by Adib Khan
I thought about the girl on the way home. She was the only female who had ever offered herself to me. I was unable to imagine her without clothes. My only regret was my inability to give her any food or money.
You could never say that the bustee was asleep. Every night it tossed and groaned under the weight of its anguished life—a death, accidents and illness. Desertions and beatings were common. Drunken husbands and fathers came home at various hours to vent their frustrations on wives and children. Cries and curses. We had established a code of privacy by ignoring pleas for help. The pretension ensured a form of tense communal survival.
People sought whatever pleasure could be had. Darting shadows scurried across the filth-littered paths to meet lovers. In corners, couples clutched each other with feverish ardour. Whispered lies and fabulous dreams. For a few moments it was possible to forget the whining dogs and the stench of garbage piles. They created their private heavens, lived in eternal youth, giggled and made plans before the suffocating misery of their surroundings exploded their dream world.
Often I drifted through the bustee, playing my flute to serenade the lovers. My intention was to encourage their temporary escape and nourish their illusions. They deserved their fleeting moments of joy. I chose not to reveal myself. It was impossible to tell when or where I was likely to be heard—on a cloudy night or under a pale moon, just after midnight, near dawn, sometimes not at all. I worked hard at being unpredictable. I was like a random spirit with the power to assume a human shape, arriving suddenly and leaving without a trace. Under the moonlight some might have thought that I looked like the dwarf who lived among them. But with padding and make-up…Was it Vamana? Could it be that the ghost of Hamilton Saheb was playing tricks?
Those having affairs hated me. They suspected my motives. During the day I saw poison in their eyes. And yet they couldn’t be certain whether a wayward spirit was at work. In front of others, Kaka and I discussed the ghost of Hamilton Saheb as if we were friends with the spirit. Behind the web of confusion, I was safe. I remained silent and appeared innocent. No demands, threats or blackmail. They speculated and whispered among themselves. Was it money that I desired? Didn’t I need sleep? Why was there a compulsion to play the flute so late at night? Once a tentative offer was made—twenty rupees a month if I or whatever-it-was did not stir the nocturnal silence.
Huh? What did they mean? I huffed and raved, bristling with indignation. To even suggest that I was responsible for the musical activity…Vile! Really! Me? Vamana? The storyteller who entertained them and their children. Shame! Had they seen me? Was my face clearly visible? How could they be certain that it wasn’t one of Delhi’s djinns taking control of their minds and making them believe that someone was playing music? What was the proof that I, and not an apparition, was the source of all disquiet? Hah? Anyway, why were so many people outside their shacks at hours when spirits were meant to roam the world without human presence? Was there some criminal activity bubbling in the secrecy of the night? I overwhelmed them with words, planted doubt and confusion, induced fear, and created so many possibilities that their suspicions turned on each other. I was left to wander in the night like a troubled spirit without a sanctuary.
The bustee stirred with the movement of early risers. Tendrils of smoke rose from freshly lit chulas. Several men huddled near the water tap, spluttering and coughing as they lit their first bidis for the day. Several women scrubbed their teeth with neem twigs. Others used small pieces of charcoal. A naked boy smacked the top of the tap with a stick. A trickle of water continued to splatter on the chipped slab of slimy cement. This was where most of the day’s arguments and fights ignited, especially among the females. The most common cause of friction was excessive use of water. Who was filling too many pots? Accusations of selfishness and greed spilled into more sensitive areas like husband pinching and currying favour with Barey Bhai.
The gender battle was fought along the lines of double standards. Men were accused of wasting water by sitting under the tap and lathering themselves with soap until they resembled the peaks of snow-covered hills. They demonstrated no urgency to give way to domestic needs. Why was their ablution more important than the water needed for cooking and washing clothes? And weren’t the women and children entitled to cleanliness? The targeting of specific names sometimes aroused the wives of the accused to a spirited defence of their spouses. The men were quickly forgotten, and the battle-eager women turned on each other. Voices screeched, and the language—it was foul. Occasionally there was spitting and kicking. Hair-pulling, scratching and biting. An understanding had developed among the men to remain neutral. They gathered and stood at a distance to watch the ferocious display of feminine anger.
Bets were quietly placed among the men. Money, bidis, stolen items and quantities of charas and ganja changed hands. Winners were cheered. Husbands of the losers tiptoed out of sight, sometimes burdened with guilt. It was left to the older and wiser women to restore calm. The realisation that the water supply would be cut off at noon prompted a flurry of activity with pitchers, buckets, pots and pans. The conversation once again centred on the excessive self-indulgence of men.
On this particular morning, wary eyes followed me. I knew that a number of men were aching to give me a thrashing. They were restrained by the superstition that dwarfs had magical powers to create mischief. I was delighted with the effectiveness of the rumour that Vamana was privy to the secret of an ancient curse that rendered men impotent. Pursued to its extreme limits, the curse affected the size of a penis, causing it to shrink alarmingly before an irreversible rot set in. The flesh turned dark and began to peel in thick layers until all that remained was a shrivelled stump with a tiny slit for urinating. The ruination of manhood was accompanied by excruciating pain that often drove men to suicide.
Lovely stuff! I thought. A stroke of rare inspiration had made me whisper in Kaka’s ears. It had the same effect as an announcement over a loudspeaker. By the next day the men knew that I was no ordinary mortal. To appear credible, Kaka swore that he knew a victim of my curse. The old man shuddered and refused to say any more. His reticence attracted all the attention he desired.
I walked past the smokers, ignoring their snide remarks and veiled threats. Someone made a vile, guttural sound and spat his contempt into the dust. The women didn’t greet me either. They were not pleased that I had yelled at a group of children who were trying to trap a butterfly that had strayed into the bustee. Their silent hostility was also directed at what they had condemned as my bad taste in the choice of a story.
It had been a difficult period in the bustee. Two deaths and an accident in which a man had his left arm severed at the elbow. An unfaithful husband had been apprehended, fucking Padma during the day. Several children were seriously ill, and the women decided that they were too fatigued to cook or wash. I was requested to entertain them.
‘Another love story, Vamana!’
‘But I have already told you about Lorik and Chanda and narrated the romances, Vasavadatta and Kadambari. I spent two evenings on Layla and Majnun—’
‘More! We want to hear more!’ a young wife, Sumita, pleaded.
Conventional love stories bored me. All this business of handsome men and beautiful women overcoming obstacles to be ultimately united held no appeal for me. What made it even worse was the snivelling and the crying that was evoked in some stories by the deserved deaths of the namby-pambies. I thought the women might appreciate something different.
At dusk, they gathered near the wall in large numbers. Some carried lighted candles and hurricanes. A few men hovered in the background, unwilling to trust my presence in front of an all-female audience. I wore a mask under which my face had been appropriately made-up. I had intended to remove the mask before the story finished.
It was one of my best narratives. I was enthusiastic and convincing. I injected pathos into my voice and my movements were worthy of a great actor. I expected a thunderous ovation—food and expressi
ons of praise. As I sat on the wall and unmasked myself, there was a loud boo followed by words of disapproval. A sandal sailed past my head. I was shocked, crushed, utterly humiliated. I had no inkling that they would dislike a love story about two homosexual lepers.
I broke into a song about freedom and desire. My voice scratched the morning’s calm. The cheeriness was too much for them.
‘Not only were you absent from the funeral, but you have no respect for the old man!’
Kaka’s death saddened me. Without retaliation, I absorbed the abuses they hurled at me. What these people did not understand was my immunity against poisoned words. There were impregnable walls around my feelings. I rarely opened the solitary gate. I had allowed Meena to enter and I was already questioning the wisdom of such a move. In the space inside, there was no grand building to protect. The wind howled in the open and told me about my loneliness. But it was nothing unbearable. What I was denied, I was determined to create. Quite simple, really.
Nimble Feet frowned when I appeared in the godown.
‘I just heard about Kaka.’
‘Two dogs were nibbling at his feet when he was found. A strange way to die with your feet sticking out of the entrance.’
‘The cremation?’
‘Everything had to be done quickly. His body was swollen and beginning to stink.’
I went to Kaka’s shelter—a shapeless, tacky dwelling made of tin, cardboard and plywood. Inside there were three men playing cards.
‘There isn’t room for anyone else.’ The man spoke without looking up.
‘There is always room for an angry ghost.’
I walked out in the morning sunlight and pulled hard on one of the bamboo poles that supported the buckled roof of Kaka’s shelter. The entire structure collapsed. I ignored the pained yells of the men trapped under the light rubble.
In the godown there was considerable misunderstanding about our visit to the hakim. I had intended it to be like a family demonstration of our support for Chaman. Lightning Fingers and Nimble Feet tried to dissuade me from accompanying them.
‘We can take care of everything that must be done,’ Farishta insisted.
I remained adamant.
‘There is no need to crowd the hakim’s house. There are always too many people waiting to see him.’
I reminded them that I was the one who had insisted on taking Chaman to the hakim. Chaman appeared silently to hand me a mug of weak tea made from used teabags we collected from the roadside restaurants in the old part of the city.
‘Roti?’ I asked hopefully.
She ignored me and returned to making tea for the others.
‘I won’t be any trouble,’ I assured them.
I wanted to discuss a few of my own problems, like the pockmarks on my face, the pimples and the splotchy skin. I was prepared to be reasonable about what he could do for me. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of shrinking the size of my head. As for my height, even miracles had their limitations.
It had taken us hours to persuade Chaman to seek the hakim’s help. She had no money; it was not convenient during the day; she was feeling better—they were unconvincing excuses. The sight of her fatigued face, the rashes on her arms and neck, and the torturous cough that shook her violently as if the devil were jumping inside her, made us resistant to her pleas. She would go, even if we had to carry her by force.
The previous evening we had been surprised by Baji’s generosity. Apprehensively we had approached her about a loan for the hakim’s fee and to cover the cost of medicine.
‘Take it!’ She thrust a sheaf of ten rupees notes into Farishta’s hands. ‘Take it and don’t worry about paying it back. Chaman is dear to all of us. She must be cured.’ Baji insisted that we travel in a taxi instead of taking a bus or walking.
Baji made me think about our uncharacteristic lack of selfishness. We did not fight over the money or palm some of it for our own use. Chaman is dear to all of us. We were instantly able to recognise the truth of Baji’s observation.
I accepted Chaman’s presence as the most vital feature in my life. She was my mother, sister, friend…even God in the limited way I struggled to understand the possibility of such an entity. But, close as I felt to her, I was unable to pretend that I understood Chaman. Often she isolated herself in a shroud of silence, staring moodily into the distance. Sometimes she cried at the oddest of times, like that rare occasion when we went for a walk in the park.
It was a mild Sunday afternoon. We had decided to forget about an unprofitable week and Barey Bhai’s abusive threats by strolling in the open and munching peanuts bought with some money Chaman had set aside. We sat on the scorched grass, watching courting couples, boys playing cricket and elderly men and women walking leisurely. Suddenly Chaman became very quiet. Her eyes rested on a couple sitting on a bench and chattering. Near their feet, a young boy played with a ball. When he tried to kick it, he fell over. It was funny watching him, except Chaman did not laugh. After several attempts he yelled in frustration and ran to his mother. She sat him on her knees and bounced him gently. The father reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair and offer him a sweet.
Chaman burst into tears. She shook her head when we inquired if she was ill. Was there something upsetting her? I asked.
‘You won’t understand,’ she sniffled, wiping her eyes.
‘Female silliness,’ Lightning Fingers said to me later. ‘It has to do with things inside them. The impurity in their blood, the way they feel.’
I nodded, unconvinced by his explanation. Later, I decided to ask her myself. She had smiled and stroked my head. ‘For a moment I wanted more than what life can possibly give me. I was jealous of what I couldn’t have.’
‘Is there something we can give you?’
Chaman threw back her head and laughed. In my confusion I laughed with her. She placed an arm around me. ‘We should talk more,’ she suggested. ‘I am flattered that you try to understand me. I know a place where I sometimes go by myself at night. It is strangely comforting to be surrounded by invisible eyes.’
‘You haven’t told me why you cried.’
She gave me a friendly push. ‘I am not going to.’
We were relieved that we didn’t have to contend with Barey Bhai. We rarely saw him. I suspected that he was working for Jhunjhun Wallah and being generously paid for his treachery. The businessman might even provide him with a coterie of young boys for entertainment…we hoped. The slum dwellers were not yet entirely against him.
Overnight, a sturdy shelter had been erected next to the godown. The door was padlocked, and it was rumoured that a television set had been installed there. People chose to believe that if it hadn’t been for Barey Bhai’s cooperation, such a luxury would have remained as a broken promise.
‘All it needs is an electrical connection!’ Farishta was unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
‘And one of those round things you can see on top of buildings.’ Lightning Fingers was not opposed to the gift from the businessman.
A taxi took us as far as it could. The narrowness of the lanes in Old Delhi presented the Sikh driver with a legitimate excuse to dump us at some distance from the hakim’s house. Rudely we were told to get out of the vehicle. An abusive argument flared over the fare. The Sikh wanted more than the amount registered on the meter, claiming that the rusty contraption was faulty. We refused to comply. I climbed on top of the car’s bonnet and jumped up and down, crying, ‘Thief! The taxi driver is robbing us!’
Chaman reached inside and beeped the horn. Passers-by stopped and looked at us suspiciously. The driver swore in Punjabi and snatched the money from Farishta’s hand. I barely had time to jump off the bonnet before the taxi roared away.
We made our way through sinuous lanes and smelly alleys, pausing to ask for directions. The hakim? Yes, people knew where he lived and worked. A famous man and a saintly physician. He was blessed with the divine gift of healing the seemingly incurable diseases. Some
times his miracles didn’t work, but that was because God was reminding him of the limitations of mortality. He lived just beyond the next lane. A double-storey house on the left.
There were patients outside the front door. A vendor had parked his food trolley on the edge of the lane. Business was brisk.
‘Food is the cure for all illnesses!’ the vendor pronounced periodically, convincing a timid-looking man to buy a second serving of mutton kebabs. ‘Everything is freshly made from wholesome herbs and spices.’ He rattled off the variety of food on offer, banging a spoon on a tin plate to emphasise the morning specials for the early customers. He paused to look at me with disdainful suspicion. ‘Bargain prices, but nothing is free!’
‘The leftovers?’ I ventured hopefully.
‘Allu dum…chaat…shami kebabs…boti kebabs…allu puri…garam parathas…Leftovers? There are never any leftovers!’ he thundered.
Farishta called me to go inside.
A dismal, ill-lit room was crammed with burqa-clad women and crying children. They sat on wooden stools and benches. Others seated themselves on the floor. We found a tiny space in a corner for Chaman. Meekly she sat down and rested her head against the wall. Farishta was given a numbered card by a young man with a goatee beard, wearing a skullcap. There was a sturdy door leading to an inner chamber. It squeaked open to let out a patient, followed by a young assistant. He called out a number in a sombre voice, as if a criminal were being summoned for judgement. He paused to scan the room for new arrivals before he ushered in the next patient. We waited quietly, our silence reflecting the measure of anxiety we shared. Chaman had fallen asleep almost immediately, her head cushioned on my satchel.