The Storyteller (33 page)

Baji sighed, pressing her forehead with the tips of her fingers. ‘If you knew,’ she mumbled. ‘If only you knew how it feels to live in the emptiness of hell, surrounded by its dying fires. What could be more lonely than being abandoned by the Devil himself?’

She gestured with her hands. Vacant verandahs and dark rooms. The only sounds were those in the memory. Gulbadan sat quietly in a corner, knitting a pink sweater.

‘What do you see?’ Baji pushed the tray to one side and threw the towel on the floor.

‘I don’t see any more. My mind is a blank. An entire country is now unpopulated.’

‘They have all left,’ she brooded. ‘Abandoned me. The lure of films in Mumbai. A man came and offered us work for a month. I didn’t accept. Only Gulbadan listened to me. The others? The fleeting dream of money and fame was too much. All the love, affection and care I bestowed on them. Nothing!’ I felt embarrassed watching tears crawling down her cheeks like transparent worms. ‘Age has crept upon me with a malicious slowness. Why doesn’t it engulf me like a sudden fire sweeping through a house? Each day the sun grows weaker. The shadows lengthen slowly. So slowly. Nothing comforts me.’ She dragged the tray back on her lap and continued eating.

I wasn’t prepared to be distracted. ‘Baji, what did you say to Ram Lal? I caused trouble for you, but to allow the police—’

‘You can go now.’ She refused to look at me. ‘Go!’

I did not move. ‘Jhunjhun Wallah destroyed the
bustee.
’ Gulbadan stopped knitting and looked at me with a troubled face. ‘My home. The wall and the tree. The entire community.’

Baji squinted and smiled. A smile of satisfaction and immense cruelty. ‘We were born to be destroyed.’

‘He took what was mine.’

‘Nothing in life can belong to anyone.’ She sounded harsh and remote. ‘Whatever we own has to be surrendered at some time.’

It struck me that no one could possibly be close to Baji. She wasn’t one person. Man, woman, saint, villain, God, Devil—they all possessed her.

‘You betrayed me.’

‘I betrayed
myself
a long time ago. What could be worse?’

I left reluctantly, certain in the belief that I would not return. I walked on an ill-defined path between regret and resentment. She was a liar and a manipulator, someone who demonstrated generosity to delude herself and others into believing that hers was a noble and selfless spirit. And yet how could I forget her acts of kindness despite the darkness of her motives?

Just before Gulbadan closed the door behind me, I heard Baji’s strained voice. ‘
Aarey
Gulbadan, are there any more
chappatis
left?’

Should I have wondered about Manu’s unending generosity? Queried his acts of kindness—food, a place to sleep and even some clothing? Money? That wasn’t a problem. I picked pockets and kept everything for myself. For the only time in my life I was able to buy
bidis
or cigarettes and eat whenever I pleased. The appeasement of greed induced a drowsy complacency, a feeling that at last life had opened its hands to provide for me. My senses dulled, and I stopped thinking. My mind was like a placid sea on a foggy day. Baji’s betrayal had numbed me. Exhaustion had drained my anger and desire for revenge. I began to walk the streets without furtive glances. I turned corners without hesitation. The police had given up and forgotten me. Ram Lal had admitted defeat.

Now I ask, with whose eyes was I seeing the world? With whose mind was I perceiving safety? My appetites increased. I ate as much as Manu provided and whatever I could buy. I continued to follow those who attracted me. Alas! Nothing had changed. My closeness chased them away. Those I dared to touch looked at me with revulsion before they shrieked for help. I propositioned a few who were timid and pursued them as they scrambled for safety inside a shop or to a crowded part of the bazaar.

‘Beast!’ the women cried. ‘Shameless creature!’

My appearance and lack of height were of considerable advantage. By the time the shoppers had recovered from shock and contemplated some form of retaliation, I was beyond reach. There were some, blinded by indignation, who immediately swung the open palm of a hand that scythed through the emptiness in front of them instead of making contact with my face. A knee-lift to the groin was impractical, since it would have missed the intended target and passed over my head. A well-directed kick might have connected, but then the sari-clad women were restricted in the movements of their lower limbs. I didn’t approach the females who wore jeans, slacks or
shalwar.
The men were less outraged. Some grinned with embarrassment. Others pretended to overlook my fleeting presence. Once I was abused and chased. Occasionally the odd piece of brick or stone whizzed past my head. But I can say with absolute conviction that there was never a remote possibility of losing my virginal status.

I trampled on caution and returned to Meena’s flat one afternoon. A glimpse of her would have thrilled me. I was the forgiving kind. My anger ebbed away after I purged her of her fleshly sin.

The previous night I had dreamt of her. One day at dawn, I bathed her in the river, rubbing her body with sandalwood soap.
Her skin was smoothed with perfumed oil. Dressed in white she stood on the riverbank where I forgave her and restored her innocence. In the coolness of the early morning we chanted
mantras
and offered fruits and flowers to the flowing river. It gurgled and swallowed our gifts. Forgiveness. Reconciliation. She was pure once again, worthy of inhabiting the sanctity of my private world. A priestess devoted to her god. I woke up in the tranquillity of a sun-lit morning and decided to visit her.

A pushcart stood near the entrance. A bare-bodied man was tying together a pile of furniture with coils of thick rope. Another man appeared to give directions. Good fortune stuck with me. I assumed that the pushcart would lead me to Meena’s new address. I followed the cart from a distance. A short walk led me to a narrow lane where the cart stopped in front of a cluster of dilapidated houses. The sweaty man began to unload the furniture, placing the pieces in front of an entrance. The noise attracted a fat woman with a baby in her arms. She appeared in the doorway and rebuked the breathless fellow for his lateness.

I approached the woman who tightened her hold on the baby and stepped back. My question made no sense to her.

‘Meena?’ Her eyes were fixed on me. ‘Who is this Meena? Are you some kind of prankster? Manoj!’ she turned and called, ‘Manoj! There is a troublesome midget here. Manoj!’

I left before Manoj appeared.

I wandered aimlessly for the rest of the day, stopping to strip fruit trees of guavas and
jamuns
, trampling and uprooting flowering plants, and throwing stones at the walls of big houses. I chased stray goats, dogs and hens onto the streets and created confusion with the traffic. I growled at people and made suggestions that made them quicken their steps. With the money in my satchel, I bought lollipops and
amsat.
Near the steps of Jama Masjid there were beggars who loitered regularly
for alms. I picked on those who bullied the maimed and the weak beggars. I crept up from behind and knocked the bowls from their hands, scattering their collections over a wide area. I kicked a beggar who faked lameness. He recovered quickly and ran up the steps. I rubbed my hands against the devotees heading for the mosque to pray. I touched them and licked their hands, making them unworthy of kneeling before their God. I retreated at the appearance of a policeman.

At the church, I hesitated near the door. Would Jesu appear to chastise me about my behaviour? I would apologise and then ask him where Meena lived. Jesu could tell me. He knew
everything.
Everything. He was capable of turning water into
sharab
, calming storms, healing lepers, restoring sight to the blind, bringing the dead back to life, feeding a huge crowd with a meagre supply of food, walking on water. That’s what Father Daniel said, his face livid with rage after I asserted that Jesu was great because others told stories about him. Could Jesu make me tall? I had asked seriously, contemplating the nature of miracles. In my mind, that would have been easier than bringing the dead back to life. Father Daniel was goaded into expressions of greater fury.

It occurred to me that Jesu had been evasive on any matter even remotely connected with women. He was likely to say that Meena was in the same world as I, or, pressed further, that we lived in the same city. But my serious concern was the embarrassment I would have to endure if he asked whether I had any new stories to tell. Would he understand the grief at my incapacity to create? What was I to say? Jesu, I have lost my sight. I am blind inside. The sap has dried up and now there is barrenness within me. Can you turn it into the landscape I once possessed? Whenever I had asked for help, he had said nothing but looked at me with sad eyes. That was a torment worse than a police beating.

What has happened now? Can these fellows do anything efficiently? There is a loud bang. The van shakes and then becomes motionless. They have opened the doors. There are voices locked in accusation and attribution of blame. Now I can hear them distinctly.

‘Here?’ A tone of shock at what might be an absurd suggestion. ‘It can’t be done here. It’s too close to the road. We must find another place.’

‘But we have already dug a hole. It won’t take long.’

‘This place crawls with college students! They come here for their nightly business.’

A nervous laugh.

‘Enough! This will have to do. There is little time. We have to push the van back all the way.’

There are hands on my head, my face. I am dragged out and made to walk. The blindfold is removed. I am grabbed by the neck. Judging by the uncluttered view of the stars, I think we are in an open field.

‘
Baas
!’ A voice cracks sharply.

A stick whacks me on the back of the legs. My knees buckle and I fall to the ground.

‘No! We cannot.’

‘Vikram has gone back for the shovels.’

Whispers, tantalisingly beyond hearing.

My indiscretion (or was it vanity?) has been my undoing. But is it entirely my fault? Shameful treachery! Hideous, unforgivable, wicked betrayal! The bastard son of greed and darkness. Betrayal—the scourge of man. It is everywhere. Just ask Jesu.

My betrayer’s face floats past me. Sly, smiling, without a hint of remorse. I can see again. Grey, black and smudges of white. A wheel begins to crank inside me. There is a surge of thrill as images begin to assemble slowly. They waver but do
not dissolve in the fading darkness. Slowly I focus them. The thrill of revival is tempered by my recollections of the final hours with him. I hugged the shadows and followed him to a street corner. ‘A business meeting,’ he had said. ‘It won’t take long.’ There was another man. A brief conversation. Heads nodded in mutual agreement. An envelope exchanged hands. A handshake. Manu looked to either side and then began to walk briskly. I felt ashamed for being suspicious…

‘There are all kinds of stories about you in the bazaars.’ Manu grinned.

I detected a touch of awed admiration in his voice. I refrained from an instant response. The pause made him look at me. He shifted uneasily on the stool.

‘Who? What are they saying?’ My pulse quickened. Recognition, at last. Fame and adulation to follow. Was I destined for greatness after all?

Dressed in white, I rode in a car. Elegant waves to the chanting masses. A casual flick of the wrist, and the garlands were tossed into the crowd. Roars of appreciation. Handclaps. I requested that we stop. Handshakes for adults and kisses for children.

Vamana! Vamana! Va…ma…na! Creator of worlds! Master of minds! Emperor of words!

‘Interesting stories. I heard one today.’ Manu was being irritatingly coy.

‘Tell me!’

‘We could go tomorrow or the next day and listen. Imagine hearing about yourself! Being a part of Delhi’s history!’

‘Was I praised?’ I asked apprehensively.

‘Most flattering, I can assure you.’

What might they say about me in the future? Would I be elevated to the status of a
vazir
or an ageing emperor?
A general with the gift of planning and executing brilliant martial strategies? Hah! Would someone, with a bold imagination, reinvent me as a hero of awesome proportions? Vamana—the warrior, poet, storyteller and lover?

‘Shall we go?’

I needed no further incentive. My body was covered with goose pimples. Oh, the thrill of it! Stories about the storyteller. It sounded as pleasurable and intense as fondling a woman’s breasts or stroking the crotch of a young male. Oooh! The steamy gush of pleasure!

It was a pleasant morning with a hint of winter’s chill. I enjoyed a huge breakfast and then sat outside the shop, feeling bloated and sluggish. Manu was anxious to leave. There was a certain nervousness about his movements that I can now recall. His hands shook and he walked around nervously inside the shop. He avoided looking at me. The young boy, who assisted him in the shop, was yelled at and smacked on the head for dropping a kite. We walked to a small bazaar and wandered through the dusty walkways.

‘He was here yesterday,’ Manu mumbled. His eyes darted everywhere.

The preoccupation with myself prevented me from asking why he felt it necessary to mumble in an overcrowded cauldron of noise. I was envious, curious, angry and excited by the man who was enjoying such success by telling people about Vamana the dwarf. Now, why hadn’t I been inventive enough to narrate stories about myself?

They haven’t even noticed that I have picked myself up from the edge of the ditch. I could have slipped into the night if it weren’t for the rope around my waist. The other end is tied to the wrist of one of the men. The gaoler had lied all the time. I am not to be hanged.

The men are sitting on their haunches, gossiping—three of them, judging by the glow of their cigarette tips. Their topics of conversation are unfamiliar to me. They talk about school fees and working wives. There are complaints about housework and domestic chores that were once the exclusive domain of women.