by Adib Khan
The chula sizzled and spurted in support of my silent resistance.
‘Stories!’ I clapped my hands gleefully. ‘Stories! In the beginning, the universe was atman in the shape of man…’ What did not satisfy me, I created and inserted. ‘His name was Vamana.’
‘No…’
‘Yes! Yes…Yes!’ My tantrum never failed to overcome Maji. Her smile was a resigned recognition of the abnormality she had brought into her life.
Words tumbled, cartwheeled, jumped, danced and lurched like drunks after a lavish feast. La la la…La lala la la…Yes sir, it was all so easy!
Those early years slithered away, but not without pain or confusion. My body began to hurt. Flesh and skin grew around a twisted skeleton. Relationships became increasingly strained. Vijay was prim and rigid. Without frivolity or laughter. The retired Police Commissioner was obsessed with order and discipline. Frequently he berated Maji for allowing me to blight their lives. Sometimes I tiptoed to the door of their bedroom and listened. It was not uncommon for my name to crop up in their arguments. Vamana—human or beast?
‘He’s only a child!’
‘Ugly enough to be fathered by a deo! Can a normal child look like him?’
‘He was an unexpected gift to us.’
‘More like a curse. An insult. Without caste or religion. Unholy freak!’
I enjoyed the anguish in Vijay’s anger.
Soon there were visits to doctors, homeopaths and herbalists. Saddhus, fakirs, faith healers, astrologers. Stars collided, leaving trails of celestial debris. Planets failed to align themselves in my favour. Palmistry did not reveal my destiny. No one was willing to enter my future. Fate had chosen to lacerate the palms of my hands with an abundant confusion of broken lines that confounded the experts. We heard words of astonishment and refusals to accept any form of remuneration. Ill luck and I were twins. Untouchables. Outcasts.
I developed a voracious appetite for food. The meatsafe was raided between meals. Maji encouraged me by stocking up on sweetmeats and savouries. Slowly I became almost circular in shape. My body—that wretched arrangement of torso and limbs—refused to conform to the standards of physical normality. The hump on my back could no longer be hidden under loose-fitting clothes. I hobbled noticeably, especially when I attempted to run. As for my face…I looked like the victim of an acid attack. The skin was broken and bumpy, resembling a devastated landscape covered with sporadic patches of brown, black and pink. Small, deep-set eyes. Thick, scaly lips and a bulbous nose. Crooked teeth and abnormally sized canines. A square chin touched the upper part of my chest. I forgave people for thinking that I was born without a neck. Floppy ears, as though in the original design I should have been an elephant. An unusually large and hard head matted with wiry, black hair. Not what you might call an endearing appearance. Everything about me resembled the ravaged remnants of a savage storm—torn, broken and decaying.
At night I often lay sleepless in bed, my eyes scanning the mystery of the darkness outside. If only I could. If only…The stars came to the window. I was special. Never mind what people said. The roof lifted and the sky peeled off its eyelids. I drifted. I swam. I ventured beyond the boredom of physical experiences. The world was too small a place for me.
Then came a dreadful morning, some days after Maji discovered a few tendrils of hair on my chin and cheeks. A barber was summoned. He combed and snipped. Brush, razor and talcum powder. The new maidservant and Maji armed themselves with soap, sponge and warm water. The girl looked terrified and ran away after I was stripped. Maji pretended not to look. I was scrubbed and soaked. Specially made clothes and shoes did little to dispel my bewilderment and rage. I was catapulted on my way towards respectability, learning and discipline.
A short car ride. A passing nightmare, I consoled myself as I sat gripping the armrests of a chair. It seemed like a long way down to the floor.
‘But Geeta, we don’t have the facilities for someone like him.’ Mrs Prasad made an effort to look kindly at me. Her smile wilted when I bared my teeth.
‘He is so intelligent. You must hear him read. And the stories he can tell!’ Maji clasped her hands on her bosom in a gesture of disbelief. ‘Amazing for someone like him, isn’t it?’
I noticed the photographs on the walls. The women were similar in demeanour. Granite faces. Stony eyes. Rigid postures. Their entire world was encapsulated in a school building. I wanted to stretch their mouths into welcoming smiles. Soften the eyes and colour the backgrounds. Green and yellow. Blue. A blazing sun. Orange…no, red. Like fresh blood.
I fidgeted and scratched the armrests, determined not to like Mrs Prasad. I thought of ways to upset her.
‘Well, perhaps we might take him in for a trial period.’ She scribbled on a form and stamped my prison sentence. PROVISIONAL ADMISSION.
My imitative sigh was too loud. The stare and the twitch of disapproval didn’t augur well. The moment was right, I felt. I lifted my buttocks slightly. Alas! My perceived moment of triumph was a dismal failure. The thunderous fart I had planned was dismally short of ammunition. The rumbling in my stomach had misled me. The sound, though clearly audible, was ineffectual. It was as if a cork had been fired from a cannon. Maji lapsed into a coughing fit. Mrs Prasad began to write furiously on the form that had already been filled. I had the overwhelming desire to prick the large mole on her right cheek with the sharpened end of a pencil. It reminded me of snot I rolled into tiny balls that turned black when they hardened.
The next morning I experienced my first sensations of love. Sweaty palms and a burning forehead. A palpitating heart. My feet barely touched the ground. Josephine DeSouza. Teacher. Forbidden territory. Irresistible. The perfection of her face was alarming. I longed to run away with her head. Wrap it in cotton and hide it under my bed. I imagined the tips of my fingers caressing the softness of her cheeks.
She caught me staring and smiled warmly. Aargh! The room spun crazily out of control. Fire swept through my veins. I buried my face in my shoulder as she took my limp right hand and led me to a classroom.
The noise died immediately. The silent stares of curiosity.
‘Children, this is Vamana.’
A solitary giggle. Others followed. Dark whispers. Elbows and knees nudged. Audible words, hurtful in their directness and condemnatory in judgement. I was sent hurtling on my way to becoming a stranger to the world. At that stage of my life, rejection was not entirely a familiar word. Its implications, however, began to manifest themselves in acts of petty meanness. There was a low table. It was scratched and streaked with paint. I was seated with two other boys.
‘You look funny!’ The fat one squealed and grabbed the coloured pencils from the centre of the table. ‘No! Mine! I won’t give you any!’
The other boy grinned and aimed a low kick at me. He didn’t realise that my legs didn’t reach the floor. His toes smashed against one of the wooden legs of my chair. A prolonged howl. Tears and accusations. Fatty was nervously noisy in supporting his friend. Other eyes turned on me with looks of dread and suspicion. Guilty…guilty…guilty! Miss DeSouza rushed to our table and gushed with words of comfort for the agitated duo. I was mildly rebuked. A stern index finger waved in front of my face. ‘Here we are kind to each other!’
The stabbing cross-currents of feelings. Anger. Hurt. Sadness. Simultaneously I perceived the gigantic cruelties of a flawed system, and the need to protect myself. The fragile shell of childhood fractured. I burst into the harsh reality of the world, armed with aggression.
I was adamant about not apologising. ‘I didn’t hit him.’
‘You will say sorry.’
‘No.’
‘Vamana, you must say sorry.’ There was a sharp edge of anger in her voice.
‘But I didn’t hit him.’
Punishment was swiftly administered. I had to hold each ear lobe between my thumb and index finger. Squat, up…squat, up. My knees creaked. One…two…three…Miss DeSouza had to count the rest of the numbers. Humilia
tion consumed me. She told me to stop. I was given a table to myself at the back of the room. More glances. Triumphant looks.
During recess I wandered around in the small yard, unable to find a playmate. There were clusters of noisy, excited kids. Hide and seek. Hop, skip and jump. Rescue. Ball games. The sandpit and the swing. I watched and learned. The bitterness of loneliness was an early experience. To be treated as a presence that deserved to be ignored, destroyed any semblance of pride I might have felt about being a person. Darkness shrouded my stunted body and withered all sense of personal worthiness. I surrendered to an immediate impulse and sought shelter in an unpopulated grove.
After the break there was singing and drawing. Later, Miss DeSouza read to us. Stories about wise children and vanquished ogres who had my silent sympathy. Happy endings. Angelic faces and rapturous expressions. I amused myself by colouring the top of the table.
‘Now, who would like to tell us a story?’
‘Me!’ I raised my right hand with immense enthusiasm. ‘I want to!’
Heads turned. A moment’s silence before the whispers began again.
Miss DeSouza’s smile acknowledged me. ‘Anyone else?’
Titters and self-conscious giggles.
‘Me!’ I yelled with delight. I banged the top of the table for her attention.
‘All right, Vamana. Tomorrow perhaps.’ She made a great fuss about looking at her watch. ‘It’s nearly time for the bell.’
‘I’m telling a story tomorrow!’ I announced proudly when Maji arrived to pick me up.
‘What a happy child!’ She beamed. ‘Miss DeSouza! You have worked a miracle in a single day!’
That smile again. I shuddered at the sensations that raced through me.
That evening Maji brought out a stack of storybooks and read to me. I pretended to listen obediently. I stifled yawns and tried not to doze off. I heard about handsome princes and beautiful princesses. Ugly villains and heinous deeds. Evil was destroyed and good triumphed. Shadows dispelled. Sunshine and peace. She shook me awake. ‘Do you want to tell your friends one of these stories?’
‘No.’
‘The marriage of Rama and Sita pleases everyone.’ My frown did not deter her. ‘I could read it to you again.’
I lacked the courage to say that I would share one of my stories with the class. It was about a sightless man who talked to himself to avoid loneliness. One day a group of travellers found him laughing and talking under a tree. They thought he was crazy.
‘What makes you so happy?’ one of them asked.
‘Entertaining my friends,’ the man replied.
They looked all around, unable to see anyone else. ‘Where are they?’
‘In my house.’
‘Perhaps we could take you home,’ one of the travellers offered.
‘I am at home.’
‘Here, under a tree?’
‘No, inside myself…’
‘Vamana! You are not listening!’ I repeated what Maji had read. ‘You have such a good memory. The children will love it!’ She clapped her hands and rewarded me with a sweetmeat.
That night I dreamed of Miss DeSouza. She was trapped in a golden cage, imprisoned by a twin-headed demon that refused to free her until she married him. The demon had his back to me, even when I commanded him to turn. Her refusal angered him. He reached into the cage and strangled her before killing himself by sinking his rapier-like fingernails into his neck. That was when I saw his face. I woke up screaming. The bed was wet.
The morning light calmed me. I struggled out of bed and looked into the mirror. There he was with only one face, laughing at me.
At school I reminded Miss DeSouza about the storytelling session.
‘Later,’ she mumbled absent-mindedly. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled as she led us to assembly.
Mrs Prasad began by congratulating Miss DeSouza on her forthcoming wedding. ‘Miss DeSouza will be away for a few weeks,’ the headmistress announced. ‘When she returns, she will be Mrs Fernandez.’ Cheering and clapping.
I was possessed by a terrible rage. Swirling clouds and vengeful winds howled inside me. I was convinced that Mrs Prasad had orchestrated the calamity. I understood how wretched the demon of my nightmare might have felt. My howl of protest frightened the other children and startled the teachers into a state of inaction. (‘A wolf in pain,’ Mrs Prasad later described the sound to the police. ‘Something from a darkness deep inside him.’) I stumbled to the front of the room and rammed into Mrs Prasad. Her legs were targeted with fists and head butts. The terrified shrieks goaded me into an inadvertent discovery of my most potent weapon. I sank my teeth into the flaccid calf muscles of her left leg.
That evening I cried for one of the few times in my life. It wasn’t because of the pain in my back or the throbbing of my swollen face where Vijay had repeatedly struck me. My tears were for Maji. The sadness on her face, and the defenceless silence with which she accepted her husband’s accusations and abuses, threw me into a worse state of turmoil than I had experienced earlier at school.
The day had been agonisingly long. Hysterical children and agitated parents. Stern-looking policemen, uncertain about the nature of the danger that warranted their presence. Someone grabbed me by the neck and dragged me away. I became a showpiece locked up in a classroom. The windows were soon crowded with adult faces. High-pitched voices and raised fists declared the communal intention. I shouted back. Fragments of the day remained pasted in my memory. Maji sat next to me in a police jeep, her arm around my shoulders. She spoke sparingly, her voice trembling as she endeavoured to console me. We were driven to the central police station where I was kept waiting among strangers while she filled out forms and spoke to khaki-clad men. Vijay hovered in the background, talking to his former colleagues and glowering at me.
Then I was driven to a large building where men and women, dressed in white, moved purposefully in the quiet corridors. Were they angels on earth? No one bothered to answer my question. I fell asleep on a chair and dreamed of a wedding. My wedding to Miss DeSouza. I didn’t know what a wedding was meant to do. At that stage in my life it betokened an uninterrupted togetherness. We would be the only ones in the entire school. She was exclusively my teacher, encouraging me to do whatever I pleased.
A hand gently rubbed my chest and invaded my state of bliss. A room with white walls. An electric fan whirred overhead. I did not have to move to see the ceiling. I was almost convinced that I had passed into a life beyond death. The face of an elderly man, with a long nose and bushy eyebrows, appeared over me. For an instant I thought that God was visiting me.
‘Good! You are awake now. Did you sleep well?’ He sneezed and blew noisily into a handkerchief.
I wasn’t in Heaven after all. He began to ask all kinds of silly questions.
‘Do you have a favourite toy? Vamana? Is there a toy you like very much?’
The walls became transparent. People fought and clawed their way to reach me. There was Mrs Prasad, demanding that I be punished. She had a tail and…talons.
‘My stuffed giant.’
‘A giant? Does it have a name?’
‘Ravana.’
‘Ah! You have heard the story of The Ramayana. Why do you like Ravana?’
‘He is my friend. I can talk to him at night.’
‘What do you say to him?’
I closed my eyes and did not answer. That was a secret of the night. It happened inside, a special place where only my friends were allowed to enter. The noise again, from out there. My right eye saw him seated on a chair. He was staring at me.
‘Vamana, what would you like to be when you…er…later in your life?’
I didn’t understand what he meant. Mrs Prasad had disappeared behind the wall. Its blankness was comforting.
‘Is there anything special that you like doing?’
‘Telling stories.’
‘Who do you tell your stories to?’
‘My friends.’
‘Do you tell happy stories?’
‘I don’t know…No.’
‘Don’t you want to make your friends happy?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want them to feel like I do.’
The chair squeaked. He leaned forward, watching me intently. ‘Who are your other friends? What are their names?’
He was threatening me, like a dark hand trying to break a door. He wanted to reach inside to confront me with the tangled confusion I had learned to avoid. I felt as if he were trying to untie the knots that I did not wish to be touched. I retreated among the murky alleys and lanes that meandered endlessly inside me. I was swallowed by the shadows. Soon his footsteps could not be heard, only the faint echo of his voice repeatedly calling my name. He would never catch me. My smile must have prompted him to plead with me.
‘Vamana? Vamana! Please listen to me! I am told you can read very well for someone at your age. Do you write stories?’ There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.
I had managed to lock him outside. The banging stopped. My sanctuary was safe. I went into the garden to seek the company of those I created. It had been so simple to outmanoeuvre the man. Yes sir! Ek dum seedah!
‘Do you write stories?’
Now that there was no danger, I decided to be helpful. ‘No. They are inside my head. Like moving pictures. With words.’
‘Do the words come before the pictures?’
I shook my head. Voices called me. I would have to leave.
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘Are the pictures in colour?’
‘No. In white, with lots of darkness.’
‘Are there people in these pictures?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me something about them?’
‘They are different.’
‘How are they different?’ I allowed the silence to intervene.’Where do these people live?’
‘Under the sea. In the sky…in forests.’
‘Not in houses?’
‘No.’