A Beautiful Lie (16 page)

‘No, of course, I forgot. You’re a saint, aren’t you, Bilal? Saint Bilal the Righteous. So young, yet so wise,’ he sneered, making smoke shapes as he spoke.

I took a deep breath.
Think of what I came here to do. Stay calm
.

‘Why did you want to meet me?’ I asked.

Irritated that he hadn’t been able to annoy me, he pointed his cigarette at me. It was so dark I could barely make his face out as I followed the smoking butt of his cigarette. The dying light drew strange shapes in the air as I listened to his familiar voice. The same voice that used to read to me when I was small.

‘I wanted to ask about the old man and also find out what arrangements you’re making.’

‘Arrangements for what?’ I asked.

‘We spoke about this last time, Bilal. This whole place is going to the dogs. It’s going to blow up very soon. You don’t want to be here for that and neither does the old man.’

‘And I told you last time: I’m not going anywhere and neither is he.’

‘But, Bilal, they don’t want us here. Why stay?’

‘Because this is our home, Bhai. This is where Bapuji grew up. This is where we’re from. I don’t even know what this new Pakistan looks like. What would we do there?’

‘That’s not the point, the point is –’

‘That
is
the point. For Bapuji and me anyway. You go if you want but we’re staying here.’

‘You just don’t understand. It’s a bit difficult for me to come to the house right now but I’ll find a way to come and speak with the old man. He might not want to move but he’ll definitely make you go.’

‘Don’t you dare come home,’ I said, almost in a whisper. ‘Not for this. You’re not welcome any more, Bhai.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Bilal?’

Bhai sounded angry now as well as surprised. I could feel all my insides clenching into little balls of pain and the pressure almost made me cry out loud.
He needs to know. Tell him.
So I did.

After I’d told Bhai everything, he sat perched on the barrel trying to understand. The cigarette in his hand smouldered until it reached his fingertips and burnt him. Flinching then swearing, he flicked it away and stared after it. After a moment he lit another.

‘You can’t do that, Bilal,’ he said quietly.

‘I am doing it. I’m not going to stop now,’ I replied with more confidence than I felt.

‘But it’s a lie, Bilal. You’re lying to him. It’s all a lie!’ He almost shouted it.

Each time he said ‘lie’, it felt like razors were cutting the insides of my stomach but it didn’t matter. Not any more.

‘So it’s a lie. But if we’re talking about the truth – if
you’re
the truth – then I prefer the lie.’

‘But how can you live with it, Bilal? Bapuji trusts you to look after him, to care for him and to tell him the truth. How can you do this?’

‘Easy – I love him. More than anything in the world. And if you had stayed, if you’d decided that being like him was enough, then
you’d
understand.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t care. Just don’t come home and don’t bother us with your “truth”. It’s ugly and we want no part of it.’

I could just make out his face in the moonlight. Tears glistened like little pearls rolling slowly down his cheeks.

‘Bilal, it doesn’t need to be like this . . .’

I looked away from his face before I lost my nerve.

‘Yes, it does.’

I left Bhai sitting on the barrel, the cigarette burning close to his fingers. My last thought before I turned away was that if he wasn’t careful it would burn him again – but if he hadn’t learnt from the first time there was nothing I could do.

Chapter 32

Saleem and I returned to Mr Singh’s printer’s yard on the Friday feeling extremely pleased with ourselves. I had worked hard on the paper all week, spending the days writing and the evenings with Mr Mukherjee. Mr Singh opened the door and growled at us to come in. Taking our well-thumbed pieces of paper, he told us to come back in an hour after he had made them ready for printing.

While we waited, Saleem and I went by the rooftop and sat with Chota as he babbled on about a cockerel fight that was coming up. ‘But not just any fight. This will be the fight to end all cockerel fights . . .’

Promising Chota we’d be back later, we returned to Mr Singh’s house but we didn’t feel as confident as we had earlier. I knocked on the door and held my breath. The door swung open and a voice tore through the quiet.

‘You two, get in here now.’

Saleem shoved me forward and we walked into the house. Mr Singh stood with his arms crossed. It was hard to tell if he was angry because Mr Singh always looked angry.

‘What in the guru’s name is this?’ he asked, pointing to our various bits of paper.

‘Not the news you were expecting,’ said Saleem, the words escaping from his mouth before he’d had a chance to think.

‘No,
not
the news I was expecting. Is this part of the assignment then? To write this, this . . .’

Go on, say it, Mr Singh, you know what it is
.

‘These lies. What purpose does it serve to lie like this, eh?’

‘We just want it to be different, that’s all, Mr Singh. Like a “what if ” this happened, you know,’ Saleem stammered, looking at me for support.

‘There is a good reason. Will you print it?’ I asked, my question cutting through Saleem’s stammering.

‘Print this . . . this drivel? No, I won’t print it. It’s fabrications, fictions and lies. It’ll be a waste of ink,’ replied Mr Singh, sitting down on his battered stool and shaking his head.

‘Fine,’ I said and walked out of his house as Saleem apologised to a stunned Mr Singh.

Marching down the road, I stopped when I heard Saleem calling after me.

‘What’s the matter with you? If you’d explained it to him carefully, he might have gone for it,’ said Saleem exasperatedly.

‘I worked hard on that paper, Sal, but he’s right. It is all lies. Perhaps lies that are spoken aloud merely float away like leaves in the wind but writing them down creates a record of our lie. Our beautiful lie.’

We heard shouting from behind us in the street and saw Mr Singh striding towards us.

‘Where are you running off to then?’ he asked, breathing heavily.

‘You said you won’t publish it. What else is there to say?’ I replied.

Saleem groaned.

Mr Singh put his hands on his hips. ‘There is something more to this. Something you’re not telling me.’ Narrowing his eyes, he looked closely at me. ‘Are you Gulam-bhai’s son?’

For a moment I considered lying but Saleem elbowed me in the ribs and I muttered, ‘Yes.’

Mr Singh swore under his breath. ‘We need to talk,’ he said and ushered us back to his house, where he poured three cups of tea and signalled for us to sit down.

‘I’ve known your bapuji ever since I was a small boy. He’s older than me by a few years. We went to school together.’ He pointed to his printing machine and smiled. ‘Did you know that your bapuji helped me raise the money for this machine? No, I bet you didn’t. He was always obsessed with books and printing of any kind, and he felt very strongly that this market town should be able to print its own news and leaflets. As I was the only one who could write and edit copy, naturally it fell to me to take this on but without a printer it was pointless. Your bapuji convinced the town committee to raise the money and lend it to me for a small machine, and so my business was born. Without his help, I’d still . . . I’m not sure what I’d be doing.’

I could feel Saleem’s eyes on me. I mouthed, ‘
What?
’ at him and he mouthed back, ‘
Tell him
.’

If Saleem has his way, the whole town will know
.

‘Mr Singh,’ I began, ‘if you know my bapuji as well as you say you do, you might understand why I’ve written this paper . . .’

After I’d finished explaining, Mr Singh flicked through our pages and laughed, a deep guffaw echoing around the room. His face was softer now, the look in his eyes more gentle.

‘Are you sure about this? I love your bapuji like a brother but is this the right thing to do?’ he asked quietly.

‘What’s the alternative, Mr Singh?’

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, saying a quick prayer under his breath: ‘Guru guide us . . .’

Yanking the heavy ink-stained cloth from the machine, Mr Singh turned to us with his hands on his hips.

‘Leave it to me, it’ll be printed by tomorrow. Go on now, I have to concentrate and put this clumsy copy into some kind of order. Get away with you.’

Chapter 33

Standing in front of the three holies, I looked at my feet. The holy men had tried to visit Bapuji on four separate occasions and each time I’d managed to persuade them that he was asleep or unwell. However, this time they refused to go away. I knew that if I told the three holies, the whole market town, slowly but surely, would know the truth – or rather the lie – of what I was doing. Even so, if I told them it would make all our lives easier. Straightening up, I explained what I had resolved to do.

‘You lied to us!’ cried the reverend.

‘This is morally unacceptable,’ said the imam.

‘Your bapuji must know the truth,’ added the pandit.

‘What would God think about all of this?’ exclaimed the reverend.

‘I don’t know what God would say because I haven’t asked him. But I think if I did ask him, he would understand,’ I said quietly.

Saleem stood to my right, glaring at the three holy men, and Manjeet stood defiantly in front of our doorway, picking his teeth with a little twig.

‘Understand?’ said the reverend. ‘But, my boy, this is an untruth, a lie. Your bapuji, he’s dy—’

‘Look, Pandit-ji, Imam-ji and Reverend-ji –’ began Saleem, raising his voice.

‘No, Saleem, it’s OK –’ I started.

‘No, it isn’t OK,’ he replied, standing in front of me. ‘It’s not OK to come and do this outside Bilal’s house. It’s not OK to accuse people of being something they’re not and it’s not OK to . . . to . . .’

‘Sal . . .’ I tried again.

‘So please go away and leave us to do what we have to do,’ Saleem continued.

‘Baghvan, guide these boys to the truth,’ said the pandit.

‘Allah forgive them . . .’ started the imam.

I watched appreciatively as Saleem shouted at the three holies while they wrung their hands and tutted at me. Manjeet continued picking his teeth, amusedly looking on as Saleem growled and snapped at them. Eventually I put a hand on Saleem’s shoulder. Turning around, he stopped shouting and stepped back. Looking at each of the three men in turn, I held up my hands. They stopped talking. I could taste the disapproval on the tips of their tongues.

‘You want me to tell the truth?’ I asked.

As one, they all muttered yes and nodded their assent.

‘Are you sure that’s the best thing to do?’ I asked.

Again, they all agreed with a jangle of beads, chains and heavy cloth.

‘OK then. Pandit-ji, when you first came here to do your job, you told everybody that you had been taught by a famous guru in Delhi but everyone knows that you came from Chennai and have never been to Delhi.’

‘No, that’s not quite . . .’ the pandit spluttered.

‘Imam-ji, you tell everyone that your son works in an important government job but we all know that he’s a dacoit and lives in a village near Batalia.’

‘Well, no. I mean, yes. He does live near Batalia but he’s not . . .’

‘And you, Reverend-ji, when was the last time somebody came to confession?’

‘Ah, well, it’s been a while. It’s been a bit slow.
We’re a small community . . .’

‘Reverend-ji, perhaps it’s something to do with the fact that when you get really drunk, you like to tell whoever will listen the confessions of your sheep.’

‘Flock.
You mean, flock,’ replied the reverend.

‘You know what I mean,’ I replied. ‘You all do.’

Saleem and Manjeet were both standing with their mouths open, looking at me. Pushing past them I opened the door and gestured to the three men.

‘So, please come in. I’m sure Bapuji would love to hear your truth,’ I said.

The three holies stood rooted to the spot in the quiet street.

‘We don’t want to disturb him if he’s sleeping . . .’ began the reverend.

‘Yes, he needs his rest. It would do him no good to jabber on with us three old men,’ followed the imam.

‘Quite, quite. You give him our best, Bilal. God give him succour,’ said the reverend.

The pandit closed his eyes in prayer. The imam lifted his hands to the sky and swayed as he mouthed a prayer. The reverend flicked his rosary beads and looked into the distance.