The Storyteller (6 page)

Curious faces. A raised stick. Dark orbs assessed me. Hesitation. A tentative touch. The reassuring texture of skin and flesh. Other hands crawled over me, feeling the contours of body and face. Chaman, Lightning Fingers, Farishta and Nimble Feet.

‘
Baas!’
The command snapped from behind the tree.

Slowly he emerged. Was it a mask hiding his face? Bloodsoaked lips snarled and spat globs of mucus-tainted saliva. I stared with a perverse fascination at the sight in front of me. Even in those days Barey Bhai was a huge man who constantly chewed
paan.
I derived comfort from his ugliness. A shiny, bald head. Sagging jowls. Piercing, small eyes. Lifeless, like a snake’s. His belly curved outward from his chest and then sagged under the weight of skin and fat.

‘Why did you follow us?’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and hurt me.

‘I…I wanted to listen to the night’s story.’

He was incapable of looking kindly at anyone. His stare drilled and explored the hidden depths in me. ‘We are the night,’ he grunted. ‘Those who can ride on the horses of the mind listen to us. Our voices are for the sleepless and the miserable, the sick and the starving. We induce dreams, ease pain and administer the medicine of hope to those who cannot bear to face another day. At dawn, we disappear with the stars and allow the world to believe that life is what people see and no more.’

Seductive words. I wanted to be close to this man and learn from him. Much later I came to the conclusion that his felicity for telling lies was Barey Bhai’s in-built immunity against the crushing disappointment of thwarted dreams. I did not feel uneasy among thieves working at night.

‘I want to go with you!’ I blurted thoughtlessly, convinced of my instinctive affinity with what he had said. This was the
reality to which my entire being was attuned. No restrictions. No beginnings or ends, but a flow of consciousness heedless of time.

An astonished silence. Then a cackle of incredulity. ‘Of what use are you to us?’

‘None!’ the others chorused.

His face came closer. A lantern was held above my head. ‘You are too ugly to have any appeal for men. Even desperate women won’t want you near them.’ His hand snaked out and gripped my crotch. ‘Hmm…pity. What can you do that may be useful to us?’ His fingers squiggled like oversized worms. ‘Hah? What?’

The pressure eased. It was not altogether an unpleasant sensation.

‘Stories…I can tell stories.’

He removed his hand. ‘What stories? From children’s books? Fairy tales? Lies for the rich. What stories?’

His voice made me cringe. I had managed to anger him.

‘My stories,’ I said firmly.

‘Tell us one.’

I thought I heard the cry of a baby. A gusty wind sprang up suddenly, as if an unseen force were intent on disrupting what I had to say. With a twig the girl traced a circle in the dirt. A solitary incense stick was lighted and stuck in a mound of earth. We sat cross-legged under the tamarind tree. Eyes closed, they chanted words I did not understand.

‘Begin.’

Blurry images whirled inside my head. My eagerness to narrate a compelling tale overwhelmed me into a state of mute stillness.

This is a story about a blind thief who stole from children…Let me tell you about this ancient city that will be cursed with violence again…Do you want to hear about the woman
who gave birth to a python? Once there was a deformed boy born to a very handsome couple
…

But the words were trapped in an infinite pause. I could only gawk at him. The wind moaned its own story.

He stirred, stroking the baldness of his massive head. ‘You are not worthy of our trust. We do not know anything about you.’ The girl turned to him and whispered. ‘We will give you a chance.’ He frowned at her and turned to me again. ‘We want you to experience the night. Know the city when it chooses to reveal itself. Perhaps you will be useful in other ways. You will hear our sound again. But just remember…’

I understood the threat in his voice. ‘No one will know,’ I promised. I lied when he asked me where I lived. I gave the impression that I had no one to look after me.

They disappeared across a field, leaving me to listen to the troubled whispers of the night. The sky flamed with headless snakes and drunken gods. Giant hawks swooped down on shivering hills. Trees wept under a quilted sea. Living dreams of things unknown. Times beyond the coldness of years. My mind funnelled through the darkness, creating a reality that could not be shared with anyone else. Some time after midnight, I retreated. Home. Bed. Imprisonment.

‘It’s all right! Vamana, it’s all right!’ Maji’s arms were around me. ‘A bad dream.’

‘They did come!’ I insisted through the haze of drowsiness.

‘Nightmares can appear to be real.’ She looked amused. ‘Who were they?’

I turned my face away. The sun poured through the window in a golden stream. The night had drifted away, anchoring itself on the edge of memory. The morning light sealed the tunnels and erased the sharpness of experience. There were the sounds of a new day. The morning sky was pale and innocent.
The assurance of what the eyes could see.
You will hear our voices again
…I waited every night, my face pressed against the window, eyes scanning the dimly lit lane.

When they finally came, it was as if Death had arrived, not as an ending, but like an enticement to enter another life. I slipped away with apprehension and a measure of uncertainty. We roamed the streets, sharing our lies with the night people. Stealing, talking, selling. Small paper packets changed hands. Merchandise pulled out from hessian sacks. Nods. Whispers. Break-ins. Sometimes I heard the muffled cries of babies. It didn’t take me long to figure things out. Not that I cared. The excitement and intrigue of Delhi absorbed me completely.

Seven cities. Layered in time. Each with most of its riches hidden away. Voices buried under the earth. The ghosts of unknown storytellers. Turkman Gate. Chandni Chowk. Ajmeri Gate. Purana Qila and Qudsia Bagh. Red Fort. Jama Masjid. Landmarks and monuments corroded and silenced by time. In my own fashion I restored them to their former glories. Sounds, happenings and people. Rebirths. What I did not know was not an impediment. I lighted the areas of darkness with conviction. After all, who could say what was the truth of the past?

But there was always the irritation of dawn. Everything that mattered had to be submerged and hidden from the tyranny of daylight. Then…How could I say how many days had passed? I could have just as easily guessed the number of strands of hair on my head. I was ready, I insisted. Regrets? Hah! Yes, I was sure. Old Delhi was now my home. I had become adept at merging with the shadows when the police vans passed by. I became the night. Slippery. Transitory. They began to ask for me—the thieves, pimps, beggars, drug dealers and whores.

The dwarf? His stories
…

If there was any regret to dampen the excitement of my final departure, it was for leaving Maji. Had I been selfless enough to be fully appreciative of her protection and love, I might have faltered.
Ungrateful wretch
!
Insensitive brute!
I know, I know. I have no defence. I was guilty of a myopic self-concern to seek a life that promised to free me from the imprisonment of a time-segmented routine. I was compelled by the desire to belong to a community of outcasts who did not judge people solely by their appearances.

Vamana! Time to wake up. You must not be so lazy. Vamana, come and eat…Put the books away…wash…change…Remember, only half an hour for reading in bed. You must sleep for at least eight hours
…

And on it went, the droning and the nagging prompted by a wariness of my penchant for the unusual and the unexpected. Day and night were strictly separated by Maji’s expectations of what I had to do at specified hours. She tried to counter my waywardness by imposing a suffocating routine on my life. The sun became my enemy. My activities were regulated by its movement. I rebelled and followed my body in rejecting the common notions of normality. Naah! Such a life was beyond my tolerance.

As it happened, there was a prickly sensation of loss that made me go back to the lane for a lingering look at the darkened house. With the exception of Maji, whatever I had known there was dead. My eyes remained glued to the window of my room, much in the same way as one might stare at the corpse of a loved one. It was an act of quiet desperation. I wanted to strengthen the remembrance of those moments that I deemed to be precious. Maji’s words of encouragement. The times when she touched me with gentle hands. Prayers that she mumbled for my wellbeing. Her concern when Vijay yelled at me.

Once I turned away, my past transformed into inert images that appeared occasionally as residues of an overcrowded imagination. But in times of distress, I resorted to the memories of my evenings in Maji’s kitchen and, sometimes, the haven under her table in the library. I remembered the gentle company of friends who resided permanently in my imagination.

That first night I slept under the stars after a meagre meal of
roti
and
dhal.
Little was said as we sat in a field and ate. The absurdity of my situation didn’t strike me immediately. I knew nothing about these people except their names. There were three boys, the girl, and the man with the monstrous head. Barey Bhai. Big Brother. I recognised his bullying authority of leadership. But beyond that…I did not think it necessary to ask. What was important was their acceptance of my person. After our initial meeting, there was no suggestion that they considered me to be an oddity. They did not laugh at me again. No snide remarks or bullying. I basked in the warmth of belonging.

‘And when the sun is up?’ I ventured to ask. ‘Where do we go then?’

‘It is rude to chase the night away!’ Barey Bhai snapped. ‘Listen quietly to what it says.’ He shuffled over to where I was sitting. ‘Boy, tomorrow has no meaning. It only comes alive when it is transformed into the present. Sleep now, and let your dreams teach you.’

The hessian sack wasn’t much of a bed. I smelled the grass and the freshness of the air. Above me, the cranium of the universe. Space beyond lifetimes. Even with wings I couldn’t have covered the distances. Only the mind…only the mind, like a gigantic ghost ship gliding across the silence of the spatial ocean. Forever.

I listened. It wasn’t the night but the noises inside. They came from the crevices under the sea.
It’s all right to come out
now. No one will hurt you
…Docile sharks and singing mermaids resting on conch shells. I sank deep into the warmth.

Hands grabbed me. I barely glimpsed the early morning sun. Darkness. Limp walls. I struggled inside a sack.

‘No harm will come to you.’ The girl’s voice. The sack was lifted. A long journey. I imagined what I could not see. Crowded streets and lanes. Noises assaulted me from every side. A hard bump terminated the journey.

‘Farida Baji! Look what I have brought you! What an attraction it will be!’

The string was untied. I stepped out of the sack. The glare made me close my eyes. A gasp. Exclamations of astonishment. Even in my dazed state I sensed that I was the centre of attention.

‘
Yah kismet!
Barey, what kind of
mazakh
is this?’

I peeped through the shutters. The light stopped hurting.

‘No joke, Baji! This is no joke.’ Barey Bhai held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘I thought the lad could be useful to you. To all of us.’

We were in a small courtyard with a
jamun
tree growing from its centre. Vines of jasmine and bougainvillea wrapped themselves around pillars supporting the floor of a high verandah. Worn-out carpets and bolstered divans invited weary limbs to rest in the shade. Near the tree two huge copper pots rested on clay
chulas.

I had never seen a eunuch before. Baji’s face was strongly angular. Despite the slather of rouge on her cheeks and thick layers of
kajal
on her eyelids, she looked threateningly masculine. Her shapely fingernails were bright red, a startling contrast to the silky drape of black hair that cascaded down to her waist. But the stubble on her chin was no illusion. She wore a yellow blouse and a dark green sari. She lay on her side on a
divan, her right elbow resting on a bolster. A young eunuch massaged the back of her legs.

We stared at each other in silent disbelief.

‘Barey!’ she sighed. ‘I have told you often enough that I wish to be surrounded by beauty.’ Baji paused to squirt a misty liquid into her mouth before breathing into the palm of her hand and sniffing it. The divan squeaked. She sat upright and unscrewed the top of a slim bottle of
attar.
She dabbed herself with the thick and stickily sweet perfume. ‘I wish to nourish myself in elegance and gentleness. I want to forget all that I am. But this cruel reminder! This…’ She pointed towards me with a graceful movement of her right hand. ‘This is an affront to my dignity. A bad omen to begin the day.’

I grinned and thought of Mrs Prasad.

‘Baji, he is a bright
laundah
, full of clever words. He will entertain you well.’

She looked at me again, her eyes finally resting below my waist.

‘He is full-grown in some ways. I can promise that!’ Barey Bhai grinned.

She turned her head away as if she couldn’t bear to look at me any more. ‘
Nahey
…
nahey!
He is too ugly! A sight for a condemned person.’

‘He could be useful…’ Barey Bhai trailed off slyly, making a cutting motion with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. ‘His size is a prized gift.’

She directed her attention to me with a renewed interest. ‘Barey, do you ever think of anything but worldly concerns?’

‘We have to survive with whatever resources we have.’

‘All these years…’ She shook her head. ‘You haven’t changed. Even when I first found you beaten up and bleeding in the gutter, the first thing you wanted to know was whether
your money had been stolen. Greed, Barey. Greed! It is the defining quality of barbarians. I have been unable to civilise you. But, if he can be of service…’ Her voice became menacing. ‘He must not live here!’