A Beautiful Lie (21 page)

Beaming, Chota nudged me in the ribs. I tried to cuff him but as usual he was too quick and moved out of my reach.

Chapter 43

That evening, Chota led the way, the bounce in his step propelling him forward.
Always forward with Chota
. Looking over his shoulder, he kept stopping and waiting for me to catch up.
As soon as I caught up, he’d move on again. I was in no hurry to go anywhere, especially not to a music room where we were unlikely to be allowed in.

The music room was on the other side of town in a grand old house owned by a former nawab. The house had seen better days but tonight golden light streamed through, bathing the white building, bringing it to life. Hearing noises filter through the open windows, I stopped walking. Chota turned round to look at me enquiringly.

‘Maybe we need to hold back for a few minutes until we’re sure we can get in without being seen?’ I suggested.

Chota sniffed. ‘If we wait, we’ll miss the beginning, Bilal. If I can show you a way in that nobody knows about, will you come?’

Looking from Chota to the house, I pursed my lips. Knowing Chota, he probably did have a way into the house that nobody knew about. Then again it was just as possible he was lying.

‘OK, but try to be quiet,’ I replied.

We skirted around until we were at the back of the house. The gentle rustling of the large trees ­surrounding us reminded me we were away from the main town. Chota signalled to me to duck down and we crawled on all fours until we were directly under a window.

‘We can get in this one,’ said Chota.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked sceptically.

Without waiting, Chota stood up and lifted the window. It creaked open partway and then stopped. Chota scrambled through and I heard him land with a dull thud on the other side. Standing up, I ducked under the window and tried to pull myself through. Chota hadn’t realised that I was at least twice his size and there was no way I was going to get through. He looked at me and grinned as I hung there glaring down at him.

‘I’m stuck, Chota! The window needs to be pushed up a little,’ I said, wheezing.

Chota clambered on to the little ledge and started pulling the window up but it was stuck. I realised that I couldn’t move back or forward.

‘Chota, I can’t get back out either. You’ll have to inch it up. What if we both try together?’ Chota readied himself to leave.

‘One, two, three . . .’

The window flew up with a sharp sound as I crashed into Chota and we both landed heavily in the dusty room. Untangling myself from him, I rolled to my feet.
Somebody must have heard that!
I turned to the window and closed it as quietly as I could then pulled Chota towards a long window with a thick curtain. Shoving him behind it, I wrapped the heavy material around us and waited. Footsteps entered the room and moved towards the window. Holding my hand over Chota’s mouth, I stood statue still. Finally, the footsteps receded and we came out from behind the curtain. Listening carefully, we slipped to the door. The hallway was empty as I followed Chota down it towards the light. I pulled Chota into a dark alcove and ducked down.

‘That looks like the main entrance to the room. We need to get upstairs and see if we can look down on to it,’ I whispered.

Chota nodded and sped off.
At the end of the hall­way was a staircase. We made our way up slowly as faint sounds of the tabla filtered through to us accompanied by soft sitar strings.

‘I think it’s about to start,’ I said.

On the first floor, a thin layer of dust had settled on everything. Silvery light filtered through each room we passed. Somebody had clearly thought the house needed airing out for the occasion and all the windows were open. Sheer drapes floated in the silence as we raced through the eerie old palace. We came to a little stairwell leading a few steps down. At the bottom was another door that looked as if it hadn’t been used for years.
Walking through it, we faced a large, square grille looking down on to the music room. Chota turned to me and smiled as if to say, ‘
I told you so
’, and leant against the wooden frame. Moving to stand next to him, I looked through one of the grilles at the brightly lit room.

A large square of crimson cloth had been laid down in the middle of the high-ceilinged chamber, on which pillows and cushions were strewn. On these sat the men of the market town committee. There was some gentle chatter but the mood was sombre. Nobody in the room had forgotten what night it was and the weight of history settled on the assembled audience like a thick layer of dust. In front of the audience there was a small, black square of material – the performance space. Lanterns lit up the whole room and each committee member had his own diva. The whole room danced with flames flickering in time to an unheard beat. Two musicians sat to one side of the black square on cushions. Dressed smartly in white, waiting, they both looked tense. The tabla player flexed his fingers in readiness and the sitar player distractedly made last-minute adjustments to his strings with well-practised movements.

The kathak dancer appeared from behind a long drape. Dressed in shimmering white, she glided to stand in front of the audience with a handful of rose petals. Strewing them on the ground in offering, she gently tipped her head at the audience in greeting and stepped back, the ghungroo bells on her ankles chiming softly. Silence filled the empty spaces of the music room, broken only by the whistling wind and the rustling drapes that delicately whispered an introduction for the elegantly poised dancer.

The sitar player began to strum, sending out plucked sounds that soothed the audience. Caressing the strings back and forth with his fingers, the sitar player sent out sounds to fill each corner of the room. The dancer stood perfectly still, chin tilted down, eyes closed, listening to the reverberations pulsing from the strings. Closing my eyes, I heard what she heard, but what did she feel? Plucking one string then another, the sitar player alternated the sound and, my eyes still shut, I heard the first tabla thrum ease alongside the rhythm set by the sitar player, followed quickly by another thudding beat. Slipping into a pocket of silence created by the sitar player, the tabla set upon a rhythm.

I looked at the two musicians. They were friends. Like me and Saleem, like me and Chota, like me and Bapuji. Friends who left a space for their loved ones to occupy. Loved ones who knew when to speak and when to stay silent.

The music continued and then there it was. A jingling, jostling sound. I looked through the trellised window as the kathak dancer slowly moved her feet, rustling the many ghungroos attached to her ankles to meet the tabla sound. Another pocket of space created by her friends. Three different areas of sound now existed and filled the space in between our ears and minds. The diva flames flickered to meet the sound, swaying in tribute to the dancer’s slapping feet. Moving in time to the music, the dancer raised her hands. Spreading her arms, she emulated the wingspan of a bird and floated back and forth, flying on the currents of music. Right arm then left moved as she mirrored the flight of an orange-breasted kingfisher, all the while moving her feet. Subtly the music changed, and suddenly she was a silverside fish gliding through the water. The sitar mimicked the sound of water gliding over pebbles and the tabla thrummed gently in the background, imitating a fish diving in and out of water. Chota was mesmerised, his eyes reflecting the swaying diva lanterns and the dancer in brilliant white.

The tabla player increased his tempo and then suddenly stopped, fading into the background as the sitar introduced another scene. Watching the dancer’s gestures, I noticed the shadows playing on the wall behind her. She was telling a story. Of India and her beginnings. Of her rivers and her mountains. She was a fish revelling in the fresh waters of the Indus River then an eagle soaring over the high Himalayan peaks. At times she was the land and at other times she was the air but there was no mistaking that she represented Mother India. Raising her elegant neck, she moved it left and right, long tapered fingers making shapes before our eyes. All of us in that room watched her history unfold. Our history. The first settlers on the banks of the rivers, the first hunters, the first dancers. Rudimentary instruments made with the soil and wood of the land spinning to the same rhythm of the present, the span of years forgotten by the slapping feet on the earth. Her earth. She was a tree, a banyan. Arms spread out, branches springing from the ground obstructing one other as the tabla beat introduced branch after branch, leaving no trace of beginning or end.

And now she was a monsoon, gestures swirling in the soft light. The tabla leapt to meet the dancer’s urgent movements and the sitar instantly set after it. The sound of slapping feet and tinkling bells echoed around the old house like the splashing sound of raindrops on the hard earth, fingers tracing droplets in the air. The tabla increased in sound and something else. Fury. The sitar strings made a harder, clipped sound now. Taking a step forward, the dancer swivelled on her heel and began to spin. The drumbeat became harder and quicker and the spinning increased in speed. The monsoon was descending and the people braced themselves for the impact. All eyes were on the dancer’s swirling skirts, the hem spreading wide and encompassing the land. Eyes fixed on the dancer, my vision swam as the spinning continued, blurring the scene.
The flashing white figure bled into the darkness. I could feel the gale force of the monsoon through the grille. The golden lights flickered, buffeted by the brutal wind. And still the spinning continued.

I saw the moment when I first climbed the banyan tree with Bapuji. The time I fell and Ma dabbed at my knee with her saree. The first time Saleem and I drew water from the well. The time we discovered the rooftop and made it our own. The first time Bapuji took me around the market stalls with him. The first time I sat and listened to the monsoon rains outside our house. The first time I tasted a sweet mango. The first time we swam in the river and caught fish for our dinner. The first time I realised Bapuji was really sick. The first time I decided my life would be a lie.

The dancer suddenly stopped spinning and slumped to the floor, head bowed. Just as abruptly the beat stopped. The dance had ended.

Chapter 44

We moved from shadow to shadow, edging our way back home from the old palace. There was excitement in the air and something else. Fear. We watched as people took to the streets in celebration – or was it confusion? Sounds of joy mingled with the silence of the departed. People stood and watched, waiting for the clocks to strike midnight. I could understand their confusion.
Will we feel differently? Will anything change? What will tomorrow bring?

There were many who stubbornly refused to acknowledge that anything was going to change and just as many who felt this was the dawning of a new era for India. I was buffeted with all these mixed emotions, my own and those of the people of the town. Clinging to the shadows, we froze as a large group of men with torches stomped past.

‘India for ever!’

‘Jai Hind!’

I could feel Chota’s hot breath in my ear.

‘They’re still burning people in their homes . . .’ he whispered breathlessly. ‘Bilal, you’re hurting my arm.’

Blinking, I realised I had been gripping his hand tightly. ‘Sorry,’ I replied.

‘We’d better get you home,’ said Chota.

Turning to face him, I looked at Chota, puzzled.

‘Your house is nearby – we’ll go there first,’ I replied.

‘No, no, I’m coming with you to your door just in case something happens.’

‘Chota, if something happens it could happen to either of us. I’ll be fine.’

Turning his head to look out on to the street, he grabbed my arm.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, taking my hand and leading me away.

I shook my head. Secretly I was pleased Chota was coming with me. I knew it was selfish but I was scared and the last thing I wanted was to be alone.

Skulking through the streets, we approached our school and Mr Mukherjee’s house. Chota was moving on briskly but I pulled him back.

‘Chota, wait. I just want to see Mr Mukherjee quickly,’ I said. ‘He asked me to let him know if I was OK a few days back. He’s probably worried.’

‘OK, but make it quick. We can’t hang about here,’ replied Chota.

Knocking, I peered through the cracks in the door for any signs of life.

‘Mr Mukherjee? Mr Mukherjee? Hello . . .?’

Silence.
Where can they be?
Chota stood twitching impatiently. Suddenly the heavy wooden door creaked open and Mr Mukherjee’s long arms reached out and pulled me into the house, quickly shutting the door behind me.

‘Wait, wait! Chota’s outside,’ I cried.

Opening the door again, Mr Mukherjee called for Chota and bustled him inside the house.

‘Bilal, where on earth have you been? I went to visit your bapuji and Doctorji was there fretting about you. He said you’d left a note explaining you’d be back later.’

‘Do you know if he told Bapuji he didn’t know where I was?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know but I doubt it. Your bapuji was sleeping, he can barely raise his head . . .’ said Mr Mukherjee.

‘I just needed to be away for a while,’ I said quietly.