by Ram Sundaram
“I never set you down,” I said, refusing to believe him this time, “Not even once. You were clinging to my neck for hours, so you couldn’t have suddenly thrown the boy off my back and climbed on yourself. No, this isn’t mere trickery—it’s sorcery.”
“I am no sorcerer, I assure you,” he said, smiling.
“Then what are you?”
He shrugged again, adopting a helpless expression. “I am a child.”
“You were a child, yes. But you’re a young man now.”
“I am still younger than you, so that makes me a child.”
I opened my mouth to argue further, but then I wondered if perhaps he truly was a sorcerer as I feared. This land was brimming with evil, with horrific creatures capable of terrifying feats. What if he were some kind of a demon, bred by this world to perform wicked deeds? If so, then he was obviously more powerful than I was. My best chance of survival would be to wait for an opportunity to escape, rather than to try and confront him.
I did not talk to him that evening while I gathered wood and built us a fire, although I did check up on him discreetly every so often, to make sure he hadn’t aged further while I had my back turned. Once the fire was alight, I did not sit with him, though he seemed eager to continue questioning me. Ignoring him almost rudely, I closed my eyes and forced myself to fall sleep.
My dreams were haunted by visions of strange children, leading me through a cosmic labyrinth that I couldn’t fathom. They all looked identical, though they were of many ages, sizes, and ethnicities. Each child tugged at my hand, offering to show me something special and magical. They allowed me to glimpse the future, which was disappointingly murky. Then they revealed answers to my questions, and explained much about the world. And then suddenly I saw myself standing in the middle of a forest. I was alone, and oddly, I too looked like the rest of the children, with the same eyes and the same features. But I could recognise myself and was able to realise that I wasn’t one of them. I was glad when the dreams ended.
At first light I left to find us food. I hunted game for much of that day, until late in the afternoon when I struck a lonely doe. I noticed as she fell that she too had eyes like that of the new-born child. I convinced myself that hunger was causing me to hallucinate. Dragging her carcass back to the cave, I roasted her flesh on the open fire. I offered the boy some of the meat, but he refused. I shrugged and did not ask him again. I was hungry and this meat was already lending strength to my tired body, and clarity to my perplexed mind. I would need both body and mind to escape his sorcery alive.
“I refuse to kill a living being,” he suddenly said. “I would rather starve.”
“Good. Starve.”
He looked across at me questioningly. “Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you,” I replied. “I don’t even know you.” I considered him at length then, as I took another piece of the meat. “What are you? A demon of some kind?” Internally, I chastised myself for provoking him. This meat, I realised, had renewed more than just my physical and mental strength—it had also rekindled the embers of my subdued temper. But I would have to be careful not to let my words wander beyond their intended purpose.
“A demon?” he said, sounding incredulous. Then he shook his head. “Hate me if you must, but I will not dignify your insults with a response. I believe there is still goodness left in this world, and I am quite simply a child of that goodness.”
“You’re not a child anymore though, are you?” I remarked, pointedly. “Ignore my insults if you want, but tell me the truth. How is it that you age so quickly?”
“How do you?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Since I first met you, you’ve aged backwards rather alarmingly,” he said. “We are now of the same age—how do you account for that? Are you a demon of some kind?”
I concluded that he was mad. I hadn’t aged backwards at all.
But then I looked down at my hands and was surprised by the sudden colour in them. They looked so young and strong! What had happened to the veins jutting out of the pale, lifeless skin? I ran my fingers through my hair and was startled to find a thick, robust mane atop my head. I rummaged through my pack and pulled out a dirty spoon; wiping it clean on my shirt, I examined my reflection in it. My face, my neck, and my body… everything looked and felt younger than they’d ever been before.
I turned back to him. “What devilry is this?” I demanded.
“It is the progression of life,” he explained. “Everything ages.”
“Yes, but not backwards.”
“No? Is your conscience as old and wise as it is supposed to be, considering your age? Or is it misguided and infantile, deformed by years of sin and guilt?”
“Are you my conscience?” I remarked, annoyed.
“Are you mine?” he replied, flatly.
I leapt to my feet. “You did this,” I hissed at him, clenching my fists. “You are a sorcerer, aren’t you? You lured me to you, tricked me into saving you, and now you’ve stolen my age. Reveal yourself, demon!”
“I am not a demon,” he insisted, still calm. “And I will not fight you.”
“Then leave me alone, and do not follow,” I said. I turned away from him, gathered my pack and left. His eyes followed me intently, but he himself did not follow. I ran for as long as I could, until my lungs burned and my limbs ached. Soon he was lost in the distance, and night concealed the gap between us. I was alone once more. The starlight showed I was nearing the mountains again, which meant that I must have crossed a few miles already. But I did not slacken my pace. I ran dangerously, without pause, for I was determined to put distance between the boy and myself. When I could go no further, my knees buckled under me and I collapsed. I lay there in the snow, contemplating my fate, wondering if I had found death.
It was snowing. I rolled onto my back and gazed at the sky. I had never felt lonelier in my life than at that moment. I was truly alone, lost and tormented by incomprehensible riddles. I longed both for companionship and an absolution.
I heard howls in the distance.
I forced myself to look up—I was near a canyon. It looked oddly familiar. Even as I gazed at it, I suddenly remembered my home. Built in a lush green dell, under a gentle mountain’s shoulders, it was a place full of laughter and joy. I remembered friends and companions I had shared that home with, and I longed to be in their presence again. My home lay through the canyon, on the other side of these mountains. I was nearly there…
Mustering my remaining strength and will, I marched once more through the snow. I heard more howls and this time they were nearer. I ignored them and ran faster, losing my balance often but regaining my footing each time. When at last I reached the mouth of the canyon, I fell to my knees in gratitude. I could see my home in the distance.
But then my joy evaporated.
The wolves swarmed through the canyon in terrifying numbers. Their black shapes sidled through the white canvass, assuming positions in an almost orderly fashion. If I ventured through this pass, then I would never reach my home. And yet I had no choice but to attempt it, for if I stayed out here in the wilderness another day, I would surely either starve or else freeze to death.
A large hand gripped my shoulder, turning me around.
He was standing behind me, larger than ever, his broad face kind and smiling. “I’ll take you across,” he offered, in a deep, assuring voice.
I shook my head. “You can’t—you’re just a child.”
“Actually,” he said, with a smile, “You’re the child.”
He stood to his full, considerable height, and I felt a mere dwarf next to him. My hands and feet were tiny in comparison, almost… childlike. The truth struck me just then: I was a child. Somehow, in the time that had passed since I’d first come across his half-buried body in the wilderne
ss, he had grown older while I had aged backwards. I was fast becoming an infant and would soon be rendered helpless. I would be at his mercy.
“Am I dying?” I asked.
“Only if I was dying too, but I am still very much alive.”
He helped me to my feet and led me through the canyon. I walked slowly, holding onto his hand. The wind howled around us, its echoes amplified with the voices of the wolves. But we were not harmed. I lost all my remaining strength about halfway through the pass, but he cradled me in his arms and carried me the rest of the way.
When we reached the other side of the mountains, I could see daylight breaking over the distant horizon. I sighed contently. There was so much of this world that I did not yet understand; however, I wondered now if I perhaps wasn’t supposed to understand it. Within this incomprehensible existence, adrift in the wilderness, hunted by wolves, I would always remain a child: innocent, unassuming and sufficiently ignorant.
“We’re home,” he said, as he tucked my new-born body gently into the snow, and half-covered me with snow. The heavens parted again, and the silver rain began once more. But I wasn’t cold and I wasn’t afraid, for I knew that I wasn’t alone.
In fact, I knew now that I had never been alone.
“We’ll meet again,” he whispered, as we parted ways once more.
II
Fifty Cents
Friendship comes at a price, and more often than not, it’s a price we can afford. The problem is that we go through life bargaining with each other, trying to whittle the price below what’s expected, and as a result we lose friends that ought to have stayed. Kishan and Shreya knew the price of friendship; they knew it so well that they never had to discuss it aloud. The price stayed the same through the several different lifetimes that they shared with one another.
Under the sombre shadow of the evening sky, a soft flame grew within the hanging lantern outside Number 3 Gautami Nagar. Almost as if on cue, the lanterns outside every other house burst alight down the narrow street. Swarms of moths and fireflies rose out of the shadows and fluttered around the sturdy glass panels that shielded the flames. Children in these houses stood outside their front gates and stared at these harmless creatures with relentless fascination.
Kishan stood alone.
His once white shirt was now soiled and ragged, and he scratched his skin through it absent-mindedly. His hair, which was neither combed nor tamed, had simply been greased back with some old lamp oil he had found discarded in a garbage pit. His eyes were sunken and rather strained, yet he stared dolefully through them at the doorstep of Number 3, Gautami Nagar.
Arun Nayar slapped him on the head as he pedalled by with a large aluminium milk-can strapped onto the back of his bicycle. “You’ll go blind if you keep gawking like that,” he called out. “Go home and take a bath. I could smell you from three streets away.”
Kishan didn’t even turn to him. He had his arms wrapped around a streetlight, which had long ago fallen out of use. His arms, like his legs, were puny and covered in dirt. He wore no shoes on his blistered feet—they had been scorched today in the afternoon sun, from the many hours he had spent underneath this streetlight, staring dutifully at Number 3, Gautami Nagar.
Arun Nayar now dismounted outside the Number 3 gate and looked back at Kishan with a triumphant grin. “You wish you had my job, don’t you?” he teased, ringing the bell on his bicycle loudly. He kicked off his sandals, opened the gate and wheeled his bicycle into the yard.
The front door opened. A tall figure appeared in the outline of the doorframe and spoke to him. He was given a large copper basin. A small conversation ensued, and then Arun Nayar went back to his bicycle to fill the basin.
Kishan watched him enviously.
Within a few moments, a small figure ran down from the house to the open gate and peered out into the dimly lit street. Kishan saw her in the warm glow of the lantern: a small, pretty girl with an expressive face. He let go of the streetlight and sprinted down to the house, ignoring the aching pain in his feet. Shreya saw his scrawny figure pattering up to her and folded her arms across her chest, looking exactly as her mother did when she was similarly annoyed.
“Arun uncle told Daddy that you were standing outside,” she said, disapprovingly. “Why are you here, Kishan? Go home, please! It’s late.”
Kishan stared at her, his tiny face impassive.
Shreya clicked her tongue impatiently. “I know you’re not stupid, Kishan, so please go home! Go, shoo! How long are you going to stand there like that?”
Kishan slowly shrugged.
Shreya pushed her neatly braided hair off her shoulders, and then frowned as she caught the stench of Kishan’s unwashed body. She took a few steps back.
“Come back next week when your mother starts work, and we can study together, okay?” she offered, in an effort to be kind. “But I’ll only let you into the house if you take a bath first. And change your shirt; you’ve been wearing that for weeks now!”
Kishan nodded.
She waited, and when he still didn’t move she stamped her feet in frustration. “Oh, you are so annoying!” she cried. “I’m going inside now—I have to eat, so please go home! Otherwise I’ll tell Arun uncle to complain to your mother. Bye!”
Shreya turned on her heels and walked back up to her house, with her pretty pink frock dancing around her fair legs and her posh, new sandals. She quickly checked her appearance in the living room window as she passed it, skipped up the stone steps and disappeared into the house. Kishan stayed there, staring after her blankly.
Arun Nayar wheeled his bicycle out a few minutes later. He paused when he saw Kishan and smirked. “You like that Brahmin girl, don’t you?” Nayar asked.
Kishan didn’t answer, but merely stared back.
“Personally, I couldn’t care less,” Nayar said, with a shrug, “I think it’s a lost cause, but it might help me. See, I have to go to Madurai for two days and I need someone to do my rounds for me. If you want the job, it’s yours.” When Kishan didn’t respond, Nayar realised he would have to spell it out for him. “You’ll get to see your girl twice a day, once when you do the morning round and then once in the evening, like today.”
Kishan stared at the house, contemplating the offer. Then he nodded.
Nayar grinned and pulled out two coins from his pocket. “Here’s fifty paise,” he said, lifting Kishan’s dirty hand and putting the coins in it. “If you get a chance to talk to her, ask her if she wants to go into town with you. You can use this to buy her ice cream.”
Kishan stared at the coins with wide eyes. He then shook his head wildly and tried to give Nayar his money back, but the milkman playfully threatened to tie Kishan up to a tree so that the homeless dogs could take a bite out of him, and then chased him away.
It was early morning on the hillside where the Grand Tote Circus had set up camp, and the first few golden shafts of light broke the overnight darkness, announcing the coming dawn to the world. Kishan stood outside his tent, sipping on coffee, watching the sunrise. This was his favourite time of each day: the promise of a new beginning.
A small figure appeared over the crest of the hill, dressed in a bright, floral frock. Kishan smiled and put the coffee down. Little Shreya, all of ten years old, ran into his arms; he picked her aloft and spun her around before setting her down again.
“Thanks so much for inviting me!” Shreya cried, happily.
“What are friends for?” Kishan grinned.
He led her around the campsite to where the larger tents were situated, housing lions, elephants, and the more important performers of the show. “Have you ever seen a circus before?” Kishan asked, looking down kindly at her.
Shreya shook her head. “Ma can’t afford it,” she said, simply.
Kishan felt a twinge of pity. Though he had never been particularly
wealthy either, he was certainly better off than Shreya’s family. Her father had died a month before she’d been born, and her mother had worked three jobs trying to support her all these years.
“Do you want some cotton candy?” he asked, hoping that buying her food would alleviate his guilt. She nodded excitedly, so he bought her two different colours. She ate the candy happily as he led her through the tents. Shreya was a very smart girl, and she had a penchant for adventure that Kishan had only ever known in himself. If she’d been older and closer to his age, he thought he would have liked to marry someone like her, someone who was smart, kind, gentle, and had an unquenchable thirst for experiencing life.
“If you could work in a circus, what job would you like?” he asked her.
She didn’t answer at once, but chewed on the cotton candy while she pondered the question. “I would… like to do something exciting,” she said, “Like walking on the rope that’s really high-up, or else eat fire or dance with bears or something.”
“Dance with bears? You’d need bigger shoes,” he said, making her laugh.
“What work do you do?” she asked, eagerly.
“Oh I help out here and there, that’s all,” Kishan said, in a small voice. “I wish I had an exciting job but I don’t. One day though, maybe my dream will come true.”
“What’s your dream?”
Kishan smiled. “I want to be a clown.”
Shreya laughed. “Really? Why?”
“Why?” Kishan said, pretending to look scandalised, eliciting another laugh from Shreya. “Because clowns have a wonderful job, that’s why. When you’re a clown… you’re someone special. You wear some make-up and a costume and you just disappear. You become someone else, someone who people like and laugh at. Imagine how much happiness you can bring to others when you’re a clown… it’s what I want to do.”