A Beautiful Lie (9 page)

Vickesh was ready to bowl and Mr Mukherjee signalled for him to continue. Unable to beat Manjeet with a fast bowl or decapitate him with a head shot, Vickesh delivered a much slower ball enticing Manjeet to hit out wildly, which he promptly did. The ball arced high into the air and straight into the hands of Jaghtar.

‘Out!’ Vickesh screamed and started to celebrate by spinning around like a dervish.

Manjeet, looking disgusted with himself, trudged off the pitch to sit with his team just as Chota appeared behind me in a rush.

‘Where have you been, Chota?’ I asked, nudging him.

Grinning, he produced the ball in one hand and a pomegranate in another.

‘The ball bounced on to a rooftop so I had to climb up the side of a house, but a girl saw me through a window and screamed and sent her brother out to catch me. He was fat and slow and couldn’t even catch a lazy ox!’ Looking pleased with himself, he produced a small knife and cut the pomegranate in half. ‘Oh, and I also stole this from Anand’s stall. There were lots of people hanging around there and nobody noticed me. I could’ve taken anything I wanted, Bilal, but I was good this time.’

Folding my arms, I looked at him in wonder. He was small and very slight but you’d never think of Chota being weak or helpless. His white shirt came down to his knees and his black trousers were torn and had a back pocket missing. Picking out the pomegranate seeds with his little knife, he stuffed his round face until he realised I was still standing right in front of him, frowning.

He shrugged his shoulders and offered me a handful of seeds, saying, ‘You look like Mr Mukherjee when you make that face.’

I self-consciously unfolded my arms and tried to cuff Chota around the head but he was already off, whistling and holding the ball aloft in a clenched fist like a returning hero. He then rather grandly announced that he’d brought pomegranates for everyone. I then watched as he produced five pomegranates from his pockets!

Once all the pomegranates had been consumed, the cricket match recommenced and I noticed that the mood was lighter. Some of the stallholders came to watch, and as the sun began to dip we had a small audience. Vickesh – with little or no help – had managed to bowl out most of Manjeet’s team and now it was our turn to bat. Vickesh and Jaghtar were both raring to go and walked out towards the crease like two international cricketing stars, swinging their arms windmill-like and feinting blocks and off drives in preparation. The small crowd, admiring their confidence, clapped them on to the field and I breathed a sigh of relief that things felt a bit more normal. The sun dipped low over the rooftops and the maidan became a shaded place where people came to walk and unwind.

Grabbing a bat, I made a few feints myself, much to the amusement of my team, who sniggered at my clumsy attempts. Laughing, I put the bat down and began to wonder where Chota was now. Being awful at cricket was fine by me even if it meant batting last and nobody expecting you to survive more than a few balls. I’d never managed to get the hang of swinging my bat before the ball bounced. Manjeet had, on numerous occasions, tried to explain to me that prep­aration was everything, but it was lost on me. I knew the shot I wanted to play, I could even visualise it in my mind, but by the time I’d done all that thinking the ball had passed me, leaving me frustrated that the world I lived in wasn’t the world where I was actually good at cricket.

Vickesh and Jaghtar were putting on a good show for the crowd and were slowly chipping away at the total Manjeet’s team had set. Standing up to get a better view of the pitch, I suddenly felt two hands over my eyes and smiled.

‘Saleem, I can smell your grubby hands a mile away.’

Saleem shoved me playfully and went to sit down with the rest of the team, beckoning for me to follow. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the thud of wood each time Vickesh or Jaghtar batted away another ball. From the corner of my eye, I could see Manjeet limbering up and wondered if he was still fuming about Vickesh trying to take his head off. Saleem sat next to me, paring a piece of wood and watching the game. His sense of contentment was infectious and always put me at ease. They all did – Manjeet and Chota too, living out their lives unaffected by or happily ignorant of the world around them. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair – they merely chose to live out their lives without worrying about what might happen. Not like me. They didn’t want to control things all the time. They didn’t think all the time. They weren’t interested in second guessing what was around the corner and having plans in place in order to stay ahead. Always ahead.

Manjeet had stepped up to bowl and after a short meeting between overs, Jaghtar and Vickesh had set upon a strategy – block Manjeet and hit everybody else. Manjeet approached the crease like a monsoon-powered maniac, his turban a blur of fire signalling his run-up. The growing crowd was appreciative of both the tactics employed by the batsmen and the flame-topped energy Manjeet was displaying. Stretching out his legs, Saleem looked at me and smiled.

‘Quite a contest, eh? It’s all nicely set up for you and me to win the game.’

The rest of the team laughed at Saleem’s bold claim and we applauded as Jaghtar hit another ball away smartly.

‘Chota back on the roof? I assume you didn’t kill him then?’

‘Nah, he sneaked up on me, the little runt, and we wrestled. It always surprises me how strong he is. I finally beat him and he produced a sack of pomegranates! That more than made up for the mango he’d eaten.’

‘A sack! He told me he’d only stolen one pomegranate, little liar!’

Saleem looked sideways at me and, smiling, produced another pomegranate. Wiping his knife on his trousers, he began to cut the pomegranate into little pieces.

What does that make me then? Lying about fruit is one thing. Lying about what’s happening in the real world to Bapuji is another. I’m the prince of liars. At least Chota knows when to stop. I seem to lie stronger and better as time passes until, one day, I won’t know the difference between truth or lies
. I pulled in my knees and tried to ignore these thoughts.

After a good ten minutes of trying to disembowel Jaghtar with the ball, Manjeet threw in a slower bowl. Jaghtar swung wildly, looping the grubby white ball into the hands of a grateful Manesh. Jaghtar trudged off the dusty field but perked up at the smattering of applause he received. Fifteen minutes later, most of our team had been bowled out. Saleem was next in to bat and in preparation was cutting the air with what could pass for a cricketing stroke at a distance, but up close resembled a butcher hacking at a carcass with a cleaver. Walking on to the pitch confidently, Saleem smiled and waved to me.

‘Watch you don’t get your head taken off,’ I shouted, laughing.

‘What? Not me! You just watch me, Bilal,’ he shouted back.

‘Just take a swing at it, Saleem. Close your eyes and swing!’ yelled Jaghtar.

Standing at the crease, Saleem was taking his time. Manjeet had completed his over and Rakesh was in. Saleem saw to it that everything was to his satisfaction while everyone grumbled under their breath. Finally ready, Saleem signalled for the game to continue. Just as Rakesh was about to deliver his first ball, Saleem stepped away from the crease and shook his head.

‘What’s the matter now?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.

‘The sun’s in my eyes, Masterji.’

Looking up, Mr Mukherjee sighed.

‘The sun’s behind you, Saleem. Get on with it, will you. We’d like to get home some time today, perhaps even in time for dinner. Play!’ And with that Mr Mukherjee signalled for Rakesh to bowl.

The first delivery came at Saleem fast. Unable to stop it with his bat, Saleem stuck out his backside and stopped the ball dead in its tracks. Our whole team fell about laughing as Saleem rubbed his backside. Mr Mukherjee was smiling too. The other team was complaining that Saleem had deliberately blocked the wicket but Mr Mukherjee ignored their pleas, gesturing for the game to continue. Saleem swung and missed the next four deliveries in quick succession. Rakesh bowled a slower delivery for his last ball. Saleem took a step forward and, planting his feet and closing his eyes, swung the bat with all his strength. The ball flew high and far over our heads straight towards the market. Cheering, we laughed as Saleem held his bat aloft. He’d just tripled his best ever score with one shot!

But something is wrong.
Skirting around the open field, I saw Mr Mukherjee walk towards the market stall closest to us. I was a few steps behind as Mr Mukherjee went to speak with Anand.

‘Anand-ji, do you have our ball?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.

‘I don’t but you’ll find that son of a swine down there has it,’ replied Anand loudly.

‘What did you call me, you dog? Say it again so we can hear it properly,’ replied Imtiaz angrily.

‘It was loud enough the first time – or would have been if your ears weren’t stuffed with dirt.’

Mr Mukherjee held up his hands and moved towards Imtiaz.

‘Gentlemen, we just want our ball back. Did you see where it went?’

‘Your ball nearly took out my eye, Masterji. Can’t you take your kids somewhere else?’ said Anand.

‘If only it had taken out an eye, it might have saved you from seeing that your fruit is no good and you’d stop making a fool out of yourself,’ chipped in Iqbal from another stall.

Standing up, Anand moved into the small clearing. ‘Oh, that’s big talk from behind your stale spices, Iqbal. Why don’t you come out here and say it to my face like a man?’

‘I would if I could see a man standing in front of me,’ replied Iqbal mockingly.

The tension was growing. Mr Mukherjee, looking from one to another, held up his hands in a placating gesture.

‘Please, gentlemen, there’s no need for this.’

Anand rounded on Mr Mukherjee and prodded him with his finger. ‘Just keep your ball out of here.’

‘Don’t blame the children – they’re only playing.’

‘What’s the matter, Anand?’

I saw the whole class slowly making their way to the marketplace. The shouting match had turned into a haranguing bout with Anand and Imtiaz in the middle shouting obscenities at each other, supported by friends and family in each corner. Mr Mukherjee found himself right in the middle trying his best to diffuse the situation but the insults were getting worse.

‘Muslims, you think you own the place . . .’

‘Can you smell that? It’s the smell you lot give off in this place.’

‘Hindus are always sticking their noses in.’

‘How dare you . . .’

Our class stood and watched as the argument escalated. Nudging my way to the front, I pulled at Mr Mukherjee’s sleeve.

‘They’re not listening, Masterji,’ I said quietly.

‘No, they’re not,’ he replied sadly. ‘Come, let’s leave.’ He began to herd all of us away from the market­place.

Hanging back, I grabbed Saleem by the shoulder and he looked at me curiously.

‘Wait, I want to watch this,’ I said.

Saleem pursed his lips. ‘Why, Bilal?’ he asked quietly.

I turned to see a group of men, their faces set in grim determination. Saleem tugged on my sleeve, making me tear my eyes away from the approaching Hindu mob.

‘Bilal, look . . .’ he whispered.

From our right a group of Muslims were closing fast. The groups would meet in the middle, where the argument was raging fiercely.

‘Is that your brother?’ asked Saleem, pointing into the crowd.

‘I don’t know, I can’t make anything out,’ I replied, straining my eyes.

Both mobs had kicked up a lot of dust and the group in the middle of the marketplace had now finally become aware of the stomping of feet. As quickly as it had formed, the crowd in the middle began to dissolve in front of our eyes and by the time the dust had settled most of the stallholders had disappeared. A few of the men still stood in the middle and, looking left and right, they picked a mob and moved towards it. Just like that. It was so easy to choose. You were one thing or another or you were a coward.

‘They’ve got sticks, Bilal. We have to get out of here – now,’ Saleem hissed.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene in front of me. A shout went up from one of the groups and in an instant the mobs closed in on each other. The dust swirled as I tried to make out what was happening. I stood watching as roughly cut bamboo sticks swung down in vicious arcs, cutting a swathe through the kicked-up dirt on to an exposed skull with a sound like a thunderclap. Watching the man stagger, I took a step forward but Saleem dragged me back. The man stumbled towards us, holding his streaming head. Seeing us, his eyes widened and he mouthed something before landing at our feet with a sickening thud, his face hitting the ground. Throwing Saleem off, I knelt down and turned the man over. We watched in horror as his body twitched a few times, his mouth contorted into a terrible shape. Finally, the man lay still. Saleem grabbed me again and lifted me to my feet. The man’s eyes were open to the skies as we turned away and ran.

Chapter 17

‘What’s missing from this picture?’ was one of Mr Mukherjee’s favourite questions. He would create a scenario we could all identify with that allowed us to think and provide a thoughtful response. ‘No guessing,’ he would say. ‘Work it out.’