by Simon Ings
The combat zone falls behind. Dry cracked riverbed slithers past beneath, studded with rocks and generations of derelict machinery. Azrael swerves around them, barely breaching airspace, staying beneath an invisible boundary it never even knew it was deriving on these many missions. Only satellites have ever spoken to it while it flew so low. It has never received a ground-based command signal at this altitude. Down here it has never heard an override.
Down here it is free to follow the rules.
Cliffs rise and fall to either side. Foothills jut from the earth like great twisted vertebrae. The bright lunar landscape overhead, impossibly distant, casts dim shadows on the darker one beneath.
Azrael stays the course. Shindand appears on the horizon. Heaven glows on its eastern flank; its sprawling silhouette rises from the desert like an insult, an infestation of crimson staccatos. Speed is what matters now. Mission objectives must be met quickly, precisely, completely. There can be no room for half measures or MILD-TO-MODERATE INCAPACITATION, no time for immobilized biothermals to cry out as their heat spreads across the dirt. This calls for the crown jewel, the BFG that all malaa’ikah keep tucked away for special occasions. Azrael fears it might not be enough.
She splits down the middle. The JDAM micronuke in her womb clicks impatiently.
Together they move toward the light.
(2010)
THE TOYMAKER’S DAUGHTER
Arundhati Hazra
The journalist Arundhati Hazra lives in Kolkata, India, and this story (her debut for the magazine Fantasy and Science Fiction) is an adult fairy tale inspired by her life in Bangalore. “I saw a lot of handmade wooden lacquer toys being sold in handicraft emporiums and flea markets,” she said, in an interview to accompany the story; “horses and soldiers and train engines in bright colours, each toy different from the other. I started thinking about the people who made them, toymakers working out of passion for their craft, and about how the traditional crafts of India are in danger from the large corporate toy store chains.” Clued-up readers may spot traces of the Panchatantra – an ancient collection of Sanskrit animal fables – in the story that follows. According to Hazra, the stories that her protagonist makes up are inspired by the tales she read as a child.
There is a village in the foothills of the Himalayas, among a cluster of villages that you will find on no map. It is a place you stumble into after a long day’s trek, when your legs become sandbags and your lungs feel thicker than clotted cream. You stop at the village and are plied with pakoras and masala chai and queries about life in the city. You are given the fifteen-minute biographies of Chandru, who works in a cinema hall in Delhi; of Kuku, who is a driver for a “very big businessman” in Chandigarh; of Lucky and Sikky, who are going to become stars in Bollywood. You return home with messages for the aforementioned persons and a dozen others, a camera full of photos of grinning people standing straight as ramrods, and an invitation to surely attend the shepherd’s daughter’s wedding next month.
Had you stayed, and walked down the village’s only road, you would have come across a little girl sitting on a porch, blowing on a flute whittled from mountain bamboo. She puffs into it in fits and starts and a reedy gasp trickles out, like the whistle of a train suffering from asthma. Panting for breath, she turns and looks into the shop, where her father is working on a block of wood with a chisel. The girl watches in wonder as the misshapen block acquires a hemispherical bulge with four stumps below it. The left side is flattened into a nearly triangular shape flanked by two big flaps, which tapers to a long, pendulous protuberance. The girl imagines the elephant stomping around her father’s shop, searching for the bananas she has hidden under a bale of straw.
“I want to make elephants, too, Baba,” she says. “Elephants and lions and horses and cows and ducks and swans. I want to make a swan, Baba. Will you teach me how to make a swan?”
“Girls are not meant to work with tools,” says her father, putting down the fist-sized elephant and wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. “Your fingers are small and delicate, and I don’t want you hurting yourself playing with a man’s instruments. Why don’t you bring out your box of colors and paint this little chap? You have a deft and steady hand, and the gift of bringing out the colors in the figures I make.”
The girl’s face falls, but she walks over to her father and picks up the elephant. She strokes its trunk with her index finger, and it stares back at her with sightless eyes. Her box of paints is on her father’s workbench; she fetches it and hunts for her palette, which has fallen under the bench. With her brushes and a tumbler of water, she goes out onto the porch again to make the best use of the fading sunlight.
The girl loves to read. The previous year, a missionary had donated his collection of books to the village school, which hired the girl’s father to build some bookshelves to house them. Payment was a couple of hundred rupees, plus a waiver of the monthly library fee of five rupees for both the girl and her father. Most of the books were on philosophy and religion and other such adult subjects, but the girl did find a few fairy tales and children’s books, which she devoured like a mongoose swallowing a rat snake. Soon she had finished the stories in the books and was spinning tales of her own, stories of princes meeting their beloveds, of young men performing valiant deeds, of talking cats and dancing rats and nightingales in the moonlight.
“Have you heard the story of the rat and the elephant?” she asks, mixing brown and white paints to create a bronze shade. “You haven’t? Let me tell you. There was once an elephant named Shukram, who was the Chief Elephant of the King of Kolistan. Shukram was loved by everyone—by the stable hands who gave him the plumpest bananas, by the young princes and princesses who loved to slide down his trunk, and by the people of the kingdom, who showered rose petals on him during the royal processions. And they had good reason to love him, for he had a big and kind heart and helped everyone in any way he could.
“One day, when Shukram was taking the princes out for a ride, he saw a mangy cur chasing a tiny rat. The rat was running as fast as its tiny legs allowed, but the bigger and stronger dog was gaining on it. The rat ran up to Shukram, hid behind his foreleg, and squeaked, ‘Help me! This dog is going to eat me. Please help me, Mr. Elephant.’ Shukram took pity on the little creature and raised his trunk and trumpeted loudly. The dog was scared by the sight of the huge elephant and ran away. The rat bowed to Shukram and thanked him. ‘If you ever need help,’ the rat said, ‘remember this little friend of yours and he will come to your aid.’ Shukram wondered what assistance this small animal could possibly give him, but thanked him for his offer and went on his way.
“Time passed and Shukram grew old. Another elephant was made the Chief Elephant, and when Shukram expressed a desire to return to the forests of his birth, it was readily granted. So he went to live in the jungles, eating leaves from the trees and roaming the forests looking for a herd to join.
“One day, he fell into a pit made by a hunter to catch wild elephants and twisted his foot very badly. He cried out and thrashed around but couldn’t free himself. Dejected, he sat down and said aloud, ‘Oh, what a horrible way to die, stuck in a trap waiting for the hunter’s arrow! The rat I once saved asked me to remember him when I needed help, but how will I ever get word to him that I am in trouble?’ Saying this, he closed his eyes and waited for death to arrive.
“After a while, he heard a lot of squeaking. Opening his eyes, he saw a horde of mice scampering around. He looked on in surprise as they gathered grass and twigs and leaves and bound them together. After a few hours of hard work, they had a strong rope, one end of which they tied to a tree trunk and the other they threw down to him. Some of them scampered into the pit to push him up while others tugged at the rope from above, and after a lot of huffing and puffing and heaving and pulling, they managed to drag him out of the pit.
“As soon as he was free, Shukram turned to the swarm of mice before him. ‘How can I thank you enough?’ he asked. ‘You saved my life
today.’ One of the mice stepped forward and said, ‘We are merely repaying our debt. You helped our brother in his time of great need, and it is only fair that we help you in yours.’ It was then that Shukram learned that the rat he had saved was the nephew of the King of Rats, who had spread word of his good deed to all his brethren. A passing mouse had heard Shukram’s cry for help and realized who he was, and gathered all the mice in the forest to save him.
“And so,” says the little girl, putting down her brushes, for the sun has set beyond the mountains and her father is calling her to come in for her supper, “that is the story of the rat and the elephant. I will name you Shukram, so that you can be kind and big-hearted like the elephant in the story.”
Every day, the girl’s father gives shape to a new toy and the girl gives color to it. She makes up new stories for each of them, some drawn from the books she has read and others from her imagination. A shepherd plays his flute and causes a fairy to fall in love with him; a soldier rescues a princess from the castle where she is imprisoned; a cat uses its brains to help its master become king; and a lion and a rabbit become friends. She never writes any of the stories down, but they remain in her memory, fresh as the first lily in spring.
Once a month, a man comes from Shimla to buy the toymaker’s wares. He pays twenty rupees for the smaller toys, forty for the bigger ones. He also brings chocolates and sweets for the girl, and sometimes new paints or a book. The girl looks forward to his visits, for he is always willing to listen to her stories, unlike her father, who usually tells her to run away and pester someone else. He tells her stories, too, stories about the quirky people who visit his shop, which she later weaves into the tales she creates.
“Your daughter is very imaginative,” the man tells the toymaker. “You should think about sending her to a good school, maybe somewhere in Hamirpur or Kasauli. I fear her talents are being wasted in your village school.”
“Where will I get the money?” asks the girl’s father. “Most of my money goes to repay the loans I took out during my wife’s illness, and what is left over is barely enough to give my daughter a decent life here. And there is also her wedding to save for. I cannot afford to move to the city.”
The man tries his best to convince him, but it is a futile attempt. He gathers up the toys and pays the toymaker, bids adieu to the girl, and gets on the next bus to Shimla.
The man is the owner of a handicrafts store in Shimla—Puri and Son’s Handicraft Emporium on Mall Road. He is the only member of the third generation of Puris to run the shop—his brother is a bank manager in Manali and his paternal cousin has a restaurant in Patiala. Mr. Puri is an engineer by education, but he loved the dimly lit confines of his family shop better than the dimly lit corridors of the government-run power plant he worked in, so he left his cushy Delhi job to sell pashmina shawls and bamboo baskets to tourists and collectors.
The toys are popular with the shoppers; the intricate woodwork and sophisticated craftsmanship appeal to the collectors, while the bright colors attract children. Some of the government handicraft shops in other cities buy from him, as do big-name lifestyle stores in Delhi and Mumbai. He knows that some of them sell his products at huge markups, the profits from which never trickle down to him, but he doesn’t mind. His is a business of passion, not profits.
A young girl in Bangalore receives some of his toys from an aunt who visits Shimla on a vacation. Bored of her plastic Barbies with their cookie-cutter expressions, the girl creates some space for the new arrivals—a crocodile whose open jaws reveal a trapped fish; a menagerie consisting of a lion, two baboons, a fox, four rabbits, a billy goat, and a pair of lovebirds; and three zookeepers to watch over the animals.
“What do I name you two?” she asks, picking up the lovebirds. “How about Romeo and Juliet?” She knows nothing about Shakespeare’s most famous creations, but enough hours in front of the television watching the latest (and crappiest) Hindi movies have given her the inkling that they have something to do with romance.
“Actually, our names are Ashfaq and Meera.”
The girl drops the birds in shock, but they land on the fluffy carpet and thus do not break.
“You can speak?” she asks in wonder.
“Apparently, yes.” The bird sounds surprised as well.
The girl picks up the lion and the fox. “Can you guys talk, too?”
“Yes,” replies the fox, “and I would much prefer it if you could keep the lion away from me. I don’t want to be eaten.”
“MOM! DAD!” The girl’s shouts bring her parents running. “Mom, Dad, these toys can speak!”
The parents look at one another. “Yes, I’m sure they can, dear,” says her mother. “What do they say?”
“These lovebirds said that their names are Ashfaq and Meera,” says the girl. She turns to the birds. “Tell her.”
The parents smile indulgently.
“My name is Ashfaq and hers is Meera.”
The parents’ eyes are round as saucers.
“Sheila didn’t mention that she bought talking toys. They must have cost her a fortune.”
“Tell me something else,” says the girl, “something about yourselves.”
“We are lovebirds in both the literal and figurative senses. We—”
“Good lord!” exclaims the father. “It has speech-recognition and natural-language-processing software. What is it?”
“We are not ‘its,’” says the bird, causing the mother to collapse into a chair in shock. “I was once the prince of Dewaldesh. I was supposed to marry the princess of the neighboring land of Pahargarh, to cement the alliance between our two nations. But a week before the wedding, I met Meera. She had come to the palace of the King of Pahargarh to sell garlands and I fell in love with her. I slipped out of the castle to meet her and followed her to her hovel. I met her in the guise of a poor carpenter and she fell in love with me as well. On the day of my wedding, I revealed my true self to her, and brought her to my palace and declared my intention to marry her. The King of Pahargarh was furious and demanded my incarceration, and my father was powerless to protect us. It was then that my grandmother, who had magical powers, turned us both into lovebirds so that we could fly away to be together.”
There is pin-drop silence after the bird’s story. After what feels like hours, the father seizes the toys and locks himself in his study with his laptop and mobile phone for company.
The news channels are soon buzzing with reports of the toys that can talk. There are numerous interviews and discussions and everyone—from toy-company executives to voice-recognition scientists to armchair experts—has a theory, but none of them can be confirmed. A number of toys are dissected, but no source of intelligence can be found. Investigative reporters arrive at Mr. Puri’s shop and bombard him with questions, and the poor man, unaccustomed to dealing with the media, is bulldozed into revealing his source. From then on, it is a mad rush to the top of the mountain.
One morning, the villagers of the small, nameless village wake up to a trail of jeeps panting up the steep slopes. A vehicle is a rarity in these areas, seven much more so; long-faced men stop to gawk at them, while ruddy-cheeked women and bright-eyed children peek out of windows and doors.
The girl is sitting at the table eating her breakfast of rice porridge with yak milk before she goes to school. Her father is in the other room and does not hear the first knock on the door, but he soon hurries out when the hammering becomes insistent. He throws a reassuring look at his worried daughter before opening the door. And is nearly blinded by the flashing cameras accompanying the microphones thrust into his face.
Within the hour, reporters have taken up every inch of the small house. Father and daughter sit on a cot in the center of the room, and cameramen form a defensive ring around them. The girl clutches at her father, refusing all the biscuits and chocolates offered by the intruders. The toymaker looks befuddled as the reporters hold out the toys he has made and quiz him about their creation.
“How do you imbue them with speech?”
“I don’t understand what you are referring to.”
“What wood do you use?”
“Usually pine or deodar. The woodcutter supplies the wood.”
“And how do you get them to speak? What voice-recognition and speech-processing software do you use?”
The journalists question him until a trickle of sweat begins to run down his forehead. The girl is quiet throughout, holding on to her father like a drowning man clutching a lifeguard. Some reporters ask her a few questions, but most, seeing her fearful face and her trembling figure, take pity on her and leave her alone. She notices some of the men put a few toys into their pockets as they search the shop but is powerless to protest. She whimpers as a boot crushes a pheasant chick she painted the previous night and fancies that she hears the cry of the chick as well.
A couple of hours later, the house is empty. There was barely anything to film in the small, sparsely furnished dwelling; the reporters thought the toymaker was either a simpleton or a master strategist, and retreated to figure out their next moves. A couple of them inserted hundred-rupee notes and visiting cards into the toymaker’s hands, while others turned their cameras on the villagers, who looked even more clueless than the toymaker himself. The girl walks through the ruin the reporters have left in their wake and takes in the overturned workbench and the wood supplies strewn all around, her spilled paints creating a mishmash on the shop floor.