In the Shadow of a Dream (5 page)

The woman sat on her haunches. ‘Rani
bai
, you know, Goans are Christians. And Christians care for orphans and the poor. They have schools. If that boy is alive and if some Christian has found him, he may now be in some orphan school or convent. It is also what Bhima thinks, Bhima our headman.’

‘All right, then tell me, has there been any more news since the parents came?’

The woman did not answer.

‘What’s the matter? Lost your tongue?’

‘I am thinking. You must give an old woman time.’

‘Don’t bother. It is all in the past. Six years, long time in any child’s life. There, you can stop now. Go, sift the rice and lentils, then call the boy in.’

‘Let me just say this. This is a matter of
Kismet
and, therefore, important. Because even if Bal is her son, his destiny is to be here. I think he believed Girja Devi was his mother, and for her sake he respects you. If at times he sulks, it is because he knows you don’t love him.’

‘What decent woman would want to acknowledge such a thing; a fatherless boy? Not me!’ Sujata yawned and sat up with strenuous effort. ‘You make sure he does not know about all this
gup shup
, these rumours. Empty talk. After all, you don’t know for sure whether her parents came—I’d be surprised if they did. After all, it’s such a disgrace to the family, to any family.’

‘Oh, yes. They came. Their daughter had another fit of hysterics when she saw them. Started crying. Asking their forgiveness. They came with someone, a Christian priest or maybe a doctor. He said she was mad, but he knew a place that would take care of her. Some place near Ranchi. Her parents agreed although, my sister said he looked a hard man.
Hi,
my Ranisahib, I may be simple peasant, but I know Ranchi is a thousand miles away in the hills of Bihar. I know, because my husband made the journey to Gaya. He was told the Lord Buddha would cure his broken back…’

‘
Bus, bus,
enough. Fat lot of good it did him. People forget that the Buddha was a Hindu first. Silly Hindus convert to Buddhism, I can’t see the point. There’s another thing I know about Ranchi. It has a
pagal khanna,
a
mad house. Once there, always there…no escape.’

‘
Bus
, there it ends…Still,
Malkin
,
even if Bal is her son, the poor boy will never know his mother. Even if she’s alive, she is as good as dead.’

‘Yes, but think about his future. This Asif, this Muslim boy…you want him to look after Bal. Do you know anything about him?’

‘He’s an orphan, too.’

‘No, no. At least not to begin with. He was four years old when he was left with Abdul, the butcher. His father was on a
Haj
pilgrimage. From Bombay to Mecca, by dhow, you know, Arab sailing boat. On the way back, somewhere near Karachi, that boat disappeared. Nothing was found. No bodies, not even the boat!’

Daadi shut her eyes, feigned a pained expression, rocked on her haunches, and slapped her forehead with the flat of her palms. ‘
Hi, Bhagwan
!
.
God, what a tragedy! But why Abdul? Did the boy not have uncles, aunts…and why did Abdul stop caring for the boy?’

‘I don’t know. They are Musalmans. The boy is one of them. He is circumcised. But, I believe Abdul’s childless wife hated Asif. She used to beat him mercilessly till one day he ran to Motilal for shelter, and Motilal coaxed Jaswant to take the boy on. Motilal’s got a soft heart. Pretends to be hard and when he can’t do something, he gets other people to do what he can’t do. See how, after his mother died, he got round my husband. The result. I’m lumbered with Bal? He did not even bother to ask how I felt. Huh, men can be tyrants.’

The old woman clicked her tongue and shook her head sadly.

‘What does that head shaking mean?’ Sujata raised her voice. ‘Speak, now!
Arrey
Daadi, are you being rude?’

‘No, kind Rani, I was just thinking about Bal. What future has the boy got in this village? None. It is a sad fate for such a clever child.’

‘What rot you talk sometimes. He’s lucky to be alive. He’s not starving. I give you enough money? And stop calling me Rani. It sounds like short for
methrani
. What the horrible
memsahibs
call women who clean their latrines.’ Sujata lay back. ‘Go now. Leave me alone.’

The old woman, who had been sitting on her haunches, paddled up, frog-like, to the cot. Her bony, black and spidery hands sank into Sujata’s fat arms. She smiled as she began to knead Sujata’s flesh as if it was dough for making chappatis.

‘What is wrong with you today. Go! Do what I said.’

Daadi raised her hands penitently. She continued with her massage.

‘
Bus
! I told you, enough. Anyway,
it’s time you went. Take the boy and go. You can sort the lentils and rice tomorrow. One more thing. Don’t let Bal play with dogs. Dogs here are mad. They’ll bite him. Then he’ll go mad also.’

‘
Malkin
, there are no dogs or cats in the village.’

‘One or two wild ones have been seen. God knows where they come from. Billu, our watchman, has been told to drive them away and keep watch by the shut gate at night. They sneak in, I suppose. Can’t stop them. Specially cats. I hate cats.’

‘What about monkeys and rats?’

‘You’re joking! Monkeys are sacred. Rats too, though we kill them.
Arrey
, what’s all this giggling? Get out! Go, go, before I lose my temper.’

Chapter Two
 

J
aswant Singh, the village herdsman, was a tall, thin man with blood-shot eyes. He was seldom seen without his large, bright red turban, which consisted of many yards of thin twisted muslin, giving it a rope-like appearance. He carried a stout staff, at the top end of which were tied, like a bunch of grapes, shiny brass cattle bells. Early every morning he entered the village to collect goats, sheep and cattle, from homes that had hired his services, and would shake his staff as he went from one end of the village to the other, punctuating the jingle-jangle of the bells with full-throated farm animal calls. The bells signalled his employers to free their animals from their briars, while the calls were for the animals. They responded with excited bleats and moos and, without much coaxing, meekly followed him into the low hills beyond the River Kunti. At the rear of this procession was thirteen-year-old Asif, expertly mimicking Jaswant’s calls, while the occasional knock on the ground of his bamboo staff, kept the straying animals in check.

On this particular morning, Bal and the old
Bhil
woman stood by, watching and staring with sheer wonder at the gathering and flow of animal life.

‘
Arrey
!
Asif!’ The woman called above the noise of the melee. ‘This is the boy. Here, take him with you. He is not yet seven years old but he’s big for his age. Look after him. Does he need a
danda
like the one you have got?’

Asif glanced at his staff, which now he carried across his shoulders with studied nonchalance. ‘I’ll make him one,’ he called back, ‘a small one, when we get there,’ and coming up to them he took Bal’s hand and drew him alongside.

‘Mind, you take good care of him.’

‘Don’t worry, Daadi, he’ll be all right. I shall be an elder brother to him.’

‘Good. Then I’ll keep my promise. I’ll feed you; and you can sleep in my
jhoopri
, with him. Here take this. Lunch for you both; bread, pickles and an onion to share.’

Asif’s mouth began to water. Daadi’s lime and mango pickles were famous in the village and earned her a useful income. He also knew that she was an excellent cook, and the memory of the brinjal curry that Bal once shared with him, made his tummy rumble. Of course, Daadi did not know that Asif had tasted her cooking nor was she aware that the two village orphans were already firm friends, who had met secretly during many hot afternoons, while the adult world took a restful break from their morning labours. Bal, who had started to admire Asif’s physical agility, listened avidly to his wild stories, marvelling at Asif’s cheek, resourcefulness and self-confidence. Once, at their secret hide-out behind a disused shrine, under an old spreading banyan tree, they sat together, peeling and chewing sugarcane, which Asif had foraged from the fields, till the sticky, sweet juice made them retch. At another meeting at that same secret rendezvous, Asif roasted two bunches of green gram over a makeshift fire, sharing that loot with his new friend. He wouldn’t say how or where he acquired his plunder and though Bal begged to be his accomplice in any future raiding expedition, he refused. ‘No, you’re too young. You’ll get caught and then they’ll catch me also. I’ve got a hungry mouth to feed: mine. I don’t want to starve. You’ve got someone to feed you. I have no one. Sometimes, when I’m hungry, I have to beg for food. I hate doing that. I’m no robber. I take no more than I need.’ Bal asked if Asif went to the temple, as he did, on feast days, when the priests distributed
puris
and semolina
halva
. ‘Asif, it’s
free; and it is good and tasty.’ The older boy shook his head. He explained why he couldn’t. ‘Most people here are Hindus. The priests give food that has been offered to their idols. I’m Muslim. That food is forbidden to us.’ When Bal asked: ‘What’s Muslim?’ Asif scratched his head and after some fruitless thought, solemnly replied: ‘Muslim is not Hindu. My name, Asif, is Muslim name.’ But Bal insisted Asif went to the temple. ‘When they give out food, the priests won’t refuse you.’ Asif shook his head again. ‘They know I’m Muslim. I was not found, like you, for anyone to claim. My father left me with the butcher, Abdul. I cried. I was four, but I remember crying. I never saw my father again. Soon I realised Abdul’s family were angry with my father for leaving me with them and for not returning to collect me. Abdul felt he had to give me a home, but his wife was against it. So he took me to old Hamid, our water carrier’s father, who told me stories of the great prophet and taught me that Muslims must never enter Hindu temples. He did not live long and I was taken to the headman, who declared I was an orphan and made me work with Baba Jaswant Singh. I can show you the difference between a Muslim and a Hindu.’ Asif felt under his shirt and undid the knot that held up his check, kilt-like
langothi
. ‘Look,’ he said. Bal stared intently at his penis. ‘This means,’ Asif said, pointing to his circumcision, ‘I’m Muslim. Let me see yours.’ In the dark of Asif’s hideout they peered at each other’s penises till an inner stirring, far beyond their comprehension, made them giggle involuntarily.

Now, recalling that encounter, Asif put his arm round Bal once more and looked at him curiously. Tales and rumours had reached him too. ‘You think you’re Hindu? But you’re not, you know. So, what are you?’

Bal frowned. ‘I don’t know. Daadi is not my mother. This much I know.’

‘Of course, she’s not your mother. She is old. She’s very black. You are not.’ Asif spun his bamboo stick round his neck, and caught it neatly in both hands.

‘I have no mother…how did you do that?’

‘I’ve no mother, too. Oh, that? Easy, look!’ He caught the stick again, and this time held it in front of him horizontally above the ground and jumped over it. ‘But everybody has a mother. Women become mothers. They have babies. I know all about that too.’ He pointed to a fallen tree trunk under the shade of a neem tree. ‘Sit for a while. Jaswant is slow today. It’s burning hot. We’ll soon catch up.’

‘Tell me, Asif. Tell me about women and babies.’

Asif shook his head. ‘Not now. Some day. If people find out I told you, they’ll beat me. Grown-ups are cruel. All grown-ups want some excuse to hit and beat you. Don’t know why. And when they see a grown-up beating a child, they don’t try to stop it. “Good, they say, that’s what the boy needs.” But I don’t let them. I run away and hide and wait till they forget. It is not fair. They can do what they like.’

‘Tell me about women. How they become mothers? I won’t tell.’

‘All right, I’ll tell you. Not here. When we get out there, out in the grazing fields.’ Asif jerked his head in Jaswant’s direction. ‘When he’s asleep. I’ll tell you. Oh, look there! There. See that bull and cow…’ he giggled. ‘See what the bull is doing? Men do that to women. The same thing. Then the women have babies…same like cows.’ A strange, inexplicable excitement made Bal shiver. Asif smirked. He dug Bal in the ribs. ‘Don’t tell anyone.
Kasam
! Promise!’ He held his right hand to Bal and hooked his little finger. Bal linked it with his own, tugged at it, and nodded. Asif had taught him that this ritual meant they had taken a solemn oath. ‘One evening,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll take you to Govind Singh’s hut. There’s a hole from which you can see inside. I’ll show you what he does to his wife Gauri.’

‘Govindji, who is in charge of the well at Bodi? But Gauri? I thought Gauri is his daughter. Is she not?

Asif shook his head sagely. ‘She is his wife. After he’s had his dinner, he…no, no, forget it. You’ll make a noise and then Govind Singh will thrash us. Forget it. But you’ll soon find out. It happens everywhere, all the time.’