The Storyteller (18 page)

I flounced off, feeling smug about my midget’s stature. It wasn’t a regressive condition that could afflict someone. I was a rarity, a special choice of Fate’s warped sense of fun.

I wandered into the covered part of the market. The dazzle of light and colour must have further affected my stunted sense of time. Meena blurred into a peripheral consciousness as I stopped to marvel at the carelessness with which people parted with their money. It took precision and skill to pinch a sari from a stack on display outside a crowded shop. Women haggled and bargained aggressively. Overworked shop assistants unfurled saris, justifying the prices by lengthy descriptions of quality and craft. They had no opportunity to notice the dwarf lurking in a corner. In one smooth movement a neatly folded sari disappeared into my satchel. A flash of green and gold, and then it was gone. I knew Chaman would
have preferred black or blue. But I didn’t have much choice. I could only take what was on top of the pile. I had to stand on tiptoes to slide it off without toppling the entire stack. Chaman would smile and give me a hug.

On a sudden impulse I decided to steal a knife. Mine was rusty. The handle was broken. There was a store crammed with kitchenware—shiny pots and pans, spoons, and items I had never seen before. An array of knives was displayed on a tray. Shiny, steely things. Sharp and pointed. I imagined an edge caressing unblemished skin. The oozing warmth of life. I had to have one. I bumped hard against a table. Trays of cutlery crashed to the floor, scattering knives, spoons and forks. The shopkeeper screamed at me. The usual abuses about my appearance, my mother’s canine pedigree and my lack of intelligence. I apologised and kneeled down to gather the scattered pieces of cutlery. Several other passers-by obliged and provided the perfect diversion. The shopkeeper couldn’t possibly keep his eyes on everyone.

In my state of contentment, I figured that fifteen minutes had probably passed. I made my way back to the drink stall. Meena sat erect on a wooden stool, her arms folded across her bosom. The handbag was precariously balanced on her lap. The shopping bag rested against her legs, its strap firmly under her feet.

‘Fifteen minutes.’ She looked cross, her voice brimming with anger. ‘I said fifteen minutes.’

I mumbled something about helping a crying child to find its mother. Heart-wrenching details about a little girl’s anguish and the plight of a distraught parent. Armed guards and sympathetic shoppers. And in the centre of panic—Vamana. The linchpin. Alert and clever with ideas about what had to be done. The enquiries and the search, then the reunion…tearfully joyous. The kind of yarn the women in our
bustee
yearned to hear.
Mushy and tearful, verging on disaster before the climax of a happy ending. Ugh! Still, I resolved to save that one for Baji. I would try it the next time I was desperately hungry.

Meena listened intently. Her hostility evaporated. She handed me the shopping bag. ‘I want to go home.’

Go home? Panic gripped me. I looked up at the sky. The sun wasn’t even over our heads. Wouldn’t she like to see the other shops? Take a stroll in the nearby park? Something to eat? No? Another drink? Perhaps a longer rest under a tree? Meekly I followed, staggering under the combined weights of the shopping bag and my satchel…

Footsteps disrupted my recollections. I listened intently. My eyes scanned the dimly lit street. What was this shadow hovering under the window? A man? He peered at his watch, shook his wrist and looked again. Was he only an apparition? I scraped away the darkness and recognised him.

Was I hurt, angry, surprised? No, none of those feelings. Only a sensation of falling.

A solitary voice.
Do you know it is exactly two years since my husband disappeared? How much longer am I expected to wait? I am still young. I need company. One cannot continue to love a memory…

He hurried inside. I dragged myself up the stairs. An ear pressed against the door. It was like listening for voices in a cemetery. You knew they were there behind a barrier. I wished my mind had lids to shut out the foul workings of a troubled imagination. I could view what was happening on the other side of the door. They were powerless to prevent me from spying on them. My mind could penetrate any barrier. I could focus and see…

They were on her bed, naked. He undressed Meena without stopping to brush the nape of her neck with his index and
middle fingers. Long, soft strokes gliding over her. Lies caressed her ears. Words to overcome any resistance. Her arms were folded across her breasts in a gesture of fearful protest. An ancient game played with the aid of invisible devils. The shadow of confusion crept over her face. His patience collapsed. Strong hands forced her arms apart. His lips followed the contours of her face, sliding over her throat and chin. She turned to one side, but he pursued her like an obsessed hunter. His tongue forced its way between the lips and found the damp softness inside her mouth. She felt him grow on her belly. Gently he grasped her hands and moved them above her head on either side of the pillow. She began to caress the back of his legs with her heels. They were sweaty beasts with human faces, responding to the primates inside them. His head moved down. Her nipples swelled, teased by the tip of his tongue that licked and slithered, leaving a moist trail on her bosom. A soft cry as his teeth clamped around dark buds. He slid down, stopping briefly by the dry well of her navel. His fingers began to knead her buttocks.
Gently
, she pleaded. He slid further down. Her legs trembled as she realised the hopelessness of her timid protests. He buried his face among the coarse tendrils of pubic hair. Like a leech, he began to suck the moisture from the pinkness of the sacred flesh. Did he feel like a thief feasting on an orchard that did not belong to him? Her fingers were entwined in the hair on the back of his head. An upward tug, and he moved. The delicious wickedness of the entrance. A violation she welcomed. She gasped as a finger probed in search of a dark, resting place. They were fused as one by the unholy fire. The thrashing began…

Oh, villain! The foul burglar! He undulated like a restless python, devouring a willing victim. An act of compulsive aggression. The defining power of life. Soon…soon it had to be over.

The confusion…the hurt. Was this love? I was drenched in sweat. I sat on the floor and rested my head against the door. I should never have allowed him to take my place. He was a predator, prowling and feeding in my territory.

Whispered voices. I scurried down the stairs and hid myself in the night. Did I see him walk away quickly, softly whistling his contentment? The tune of conquest. How did he feel? Invincible? Immortal? Like a great conqueror who brushed aside any thought of personal harm? I had trouble sighting him. Footfalls. My hand gripped the wooden handle of the knife as I followed the sound for a distance. It wasn’t entirely his fault. Meena had encouraged him. The vile seductress kept herself in practice while she waited for her husband. There were gigantic waves of temptation. He could be found in the morning, lying on his face.

The police would extract a confession from Meena.
Yes, yes! He was my lover
…A perfect revenge. But they would torture Meena until she surrendered with words that would doom her. A pitiful sight—broken and cowering in the corner of a filthy cell, her clothes torn, her body lacerated with cuts and welts. Randy policemen, eager to unbutton their pants. No. I couldn’t inflict that on her.

He disappeared around a corner, his fading footsteps mocking the despair of my failure.

I returned to the building and climbed the stairs again. I placed the remains of the flowers against her door. Would she ever guess? I pictured her kneeling on the floor to touch the remnants of marigolds and the crushed roses, stroking the limp petals as though she could restore them to life. I was comforted by the image. I allowed it to linger and heal me. The noises and the buffetings of an uncaring world were replaced with a calmness that I rarely experienced. I sat on the doorstep with my strangled hope. Another death. I had to cremate it quickly
before it decayed and poisoned me.
Come and help me next Tuesday
—I had not imagined her words—
if you wish
…If I wished? Did I want to be an emperor? Tall and flawless? Did I desire to be rich?

I roamed the streets among those who had no shelter. There was an unearthly quietness, as though a fierce battle had concluded, littering the ground with evidence of a monstrous evil. Men and women lay on the footpaths like massacred corpses. Occasionally a body stirred. Sleep…dreams…drifting through the spaces within. Each person was a traveller without a fixed destination.

Up ahead a child cried. Under the streetlight a bald-headed boy sat on his mother’s lap, his head resting on her hollow chest. I stopped in front of them.

‘He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday,’ she said. Her voice was toneless and her eyes were vacant. She had no feelings left, even for her son.

There was a stale slice of bread in my satchel. I offered it to him. The woman grabbed it and took a bite. My stare made her smile guiltily. She handed the rest of the bread to her son. The crying ceased. He stuffed the bread in his mouth and then looked at me with untrusting eyes.

‘Are you real?’ He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and then leaned forward to touch me.

I stepped sideways to avoid his probing fingers. ‘No, I am a dream that comes before dawn.’

‘More?’ He held out his hand.

‘No dream is perfect.’ To his delight I played the flute. Mouth open, he clapped his hands.

‘Would you like to listen to a story?’

He looked at his mother and then nodded vigorously. I told him about the exploits of Hanuman from
The Ramayana.
It was a favourite with the children in the
bustee.
I didn’t have
the monkey’s mask or the tail that I usually pinned to the back of my T-shirt. Neither was there a large, noisy audience to inspire a convincing performance. Without Farishta’s drums, there could be little suspense. I was unable to inject any enthusiasm into the narrative. As I reached the part of the story where Hanuman was about to have his tail set on fire at Ravana’s command, the boy began to snore.

The cycle of failure was complete. I moved along.

I had reached a point of tiredness where my sense of direction couldn’t be trusted. The streetlights wavered. I needed to rest, but my legs kept moving as though I had no control over them. There was much to be done. I had to convince Chaman to consult the
hakim
and buy the prescribed medicine. Farishta had promised to collect the money to pay the doctor. Once Chaman was cured, we could talk seriously about moving out of the
bustee
before Jhunjhun Wallah evicted us.

I was planning to suggest that we lead a nomadic life—wander through villages and roam the countryside. Become travelling entertainers. I was prepared to narrate stories that would have been familiar to villagers. We could perform short plays and entertain people with interludes of music. Chaman wouldn’t have to seek the company of strange men to earn us money. We could wander towards the far north, in the direction of the white mountains that climbed steeply into the sky. Barey Bhai and his thugs would never find us. There were places without policemen or prison. It wouldn’t be necessary to work every day. There was a peaceful life awaiting us beside rivers and creeks. Fishing and talking. Smoking. Flying kites
and plucking fruits. We could share whatever we earned and live as a family. I had to figure out a way to take Meena with us. A simple life without violence. No abuses and beatings. Nothing to punish the body and torture the mind. I had to talk to them soon.

The lights of Connaught Place. I had walked a long way. It was safe among the shadows. Sometimes policemen were on patrol here. Someone had thrown away half a
roti
wrapped around mutton kebabs. I brushed off the dirt. The hunger stopped nibbling my entrails.

I enjoyed looking into shop windows. What was this? Dizziness overcame me. I wasn’t ill. It could have been the intense excitement of seeing what was not there. Waking dreams were exhausting. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. What was she doing here? A woman of many appearances, I concluded. Not unlike myself. I didn’t dare move any closer, in case I discovered the trick of a fatigued mind. And yet…the wavy, shoulder-length hair. Same height. She stood motionless, looking pale in the glare of the light. Glazed eyes that did not waver. Was she being held against her will? She was dressed in a green sari, surrounded by an array of clothes, standing on a thick carpet with cushions around her feet. But her face…I couldn’t determine if she was smiling. I felt I had the power to give her life, this mannequin. She would be my queen, my Meena…

Will you come with me?

Was that a nod? I understood the need for caution. There were hidden eyes watching her.

I promise to get you out.

There was a reckless bravery about my resolution, as though my own survival were dependent on some form of action. I scrounged around for a piece of sturdy timber, bricks, anything to smash through the barrier. I was unafraid of
consequences. A rustling noise startled me. I immediately thought of the police.

Dawn. I was empty-handed. I cursed the wretched fools who kept the place clean. I would be forced to wait another day. I pressed my face against the window. Did my repeated promise sound sincere?

I can never abandon you.

She continued to stare outside.

The sea is a long way from here. He won’t be coming back.

The bristles of a broom scratched the footpath. A young girl sang softly as she brushed aside the dirt and the dried, curled up leaves. She looked at me with fearless eyes. I braced myself for her giggle.

‘Are you also a sweeper?’

I nodded, turning my back to the window.

‘Where is your broom?’

‘I forgot to bring it.’

‘Do you want to borrow mine?’

‘No. I’d better get my own. I don’t live far from here.’

‘Do you have a home?’

‘Yes.’

She leaned on the broom handle. ‘One with a roof?’

‘Yes.’

‘A proper roof? Does it leak?’

‘In some places.’

‘Do you sleep on the floor?’

‘I have an old mattress.’

‘Do you have pots for cooking?’

‘A few.’

‘Will you take me home? I can cook.’ She moved closer. ‘Do whatever men want.’

For an instant her words excited me. Here was an unexpected opportunity to experience what I could only
imagine. Then I looked closely at her—a mere child thrusting herself into the sordidness of adult desires. She should have been asleep, dreaming of affectionate animals and kind princes, drifting through a land untouched by human darkness. A landscape entirely outside my experience. She didn’t flinch when I reached up to touch her face. Maybe she realised that I didn’t intend her harm. Her eyes were without wonderment, as if she knew that life had already been drained of its surprises. Empty orbs. No questions to be asked. There was nothing that could shock her. She was unwashed and stank of urine. Her young body was a hollow chamber to be rented out to strangers.

‘I have no money,’ I started to explain. And what if I did? Would I have paid her to know all that possessed me during my waking hours? I was confused by the vague concern I felt for this girl. I should have been thinking about myself.

‘
Roti
?’

‘I have nothing.’

A spiteful monster, that began to snarl and scream, swallowed her calmness. She swung the broom at me. I backed away. This…this emptiness I did not understand. There was no desire to frighten or chase her away. The broom struck my left shoulder. I moved sluggishly, troubled by my inability to react with aggression. I needed sleep. I had to see the
hakim.
A chat with Jesu. There was also a free lunch for beggars at the big mosque.

I thought about the girl on the way home. She was the only female who had ever offered herself to me. I was unable to imagine her without clothes. My only regret was my inability to give her any food or money.

You could never say that the
bustee
was asleep. Every night it tossed and groaned under the weight of its anguished life—a
death, accidents and illness. Desertions and beatings were common. Drunken husbands and fathers came home at various hours to vent their frustrations on wives and children. Cries and curses. We had established a code of privacy by ignoring pleas for help. The pretension ensured a form of tense communal survival.

People sought whatever pleasure could be had. Darting shadows scurried across the filth-littered paths to meet lovers. In corners, couples clutched each other with feverish ardour. Whispered lies and fabulous dreams. For a few moments it was possible to forget the whining dogs and the stench of garbage piles. They created their private heavens, lived in eternal youth, giggled and made plans before the suffocating misery of their surroundings exploded their dream world.

Often I drifted through the
bustee
, playing my flute to serenade the lovers. My intention was to encourage their temporary escape and nourish their illusions. They deserved their fleeting moments of joy. I chose not to reveal myself. It was impossible to tell when or where I was likely to be heard—on a cloudy night or under a pale moon, just after midnight, near dawn, sometimes not at all. I worked hard at being unpredictable. I was like a random spirit with the power to assume a human shape, arriving suddenly and leaving without a trace. Under the moonlight some might have thought that I looked like the dwarf who lived among them. But with padding and make-up…Was it Vamana? Could it be that the ghost of Hamilton Saheb was playing tricks?

Those having affairs hated me. They suspected my motives. During the day I saw poison in their eyes. And yet they couldn’t be certain whether a wayward spirit was at work. In front of others, Kaka and I discussed the ghost of Hamilton Saheb as if we were friends with the spirit. Behind the web of confusion, I was safe. I remained silent and appeared innocent.
No demands, threats or blackmail. They speculated and whispered among themselves. Was it money that I desired? Didn’t I need sleep? Why was there a compulsion to play the flute so late at night? Once a tentative offer was made—twenty rupees a month if I or whatever-it-was did not stir the nocturnal silence.

Huh? What did they mean? I huffed and raved, bristling with indignation. To even suggest that I was responsible for the musical activity…Vile! Really! Me? Vamana? The storyteller who entertained them and their children. Shame! Had they seen me? Was my face clearly visible? How could they be certain that it wasn’t one of Delhi’s
djinns
taking control of their minds and making them believe that someone was playing music? What was the proof that I, and not an apparition, was the source of all disquiet? Hah? Anyway, why were so many people outside their shacks at hours when spirits were meant to roam the world without human presence? Was there some criminal activity bubbling in the secrecy of the night? I overwhelmed them with words, planted doubt and confusion, induced fear, and created so many possibilities that their suspicions turned on each other. I was left to wander in the night like a troubled spirit without a sanctuary.

The
bustee
stirred with the movement of early risers. Tendrils of smoke rose from freshly lit
chulas.
Several men huddled near the water tap, spluttering and coughing as they lit their first
bidis
for the day. Several women scrubbed their teeth with
neem
twigs. Others used small pieces of charcoal. A naked boy smacked the top of the tap with a stick. A trickle of water continued to splatter on the chipped slab of slimy cement. This was where most of the day’s arguments and fights ignited, especially among the females. The most common cause of friction was excessive use of water. Who was filling too many pots? Accusations of selfishness and greed spilled into more
sensitive areas like husband pinching and currying favour with Barey Bhai.

The gender battle was fought along the lines of double standards. Men were accused of wasting water by sitting under the tap and lathering themselves with soap until they resembled the peaks of snow-covered hills. They demonstrated no urgency to give way to domestic needs. Why was their ablution more important than the water needed for cooking and washing clothes? And weren’t the women and children entitled to cleanliness? The targeting of specific names sometimes aroused the wives of the accused to a spirited defence of their spouses. The men were quickly forgotten, and the battle-eager women turned on each other. Voices screeched, and the language—it was foul. Occasionally there was spitting and kicking. Hair-pulling, scratching and biting. An understanding had developed among the men to remain neutral. They gathered and stood at a distance to watch the ferocious display of feminine anger.

Bets were quietly placed among the men. Money,
bidis
, stolen items and quantities of
charas
and
ganja
changed hands. Winners were cheered. Husbands of the losers tiptoed out of sight, sometimes burdened with guilt. It was left to the older and wiser women to restore calm. The realisation that the water supply would be cut off at noon prompted a flurry of activity with pitchers, buckets, pots and pans. The conversation once again centred on the excessive self-indulgence of men.

On this particular morning, wary eyes followed me. I knew that a number of men were aching to give me a thrashing. They were restrained by the superstition that dwarfs had magical powers to create mischief. I was delighted with the effectiveness of the rumour that Vamana was privy to the secret of an ancient curse that rendered men impotent. Pursued to its extreme limits, the curse affected the size of a penis, causing it to shrink alarmingly before an irreversible rot set in. The flesh
turned dark and began to peel in thick layers until all that remained was a shrivelled stump with a tiny slit for urinating. The ruination of manhood was accompanied by excruciating pain that often drove men to suicide.

Lovely stuff! I thought. A stroke of rare inspiration had made me whisper in Kaka’s ears. It had the same effect as an announcement over a loudspeaker. By the next day the men knew that I was no ordinary mortal. To appear credible, Kaka swore that he knew a victim of my curse. The old man shuddered and refused to say any more. His reticence attracted all the attention he desired.

I walked past the smokers, ignoring their snide remarks and veiled threats. Someone made a vile, guttural sound and spat his contempt into the dust. The women didn’t greet me either. They were not pleased that I had yelled at a group of children who were trying to trap a butterfly that had strayed into the
bustee.
Their silent hostility was also directed at what they had condemned as my bad taste in the choice of a story.

It had been a difficult period in the
bustee.
Two deaths and an accident in which a man had his left arm severed at the elbow. An unfaithful husband had been apprehended, fucking Padma during the day. Several children were seriously ill, and the women decided that they were too fatigued to cook or wash. I was requested to entertain them.

‘Another love story, Vamana!’

‘But I have already told you about Lorik and Chanda and narrated the romances, Vasavadatta and Kadambari. I spent two evenings on Layla and Majnun—’

‘More! We want to hear more!’ a young wife, Sumita, pleaded.

Conventional love stories bored me. All this business of handsome men and beautiful women overcoming obstacles to be ultimately united held no appeal for me. What made it even
worse was the snivelling and the crying that was evoked in some stories by the deserved deaths of the namby-pambies. I thought the women might appreciate something different.

At dusk, they gathered near the wall in large numbers. Some carried lighted candles and hurricanes. A few men hovered in the background, unwilling to trust my presence in front of an all-female audience. I wore a mask under which my face had been appropriately made-up. I had intended to remove the mask before the story finished.

It was one of my best narratives. I was enthusiastic and convincing. I injected pathos into my voice and my movements were worthy of a great actor. I expected a thunderous ovation—food and expressions of praise. As I sat on the wall and unmasked myself, there was a loud boo followed by words of disapproval. A sandal sailed past my head. I was shocked, crushed, utterly humiliated. I had no inkling that they would dislike a love story about two homosexual lepers.