by Adib Khan
Have you seen a dwarf? A midget with hideous features?
Vigorous shaking of heads. Illiterate minds would grasp the description and shape it into a folk hero. Tales of Vamana. The exploits of the people’s dwarf.
We cannot tell if such a creature actually exists.
He is only in people’s minds.
It’s a conspiracy by the police to justify their presence in the bazaars.
But what about the bite marks on their legs?
A blood-sucking thief?
It couldn’t be human.
I saw him once!
Liar!
A tongue like a lizard’s. Eyes that glow. A growth on the forehead. Like a horn…
Vamana, the dwarf, had three eyes and taloned hands. Breath of fire. Gifted with supernatural powers. The emergence of multiple profiles to confuse the police even further. My fame would spread in the bazaars and to the villages beyond the Jamuna. Cult following. Altars. Clay figures, decorated, garlanded and worshipped. Gifts of fruits and the giddy aroma of incense. The prospect of fame was an overpowering intoxicant.
‘Vamana!’ Something in my demeanour made Chaman suspicious. She renewed her effort to dissuade me. The police, she insisted, were treacherous and vindictive, increasingly devoid of the sense of honour that had been crucial to a mutually beneficial existence in the past. Mmmm…All the more reason to trouble them. Although monetary and carnal favours continued to be bestowed on policemen, the policy of harassment, arrests and beatings were being pursued with alarming enthusiasm.
‘They accept bribes with itchy palms,’ Chaman informed me. ‘Chulmul…Chulmul! The bastards! And in return? No guarantee of our safety. They now arrest us for offering bribes.’
Interrogation. Torture. Imprisonment without trial. Several of Chaman’s female acquaintances had been arrested for accosting men in bazaars. They were thrown into the back of police vans that roared off into remote areas across the river.
‘Ay yoh, Vamana!’ Chaman pressed her cheeks and shuddered. She refused to look at me. ‘The most terrible things happened!’
‘Like what?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Nothing happened,’ I goaded her tonelessly. ‘Otherwise you would tell me.’
I didn’t expect her to react with such violence. Chaman slapped me on the back of the head. ‘Pigeon’s entrails! How would you feel if your mother or sister were molested? Raped?’
I thought for a moment and pointed out that I could not possibly have any feelings since I had no idea about my mother’s identity or whether I had a sister. This piece of harmless information provoked Chaman to screams of fury. Her eyes widened and her entire body shook.
‘Dog’s penis! Monkey’s brain!’ Blows hammered on my head. ‘Owl shit! Goat-faced loon! Are you human or what?’
I ducked and dodged. Chaman continued to yell incoherently, her arms flailing wildly over my head as she attempted to strike me. In self-defence, I curled up and tucked my head into my stomach. Her fists pummelled my back. Farishta and Lightning Fingers struggled to calm her.
There was enough noise to awaken Barey Bhai. We heard him groan. A shrill blow on a whistle, that hung around his neck on a piece of dirty string, silenced us. He immediately determined that I was responsible for all the noise that had rudely disturbed him. He demanded an explanation.
I spoke rapidly. The frown disappeared from his face as I emphasised the profit that could be made if my plans were implemented. I pointed out that we rarely made any money at night. Those who bothered to listen to us could not afford to pay. Day-time police patrols had increased. We were taking unnecessary risks for meagre returns. In addition, there hadn’t been a successful kidnapping for quite some time. No one suspected that I had deliberately thwarted our last effort.
We were in a park one afternoon. A young woman, pushing a pram, was talking animatedly to a friend. A food vendor attracted their attention. They left the pram behind a tree and walked the short distance to the vendor’s trolley. All we had to do was lift the baby and walk away. As Lightning Fingers untied a sack, I managed to reach inside the pram and pinch the sleeping baby. The piercing howl attracted the women’s attention. We disappeared before they could raise an alarm. Afterwards it seemed as if I had achieved something quite worthwhile. I felt calm, almost pious. I had prevented a mother from being miserable.
Barey Bhai looked at me thoughtfully and then summoned Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet to his side. Feverish whispers. Gesticulations. They looked at me and talked again. I attracted Chaman’s attention. She glared ferociously when I smiled apologetically, and raised her right hand in a manner that suggested my punishment was yet to come. Barey Bhai beckoned me by wriggling his index finger. A barrage of questions. Nimble Feet pointed out the flaws that could lead us to disaster. Lightning Fingers winked at me and then rubbed his hands, declaring that my scheme was worthy of a brief trial. Barey Bhai scratched his chin and looked uncertain. I detected the glint of greed in his eyes.
Sensing victory, I asserted myself. ‘But!’ I hadn’t intended to sound so abrupt and explosive. ‘But there is one condition…’
‘Condition?’ Barey Bhai spat in disbelief. ‘The caterpillar is making conditions? Bargaining with a python?’ They laughed. ‘What condition?’
‘I must have a new set of clothes. Bright garments. Yellow…no, pink. I must appear to be a convincing performer.’
‘You will only be telling stories! There is little money in that.’
It was my turn to look disgusted. ‘A storyteller is an artist who uses words to induce dreams, inflict pain, create nightmares, provoke—’
‘Baas! Baas!’ Barey Bhai held up his hand in mock surrender.
‘The launda can certainly use big words, even if he is otherwise useless,’ Chaman snorted.
‘The point is, how much money can we make?’
‘We shall try it once,’ Barey Bhai ruled.
‘New clothes,’ I persisted. ‘I must have new clothes.’
‘I have never known anyone to make such an outrageous demand,’ Barey Bhai said ominously. ‘Never.’
I shrugged my shoulders, stepping backwards towards the door. It occurred to me that I may have sounded impertinent. Maybe the clothes were unduly extravagant. Words of contrition? An offer to make do with what I was wearing? A profusion of apologies? Quite suddenly, a splendid vision.
Brothers and sisters! Gather around! Yes, right here. Fifty paisas, a rupee…five rupees. Whatever your heart pleases! In this bowl here…Thank you…you are very kind…Today’s story is about…Oh memsaheb, you flatter me! Do you really think I look like a professional performer? There’s room for all! My name is Harun-ul-Rashid. I come from the far north where the air is pure and life drifts among the dreams of the mountain spirits. Let me enter your minds and take you away…Brothers and sisters! An experience not to be missed! And if, at the end, you feel that you have been entertained, then a little additional reward, perhaps? A baksheesh?
A roll of drums.
In a land where there was no sun, there lived a blind man with poisonous snakes…
‘The police—what if they become suspicious?’
‘How can they? Different bazaars, different streets. Never the same place within a month.’
Chaman reminded us of the escapes we had at night.
Barey Bhai grunted. ‘You have one chance to prove yourself. If you are arrested…There is no mercy for betrayal.’
I whooped and jigged. Somersaulted and jumped.
The tailor, who occupied one of the hovels, was instructed to take my measurements and sew a kurta and dhoti. Despite his effort to make me choose bland colours, I opted for pink and yellow. A cobbler, struggling to pay his rent, was told to make me a pair of sandals. I seriously thought about a turban and a sword. Bangles, earrings and necklaces. Later, I cautioned myself, when the rewards of fame could afford such luxuries.
The chosen day arrived. I was up at dawn and appeared before the others a
fter sunrise.
‘Where did you get the make-up?’ Chaman frowned.
The others rolled on the ground, clutching their stomachs.
‘What?’ I asked, bewildered by their hysteria. I knew that the wig needed a slight adjustment to the left. ‘What?’
They pointed their fingers at me, unable to speak.
‘Fortunately Barey Bhai did not come home last night.’ There was no contempt, only relief in Chaman’s voice.
I retreated to my corner and eyed myself in the mirror. I was reassured. A dazzling sight. Among a swirl of colours, a face that was strangely attractive. Not quite handsome. With a little imagination…acceptable. The mole on the chin was perfectly placed. A glistening round that had been shaped by dexterous fingers. My cheeks glowed. My full lips were ripe and red. So, so kissable. The wig was a smooth, black waterfall, shimmering with the promise of a night’s revelry. If only my teeth…I couldn’t do anything about them. I had attempted to remove the stains with a rusty nail and hurt my gum. The canines were filed. Pointed and potent. Don’t grin, I reminded myself. Don’t bare your teeth.
I appeared again with an air of smug self-confidence, eager to smear the world with my words.
‘Farida Baji has to bless you first,’ Chaman informed me. ‘Hijras are gifted with special powers. You mustn’t displease her. Her curse can destroy you. Terrible things can happen.’ I was keen to know what these terrible things were. I was not convinced that the curse of a hijra could affect a dwarf. ‘Ill-fortune. You could be very sick. An accident may suddenly happen,’ she murmured, obviously reluctant to discuss the matter any further.
‘I am an accident!’ I boasted, undaunted by the prospect of being plagued by further misfortune. I felt free from Fate’s evil intentions. It had exhausted its supply of malice on me.
Silently Chaman led us out of the godown. Early morning pedestrians in Delhi are rarely curious about the world around them. Seldom hostile. They are too preoccupied with whatever awaits them during the day to be involved with the oddities on the streets. And the city is not short of freakish sights. Oh, people did not entirely ignore me. I would have been highly offended if they had. Several sharp glances. Nervous titters from two schoolgirls who covered their mouths with their hands and ran. Bold stares and a few sniggers. But nothing to intimidate me. There was no necessity to run. No one chased me or threw a brick.
Farida Baji was at breakfast. Without make-up and her hair undone, she was a haggard spectacle. Her eyes were red and swollen. The sour expression warned us to be respectful and cautious about what we said. Her chelas tiptoed around her, patiently awaiting an improvement in her mood. Baji did not acknowledge our arrival. She continued eating with a ferocious energy, tearing the freshly made allu puris with both hands and devouring large pieces as though they were desperately needed to fuel a fire deep within her. She ate sloppily, making guttural noises as she masticated the bread.
One of the hijras, Gulbadan, crept up to us and whispered, ‘Chunni ran away last night.’
‘Why?’
‘Paani!’ Baji wailed. ‘Paani!’
Banu ran up to her with a tumbler of water.
‘After the evening’s massage in Baji’s room, Chunni was asked to stay behind. For a few minutes we heard nothing.’ Gulbadan looked nervously at Baji to see if she was listening. ‘Then suddenly there were screams. Swearing…abuses. Tauba! Tauba!’ Gently she slapped her cheeks and stuck out her tongue. ‘The language! Chunni ran out of the room, her kameez torn and blood running down her face.’
I giggled. Chaman promptly whacked me between the shoulders. An awkward silence ensued.
I had rarely spoken to Chunni. She was the most feminine looking of all the hijras under Baji’s care. Young and slightly built, with delicate features. I enjoyed looking at her large bum that jutted out like watermelons. A cock stirrer.
With hesitant steps, Chaman approached the charpai. ‘Baji…we have come to ask for your blessing. We are beginning something new today.’
‘Do you like my new clothes?’ I stepped forward boldly.
Baji’s eyes flicked over me. ‘Blessing? Who needs the blessing of someone as old as I am?’
‘You are not old—’
‘My flesh is like rotting vegetable peel!’ Baji screamed. ‘That’s what she said! The bitch! The whore was panting for an unwrinkled cock up her arse! What could I offer her? Love, care, gentle affection…’ She sniffled and wiped her face in a towel. ‘The important things in life don’t matter any more.’ Suddenly she picked up the plate of allu puris and hurled it in our direction. ‘I am in mourning! Can’t you see?’
I picked an allu puri off the floor and gobbled it. Delicious. My stomach rumbled, and I reached for another. The others had backed off apprehensively. I found myself stranded near her, my mouth slobbered with spiced potatoes.
‘Look at him! He can think of nothing but his own needs!’ Her face distorted into a snarl of contempt. ‘Who did the make-up?’
‘I did it myself.’
‘It has made no difference. You are just as ugly. Chaman! What is he doing?’
Chaman spent an inordinate amount of time in whispered explanation. Occasionally Baji closed her eyes and grunted.
I was impatient to leave. A crowded bazaar awaited me. Curious eyes and grasping minds. I would open the windows and make them see. A hundred…many more. Empty shops and deserted food stalls. Impatient chants and handclaps. Then a roar.
There he is! The descendant of Valmiki and Kamban. We will hear about Rama again!
‘Ay larka! Come here. Chaman, why does he stand there with that glazed look in his eyes?’
Whatever Chaman said had revived Baji. She sat up and assumed her customary tone of unchallenged authority. She placed her hands on top of my head and muttered words that invoked the forces of the universe, the spirits that guarded the body and the djinns who were the custodians of Delhi. She blew on my face and spat near my feet. I stood mesmerised, awed by the conviction she had in her ability to protect me. Eyes closed, she lapsed into a brooding silence. Carrying incense sticks in both hands, Gulbadan walked around me in a circle. I was sprinkled with rosewater, and my forehead was rubbed with a coarse sandalwood powder.
‘He will survive.’ Baji opened her eyes after pronouncing the definitive words with a calm authority, as if she had concluded a satisfactory arrangement with Fate about my safety.
Chaman beamed and clapped politely. There were audible sighs from around the courtyard. We bowed in deference to Baji’s mysterious powers and then headed towards the entrance.
Baji called me back. She took a beaded necklace from under a bolster and dangled it in front of me. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ She rolled it over her lips and rubbed the beads on her cheeks.
I was entranced by the shiny blueness of the glass orbs.
‘Wear it.’
I couldn’t tell whether her wink was a gesture of friendliness, or a mildly flirtatious form of mockery.
‘And come back to tell me a story…a happy one without the pain of yearning or the hardship of suffering. Make me forget that I am imprisoned in a foreign place.’ She gripped my right hand in a desperate plea. I hid my embarrassment by admiring the necklace and rolling one of the beads between my right thumb and index finger. ‘A story should soothe and heal. Don’t you know one in which people are happy?’ It was a child’s voice, pregnant with curiosity, vaguely aware of the fragments of a world she desperately desired to enter.
‘Baji…’ I grinned.
She turned to look the other way.
‘Baji, I do not know what happiness is. I can tell you about loneliness. About hatred and meanness—I have grown up with them. I have to grapple with the problem of how to live with what I am. How to create meaning in the emptiness in which I float. I try to fill this bleak world by creating lives similar to my own. By creating people in situations similar to mine, I gain strength. I don’t feel lonely. They may be illusions but they renew my will to live. But t
hey don’t make happy stories.’ I sounded clumsy. They were words she did not wish to hear. I was powerless to console her.
She looked at me with wonderment, as though for the first time she realised that I was capable of experiencing all those feelings attributed to humans. I stared back at her. A silence of dissatisfaction enveloped us. I sensed darkness…and cold. I could have laughed, a cynical expression of the absurdity that confronted us. A hijra was asking a loathsome dwarf to produce illusions of contentment, to provide temporary relief for her chronic pains.
And me? What about me? I wanted to ask. Who will be my physician? Who can nourish my vanity? I have to do it myself.
Her eyes moistened. I stood unmoved, unable to afford the luxury of pity. I hoped that she read my understanding of her plight in the silence. We were a part of the debris on which civilisations constructed their symbols of success. Under the most magnificent buildings lay dirt. Apparently insignificant and useless. But without it, could there be reminders of what man was capable of achieving? We, too, had a hidden part to play in life…
I could not accuse Baji of selfishness. Beneath a compelling need to hide, not so much from the world but from ourselves, was an instinctive desire for love. It was a quest that we shared.
‘Do you ever feel the need to be loved?’
‘My only urge is to survive. A roti…sleep. To get through the day without injury.’
‘And nothing else?’
To lie with a woman. Touch her softness. Feel love and all that is supposed to be tender about life. Enter her and make my contribution to creation. I even dream of firmly fleshed boys. I like to think of sex as a ritual in heaven. But sometimes it is more like madness. An insane beast—writhing, charging, snorting.