreads across his face.

A dirt road. He is riding on a cart. A pageant of noisy children. The distant voice of a river, full of awe and intrigue. There can be no distinction between lies and truth. Meena’s approving smile. A pure sky. A young boy places a crown of twigs and leaves on his head. Applause.

All this…for me?

We are nearly home…

Anxious faces and eager hands appear above him. They whisper and begin to shovel in the dirt. Faster…faster.

In the distance, a timeless city stirs to the rhythm of an ordinary day.