The Blue Notebook (9 page)

I lay completely motionless. I could not move and I did not think. I felt no pain or sadness, just exhaustion.

The old woman returned after a few minutes and said, “You cannot bathe yet because your uncle is still in there. But when he is done you can bathe, and then you will sleep.” She pulled the gag out of my mouth and untied my wrists. There was a sting where the wrist-ties were but I could feel nothing else. She sat in the wooden chair next to my bed.

I said nothing. I did not move because I refused to order my stupid legs to do anything. Then the old woman touched my hair. I pulled away only out of surprise. I heard again the noises from the street and listened intently to them as if they were music. I had no real sense of time and my tears had long stopped falling. I did not think of Mother and Father and I did not think of home. I thought intently of nothing. After a time I raised my eyes to the old woman. I stared at her, and for a second she was beautiful to me. Only for a second, though. She stared blankly out the window, unaware of my gaze. Tears rolled down her cheeks one by one. She showed no expression and did not utter any noise. She stared out the window and silently cried. She did not try to touch me again.

A time passed and the gentle rumble of the late-night traffic was eventually interrupted by the old woman. “Get up now; you have to wash.” I tried to get onto my legs. The sari and my underclothes had long been ripped from me and I stood naked on the floor. The old woman gave me a white towel. I set my legs far apart because I did not trust them and I was in pain. I staggered slowly toward the washroom behind the old woman. I did not notice the blood dripping from my rabbit’s mouth that left a trail behind me.

The room with the bathtub smelled of steam and the floor was wet. I climbed into the empty bathtub and noticed that it
was still warm from the previous user. I looked down and saw a tiny pool of blood forming between my legs on the floor of the white bathtub. Both the old woman and I stared at it but neither of us reacted; we just watched as the puddle grew bigger. The old woman turned on the water and the little puddle floated away leaving only the faintest remnant of red on the bathtub floor as it filled with water.

I soaked in the hot water for a while. The old woman did not hurry me, clean me, or speak to me, and there were no scented oils this time. I climbed out of the tub with considerable difficulty, as my strength was drained. The old woman wrapped me in my towel and we returned to the bedroom. I could see that the drips of blood had stained the stone floor.

I fell onto the bed and crawled upward to the pillow. The old woman locked the door as she left. I would never see her again.

The windows were open and I could smell the street. I was lucky that the man did not touch my pillow. My head sank into it. All that I could smell as I fell asleep was the bleach that was used to wash the pillow white.

Not too busy a day. Puneet, clad in a bandage from his waist to his thigh, is still gloomy. I have become used to Puneet parading his made-up, dressed-sexy beauty at the gateway to his nest, and I miss it. It was my daily theater. He would flaunt himself at the entrance of his nest in his tight little shorts, brassiere, top, and chiffon veil, and I would watch him tilt his upper body
a trace to accentuate his bottom. I would see him straighten a curl and toss the edge of the veil to cast a web of air to draw men to him—like a fisherman throwing his net on the river. The fact that he was a boy only pronounced his femininity. There were many times when I was sure my simple, chin-down, eyes-up fluttering smile would entice a novice cook (the most valuable) toward me only for him to become entrapped in Puneet’s deviant, honey-kissed web. To put it simply, there were many men who never dreamed of lying upon the throne of a boy whom Puneet persuaded otherwise. He would tell me, often with a salacious grin, that when they felt his mouth on theirs, he became woven into their dreams. He said that their tongues would first press hesitantly against his, but then would dance and weave with his. His theory was that all men had a part of him inside them; it was just waiting to be released. His constant river of business attested to this.

Despite Puneet’s gloominess, men still stood waiting in the Common Street until the moment his curtain opened. Oftentimes, as soon as one devotee left him, I would see a man accelerate or even trot from halfway down the street to ensure he reached Prince Puneet’s gate before any other. Even when Puneet just plopped himself outside his door and did not advertise his promise, men would drift to him. It could be that his sultriness intensified his attractiveness. A forbidden pleasure unadvertised is perhaps the sweetest.

I tried to think back to the village. For sure all the boys wanted the toy that other boys had. However, there was also the toy that was too dangerous to play with, which had a unique allure. Jitendra was my age and the weakest and smallest of the boys. Not only was he physically slight, but he also was an insignificant
person who was annoying at every opportunity. He was like a small pebble stuck in your shoe. All the boys and even several of the girls would pick on him; you could blow and he would crumble. He was friendless. However, this all changed when he received a flick-knife for his birthday sent to him by a stupid uncle from Delhi. If you pressed a button on the knife’s handle, the blade shot out. The blade’s edge was jagged and so sharp that it could slice a rat’s head clean off. This became a favored trick of Jitendra’s.

Walking through the village one day, a ten-year-old boy a year or so older than Jitendra, tried to take the knife from him. In the struggle, Jitendra pressed the button and the blade shot out into the boy’s flank; cascades of blood poured forth and torrential screaming. That night frightful rows broke out between the parents, and both boys were severely punished. However, after the thigh-slicing incident Jitendra was never picked on again, although he remained friendless. He became feared by the village children as well as by the local rats. There are “toys” that require a certain courage to possess and thereby acquire a special attraction. Jitendra’s knife was one such toy. Puneet was another.

Puneet had been a “lost boy” from the time his mother disappeared. The fact that he survived is a miracle. He has told me of atrocities he has seen on the street even before Master Gahil acquired him: murders, tortures, and violent robberies to name a few. He told me how his father broke out of prison to try to find him, only to be recaptured after a sensational street battle. He explains frequently how his mother married a wealthy businessman who will fetch him, “any day now—just you watch.” The stories about his parents are fiction. Puneet has long been
erased from the memories of his father and mother. How else could they reconcile their place on earth, knowing that their son lives two nests down from mine and every day pleasures men who are filthy inside and out? Puneet has no reality other than his cage and this street. That is why he never seeks to escape; this is all there is.

Puneet slides inside his nest, following a man in an ill-fitting gray suit. Puneet’s body speaks to his latest round of defeat, although his eye and lip makeup are still meticulously applied. He is becoming thin and his bandages slide down his waist, even without him bending over to display his love-hole. I have a great idea to cheer him up; I will write him a story. It does not matter that he cannot read; I will read it to him. In point of fact, I am the only person I know who can read.

Dear my beloved Puneet, this story is for you. I hope you love it.

THE GRAIN OF RICE

The Master taught, “The world balances on a grain of rice.”

The students asked the Master, “Master, how can the whole world, with all the elephants, houses, cities, palaces, crops, fields, and sky, balance on a grain of rice?”

The Master smiled serenely, looked over the field of students before him, and told this tale.

In a distant kingdom was a small village, and in that small village lived a family, a farmer, his wife, and their five children, two girls and three boys. The youngest of the boys was strong, quick-witted, and agile but beyond these traits he was connected to the flow of the earth. In his previous lives he had been the horse that was ridden by the greatest of all kings, a tiger that had given his coat to a queen, and a prince who was destined to rule the greatest kingdom on earth, except that he was cut down by jealousy Now, in this life, he was born as the youngest son of a poor farmer. But how his inner beauty shone. Even as a little boy his radiance drew attention from seers and the blind alike. Rumors spread of a holy child gifted with inner sight and the power to heal.

To look at this fourteen-year-old boy, you might be distracted by his physical beauty. He was blossoming into manhood and his lean and muscular body could twist with a change in the wind. His eyes were entrancing and his face lovely to behold. But if you were able to look beyond this shell of physical beauty, you would see something even more glorious. He shone with the wisdom of eternity, for he could see not only this life and the last but also the next. He could see the false pride of the rich and the faked lament of the poor. He could separate love from lust and could taste spring in the air even when it was winter. His name was Puneet.

In the village, the crops had failed for the third year in a row and the earth was barren. The stream that had fed the village no longer ran and the drinking wells were almost completely dry. The village had long used up all its reserves of food and the villagers were starving in the streets. The farmer said to his youngest son early one morning, “Darling Puneet, we are all starving. You are a very special boy with tremendous powers. You
must leave the village and seek fortune for us. Bring us back riches so that we may buy food and eat.” Within the hour, before the ferocity of the morning sun took hold, Puneet bade farewell to his father, mother, and brothers and sisters. He gathered up some pebbles, wrapped them in a rag, and slung them over his shoulder, heading out from the village on foot.

He walked for many days through unimaginable heat and evaded many dangers. He found water by following animal tracks and ate roots and plants that had grown on the side of the path to sustain him. He came to a large town. By then he was dusty and very thin but he still carried the pebbles from his village. This was a rich town full of greed and falseness. At the town inn, he drank from the trough used by the horses until his thirst was satisfied. He scavenged in the garbage of the inn for food, of which there was plenty. He ate until his strength returned. Wandering through the village, he saw how the poor and rich coexisted, neither sharing grace with the other, and he saw falsehood and greed all around him. He vomited the food he had eaten, for he did not want the filth of this town inside him.

At the village square, he beheld a great commotion. Since he was slender, he easily slid his way to the front of the crowd, which had gathered around a wrestling ring built upon a wooden platform. The ring was square and bounded by ropes. In the middle of the ring stood a giant. He was taller than an elephant and almost as broad. The shadow he cast from the sun almost filled the ring. In front of the giant kneeled a bloodied man, his armor half cut from him; he was begging for mercy from the giant. The giant looked across at a beautiful woman who sat on a throne at the far end of the ring, and the crowd hushed. She was the queen of the mighty kingdom; she wore a golden crown studded with a multitude of pearls and diamonds and a glistening golden cloak draped over her shoulders. Her hair was oiled and she appeared as a vision in a famous painting. To her right and left sat two lions with chains around
their necks thicker than a man’s arm, and at her feet was a chest of gold coins.

She spoke into the silence. “Let him live, but for failing the challenge, he, his wife, and his children shall become my slaves. Soldier, do you accept these terms?” The groveling man had dried blood on his face and fresh blood oozing from his wounds. He answered, “Beloved queen, I and my family would be honored beyond measure to be your servants for eternity” With that, the queen waved her hand to silence the murmuring crowd. “Kill him, giant,” she ordered, “and have his family burned alive in the foundry. A man whose family is so easily bought is a family not worth having—even as slaves. A man with so little honor is not worthy to drink even the water of my kingdom. We must purge the realm of such weakness. Kill him now! That is my command.”