The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  When I had finished, Feroze twisted the knurled crown of his pocket watch.

  “Is that all you can tell me?”

  I nodded meekly.

  “What about its sounds … its smell … or the way it feels to touch? What about its inner workings? How could you leave out all the most important details?”

  The teaching profession, I recalled, attracts two types of sadist. The first, although ruthless, secretly hopes his students will improve. The second, who employs fierce, malignant methods for their own sake, couldn’t care less about the wretched pupils. Feroze was quite obviously that type.

  “Enough of the piano,” he said with sinister delight. “Time for something rather special.”

  Moving over to the far end of the table, he dislodged the lid of the shoebox and, with some care, lifted out a curled viper. With the snake’s head in his left hand, and its tail clasped between the fingers of his right, Feroze stretched the reptile straight.

  “This morning,” he intoned, “I am to teach you one of the oldest and most important of all magical tricks. We are to turn a rod into a serpent. This illusion has beguiled both kings and peasants for over three thousand years. It’s shrouded in mystery, and is as significant in magical lore as the rope trick, the bed of nails, or even levitation. Master this, and you will be performing a trick that was key to the development of all magical illusion.”

  “When was the trick first done?”

  The magician examined the serpent’s head.

  “Aaron is recorded as having performed this ‘miracle’ in the bible. You can read the account in Exodus, chapter seven, verse ten. But,” continued Feroze, “this illusion even pre-dates Aaron. The ancient Egyptian texts also chronicle the marvel of transforming a rod into a serpent. Dervishes of Central Asia and avatars throughout the East have used the feat to demonstrate what, to the audience, is genuine magic.”

  “If this is the snake, then where’s the rod?”

  “That’s it,” said Feroze. “There is no rod. This is illusion in its purest form. We’re going to use the instinct of the reptile to create an illusion.”

  “Where does a snake’s instinct come into it?”

  “Firstly, I should tell you that the serpent has been chilled for three hours. So it’s a bit more sluggish than usual. Now, notice how I pressing my thumb down firmly at the center of its head. My index finger is on the other side of the jaw, countering the pressure.

  “The Master held the viper’s head to my face for inspection.

  “The conjuror,” he went on, “keeps up the pressure for several minutes. Its effect is to stun the snake – which assumes that a predator of gigantic size is attacking it. Unable to defend itself, it’s gone into shock. Even if I lower its tail to the floor, it still can’t move.”

  Feroze demonstrated. He was right. The snake was utterly paralyzed.

  “Now, watch what happens when the viper is thrown to the floor.”

  Taking care not to damage the delicate serpent, Feroze dropped it on the laboratory’s stone floor. Two or three minutes passed before it started slithering about.

  “We know that – realizing it’s free – the snake jolts out of shock. But,” said Feroze, picking the viper up once again, “with correct lighting and so forth, the audience is certain they've seen a miracle!”

  That afternoon, when Feroze had tested me on the life of Harry Kellar – American conjuror and close friend of Houdini – he pulled a large glass carafe from one of the teak cabinets mounted high on the laboratory’s back wall. The jar was about the size of an old-fashioned sweet jar. It was full of pebbles.

  Feroze unscrewed the plastic lid and fished out seven pebbles, each the size of a quail’s egg. Having wiped the dirt off them with a rag, he gulped down a mug of water and then, one by one, he swallowed the stones. They went down as smoothly as vanilla ice cream.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he announced, when he had finished off the seventh pebble.

  “I not going to swallow stones!” I protested. “They won’t go through my system. I’ve just had my supper – I not hungry.”

  “They aren’t dessert,” rejoined the Master facetiously. “In any case, the stones don’t go through your system.”

  He spun round to face the door. Two minutes later, his eyes bloodshot and blinking, he slammed the seven nuggets of stone on the bench.

  “There!” he shouted. “They didn’t go anywhere near my system!”

  Some of the Master’s illusions had been distinctly unpleasant. But until this point, none had been truly life-threatening.

  “I not going to swallow stones,” I repeated. “I sorry, but I draw the line at this. Call me a sissy, but I simply have to draw the line somewhere.”

  Feroze said nothing. He washed his cherished pebbles under the tap and returned them to the jar. Then, rubbing a hand across his chin, he looked at me quizzically.

  “Stones too big for you then, eh?”

  “Very much too big,” I stammered.

  “Then we’ll start you off with something a bit smaller.”

  Feroze pulled a teaspoon from his left pocket and struck the tin mug which always hung from his belt. A second later Gokul appeared. Wherever the servant was, he never failed to be summoned by the Master’s gong.

  “Gokul,” he roared, “go and fetch some new potatoes.”

  “Yes, Sahib, how many to bring?”

  “Oh,” said the Master, “about a dozen will do.”

  Twenty minutes later I had swallowed my first raw potato. Admittedly, it was not a King Edward, but a baby one grown in the compound. Although modest, the stunt filled me with satisfaction. As I drew in a deep breath, and waited for my eyes to slope back into their sockets, Feroze tossed another potato over.

  “Come on,” he said energetically, “there’re lots left!”

  “I don’t want to hog them all. You have some, please, I feel so greedy.”

  But the magician would have none of it. One after another, the miniature potatoes rattled down my esophagus like balls down a bowling alley.

  “How many’s that now?” he prompted, delighted with the experiment.

  “Five,” I choked. “I may be a killjoy, but I really don’t think my belly can take any more. You can quite clearly hear it churning.”

  The sorcerer poured a mug of water. I gulped it down. It trickled towards the potatoes, soothing my gullet. But my stomach was in disarray. It was informing my nervous system I had coughed down a box of billiard balls. My brain warned my esophagus to reject any more of the unwelcome vegetables.

  Feroze examined his right thumb from a distance, picked at a cuticle; then poured a cup of water from another jug.

  “I don’t think I can take any more,” I stuttered. “My stomach is shutting down – you have it.”

  “You must drink this.”

  Unfit to argue, I complied with the demand. In mid-flow – as my mouth was awash with the fluid – I grasped that this was not water. There was none of the cool, soothing delectation which accompanies the liquid. Instead, my mouth, gullet, and then what was left of my stomach reeled in horror at what it had just consumed.

  Within the blink of an eye, my whole abdomen became involved in a fit of unprecedented vomiting. A mass of half-digested daal and rice, pureed mango and mutter-paneer, coconut and yoghurt was propelled at momentous velocity from the innermost depths of my thorax. Like the wad which precedes a cannon’s grapeshot, the concoction heralded the ensuing barrage of vegetable missiles.

  As the one who had fed me the powerful emetic, Feroze deserved the drenching he got. All thoughts of reaching an entente cordial evaporated. The elixir, syrup of ipecac, made from the root of Brazil’s ipecacuanha shrub, is preferred by hospital casualty departments for treating overdose patients.

  The sight of the omnipotent magician, dripping with curry-based vomit, was ample pay-back. As the spew oozed down his face and shirtfront, I castigated myself. How could I have been so myopic? After what I had been throug
h, how could I have put my trust in his fiendish hands again?

  Although he knew my digestive tract had responded with reflex action, Feroze was not the kind of man to disregard involuntary behavior.

  A series of harsh recriminations followed.

  Directed at my subconscious mind, the retaliations were designed to discipline my stomach. In future, when practicing regurgitation routines, the organ was to accept the ipecac syrup in silence.

  Over a period of six days, the Master introduced a regime of vile and barbaric magnitude. First, he canceled the twelve-minute lunch, claiming that it obstructed lessons. Next, he stepped up the regurgitation exercises to three sessions a day. Additional illusions were still woven into the curriculum. But now they were of the most repugnant variety. Extra sessions were devoted to lectures, sometimes held in the middle of the night, on conjuring and the great masters. Immediately after each discourse, I was expected to write an essay deliberating on the chosen subject. Like a half-price sale gone wrong, my grades were slashed with reckless abandon.

  By the third day, my stomach was sore beyond belief. Like that of a new-born baby, it was no longer able to deal with solid food. As if dispatching desperate smoke signals, the organ made known that it had begun the countdown to ulceration. I drew its deteriorating condition to Feroze’s attention. Still recovering from the discomposure he had suffered – or which he thought he had suffered – he waved my petitions aside.

  “You must learn to control your stomach,” he asserted. “Houdini taught himself to move every voluntary muscle independently. You must do the same. I can’t help it if you’re feeling a little discomfort!”

  Feroze didn’t realize it, but he had tipped me over the edge. I revived my scheme for all-out revenge. Only one form of requital had the capacity to pierce the magician’s defenses. I would have to strike without delay at his phobia. But first, the ammunition … I needed a supply of rubber bands.

  I scoured the mansion from top to bottom. Not an elastic band in sight. Worse still, I rarely had the chance to leave the compound. If he had found me sneaking out to buy rubber bands in the middle of the night, Feroze would have been rabid with fury. Gokul and Rublu frequently came and went. But I could trust neither. Only after considerable meditation did I come up with a secure method of smuggling in a supply. I asked Gokul if, on his next trip to the market, he could pick me up a bundle of neem sticks with which to clean my teeth. Everyone knows that bundles of neem sticks are always kept together with colored elastic bands. Pleased that I was forsaking my toothbrush for a more natural cleaning method, the elderly servant agreed to fetch me the twigs. Before he hurried off, he swore not to tell the Master, who was keen to control all matters relating to personal hygiene.

  Meanwhile, the drills continued.

  On the fourth day, I brought up my first pebble. The feat was all the more astounding for I had used no emetic. As if reaching a tacit understanding with my belly, I found that I was able to regurgitate merely by controlling internal muscles. The mouth, esophagus and stomach were willing to do all they could to help: so long as no ipecac syrup was administered.

  Of course, Feroze took all the credit for my achievement. Motioning for me to replace the stone in the jar, he declared that we would return to regurgitation later. Instead of putting the pebble back, I wrapped it in my handkerchief. Like a first-born child, this one was special. I would keep it as a lucky charm.

  Without wasting any time, the magician rapped once on his chipped enamel mess mug. Gokul emerged like a phantom from nowhere. He was shuffling even slower than usual, his upper body bent over his trembling arms. When he turned around, I realized he was carrying a pot. The vessel seemed to contain something of enormous weight.

  “Put it down here,” instructed Feroze, pointing to a large iron tripod.

  “Yes, Sahib,” gasped the valet, straining to do as he was told. I slipped him a glance as he exited the room. He shook his head evasively. No neem sticks yet.

  When the pot was in place on the tripod, the Master lit a Bunsen burner beneath it. I peered in. No wonder Gokul had been so burdened. The container was full of molten lead.

  “Now,” said Feroze, talking above the roar of the Bunsen burner, “you have to be careful with this stuff. Molten lead can be quite dangerous if not handled with care.”

  “I understand,” I remarked, with mounting anxiety at what part a vat of boiling lead was to play in the lesson.

  The Master brought down a Fortnum & Mason biscuit tin from the wall cabinet and pulled away the lid. It was filled with ordinary sand.

  “I going to teach you how to put your hand into a pan of boiling lead,” explained Feroze. “Before we do the trick, you have to prepare. Without adequate preparation mistakes are made: then people get injured.”

  “I see,” I grunted. “We don’t want any more injuries. Or at least I don’t.”

  “Before plunging your hand in the lead,” the magician instructed, “you have to ‘wash’ your hands in dry sand. This soaks up all the moisture. You must attempt this trick immediately after rubbing the hands with sand. Wait a second longer and the hands perspire. Sweaty hands and molten lead don’t go well together. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good, now watch this.”

  Feroze scraped away the thin film of residue from the surface of the lead. An alluring silvery sheen lay beneath. In a single expert movement, the teacher plunged the fingers of his right hand into the molten metal. He counted to three as hastily as possible; glanced me in the eye, and removed the digits.

  “Now you do it,” he said.

  When my hands were washed in the fine pheasant-brown sand, I positioned myself carefully over the pot of smoking lead.

  “I’ll do a countdown,” said Feroze, loosening his cravat. He loved doing countdowns.

  “Wait … let me prepare.”

  “The time for preparation is over!” snapped the Master. “Your fingers will start to sweat. One … two … three … now!”

  “Aaaah!” I screeched, as my left hand plunged up to the knuckles into the silvery metal. A fraction of a second later, I withdrew.

  “What’s all that fuss you’re making?” said Feroze. “Anyone would think you’ve just pulled off a miracle.”

  Raising his tin mug, Feroze summoned Gokul. But even before he had struck the bowl of the spoon on the enamel, the servant appeared. He turned off the Bunsen burner’s tap and shambled away with his pot of lead.

  “Now,” said Feroze, grandly, “I want to tell you about Houdini.”

  “But we’re always learning about Houdini.”

  The Master countered my complaint with a wrathful glare. His eyes twitched three times. I deciphered the code. Three twitches threatened a recriminating bout of stone-swallowing. My stomach knotted in anticipation.

  “Sorry for bursting out.”

  Feroze smiled on the left side of his mouth.

  “So,” he said, leading me out into the study. “Let’s consider the genius of Harry Houdini.”

  Mindful that I would soon be writing a detailed essay on the lecture, I paid attention.

  “Harry Houdini,” began Feroze, running the name across his tongue with grandiloquence, “was born Erich Weiss in 1874. He chose ‘Houdini’ as a stage name in honor of the great nineteenth-century illusionist Robert-Houdin. ‘Harry’ was adopted for the alliteration. This reverence for Houdin evaporated in later years. It culminated in Houdini’s tireless efforts to discredit his former idol.”

  The magician paused and caught me with a crushing glance. Was he musing that I would, one day, turn against him? I returned Feroze’s gaze with a servile grin.

  “Whatever his motives for slurring his hero,” he continued, “Houdini was an extraordinary illusionist. He was unusual in that he had the gifts and talents of many magicians all rolled into one. He was brilliant at sleights and complex tricks; a master of delivery, an actor; as well as being brave, fast-thinking, pugnacious, a maestro of t
he esoteric, and a connoisseur of detail. And we have seen the importance of detail.”

  I nodded twice. Then again.

  “Yes, detail is very important.” I confirmed.

  “Houdini,” continued Feroze, satisfied with my alertness, “understood that without mystery there was no magic. He knew also that without publicity, word of one’s skill would not travel. Houdini built up the sense of mystery. He would keep the audience waiting. By the time he came on, they were already at fever pitch. His illusions would be peppered with red herrings … designed to distract the crowd’s attention. Of course it was Houdini’s ability as an escapologist which made him a legend. We’re not so concerned with escapology, but we can learn from his methods.

  “When touring, he would challenge local safe-makers to deliver their strongest safe to his encampment a day before the show. During the performance, he would be locked inside the safe, trussed up in a straitjacket. A curtain would be drawn around the coffer. An hour of so later, Houdini would emerge from behind the curtain. The audience would be thrilled. But Houdini was always cautious not to be too good.”

  “What do you mean? There’s no such thing as being too good!”

  “Of course there is,” riposted Feroze. “Houdini could get out of the safe within five minutes. He’d spend the rest of the time reading a novel, or practicing another routine. If he had emerged after five minutes everyone would think the trick was rigged.”

  “Was it rigged?”

  Feroze glowered across the room.

  “Of course it was rigged! When the safe was delivered, Houdini and his crew would remove its workings and replace them with locks from their own stores. Sometimes the task would take all night. Yet no one would suspect they’d go to such trouble. Before the safe was returned, all the original locks and hasps were replaced.”