In the Shadow of a Dream (6 page)

Bal made a face and gave a philosophical shrug of his little shoulders. ‘Anyway Daadi, won’t let us. She says it is bad to peep. What people do in their own
jhopri
, she says,
is private.’ He waved his hand dismissively.

Asif glanced at him curiously. ‘People say you’re clever. They call you: “little man”. You talk like a man, sometimes…’He yawned and stretched himself. Bal copied him. A sharp call from Jaswant made the two boys jump up.

When the herd reached the grazing grounds at the foothills north of the Kunti river, old Jaswant rested his staff against a
neem
tree, removed his turban to reveal a close cropped head of grey stubble, and with great care placed his turban at the base of the tree, rubbed his eyes, brushed his luxuriant, henna dyed moustache away from his full and sensuous lips, cleared his throat violently and spat. Then, looking about him with satisfaction, he stretched his arms and called out: ‘Asif! Listen, you and the boy. Keep watch. I’m resting.’ He hitched his
dhoti
above his knees, removed his white calico tunic, which he spread on a grassy patch under the tree and sat down on it, bare torso and cross-legged.

Bal started to walk up to him, but Asif pulled him back violently and placed a warning finger on his lips. ‘Daadi said he’ll teach me to be a herdsman,’ Bal said sullenly. ‘If I don’t go up to him, how will I learn to…’

‘I’ll teach you. Remember what I said yesterday evening? How important it is not to get on the wrong side of Jaswant Singh. He never talks. Gives orders only. Yes. He doesn’t teach. I learned by watching. He treats boys like animals. Make one mistake and he’ll prod you with his stick. That hurts. Or, he’ll pull your ears. That hurts worse. There’s nothing to being a herdsman. Watch and copy. Use your eyes. Never show fear. I know how to deal with him. He can be kind, but that’s when he will try to touch you in a way you won’t like. Keep away. He won’t chase after you if you stay away. He is old and forgetful.’

‘Where’s the boy?’ Jaswant bawled suddenly.

Asif pressed Bal down. ‘Keep low. Don’t answer. Don’t let him see you. If he asks again, I’ll speak.’ Jaswant did and Asif said: ‘I’m taking him to the gram field. I need help to keep the cattle away from destroying the crops.’

‘Good. You show him how.’

‘I will,’ Asif shouted back, ‘he’ll soon learn how. He’s a clever boy.’ Then he whispered to Bal. ‘Now watch! He’ll take his
goolee
, now
.
’

‘What’s
goolee
?’

Asif unwrapped his small white turban, found the end of it, undid a knot and took out a rolled up
pan
leaf. He opened the leaf to reveal a sticky looking small ball, the colour of molasses. ‘It’s a mixture of ground tobacco and
ganja
.
Ganja
, makes you all groggy and sleepy. I tried some once.’ He spat. ‘I was very sick.’

‘Then why
have you got it?’

‘For him. When he hasn’t got any, he asks me. I give it to him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he likes it. I don’t care. It knocks him out and gives me two, three hours peace.’ Asif gave a triumphant smile and from the top pocket of his soiled and torn tunic, brought out a packet of
bidis.
‘These are for me.’

‘You smoke? Where did you get that?’

‘The
bidi
shop. I work there, some evenings, rolling
bidis
.
I get five annas and one packet of these free. The
golee
I nicked. Worth the risk. When
baba
,’ he nodded towards old Jaswant, ‘doesn’t get his afternoon nap, he can be big trouble. He’ll call you and try to give you a
chuma.
A kiss.’

‘Now you’re frightening me.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. He’s afraid of me. I shout at him: “Any funny tricks and I’ll tell the whole village you’re a
gandoo
!”
That is someone who likes boys. He wouldn’t want that.’ Looking away, he added: ‘Do you think he heard me?’

Bal shook his head. ‘No, he’s sitting very still. His eyes are shut.’

‘Hindus don’t like to be accused of doing dirty things to boys.’ Asif, who was sitting frog-like on his haunches, scratched his chest through a hole in his tunic. Then he put a leaf brown
bidi
between his teeth and lit it with a match that needed several strikes before it flared. ‘Why are you staring like that? Oh, look! He’s chewing his
golee.
’

‘Can I have a
bidi
?’ Bal asked, tapping Asif’s elbow.

Asif stubbed his
bidi
in the earth and stood up. He shook his head. ‘No, Bal. I am supposed to take care of you. I promised Daadi. Smoking is bad.’ He sighed. ‘You know, I’ve said this before. You have beautiful eyes. When you look at me, like that, I could kiss you.’ Asif laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t. I’m no
gandoo.’
He sat down again. ‘I’m hungry. I dream of food. Also of Malti. It matters little to me, whom she marries’

‘Malti? What’s that about? Is she…’

‘Yes, little Malti, The
Bidiwalla’s
daughter.’

‘The man who makes and sells the
bidis
you were smoking?’

Asif nodded. ‘Once she brought me some mango pickle rolled up in a
puri.
So I pulled her and gave her a big kiss on the mouth. Then I got scared. I thought I’ll be in trouble the next day. But she didn’t tell her father.’

‘But she’s older than you?’

‘She passed by me many times as I sat rolling
bidis.
Looking angry at me and tossing her head like this, all the time. You’ve seen her? She’s pretty. Then, when her father wasn’t looking, she gave me a big kick.’

‘Why?’

‘That was three weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since.’

‘I have. I was with Daadi. She came with her mother to see Sujata maami. Yes, I remember now. There was talk about her getting married. That’s why they came. My Maami gave her a present of a sari and five rupees.’

‘Anyway, don’t talk about that kiss. Secret, okay.’ He watched Bal trying to undo the knot of his food bundle. ‘What are you doing? No, not now. After, baba’s goes to sleep. I’ll show you a nice place. Where there is shade and a small spring. We’ll eat there. Not long now.’ Asif picked up a stone and flung it with unerring aim at a dwarf date palm. The stone struck it with a thud. ‘That tree is dead,’ he declared.

‘If he sleeps now, when does he eat? He must eat during the day?’

‘Don’t let him hear you say “he”, say “Jaswant baba” or he’ll hit you—at six every morning, he has a gourd full of buttermilk and a bowl full of cooked ground maize. At six in the evening his wife gives him the same. Jaswant
Baba
tells me that it the best food in the world. That it makes you strong. He eats nothing in the middle of the day. But when he gets up from his afternoon rest, he has a drink. Fresh milk. He takes it from one of the cows. Yes, he fills his gourd—that yellow thing tied…I haven’t seen it today…it’s usually tied to his belt.
Baba
maybe old but he’s strong. All that stolen milk…’ Asif giggled. ‘No one finds out. He never takes it from the same cow. But don’t talk about this to anyone…or anything I tell you.’

‘Is he really old? How old?’

‘Seventy, eighty.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Not long…there, I told you. He’s out. Asleep now. Let’s go. Follow me.’

As they set out together, the bleating of sheep could be heard in the distance, and the whooping of the hoopoe bird seemed to come from nowhere. The day was fresh, and the September landscape, following the rainy season, showed patches of green among the rocks and sandy soil. The hot afternoon sun emphasized the fragility of the greenery, which in a fortnight would turn yellow again.

‘You walk too fast,’ Bal complained. He stopped to adjust the strap of his sandal.

Asif turned and waited. He stood like a stork on one leg, leaning on his staff and resting the sole of his left foot against his right knee. ‘Leave it, the strap’s broken.’

‘You’re barefoot! Don’t you have sandals?’

‘
Arrey
, yes. Can’t you see? Round my neck. Yours have old tyre soles. These are leather, all leather. I wear them only when I have to. Watch out, near that
babul
tree
there’ll be thorns. Later today, give me your sandals. I’ll get them mended.
Mochee
, the village cobbler,
is my friend. I do him many favours.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Swear, I mean it, I’ll prove it.’

They shared their lunch and when they had finished, Asif took the boy to the far end of a field, where by a kirkar or thorny mimosa tree were three carefully placed rocks. Asif pointed to them. Then he knelt on the ground and lifted the largest rock. A bubbling trickle of water issued. ‘Nobody, not even Jaswant
babu
, knows about this spring. This is my secret. This is clean fresh spring water.’ He lifted the other rocks, releasing a gush of water. ‘There, make a cup of your hands like this. Tight. Scoop the water, like this. Now drink. I don’t let the cattle come here. See that pool lower down, away from the river? That is where they drink. They know where to go. On their own. The new ones follow them.’

A low whistle in the distance gave Bal a start. ‘What is that?’

Asif did not answer immediately. He bent down, drank deeply off the spring, then removing his small turban, wet his hands and passed them through his thick jet black hair. ‘That’s the 2-down, going to Bombay.’

Another low but prolonged whistle blew over the fields and a long trail of smoke above a row of dark green cactus revealed the location of the moving train. ‘It would take us less than ten minutes to get there,’ Asif said thoughtfully. ‘It’s so near. Those low
bunds
, field boundaries, are strong mud walls. You can run on them; zig-zag up to the railway.’ He slumped down heavily against the gnarled roots of the acacia tree. ‘Only ten minutes away from freedom,’ he sighed and covered his face in his hands.

Bal stared down at him. ‘Are you crying?’ He sat next to Asif and putting his arm round Asif’s neck, began to cry also. ‘I never expected to see you cry? Why, friend, why? Asif, why? I want to be like you… happy and free.’

‘I’m not happy. I pretend.’ Asif picked up a pebble, studied it, and threw it with an expression of disgust. ‘You can’t know how much I hide…I’ve been beaten and abused. For years. People in the village…the butcher, old Jaswant, priests, all found some excuse to shout and hit. Even Malti’s father.’ He held up his wrists. ‘See those white marks? I was your age. He tied my hands with a rope…hung me from a low beam and thrashed me with a cane. You wouldn’t want to see my back. It still has scars. All because he accused me of taking two
paisa
from his
pan
tray. I hadn’t. But now, I nick things and he knows nothing.’

‘To me, you’re clever. You know how to get things. And you are strong.’

‘I’ve learned how to avoid beatings by telling lies. Oh, look, look!’ The train had slowed down as it approached the small stone bridge over the river Kunti. ‘It always goes slow there. So slow, I can run faster…and sometimes it stops. See that
khamba,
that tall post?’

‘Lamp post?’

‘No, silly. The white one. It’s a train signal. That arm thing. Sometimes it is up.’

‘It’s down.’

‘I know, but when it’s up the train has to stop. I could climb on to the train and hide. Easy. Hide till it gets to Bombay.’

‘Have you done that?’

‘No, but one day I will. I dream of Bombay. In Bombay you get rich. There’s the cinema and jobs that pay good money for work. Shops never close. At night street lamps shine bright. Tea stalls play loud music. And boys carry tea in glasses to sell. Hotels too…boys can do many jobs. You can polish shoes. You’ll see what Jaswant gives me. Four annas for full day…you’ll get nothing, you’ll see. He’ll make some excuse for no money. You’re learning, he’ll say…then after one week, maybe two annas. But Bombay, is big, is rich. Shops need boys to run around, to fetch and carry. And if you work at
chaat
stalls, there is free left-over food. And then in the evening, cinema. Tickets are cheap.’