by Georgia Byng
“Man, give the guy a break,” said Forest. “Don’t humiliate him. What if someone sees him? He’s going to trip on his pants in a minute.” The boy clambered slowly down the tree, his eyes full of delight.
“You can pull your trousers up and stop hopping,” he said to the policeman. At once the man stood still and pulled his trousers up.
The boy eyed Forest’s pocket. “What was that machine that sings?” he asked, now on the ground.
Molly looked at him. He had green eyes like hers, except his were set in a handsome brown face, so they sparkled more, and his nose was straight and attractive, unlike her potato nose. He wore a paint-covered, ragged tunic that revealed a thin chest and ladderlike ribs. She wondered why he had been reduced to stealing things from people in the street.
“It’s called a handheld tape recorder,” explained Forest, offering it to him. “Really commonplace in the twenty-first century.”
The boy eyed Molly’s T-shirt and Rocky’s jeans. “So, you’re saying you’re from the future?” He narrowed his eyes and gave them a sideways stare as if reconsidering whether this was a trick. The policeman burped.
“I don’t believe you’re from the future.” He paused. “But I do believe you are a hypnotist.”
“Tell the policeman that from now on he will think of you as a good, law-abiding person,” suggested Molly.
The boy’s eyebrows arched. “I see.” Again, he spoke in Hindi. “From now on you will think of me as a god and tell the other officials that I am the best child in Delhi. You will also give me a few rupees whenever you see me. Now you can go.”
The official nodded and bowed very low. Then he stood up, reached his hand into his pocket, and gave the boy a handful of coins. The boy stared at the money in his palm.
“My goodness, you certainly are a hypnotist!” And, as if the coins in his hand were the key to his trust, he said, “Are you really from the future?”
“Yup,” said Molly. The policeman walked away.
“And you’ll take me with you to your time?” The boy still wasn’t sure whether he believed this was possible, but he saw that a friendship with these people would probably be helpful to him.
“I’ll take you on a trip, yes, and then I’ll put you back here again. But I can’t do it without the crystals.” Molly put her hand out coaxingly. “Ever wonder what the world will be like in a hundred years?”
The boy hesitated. Then he took the tape recorder from Forest and handed the red and clear crystals over. Molly took them gratefully. She put the red crystal in her pocket and hung the clear one back around her neck.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t break promises.”
Zackya snarled at his tracking gadget. He knew the readings telling him he was in exactly the same time as Molly were correct, but the device seemed to be suggesting that she was to the East of him as well as to the West.
“Stupid twenty-fifth-century instrument!” he snapped, shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll get you, Miss Moon. You haven’t escaped me. I’ll search every well, every cobra pot. I won’t sleep until I’ve found you.”
Sixteen
The boy twiddled the button on the tape recorder and smiled. Then he looked at Molly’s and Rocky’s sneakers.
“Horrible shoes you have to wear in the future!” He laughed.
“Actually they’re state-of-the-art sneakers,” said Molly, “but I suppose they do look crazy.”
“Don’t you cut your feet going barefoot?” asked Rocky.
“Oh, no! The soles of my feet are as hard as cow hooves. Come,” the boy said. “You must be thirsty after all that running. I will take you to my friend’s tea stall.”
Molly nodded.
“That would be lovely, but we’re in a bit of a hurry. In fact, we’re being chased.”
The boy raised his eyebrows. “It was lucky I stole your precious crystals, because now you have met me. I can help you.” With a wry smile he added, “My services are not expensive. Let us go for some chai. On the way you can tell me who is after you and what your plans are.”
And so their friendship started. They began to walk down through the maze of alleys, through dusty, dappled light, deeper and deeper into the heart of Chandni Chowk. Petula was more relaxed now. Her nerves gave in to her curiosity and she darted around excitedly, deciphering smells. This place was like nowhere she’d ever smelled before. The odors were complicated and rich and told hundreds of stories.
The boy’s name was Ojas, which, he said, was a Hindi name meaning “brilliance” or “shine” or “glow.” To begin with, he wanted to address Rocky and Forest as “sahib” and Molly as “memsahib,” because he said this was the polite way for him to address people of higher rank than himself. But Forest, Molly, and Rocky wouldn’t hear of this and insisted he use their first names. As they walked, Molly and Rocky learned more about the caste system.
“Ah, don’t you know about it?” Ojas laughed. “Well, let me tell you. It’s existed among the Hindu people since ancient times. It divides us up into ranks of importance. A person can never change the caste that they’re born into. The highest rank is that of the Brahmins or priests, then come the rulers and warriors. Below them are the farmers and traders, and lastly come the servants and laborers. That’s my caste. Each level is divided up again, and the lowest of the lowest castes does the dirtiest jobs, like shoveling sewage. Not very nice.” Ojas made a face. “The lowest of the lowest are called the ‘untouchables.’” Ojas took a left turn past a pile of boxes. “Someone from the highest caste won’t even walk on the shadow of an untouchable because they are considered so lowly.” Waqt, Molly remembered, had said that Zackya was an untouchable before he had freed him.
“The caste system is going to weaken in the future,” Forest said as they squeezed past another sacred cow.
“Oh, I am pleased!” Ojas exclaimed. “Now follow me through this building. It is a shortcut.”
Ojas had no parents. He used to live with his father, who was one of the maharaja’s mahouts, or elephant keepers, in the Red Fort.
“My father died from a poisonous growth in his stomach,” Ojas explained.
“That’s real bad luck,” said Forest as they followed the boy through a dark corridor filled with hanging washing.
“Yes.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment. Molly broke the silence. “Did your father speak to you in English?”
“Yes,” said Ojas. “The Maharaja of the Red Fort was a kind man, who enjoyed educating his servants. Whatever caste they came from, they were taught to speak English. My father taught me. Life was good before my father died. Then, everything went upside down. The kind maharaja went mad, and his brother, who for some reason calls himself the Maharaja of Waqt—‘Waqt’ means ‘Time’ in Hindi, you know—took his place as ruler.”
“The Maharaja of Time!” said Rocky. “Talk about giving himself airs and graces.”
“So you know of him?”
“His sidekick is chasing us,” said Molly. “And Waqt has stolen something of mine”—Molly wondered whether to explain to Ojas how Waqt had taken her younger selves, but decided he would never believe her—“so we are chasing Waqt.”
“Are we?” said Forest, scratching his head.
“Yes. Or at least I am. I have to somehow steal all his crystals and then get Waqt.”
“You make it sound as easy as catching a rabbit,” said Rocky.
“The Maharaja of Waqt is known to be very bad-tempered,” warned Ojas. “Are you sure you want to pursue him? Perhaps it would be better to wait for the Maharaja of the Red Fort to get better. Perhaps he would help you.”
“The original maharaja didn’t go mad,” Rocky said. “He was hypnotized and imprisoned in the Red Fort. We saw him.”
“Hypnotized?”
“Yes, by Waqt.”
“That certainly is news,” Ojas commented, picking his way over a pile of bricks and through a hole in a wall out into another alley.
A tea stall was suddenly before them.
It was like an open cupboard at the side of the walkway with a wood-burning stove set into it. An iron kettle stood upon this with steam blowing out of its spout, and a row of cans lined the back of the worktop. Beside a pot of sugar a big sieve sat in a ceramic bowl, and in the open cupboard underneath were stacks of terra-cotta plates, teacups, and teapots. A small boy played on the ground with a broken cup and some stones. He looked delighted when he saw Petula. His mother stood above him in a yellow sari. On her arms and ankles she wore scores of golden bangles, while gold jewelry hung from her ears and nose, too, and a bindi, a red holy dot, was painted on her forehead. A dark, bangled baby sat on her hip. The woman smiled at Ojas as they approached, and her small boy waved. Ojas bowed with his hands pressed together and asked her something in Hindi. The woman waggled her head from side to side and laughed. Then she began busying herself with tea making.
“We don’t have any money,” said Molly. “Perhaps we could borrow some of yours, Ojas.”
“Do not worry,” said Ojas. “Last month I stopped her little boy from running in front of a British horse-drawn carriage, so now she always gives me free chai.”
“Are there British people here in India now, in 1870?”
“Oh, yes. They’ve been here for a long time… since about 1600. Before that, the Muslim Mughals invaded India. Everyone wants India, it seems! The Mughals were here for five hundred years! They built some lovely mosques. But still, you know, most Indians are Hindus, not Muslims. And now we have the British here. They die like flies from the heat and stomach sickness. The Portuguese, French, and Dutch are here, too, but the British have managed to take control the most. India has so much for them to take for trade, you see. The British make much money from India. We are a huge country, and wheat, cotton, tea, and coffee grow very well here. And we have wonderful precious stones and marble and hardwood. You have a fat queen called Queen Victoria. She always looks so cross in her pictures. She should come to India; then maybe she would look happier!”
The tea lady poured out cups of chai—tea sweetened with sugar, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and cardamom. Ojas took a slurp from his and continued.
“Queen Victoria has lots of Raj officials who keep India under her command. They have built many buildings here, too. Some are really quite impressive, but not as beautiful as our temples and palaces. Oh, but the railways they have built—they are amazing!”
“But if this country is now ruled by the British, how come the Indian maharajas are here?” asked Molly.
“The maharajas have their princely states. India is a very, very large place, so there is plenty to go around. Everyone can have a slice!”
The lady in the yellow sari offered everyone a piece of cake and a glass of a sweet drink. She put a dish of water on the ground for Petula.
“Ah, sugar-cane juice,” sighed Forest. “I haven’t had this for years, man! And I’ve got some good news for you, Ojas. In the twentieth century, India’s gonna get this real cool peace-lovin’ guy called Gandhi and he is gonna free India. In 1947, India will rule itself.”
“That’s seventy-seven years away,” said Ojas, squinting as he did the sum in his head. “I’ll be an old man by then. Or dead.”
“That’s a bummer, man!” said Forest.
Not knowing what Forest meant, Ojas just waggled his head from side to side, in the way the tea lady had, and Molly and Rocky laughed.
“This is so nice of your friend,” said Rocky. “I wish I had something I could give her. He reached in his pocket and found a pen. “Maybe she could sell this to a rich person here—I mean, a pen is an amazing thing if you’re from 1870.” He showed Ojas and the woman how the pen worked by drawing on his already doodle-covered arm.
While the woman giggled, drawing a line on Ojas’s arm, Molly was suddenly overcome by a new memory. It came so suddenly that she found herself involuntarily shaking her head as if an earwig were in her ear.
“What is it?” asked Rocky. Molly opened her eyes.
“I have memories of getting on a steam train. It is a very luxurious carriage. It’s a royal train or something. I was carrying a baby.”
“Is Waqt on the train?”
“Yes. That’s one of the strongest parts of the memory. He looks so stupid, all stuffed into the train. He’s so tall, he can hardly fit. Like a giraffe getting into a train. The train is leaving. I’m remembering its noise and the steam.”
“And, Molly, are we in exactly the same time as them?”
“Yes.” She nodded
“So they’re leaving now. What shall we do? We have to get to the station.”
Molly and Rocky both turned to Ojas.
“We’ve got to get on a train,” said Molly. “We don’t speak Hindi. Will you help us?”
“How do you know the Maharaja of Waqt is on a train? Are you a magician?” Ojas asked.
“I’ll explain how I know later. I’m not a magician, but we are in a hurry. Will you help us?”
Ojas tilted his head and shut one eye. “Because you hypnotized that officer for me, I will help you board a train—as long as you remember that trip you promised me to the future. On the way to the station you can tell me what Waqt has taken from you and how you know where he is. If I think I can help you, I will tell you my price. You might employ me as your guide.”
“That sounds good,” said Molly, “except we haven’t got any money to pay you.”
Ojas rubbed his hands together, cleaning them of crumbs. “I am sure, Mollee, that with your skills money won’t be too hard to come by.”
Fifteen alleys away, Zackya and his men were making progress. He and his guards had stumbled across a uniformed official sitting on a step counting his fingers. The man’s head nodded and his eyes quivered in their sockets. Zackya recognized these signs as the aftereffects of hypnotism and so set to interrogating him.
Seventeen
Ojas guided Molly, Rocky, Forest, and Petula swiftly down a different set of alleyways. As they hurried along, Molly explained to him how the Maharaja of Waqt had kidnaped her younger selves. Ojas listened, half suspicious that Molly and her friends were mad.
“So you want to follow Waqt secretly?” he said, grasping that at least this much of their situation was true.
“Yes.”
“In those clothes?” Ojas let out a puff of disbelieving air.
Molly looked down at the dancing mouse on her sweatshirt. Her mind switched into top gear.
“Tell me, Ojas. Are there any really horrible keepers of clothes shops here?”
“There is one, but there are far more friendly shopkeepers—don’t worry.”
“What has the nasty one done that makes him so horrible?” Molly persisted.
“Oh, you ask such strange questions! But I will answer. There is one very rich, cruel man who has a shop near the bazaar. He has a very short temper and he beats his wife and his children. I don’t like him at all because once he boxed my ears when I was simply sitting on his doorstep taking a thorn out of my foot!”
“Does he speak English?”
“Yes, but he is not a kind man, Mollee. You don’t understand.”
“I do. Trust me. Will you take us there?”
“As a special gift I will,” said Ojas. “But you have to remember, Mollee, after that my extra services will cost.”
“Fine,” said Molly, “but let’s get there quickly.”
Soon they were inside a large shop surrounded by shelves of folded clothes. Forest shut the silk curtain over the shop entrance behind them. Petula sniffed at the carpeted floor.
“Hello, is anyone here?” Molly called.
A brawny man with a potbelly emerged sleepily from behind the counter. As if to introduce himself he made a snotty, guttural noise and cleared the phlegm from the back of his throat.
“Good afternoon,” said Molly. “We would like some clothes.”
The doughy-faced shopkeeper surveyed Molly’s jeans and mouse top and
sneered. He lazily drew himself up and then he saw Ojas. For a moment he leered forward, but reminding himself that there might be business at stake, he resisted booting Ojas out.
Molly was onto him before he knew it. She tapped him on the chest and stared into his puffy eyes. His nose twitched irritatedly as he prepared to object to her prodding, but actually he was easy meat. In a second, her incredible eyes had delivered their blow straight to the core of his brain, reducing him to a nodding idiot.
“Now you are completely under my power,” Molly said. “I want clothes for us all. And after that, we would like some money. Quite a lot of it.” Ojas nodded. He’d already decided that, if he helped Molly, a lot of money was what he’d be charging.
The somnambulant man stepped forward and nodded to the girl, who now, in his eyes, seemed a goddess. He understood Molly’s language fairly well. In his trance he began selecting clothes from the shelves. Ojas watched with amazement as he found a long, box-collared, burgundy shirt for Rocky, with a pair of pajama-like trousers to match.
“Will this kurta churinder be all right for you, sir?”
He found a similar outfit in gray for Ojas. Ojas put it in a bag.
“I will save it for best,” he said. Forest chose a white kurta churinder, while Molly was given a steel-blue sari.
“This is no good,” she said, eyeing the miles of material that was being presented to her. “I’ll never be able to tie one of those things on my own.”
“What are you doing Mr. Shopkeeper!” interrupted Ojas. “Girls don’t wear saris in India; only women wear saris.”
The hypnotized man offered Molly a long, tuniclike outfit with trousers underneath.
“This salwar kameez?”
Soon, everyone was ready. Molly had a veil to throw over her head, and the boys all had mini turbans. On their feet they wore Indian moccasins, except for Ojas, who was more comfortable barefoot. Molly was given a purse filled with coins, and she also took a cotton bag that was strong enough to carry Petula, should she need to disappear suddenly.