The Storyteller (31 page)

We made the arrangement and ate breakfast.

‘That will be another twelve rupees,’ Narayan concluded, ‘for your food. I will pay for my own, if you please.’

Foamy grey clouds had gathered over the city and killed the earlier promise of a calm day. A storm boomed in the distance. Jagged lines of lightning threatened to split the sky. Vultures and eagles whorled in the air, and the normally listless pedestrians hurried to their destinations. The rain fell heavily. Roads flooded and vehicles were stranded. I was forced to find shelter near the walls of Salimgarh. The storm behaved like a maniac, venting its destructive madness on a helpless city, until it exhausted itself. The empty clouds moved on. The sky cleared rapidly. A radiant sun emerged from hiding, displacing the tyranny of the storm.

The
sadhus
on the roadside looked disconsolate after the rain had disrupted their meditation. Their
chillums
were wet, and their portable kerosene stoves would not ignite. I stopped to ask for the way to Nigambodh Ghat and was soundly abused. One
sadhu
, with a flourishing white beard, pointed vaguely in the direction I was headed.

Farishta was waiting in the pavilion when I reached the cremation ground. He was agitated, walking around in little circles and kicking the ground.

‘This is madness,’ he complained, running his hands through his wet hair. ‘Others have been cremated here after Chaman.’

There were hardly any ashes over the stone hearth. Lumps of charcoal and smashed flowers. Bits of broken clay pots. The only other people in the vicinity were sweepers scrounging among the remains, moving systematically from one pavilion to the next. We waited for the cart to arrive. Farishta tapped his toes impatiently and refused to look at me. Greed, rather than the memory of Chaman, had dragged him back to the cremation ground.

‘Do you feel her loss?’ I asked savagely.

‘It has passed,’ Farishta replied sullenly. ‘I have to think of myself now.’ He reminded me about the expenses he had incurred in his new accommodation. A month’s rent in advance. Payment for a few necessities—a straw mat, a kerosene stove, a cooking utensil, a monthly contribution to the
bustee
’s only man with a television set, some clothes and a trunk. ‘I deserve a little comfort,’ he said defiantly. ‘I am nearly forty years old. My fingers are no longer flexible. I cannot run fast and my back hurts. I don’t want to live as a thief any more. What?’

I stared at him. He was now a stranger who had quickly adapted himself to a new way of life. The entire burden of change fell heavily on me. Circumstances and the deliberate decisions of others were forcing me to alter my ways. I was bewildered, lost, resentful. Meena had departed from both my worlds, and Chaman’s death was like being involved in a horrible accident. A part of me was blown away, but I was still conscious and able to see the damage and feel the hurt. The
bustee
had been flattened and the godown torn down.
The police were pursuing me, and now Farishta had declared his intention to begin another life.

‘You suggested a life in Mumbai or Calcutta.’

He shook his head grimly. ‘That was yesterday. You helped me make a decision. I shall stay here. Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet are looking for work in a factory. I shall train to be a cobbler,’ he announced proudly. ‘There’s plenty of work in the city. And you? Even if you move to another place, you won’t be able to draw a crowd to listen to your stories.’

That angered me. ‘Why not?’

‘The old ways are dead. Now people want to watch stories on television. All you have to do is get one of those big eyes on the roof, and the world comes to you. Everyone wants to watch moving pictures, the way it is in the cinema. You don’t have to listen to words and imagine the scenes any more. That is hard work. It’s much more enjoyable just to watch. You feel like a rich man with many servants doing the work for you. Songs, dances, beautiful women. They are all there in front of the eyes. In colour too!’

There was unmistakable malice in Farishta’s voice. I sensed that he wanted to say more. Like our
bustee
, I was destined to disappear without a trace of being embedded in the city’s long memory.

‘The others?’ I inquired vaguely. ‘Maybe some of us could have moved together to another
bustee.
’

‘Are you mad or what? No one waited for anyone else. Once it was known that Jhunjhun Wallah’s assistant was handing out money to those who were leaving by early afternoon, there was a rush to get out.
Chaput
! End of anger and all talk of resistance. No goodbyes and no time for sentiment. No one even felt cheated. Jhunjhun Wallah had promised much more. Remember?’

A pushcart rattled its way towards us.

‘What’s this?’ Farishta shrieked. ‘A basket or, at most, two baskets would have been enough!’

The two men pushing the cart thought as much. They stood there shaking their heads when I asked them to empty the baskets on the hearth. The flowers were piled high and attracted the attention of the sweepers.

‘Now what?’ Farishta’s eyes were glued to the money I held in my hand.

I paid the two men an additional
baksheesh.
I felt warm and generous when the men smiled and thanked me. To annoy Farishta, I gave them some more money. He looked devastated.

From my satchel I brought out the incense sticks I had bought at a shop along the way to Nigambodh Ghat. Farishta helped me to shove the spindly sticks in the cracks around the hearth. I lit each one and then stepped back to watch the wisps of smoke drifting upwards. I knew Chaman was smiling at me.

‘Are you satisfied now?’ I said loudly, looking towards the river. Farishta’s presence did not inhibit me. ‘Is everything the way you wanted?’

A gust of wind blew the smoke towards the Jamuna. I piled the notes and the coins on the ground and asked Farishta to count them.

‘Only a few hundred rupees!’

I pocketed the coins and gave him the notes. ‘There! Go and buy yourself a better life.’

We didn’t say goodbye or exchange lies. We used the silence to snuff out our past, just as death terminated life. He turned around and walked towards his future.
Their
future.

The sweepers had moved even closer, their eyes glued on the pile of flowers. I sat on the edge of the hearth and looked at the river stirring with life. The recent rainfall had enabled it to rise.
Dhobis
and
sadhus
dotted the banks of the Jamuna. I remembered Kaka telling me that this was where Delhi
began—at Nili Chattri, a little further downstream, the temple that marked the place of the Ten Horse Sacrifice. Then there was Indraprastha, waves of invaders with their own gods, much later, the Moghuls, the
goras.
A continual cycle of birth, destruction and rebirth.

And the stories! One built on the other like bricks piled up to shape a building destined never to be completed.
Kissas
receding into a past when the mind and heart believed that man was privileged to live among the gods. I had no desire to visit the temple. I wanted to imagine it all and travel backwards to an age when gods and goddesses felt it safe to come down to earth and dabble in human affairs.

A fresh wind stirred and the storm clouds rumbled once again. But there was no urge to leave. I felt as if the soul of the city were here, and I could claim to be one of its nourishers. I went down to the river and wet my feet. The water was black and muddy. Soon it would begin to flow smoothly again and speak to those who cared to tune in to what it had to say. The river was the most ancient of storytellers, a hoarder of tales, immortal and generous to those who sought its grace. I walked further into the water and immersed myself.

It rained for the rest of the afternoon. When I returned to the hearth, the mound of flowers had diminished quite significantly. The sweepers had disappeared. I was reluctant to leave. I was convinced that my departure would betoken the finality of my farewell to Chaman. As long as I stayed, she was here with me in close proximity. But it didn’t seem right to keep the bottle of ashes. She had already carved a luxurious dwelling in my memory. That would suffice for both of us.

I returned to the riverbank with the bottle. I prised open the lid and dumped the ashes in the water. For an instant, the mass of grey rocked on the water’s surface and then dispersed as a weak current moved it away. I stared into the bottle. It was like
holding the world empty of all meaning. I flung it into the water as far as I could. It bobbed up and down several times and then sank with a gurgling noise.

I cheered myself with the coins I had kept. They felt heavy in my wet pocket. There was enough to buy me a double serving of
kulfi.
Maybe even some kebabs and
tikka.

There was a sprinkling of elderly people when I walked into the church. Down on their knees, heads bowed, they mumbled the words that Father Daniel pronounced clearly on the altar. He did not notice me as I slipped into the back pew. More words. Singing and chanting. Murmured words of worship. It was all very grim. But did they ever have a conversation with Jesu? Or did he avoid them because he was tired of hearing the same words spoken in an unvaried tone every day?

‘And may the Peace of the Lord be with you!’ Father Daniel boomed, making the sign of the cross in the air.

‘And with you.’

They turned to each other and shook hands. Some embraced and kissed. Father Daniel came down and spoke to them. As they filed towards the door, someone noticed me. A woman stifled a scream. They bunched together and eyed me as if I were an exotic animal in a zoo. The women crossed themselves.

‘I am not Jesu,’ I assured them.

‘Ah, Vamana!’ A smile of recognition broke through the worried look on Father Daniel’s face. ‘You frightened everyone.’ He held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘It’s all right. Everything is fine. Vamana’s harmless.’ He spoke calmly and ushered them to the entrance.

There were lingering looks over shoulders. A few whispers. Father Daniel went out with them and shut the doors behind him. After some time he returned and called my name several times. I acknowledged him from the front pew.

‘There you are! I thought you might have left through the side door. Do you know what old Mrs Watt said when she saw you? “There’s a devil inside the church!”’ He chuckled. ‘What can I do for you today?’

I asked him if I could spend a few moments by myself, talking to Jesu. He looked startled and started to say something.

‘It won’t take very long. I must ask him an important question.’

He looked at me warily before nodding. ‘But don’t go up to…’ He didn’t complete what he wanted to say. Instead, he turned and left.

I sat under the cross. Jesu appeared as soon as I closed my eyes. He spoke first.

I have never seen you looking so sad.

That’s because someone died.

I know. And you loved her.

Is she…Is there a chance that Chaman is alive in some way in another place?

Humans must not know everything. They would not survive if they did. Curiosity would wither away. The mind would cease to seek. And then what would someone like you do?

Just this once, Jesu. Please!

You must find out for yourself.

How?

That is an unworthy question. Use the powers you have.

But I have none!

You are being lazy. Create her as she was. Believe without knowing. Visit her.

But that is unsatisfactory. I want more than what the mind can offer. I want what is real!

Is this conversation real? Am I?

‘Vamana?’ Father Daniel’s voice sliced into my consciousness. ‘Are you all right? You were talking to yourself. How do you
manage to speak with such different voices? Can you come down, please?’

The interruption was most untimely. I controlled myself. ‘That was Jesu.’

‘Of course. He never fails those with serious intentions. And did he convince you of the virtues of the Christian way of living? Did he answer your questions? Has he brought hope into your life?’

I glimpsed the smile he tried to contain.

‘He does not give me the answers I would like to hear.’

‘Did you ask him the right questions? That is most important.’

‘Sometimes he answers my questions with his own questions.’

‘That is the mystery of religion. Its eternal fascination,’ Father Daniel sighed. ‘There is meaning in wonderment and speculation. God’s ways are complicated.’

I must have looked unconvinced and disappointed. He offered me food. I said I wasn’t hungry and left the
girja.
I didn’t think I would speak to Jesu again.

There was a procession of workers on ring road. I joined the demonstrators who had attended a meeting to protest against their working conditions. Textile workers, people employed in the steel and iron foundries, field workers, craftsmen, sweetmakers, cobblers and government employees carried placards and banners that proclaimed their grievances in several languages.

‘And which industry are you from?’ A man in a black T-shirt and white trousers startled me.

‘Entertainment,’ I replied nervously. I had just extracted a box of matches from his trouser pocket.

‘Do you like working in the circus?’

‘I am a storyteller.’

‘But in the circus, surely?’

‘No, I work on my own.’

‘Do you make much money?’

‘I am unemployed at the moment.’

‘Oh. So what are you protesting against?’

‘The police.’

The man stared at me and made a strange noise. It sounded like a snorting horse. He looked nervously to either side of him
and then walked forward rapidly to join those in front of the procession.

I slowed down and slipped behind the workers who appeared to be unmindful of what was around them. A woman in a white sari dragged herself on weary feet, complaining loudly about the noise and the lack of discipline among her younger fellow workers. There were three men immediately in front of her, laughing and chattering, shouting the odd slogan against governmental corruption and the exploitation of employees by greedy men. Further to the right, an old man puffed on a cigarette and read from a pamphlet to an attentive companion.

Frustrated with failure, I slackened my pace even further and dropped behind the marchers. Besides the box of matches, my efforts had yielded an empty coin purse, a rusty pocketknife, two rupees, a crumpled letter, a packet of condoms and a small notebook.

I did not return to Manu’s shop. The sky had cleared. A pleasant breeze tempted me to lie under a tree. The ground was damp and felt cool against my skin. I could not bear returning to the emptiness of the field where the
bustee
had been. I envisaged the barrenness. My past had been pounded and shovelled into heaps of debris. Memory would defiantly rebuild all that there was. In the silent murkiness, my life would continue to flourish without unpleasant disruptions. I had the power to restore Chaman to her youth. Perhaps Jesu had been right after all.

Tiredness flowed through my limbs. My senses felt drugged. There was no pain. Only a delicious sensation of drifting. I floated on the water of the Jamuna…

Who was this dark-skinned woman standing on a pile of stone blocks? She beckoned me. I crossed the river to reach the opposite bank. I noticed that she had huge hands.

I am the daughter of the sun. Yama is my brother and Ganga my sister.

What sights are these?

Of what has been. I stand on the ruins of the past and see everything. Man has not changed much. The hideous splotches of darkness remain in his heart.

What can you tell me about what I see? These buildings being erected and those others being pulled down. Who are these strangely dressed people wandering among the dancing peacocks? The women giving birth near the water; others finishing their lives and being immersed in the river. What can you tell me about this place?

After the creation of the world, Brahma forgot the Vedas and the scriptures. He dipped into my soul, enabling me to throw up the holy texts near the foothills of the Aravallis. That place is Nigambodh Ghat, the site of Sacred Knowledge. That is where the Pandavas built Indraprastha. The ancient city is barely remembered. Since then foreigners have come, conquered and then departed. I remain, having seen everything. The city has given birth to many stories. They are the voices of life. Words once spoken are never lost. They live through the minds of successive generations, changing and multiplying. There are truths and lies in every one of them. Mankind cannot live in absolute purity. I am the repository of all that has been said and written. I am the only one who knows all.

And I? Where do I belong?

You are of this river, destined to suffer so that others may know.

Will I know happiness?

You are a storyteller. You see too much to be contented.

With that she heaved me over into the water.

I did not wish to be awake. There was gloom and sadness in the night. I thought about the
sadhus
and the
rishis
on the riverbanks. What did they know? What were they learning? I resolved to go back and discover.

The night was calm. The city lights twinkled with false promises. The workers must have departed after completing the demolition, leaving behind a graveyard in which memory could grow. The mango tree stood like a solitary guard, faithful and vigilant, as if it were waiting for my return. The wall had been smashed. A few bricks were strewn near the tree. Sections of the railway track glinted in the moonlight like bars of silver. I wandered around in the open expanse of the field. A huge area, where the godown had stood, had been dug up. Concrete slabs and pylons were stacked on the edge of the rectangular pit. Where had the ghost fled?

I went back to the tree. The rope was still there. I grabbed it and pulled myself up to a branch. The barrenness of the dusty field was bathed in the lunar light. Another beginning. Would the Creator make a new world if we destroyed the one we had? I wished that the field would remain untouched. But how long did a graveyard last in the depth of time?

I couldn’t bear to think about the future. Labourers and an endless flow of supply trucks. Supervisors, tractors, bulldozers and scaffolding. Concrete and bricks rising towards the sky in search of the god of prosperity. The realisation of Jhunjhun Wallah’s dream of a modern Delhi—shops, cinemas, offices and restaurants. Another sliver of the city’s history banished from memory. Whatever is remembered about the past is merely a speck in the vastness of all that is forgotten. A blip in the silence of what has been.
Delhi belongs to the future.
Jhunjhun Wallah could only see what lay ahead. His vision filtered the past and threw away all that he deemed to be unimportant.

And my place in all this? Was I destined to slip into anonymity? Linger for a time as a vague remembrance in the fading minds of the elderly and then be cremated and buried? Would tomorrow’s children turn me into fiction? Would anyone dare to repeat my stories in an air-conditioned plaza—a glittering, sanitised monument of progress? Could my voice compete with the mind-numbing serenity of piped music and the controlled gurgling of water fountains?

My voice belonged to the chaos of dust-choked bazaars permeated with pungent odours, noisy with the expressions of human survival and vibrant with unharnessed energy and unpredictable behaviour. Sights and sounds to jolt the imagination. I lived in a culture of turmoil where it was easy to seek affirmation of what it meant to be alive. But this was Vamana’s world, obsolete and dying.

If I couldn’t prevent the future from being shaped by Jhunjhun Wallah’s greedy vision, at least I could attempt to slow down its progress. My new knife was sharp. I stabbed and slashed the tyres of the two parked tractors and a bulldozer. I hammered them with bricks. My supply of matches failed to light a meaningful fire that could destroy. I pushed and heaved. The vehicles did not budge. Weariness and defeat drained my strength, but I wasn’t finished. I headed back to Manu’s shop, stopping wherever I could to climb on roofs that harboured the monster’s eyes. I cut wires and did as much damage as my hands allowed me. My fingers were bruised and swollen.

I didn’t expect Manu to be awake when I returned to the shop. I took care not to make any unnecessary noise as I crept up the ladder.

‘Where were you?’

I couldn’t understand the exasperation in his voice. I explained that I had been to Nigambodh Ghat and later spent time at the site of the
bustee.
‘A sort of goodbye to my life there,’ I said
limply. I did not mention my visit to the church. ‘I fell asleep under the mango tree,’ I lied.

He grunted his displeasure. ‘I bought some food for us and waited. I had to eat your share as well.’ The planks under his mattress squeaked alarmingly as he turned his face towards the buckled wall. Almost immediately he began to snore. I was sore and tired. But sleep evaded me. My hands ached. I stayed awake to hear the cocks ushering in the dawn.

Manu was about to eat breakfast when I came down to the shop. He appeared to be oddly disturbed by my presence. The boy who delivered the
roti
and
halwa
was rudely told to be on his way.

‘Remember to do exactly as I said!’ Manu instructed. ‘It is extremely urgent. You will be rewarded. Ah, Vamana! I didn’t think you would be up this early. Some breakfast?’ He pushed a paper plate towards me.

Trust can be a sign of mental fatigue, a debilitating weariness, a lack of alertness or an abandonment of concern for one’s wellbeing. Taken to an extreme measure, it could suggest a death wish lurking within the self. I never gave much thought to the kindness Manu lavished on me. Even though we were friends, I didn’t expect such generosity. The life of the underprivileged was often marked by hostility and meanness towards the rest of the world as essential aids for survival. But not for an instant did I question Manu’s motives—whether he expected something from me or whether there was some benefit he could derive in a way that I could not foresee. Weary with life, I allowed myself to be pampered. My instinct for survival was dulled by what I perceived to be a safe environment.

After we had eaten, Manu went up to the loft to get a packet of cigarettes. I took the plates to the alley at the back of the shop and dumped them on a garbage pile. A dead dog lay partly buried in a heap of rice and meat curry. The body was twisted, as if it had
died in agony. I couldn’t quite figure out why food should be so carelessly thrown away when perpetual hunger nibbled the bellies of the city’s poverty-stricken population. The unbearable stench from the rubbish deterred me from salvaging some of the food. I came back inside and told Manu what I had seen.

‘You…you shouldn’t have,’ he stuttered. ‘I mean, there was no hurry to throw the plates. Such…wastage.’ His hands were unsteady as he offered me a cigarette. ‘Today we should go and see partridges fighting! It’s an unforgettable sight!’

He launched into a description of colourful excitement—fighting birds, hordes of men goading their favourites to ferocious attacks, mutilation and killing, hefty bets, traditional rivalries and big winners.

‘The fights between the Hindu birds and the Muslim birds are the best!’

‘How can birds be Hindus or Muslims?’ I suspected that his enthusiasm for the spectacle had made him inventive.

‘
Aarey yar
, that depends on the
khalifas.
If the headman is a Muslim, then his bird is of the same religion. It is the same for a Hindu
khalifa.
’

We took a bus to old Delhi and then walked to a Muslim graveyard behind the Idgah. Making allowance for Manu’s exaggerations, I had expected a small gathering of men grimly dedicated to an unfashionable sport. But Manu was right. The crowd was sizable. Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims chatted amiably as though they knew no religious boundaries. Money was their common God. They slurped tea and discussed strategies, form and ways of breeding the strongest birds.

There was no need for the vendors and the
chai wallahs
to be vocally aggressive about their food and beverage. They had to contend with long queues of impatient customers. The smell of frying
samosas
and
pakoras
, and the pungent aroma of grilling kebabs, added to the festive atmosphere.

Manu waited near a food cart until an old man, with a white beard and a black fez perched precariously on top of his head, approached him. They hugged each other affectionately. Manu listened seriously to what the old man had to say.

‘Hamid, I feel this will be my lucky day!’ Manu turned and winked at me. ‘A hundred rupees on Kashmiri.’ He handed the money to the old man. ‘The bird, I am told, is in unbeatable condition. Well done!’

‘It’s his diet,’ Hamid said solemnly, removing his fez and placing the note on top of his head—immediately the fez was back in place like a lid covering a simmering pot. ‘I feed him thickened milk mixed with nuts and sugar. Plenty of exercise. For a month he hasn’t been allowed to go near a female partridge. He is strong and aggressive. The spur on his leg has been sharpened and…’ He grinned and ran an index finger across his throat.

Manu patted him on the back. ‘
Shahbash
! You are a good man, Hamid!’

A bell sounded and the crowd gathered to form a ring around an open space. Two cages were brought in by the owners of the first contestants. A buzz of excitement rippled through the tense spectators. I slipped behind the onlookers who had managed to find a squatting space at the front. Everyone leaned forward. Eyes were riveted on the spectacle before them. This didn’t excite me. I had formulated another plan. Slowly I stepped back among the rows of standing men.

There were roars of approval and groans of disappointment. One of the birds startled me. It jumped high into the air, blood spurting from its throat. I didn’t relish the sight. Excited men, with their hands raised in the air, spurred the winner on to a bloody victory.

‘
Tih-loh
!
Tih-loh
!
Tih-loh
!’ the crowd cried in unison, imitating the noise of the triumphant partridge.

Every pocket I invaded yielded a bounty of cash. Since I had no desire to be accused of an unmanly squeamishness, I thought it prudent to remove myself from the scene until everything was over. I slipped away to the food carts to celebrate my success. I bought an assortment of edibles and hid behind a grave at some distance from the bird fight. I did not share Manu’s enthusiasm for the sport, and I saw little point in shouting myself hoarse in support of the savage killing of birds. But placing a bet without watching could have been enjoyable. To gamble on the unknown was an affirmation of my belief that there can be few convincing explanations of life’s occurrences.