A Beautiful Lie (22 page)

‘Bilal, it’s not safe to be wandering around these streets. Half the town is celebrating and the other half has left. Then there are those who are roaming the streets . . .’

‘I know, we saw them,’ I replied.

Mr Mukherjee blew out his cheeks and sighed. ‘Get home, Bilal. He was asking for you.’

‘OK. Let’s go, Chota,’ I replied, turning to the door.

‘Wait, I’ll come with you,’ said Mr Mukherjee, pulling on his coat.

‘No, Masterji, you’d better stay with Auntie-ji,’ I replied.

‘Auntie-ji will be OK by herself, Bilal,’ said Mrs Mukherjee, emerging from the dark.

Putting her arms around me, she wrapped me in an embrace. Still holding myself rigidly, I didn’t put my arms around her. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. Stepping back, she smiled sadly.

‘You’re braver than you’ll ever know,’ she said.

Bowing my head, I stared at my feet.

‘I had always thought bravery was having the courage to tell the truth. I’m a coward but that’s OK. I can live with being a coward if Bapuji can die in peace. Mr Gianwaral said something earlier today that made a lot of sense. He said the truth was for the living.’

Stifling a cry, Mrs Mukherjee turned away, covering her face with her scarf. I knew she didn’t want me to see her crying. Leading her back into the dark room, Mr Mukherjee turned to us.

‘Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said sternly.

Chota hovered near the window impatiently.

‘OK,’ said Mr Mukherjee, returning. ‘Keep moving. Even if somebody cries out for you, keep walking. If we’re stopped by one of these mobs, you’re both my sons and we’re going to celebrate in the main square. Is that clear?’

Chota and I mumbled in agreement and we set off walking briskly through the streets. There was little or no light in some parts and we did our best to keep up with Mr Mukherjee’s long stride. Approaching my street, I caught up with Mr Mukherjee and walked beside him. As usual he was muttering to himself. Turning to me, he smiled nervously. We reached our front door and stopped. Looking around to see if we’d been followed, I knocked. Waiting a few moments, I knocked again and pressed my ear against the door to listen for signs of movement. Hearing footsteps advancing from the other side, I stepped back.

‘Who is it?’ asked a gruff voice.

‘It’s me, Bilal,’ I replied.

The heavy door opened and Doctorji quickly ushered us all into the house.

‘Bilal, where have you been?’ he asked angrily. ‘Your bapuji has been asking for you. What were you thinking? He’s close now and . . .’

Mr Mukherjee held up his hand and Doctorji stopped talking.

‘He was with me. I wouldn’t let him leave. I felt it wasn’t safe on the streets so I kept both of them at my house,’ explained Mr Mukherjee.

Looking from me to Masterji, the tension left Doctorji’s shoulders and he bowed his head. He put his hand on my shoulder. I tried to see his expression but he looked away, obscuring his face in the half light.

‘Go to him, Bilal. It’s almost time,’ said Doctorji, his voice barely above a whisper.

My legs felt as if heavy bags of rice were attached to my ankles. Dragging one foot forward and then another, I shuffled towards the wall of books. Three sets of eyes burned into the back of my head and I turned to see three very different faces. Mr Mukherjee stood with his pocket watch in hand, knuckles white from gripping it too tight. Doctorji looked right through me into the darkness over my shoulder, eyes glazed with sadness. Chota stood nearest me, little fists clenched.

‘Please, I would like to be alone with Bapuji for his . . .’ Choking on the words, I turned away so they couldn’t see my face.

‘Are you sure you don’t want us here, Bilal?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.

‘Yes. I’m sure. Please take Chota home, Mr Mukherjee,’ I replied, recovering myself slightly.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Chota stubbornly.

‘Listen, son, it’s not safe out there. I’ll walk you home and you can come back tomorrow,’ said Mr Mukherjee, leading Chota towards the door.

On the threshold, Chota turned to me once more.

‘I’ll be here if you need me, Bilal. Just call my name. I’ll be here,’ he cried and scampered into the night.

Still he won’t leave me
. Feeling my throat constrict, I blinked rapidly.

I heard Mr Mukherjee swear under his breath but Chota was already gone.

‘That boy . . .’

‘He’ll be OK, Mr Mukherjee,’ I said. ‘He’s always OK.’

‘We’ll meet later,’ he replied and, raising his hand in parting, he walked out through the door.

Doctorji stood rooted to the spot, his face a grim mask.
They are both so different
, I thought. Bapuji always reminded me of the roots of a banyan tree – layer upon layer of overlapping tendrils shooting off in different directions. Doctorji was the opposite. He reminded me of stripped bamboo – upright, unbending and almost impossible to break.
This must be difficult for him too, they’ve always been best friends
. Moving to him, I held his hand and squeezed it.

‘I’ll let you know first, Doctorji. After it’s . . . happened,’ I said quietly.

As if waking from a dream, Doctorji looked down at my hand entwined with his. Closing his thick fingers around mine, he squeezed hard, almost making me cry out. Letting go suddenly, he walked away and, without turning, closed the door behind him.

Chapter 45

I walked past the wall of books and stood at the foot of the bed. Doctorji had lit a candle and placed it by the bedside. The golden flame threw flickering shapes around. As I approached the candle, I noticed my dark shadow painted on to the sand-coloured wall.
Are you witness then? Have you come to see for yourself if I can go through with it?

Sitting on the bed, I watched as Bapuji slept, ragged breaths wheezing through dry, cracked lips. Fetching some water, I dipped my fingers into the glass and gently wet his lips. I put my hand on his chest and closed my eyes. Each breath was a struggle. A battle for air. A war against himself. Bapuji’s chest was barely rising. It was a war he was going to lose.

Opening his eyes unexpectedly and looking right at me, he smiled.

‘It’s you,’ he whispered.

‘Doctorji’s gone, Bapuji,’ I replied.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Bapuji chuckled.

‘I am too, almost,’ he said quietly.

Feeling for his hand, I clasped all my fingers around his frail bones and held it close to my chest. We were both spinning in the candlelight. Midnight was minutes away as I held on to my threadbare dreams. Bringing Bapuji’s hand to my lips, I kissed it, hot tears winding down my face and falling into the darkness over the edge of the precipice.

‘Bapuji, we’re almost there . . .’ I said, leaning in close to whisper into his ear.

‘Bilal,’ replied Bapuji.

Tell him. Tell him now before it’s too late.
All the webs I had spun in my mind were unravelling. Each knot was coming undone.
Tell him! Tell him!

‘In less than a minute, Bapuji . . .’
I’m a liar!

‘My boy, it’s difficult to speak . . .’ he whispered.

The clock struck midnight. Sounds of celebration, anguish and sadness erupted from the direction of the town square.

‘Did you hear that, Bapuji? That sound . . .’
This is forever my burden. Forever
.
‘India is free,’ I cried.

‘Bilal, dear heart . . .’ said Bapuji, his voice barely carrying to my ears.

Leaning even closer to hear, I cradled Bapuji’s head in my hands and kissed his forehead.

‘Bapuji . . .’

‘You are my India,’ whispered Bapuji.

The sounds from the town square continued as Bapuji’s breath became more ragged, coming in short, sharp pulls of air. Suddenly, one long, last gasp escaped his lips. A whistling breath of air purer than all the rest.

The candle still flickered, chasing shadows across the wall. Looking over to the wall of books, I noticed that a few heavy hardbacks had been pulled out. Holding Bapuji close to my chest, I wondered how many you’d have to pull out until the whole wall would collapse.

Chapter 46

The noise of the town was closer now but different.
The sound was angrier, more furious. I could hear screams and shouted insults, but in the darkness of our room with the guttering candle, it felt far away. There was a crash and a thud at the door. Somebody was trying to get in. Holding Bapuji close to me, I rocked back and forth, stroking his hair. I’d done it. He’d died in my arms not knowing the truth. He’d died with his beloved India still whole. I’d done it.
The banging continued but it didn’t matter to me.
Although I was afloat in the darkness, my heart felt like it was sinking.
Then suddenly there was the sound of splintering wood.

A voice pierced the quiet gloom.

‘I told you, didn’t I, little rat? I told you I’d burn you. India will never be free until we get rid of vermin like you. Who’s going to save you now? Burn!’

A part of my mind heard a bottle smashing on the hard earth in the other room. The wall of books burst into flames first, the fire hungrily consuming book after book. Spreading steadily along the wall, the fire took to the ceiling and reached for the charpoi. There was more shouting outside and sounds of a struggle.

‘Bilal! Bilal!’
I know that voice. How can my aunt be here?
‘Bilal! Can you hear me, Bilal?’

‘You have to get out!’ cried another voice. One I knew so well.
What is Bhai doing here? I told him not to come back. It doesn’t matter now anyway
.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realised that the candle had finally guttered out, but by now the whole wall was on fire and bits of old leather and yellowed paper floated in the air. All around us, bits of knowledge burnt, crumpled paper blackening then dissolving into a fine charcoal powder. Reaching out a hand, I tried to catch a few pieces of floating paper but each fragment crumbled at my touch.

Closing my eyes, I held Bapuji closer to me, sighing as the warmth from the blaze lulled me to sleep. I’d done it. I’d kept my promise to myself and now I just wanted to rest.

Into that peaceful silence came another crash and a figure emerged from the darkness.

‘Bilal, we have to get out. Now!’

‘Bhai, what are you doing here?’

Grabbing me roughly, he pulled at my arms.

‘No! I can’t leave Bapuji. I can’t,’ I cried, clinging on to the body next to me.

Letting go of my arms, Bhai knelt down in front of me.

‘Bilal. He’s gone. And in a few minutes, you will be too. Let him go,’ he said.

‘I can’t, I can’t. I couldn’t tell him at the end. I wanted to but I couldn’t,’ I said quietly.

‘Let him go, Bilal. He’s no longer suffering.’ Taking my hand, Bhai slowly pulled me close and held me in his arms. ‘Let him go, Bilal,’ he whispered into my ear.

The fire was everywhere now and Bhai stood up. Snatching the bed sheet, he ran to the water bucket in the corner of the room and doused the sheet. Bringing the bucket back, he poured it over me. Then throwing the sheet over both of us, we took a step forward.
The wall of books had mostly collapsed and blocked our path.

‘We have to jump through it, Bilal! Are you ready?’ Bhai shouted.

‘Yes!’ I cried, gripping his arm.

Taking a few steps back we ran up to the wall of flame and, closing our eyes, crashed through.
Tumbling through to the other side, we landed hard. There was fire all around us and I felt a pain in my ankle. Bhai stood up and dragged me through the door. We fell into the cool night, desperately gasping for air.

Bhai helped me up as flames and smoke swelled above us. Bits of paper floated into the night sky and spread in all directions over the market town. Chota stood near me with a rock held tightly in his fist and next to him stood Bapuji’s sister. She looked from the house to me in horror. Her mouth made shapes but no words escaped. Reaching out, she pulled me towards her and wept. She smelt of jasmine. Eventually, moving away from her, I went to stand next to Bhai. We watched the raging fire shoulder to shoulder, tears making tracks down our grimy faces as the death of Bapuji gave way to the birth of a new nation.

After a while, Bhai turned to me. Grabbing me by my shirt, he pulled me close in a rough embrace. Burying my face into his chest, I held him tight. Then forcibly pushing me away, Bhai took a step backwards. I saw the fire reflected in his eyes, so similar to Bapuji’s.
Don’t leave
. There was a crushing pain on my chest as he walked away and disappeared from sight.

That very night, Bapuji’s sister took me away from the market town to start another life. That was the last time I saw Bhai. I don’t really even remember what he looks like any more, but I’ve never forgotten how his dark eyes blazed like hot coals when he was angry.