A Beautiful Lie (17 page)

‘Thank you for coming,’ I said.

‘Think nothing of it, my boy. Tell him he’s in our prayers,’ replied the reverend.

Watching them go, I slid down against the wall and sat down.

‘Bilal, that was . . .’ began Saleem.

‘I knew that sooner or later people would find out about what I was doing, but I don’t feel good about what I just did,’ I replied.

‘But, Bilal, you . . .’ spluttered Saleem, struggling to find the words.

‘You told them what they needed to hear, Bilal,’ said Manjeet quietly. ‘If they didn’t want to hear it they shouldn’t do what they do. And they definitely shouldn’t tell other people what to do.’

‘Thanks, Manjeet, that makes me feel a little better,’ I replied.

Manjeet nodded and slid down next to me. Saleem still stood, trying to find the right words but, rolling his eyes, he gave up and slid down too.

‘Did you see the looks on their faces?’ said Saleem, sniggering.

‘It was very funny,’ replied Manjeet.

‘It’s hard to describe, it’s almost as if they . . . I don’t know,’ said Saleem.

‘Almost as if they were surprised at hearing the truth said aloud,’ finished Manjeet.

‘I can understand that,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Saleem.

‘If you tell a lie long enough, it becomes real. Then the lie no longer exists and all you’re left with is your version of the truth.’

‘It must have been some surprise to hear it said out in the open like that then,’ replied Manjeet.

‘It must’ve been like a kick in the teeth,’ I agreed.

‘Do you think you’ll ever feel like that?’ asked Saleem.

‘No, I will never feel like that. Never,’ I said.

‘Still, we managed to get the newspaper sorted. Has he read it yet?’ asked Saleem.

Mr Singh had made an exact replica of a newspaper for us, printed on a particular paper so that it would even feel like a real newspaper. Even he had been pleased with how well it had turned out – he had brought the paper to the house himself, proud he had done his bit.

‘I’m going to wait until this evening then give it to him so he can read it in the candlelight just before he falls asleep,’ I said.

‘Think he’ll notice?’ asked Manjeet.

‘I don’t think so. He sleeps a lot nowadays and when he is awake he’s not quite sure where he is. Sometimes he seems to think I’m Ma . . .’

‘Do you want me to stay with you?’ asked Saleem.

‘No, no, go on home. I’ll meet you on the rooftop tomorrow as usual,’ I replied.

As Manjeet and Saleem slipped away, I watched the light change. Moving into the house and closing the door behind me, I gathered up the newspaper. Bapuji was lying in bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

‘Bapuji, you’re awake! How are you feeling?’

Bapuji looked at me in surprise.
He’s not quite sure where he is
.

‘Look, Bapuji, I’ve brought you a newspaper,’ I said.

Coming back to himself, Bapuji perked up and smiled gratefully.
Taking the paper from me, he held it close to his eyes, squinting in the candlelight. I sat on the bed, trying not to fidget as he read it. When he finally put the paper down, he looked at me and beamed.

‘I told you it would be OK, Bilal,’ he said happily.

‘You were right, Bapuji. Everything will be OK now,’ I replied. I took the paper from him, prepared his medicine and settled him down for the night.

Chapter 34

A week later, we sat on the rooftop as the market gradually woke as if from a deep slumber. Fewer and fewer stalls dared to open these days. Those that did were owned by resolute traders determined to retain their normal routine.

Normal
, I thought.
What is normal anyway? I’m pretty sure it’s not hating people so much you want to kill or maim them
.
That’s not normal
.

Looking around, I could feel the tension in our group. Saleem, whose optimism was usually infectious, sat sullenly on the edge of the rooftop looking out into the distance, his legs hanging over the side but not dangling carefree like they used to. I knew he still wasn’t telling me something. He had a secret too and it had punctured his hopefulness. Manjeet sat slightly away from us whittling a piece of wood. He had worn it down to a nub but still he continued to slice it absent-mindedly. His mind wasn’t completely here either. Over the last week, Manjeet had become more and more withdrawn. I felt him watching me and when I turned to look at him and smile, he looked away.
As the sun came up, we were all exposed to its light and what we saw of each other made us look away.

Chota came bounding up the stairs and shook us out of our thoughts. He looked from face to face and saw the unease but that had never stopped Chota in the past and it wasn’t about to now.

‘The cockerel fight is this afternoon! It’s between two of the biggest, nastiest birds I’ve ever seen. There’ll be lots of people there. We have to go!’

Manjeet stopped whittling his little piece of wood and, looking down at it as if for the first time, threw it away.

‘Cockerel fights are for grown men. If they catch us they’ll tell us to go away,’ said Manjeet.

‘No, it’ll be OK. My uncle will look after us. Anyway there’ll be so many people coming, they won’t even notice us,’ replied Chota excitedly, hopping from foot to foot.

‘What’s the fight in aid of? And why are so many people going to it?’ Saleem asked.

‘I don’t know but I went past old man Pondicherry and overheard him saying something about it to Anand. I didn’t understand what, though,’ said Chota, shrugging his shoulders.

Going right to the edge of the building, I looked over to where old Pondicherry usually sat and although I couldn’t make him out, I saw his stick leaning against a barrel.

Chota was beside himself with excitement by now and trying to spread some of his enthusiasm to us.

‘So? Are we going or not?’ he asked.

Saleem looked at me and shook his head. ‘There’ll be trouble . . .’ he said.

‘So, what’s new?’ replied Manjeet, standing up and stretching his long legs.

Manjeet and Saleem had livened up a bit now that Chota was here. I nodded my head.

Chota’s face lit up. ‘I hope it’s a bloody fight,’ he squealed.

I said that I was off to see old man Pondicherry and that I’d be back shortly to meet up with them before the fight.

I found Pondicherry-ji sitting and staring out with sightless eyes on to the maidan. I felt reluctant to disturb him.

‘Ah, Bilal. Stop dawdling, boy, and come closer,’ he said, beckoning me with his wrinkled hand.

I went and sat on the barrel next to him and looked out at whatever it was he was looking at, or rather not looking at. I was never quite sure what Mr Pondicherry did or didn’t see.

‘Have you heard about this cockerel fight this afternoon?’

‘It’s hard not to have heard about it, Bilal. It’s all anybody’s talking about,’ he replied.

‘Why? It’s only another bird fight, isn’t it?’

‘We’re just like animals really,’ said Mr Pondicherry, shaking his head. ‘We can smell blood now and that raw smell appeals to the worst part of us. Our dark side. It makes us do things we’d normally only ever think about.’

‘But what’s that got to do with the cockerel fight?’

‘The mob, child. The mob will be there and they’ll be looking for a sign,’ he sighed, his chin dipping to his chest.

‘Will you be going?’ I asked.

‘Even though I can’t see, I’ll be there,’ he replied.

‘But why?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Because I’m just an animal too.
And if we’re nearing the end, I need a sign,’ he whispered. ‘Now off with you, go on.’ He shooed me away.

‘I don’t need a sign – I know the end is close,’ I replied and left the old man to look out on to the empty maidan.

Chapter 35

Back on the rooftop, Saleem came and stood next to me, putting his arm around my shoulder. I put my arm around him and couldn’t help chuckling.

‘What are you chuckling at, shorty?’ he asked.

‘You, you fool! You’ve been a bit moody lately . . .’

‘Me? Look who’s talking!’ said Saleem. ‘You’re the one who’s always gazing off into the distance with a strange look in your eye. We’re all half expecting you to start spouting some Tagore or Kabir at any moment.’

Shoving Saleem away from me, I cuffed him lightly on the head.

‘Oh, look!’ I pointed at the stream of people below, all moving in one direction. ‘There’ll be a lot of people at this fight, Sal.’

‘But we’re little – we’ll get to the front quickly,’ he replied, grinning.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ I said and looked over at the cemetery. ‘There’s something Mr Pondicherry said, about the mob . . .’

‘Well, we’ll never find out what he means by sitting here on the rooftop. And you’ve got Mr Mukherjee sitting with your bapuji all day so we’ve got nothing to worry about. Let’s get going!’ Jumping up, Saleem ran down the stairs.

We watched as wave after wave of people made their way to the cemetery off the main square. Cockerel fights were always held in the cemetery. It was just the way it was. I’d asked Bapuji about it once and he’d said that the elders decided that it would do no good to have fights in the marketplace but it was acceptable if they were in the cemetery. Then looking at me and smiling, he’d added, ‘It also means council members can get down there and place a bet like everyone else without their wives finding out.’

We joined the wave of people and were instantly swept up into the tide. As ever, Manjeet led the way, his orange turban bobbing along in front of us. Saleem hung close on my right and I held on tightly to Chota on my left to stop him getting distracted and disappearing into the crowd. It was slow going as the maidan began to fill with people from all sides. Gradually, we came to a standstill and I could feel the body of the crowd or – what had old man Pondicherry called it? – the mob. Embedded in the centre, we were held fast. We were all swaying, this mass of humanity tuned to one another. I closed my eyes. From one side pulsed anger, violence and the need for blood. Swaying in another direction, I felt tranquillity, peace and the need for meditation. Right in front of me, I felt impatience, anxiety and
the need to discover the outcome no matter what it
was.

Opening my eyes, I struggled to re-adjust to the light and sound. Manjeet’s orange turban blurred in front of me and bled into the crowd. Blinking, I tried to clear my head of this strange vision but it just made it worse. Everywhere I looked, colours were bleeding into each other. Red scarves bled into white dhotis, silver bangles melted into dark brown skin, azure sky dissolved into white clouds and dripped into the crowd. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. We were all part of one swaying movement pushing forward together. There was no beginning or end. Like the banyan tree, the mother
had been swallowed and only her children were left.
Was this the mob old man Pondicherry had described? I had thought that it would be ugly and destructive but I could see euphoria in everybody’s eyes.

My feet barely touched the ground as we began to move steadily forward. Flowing through the gates we split into a trickle to navigate the small paths between the hodgepodge of graves. We slowly moved through the bowl-shaped cemetery towards the little dirt circle that had been cleared at the bottom of the hill. The mass of people surrounding the circle was growing before our eyes.

Manjeet turned to me and shook his head. ‘There’s no way we can go any further than here,’ he said.

‘I can find a way,’ replied Chota, bristling impatiently. I let go of his arm and he shoved his way to Manjeet. Showing his teeth, he cackled, ‘Follow me.’ And with that he pushed forward.

We shadowed him. I was directly behind Chota and struggling to keep up. He found gaps where there were none. When he came up against a wall of humanity, he found a way under it or around it and in one case he even climbed over a man. We all did our best to follow but I couldn’t see Manjeet’s orange turban anywhere.
Where is he?
Panicking, I tried to stop but Chota clung tightly on to my hand, squeezing it hard as we slowly made our way through. Chota wasn’t satisfied until he had dragged us right to the front.

Finally, my eyes started to focus. There were a number of people in the middle of the circle who I recognised from around the town. One of them was Chota’s uncle, who clearly had a senior role in proceedings because he wore a black armband and was speaking to two men who both listened intently to him.
Where are the cockerels?
I couldn’t see the cages anywhere. The circular space in the middle was becoming smaller as everybody pressed forward and Chota’s uncle signalled to some large men to hold the surge back. Everywhere you looked, you could see people on tiptoes trying to glimpse what was happening. Some had brought wooden crates and were teetering on them, looking down on to the dusty circle. Some resourceful bands of people had even built a mound of earth on which to stand. I remembered a similar scene in a book I’d read once about ancient Rome in the time of the Caesars. A time when people would enter an arena to watch two gladiators fight to the death. Well, this was our arena and it was fitting that death was all around. For a second, I wondered if all the spirits of the dead would be watching too. Looking up and around, I could sense something in the air. Chota’s uncle had stopped speaking to the two owners of the birds and they both turned and disappeared into the milling crowd – there one instant and swallowed the next. The pressure of the mob was such that it was hard to stay on our feet. I locked elbows with Saleem and Chota and we braced ourselves as each wave of movement hit us harder than the last. At times, I was lifted off my feet as a wave seared through us. The mob was becoming impatient.