The Storyteller (9 page)

There is no love in such a place.

Nothing to hate either.

And if I do…Will you stay with me forever?

I cannot do the impossible.

For a lifetime then?

Only if a man does not come along.

But I am a man!

You are a distorted image formed by the reflection of sour dreams in the fading afternoon’s light. You are
…

I didn’t feel the pain immediately. There was a red streak on the cracked mirror where my fist had struck a savage blow. Then a throbbing in my right hand.

Kamini?

She had disappeared. I wrapped my hand with a rag and hid the bag in the hole.

Barey Bhai was generous that evening. He did not complain about the outrageous cost of maintaining us. With
roti
we had the rare luxury of a spoonful of vegetable and a stale
barfi
afterwards. Later we heard that a mysterious accident to one of the children in the
bustee
had prompted the tenants to pay their monthly rents without any obvious coercion from Barey Bhai’s thugs. The day’s takings were presented to him before we ate. Chaman fussed over my contribution. ‘An impressive collection for his first day, wouldn’t you say? He didn’t bungle at all.’

Barey Bhai looked at Lightning Fingers who nodded his agreement. ‘He’s a natural talent!’

Barey Bhai grunted and pocketed the cash with the aggrieved air of a man who had been paid an inadequate wage after a day’s hard labour. He examined everything else with painstaking care. It was an inflexible ritual observed with a religious solemnity. We were expected to remain silent as we sat on the floor in front of the raised platform. It was his bed as well as his throne from where he ruled us. He picked up each item with his right hand and held it in front of his eyes. Slowly, very slowly, he rubbed it with his fingers. He caressed, pinched and pressed, as though making a tactile assessment of its worth. If it was deemed to be worthless, he transferred it to his left hand before tossing it to a remote corner of the godown. Our eyes followed the trajectory of the object, and we made a mental note of where it landed. Later, there would be a scramble to collect the discarded pieces, not so much with the purpose of selling them, but to satisfy a starved instinct for personal possessions. What he thought could be sold, Barey Bhai touched with his lips and rubbed on his forehead before storing it in a sack that was collected every morning by one of his helpers.

The next day, before I set out with Farishta on the weekly chore of delivering packets of
charas
and
ganja
to specified addresses, I spoke to Chaman. She frowned and expressed her
misgivings about my proposal. It was too risky. What I suggested would attract undesirable attention. Over the past year the police had become increasingly unreliable.

The mention of the word
police
made me even more determined to pursue what I had outlined to Chaman. I had unpleasant memories of Vijay and all those men in khaki, bullying and badgering me about the incident with Mrs Prasad and, later on, the fire. Unfeeling, brutal and thoughtless men. My heart lurched at the possibilities. To thwart, frustrate, annoy. I could not deny the additional appeal of the associated danger. Emergency meetings to draw up plans for my capture. Men combing the bazaar, hunting a shadow. Policemen with injured legs and pride. There was the certainty of notoriety. Stories would evolve about the elusive dwarf and his acts of daring defiance. Social gossip. Coverage in newspapers. Radio and television…Too much!

Have you seen a dwarf? A midget with hideous features?

Vigorous shaking of heads. Illiterate minds would grasp the description and shape it into a folk hero. Tales of Vamana. The exploits of the people’s dwarf.

We cannot tell if such a creature actually exists.

He is only in people’s minds.

It’s a conspiracy by the police to justify their presence in the bazaars.

But what about the bite marks on their legs?

A blood-sucking thief?

It couldn’t be human.

I saw him once!

Liar!

A tongue like a lizard’s. Eyes that glow. A growth on the forehead. Like a horn
…

Vamana, the dwarf, had three eyes and taloned hands. Breath of fire. Gifted with supernatural powers. The emergence of
multiple profiles to confuse the police even further. My fame would spread in the bazaars and to the villages beyond the Jamuna. Cult following. Altars. Clay figures, decorated, garlanded and worshipped. Gifts of fruits and the giddy aroma of incense. The prospect of fame was an overpowering intoxicant.

‘Vamana!’ Something in my demeanour made Chaman suspicious. She renewed her effort to dissuade me. The police, she insisted, were treacherous and vindictive, increasingly devoid of the sense of honour that had been crucial to a mutually beneficial existence in the past.
Mmmm…All the more reason to trouble them.
Although monetary and carnal favours continued to be bestowed on policemen, the policy of harassment, arrests and beatings were being pursued with alarming enthusiasm.

‘They accept bribes with itchy palms,’ Chaman informed me. ‘
Chulmul…Chulmul!
The bastards! And in return? No guarantee of our safety. They now arrest us for offering bribes.’

Interrogation. Torture. Imprisonment without trial. Several of Chaman’s female acquaintances had been arrested for accosting men in bazaars. They were thrown into the back of police vans that roared off into remote areas across the river.

‘
Ay yoh
, Vamana!’ Chaman pressed her cheeks and shuddered. She refused to look at me. ‘The most terrible things happened!’

‘Like what?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Nothing happened,’ I goaded her tonelessly. ‘Otherwise you would tell me.’

I didn’t expect her to react with such violence. Chaman slapped me on the back of the head. ‘Pigeon’s entrails! How would you feel if your mother or sister were molested? Raped?’

I thought for a moment and pointed out that I could not possibly have any feelings since I had no idea about my
mother’s identity or whether I had a sister. This piece of harmless information provoked Chaman to screams of fury. Her eyes widened and her entire body shook.

‘Dog’s penis! Monkey’s brain!’ Blows hammered on my head. ‘Owl shit! Goat-faced loon! Are you human or what?’

I ducked and dodged. Chaman continued to yell incoherently, her arms flailing wildly over my head as she attempted to strike me. In self-defence, I curled up and tucked my head into my stomach. Her fists pummelled my back. Farishta and Lightning Fingers struggled to calm her.

There was enough noise to awaken Barey Bhai. We heard him groan. A shrill blow on a whistle, that hung around his neck on a piece of dirty string, silenced us. He immediately determined that I was responsible for all the noise that had rudely disturbed him. He demanded an explanation.

I spoke rapidly. The frown disappeared from his face as I emphasised the profit that could be made if my plans were implemented. I pointed out that we rarely made any money at night. Those who bothered to listen to us could not afford to pay. Day-time police patrols had increased. We were taking unnecessary risks for meagre returns. In addition, there hadn’t been a successful kidnapping for quite some time. No one suspected that I had deliberately thwarted our last effort.

We were in a park one afternoon. A young woman, pushing a pram, was talking animatedly to a friend. A food vendor attracted their attention. They left the pram behind a tree and walked the short distance to the vendor’s trolley. All we had to do was lift the baby and walk away. As Lightning Fingers untied a sack, I managed to reach inside the pram and pinch the sleeping baby. The piercing howl attracted the women’s attention. We disappeared before they could raise an alarm. Afterwards it seemed as if I had achieved something quite
worthwhile. I felt calm, almost pious. I had prevented a mother from being miserable.

Barey Bhai looked at me thoughtfully and then summoned Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet to his side. Feverish whispers. Gesticulations. They looked at me and talked again. I attracted Chaman’s attention. She glared ferociously when I smiled apologetically, and raised her right hand in a manner that suggested my punishment was yet to come. Barey Bhai beckoned me by wriggling his index finger. A barrage of questions. Nimble Feet pointed out the flaws that could lead us to disaster. Lightning Fingers winked at me and then rubbed his hands, declaring that my scheme was worthy of a brief trial. Barey Bhai scratched his chin and looked uncertain. I detected the glint of greed in his eyes.

Sensing victory, I asserted myself. ‘But!’ I hadn’t intended to sound so abrupt and explosive. ‘But there is one condition…’

‘Condition?’ Barey Bhai spat in disbelief. ‘The caterpillar is making conditions? Bargaining with a python?’ They laughed. ‘What condition?’

‘I must have a new set of clothes. Bright garments. Yellow…no, pink. I must appear to be a convincing performer.’

‘You will only be telling stories! There is little money in that.’

It was my turn to look disgusted. ‘A storyteller is an artist who uses words to induce dreams, inflict pain, create nightmares, provoke—’

‘
Baas! Baas!’
Barey Bhai held up his hand in mock surrender.

‘The
launda
can certainly use big words, even if he is otherwise useless,’ Chaman snorted.

‘The point is, how much money can we make?’

‘We shall try it once,’ Barey Bhai ruled.

‘New clothes,’ I persisted. ‘I must have new clothes.’

‘I have never known anyone to make such an outrageous demand,’ Barey Bhai said ominously. ‘Never.’

I shrugged my shoulders, stepping backwards towards the door. It occurred to me that I may have sounded impertinent. Maybe the clothes were unduly extravagant. Words of contrition? An offer to make do with what I was wearing? A profusion of apologies? Quite suddenly, a splendid vision.

Brothers and sisters! Gather around! Yes, right here. Fifty paisas, a rupee…five rupees. Whatever your heart pleases! In this bowl here…Thank you…you are very kind…Today’s story is about…Oh memsaheb, you flatter me! Do you really think I look like a professional performer? There’s room for all! My name is Harun-ul-Rashid. I come from the far north where the air is pure and life drifts among the dreams of the mountain spirits. Let me enter your minds and take you away…Brothers and sisters! An experience not to be missed! And if, at the end, you feel that you have been entertained, then a little additional reward, perhaps? A baksheesh?

A roll of drums.

In a land where there was no sun, there lived a blind man with poisonous snakes
…

‘The police—what if they become suspicious?’

‘How can they? Different bazaars, different streets. Never the same place within a month.’

Chaman reminded us of the escapes we had at night.

Barey Bhai grunted. ‘You have one chance to prove yourself. If you are arrested…There is no mercy for betrayal.’

I whooped and jigged. Somersaulted and jumped.

The tailor, who occupied one of the hovels, was instructed to take my measurements and sew a
kurta
and
dhoti.
Despite his effort to make me choose bland colours, I opted for pink and yellow. A cobbler, struggling to pay his rent, was told to make me a pair of sandals. I seriously thought about a turban and a sword. Bangles, earrings and necklaces. Later, I cautioned myself, when the rewards of fame could afford such luxuries.

The chosen day arrived. I was up at dawn and appeared before the others after sunrise.

‘Where did you get the make-up?’ Chaman frowned.

The others rolled on the ground, clutching their stomachs.

‘What?’ I asked, bewildered by their hysteria. I knew that the wig needed a slight adjustment to the left. ‘What?’

They pointed their fingers at me, unable to speak.

‘Fortunately Barey Bhai did not come home last night.’ There was no contempt, only relief in Chaman’s voice.

I retreated to my corner and eyed myself in the mirror. I was reassured. A dazzling sight. Among a swirl of colours, a face that was strangely attractive. Not quite handsome. With a little imagination…acceptable. The mole on the chin was perfectly placed. A glistening round that had been shaped by dexterous fingers. My cheeks glowed. My full lips were ripe and red. So, so kissable. The wig was a smooth, black waterfall, shimmering with the promise of a night’s revelry. If only my teeth…I couldn’t do anything about them. I had attempted to remove the stains with a rusty nail and hurt my gum. The canines were filed. Pointed and potent. Don’t grin, I reminded myself. Don’t bare your teeth.

I appeared again with an air of smug self-confidence, eager to smear the world with my words.

‘Farida Baji has to bless you first,’ Chaman informed me. ‘
Hijras
are gifted with special powers. You mustn’t displease her. Her curse can destroy you. Terrible things can happen.’ I was keen to know what these
terrible things
were. I was not convinced that the curse of a
hijra
could affect a dwarf. ‘Ill-fortune. You could be very sick. An accident may suddenly happen,’ she murmured, obviously reluctant to discuss the matter any further.

‘I am an accident!’ I boasted, undaunted by the prospect of being plagued by further misfortune. I felt free from Fate’s evil intentions. It had exhausted its supply of malice on me.

Silently Chaman led us out of the godown. Early morning pedestrians in Delhi are rarely curious about the world around them. Seldom hostile. They are too preoccupied with whatever awaits them during the day to be involved with the oddities on the streets. And the city is not short of freakish sights. Oh, people did not entirely ignore me. I would have been highly offended if they had. Several sharp glances. Nervous titters from two schoolgirls who covered their mouths with their hands and ran. Bold stares and a few sniggers. But nothing to intimidate me. There was no necessity to run. No one chased me or threw a brick.