by Adib Khan
‘The dwarf has become clever!’ he sneers. ‘Did you know that the carpenter has finished building the scaffold?’
All is quiet again. I drag the plate inside. The bread snaps easily. I call Sher Mohammad and offer him half of the roti. Briefly our hands touch.
‘He said, “The dwarf…”’
‘Water?’ I drink most of it first.
Noisily he empties the mug. He thinks he is looking straight at me. If there were lights, his eyes would see the jagged bricks on the wall.
‘You haven’t told me your name.’
Who are you? What are you? The words reverberate around me. A movement. I think Sher Mohammad has stuck his hand between the bars. I am not there.
I recall what Baji once said. Beyond my name, I do not know who I am. Shadows have shapes only. Does she ever think of me? Or have I been relegated to a past that she never allows to surface? I have no time for memories. There is now and whatever pleasures can be extracted from it. She should be in this hellhole with the insects. She would soon learn to live off the past.
‘Why are you in prison?’
If nothing else, Sher Mohammad is persistent.
‘Various reasons. I set fire to a rich man’s house.’
‘Why? How?’
Quietly, I savour the memory of Jhunjhun Wallah’s anguish. At the time I regretted deceiving the hijras. It had been necessary…
Baji possessed a remarkable capacity for forgiveness. That was, I think, a characteristic she developed by her understanding of the ways and intensity of people’s anguish. Much against the stated preference of the other hijras, she allowed me to continue performing with her group. She was tolerant of my disruptive behaviour that consistently violated the promises I made to stick to my task of telling stories. She slapped me and abused me, but I was not discarded.
Baji scowled whenever it was pointed out that I had deliberately defied her by abandoning my designated role in favour of dancing. The younger hijras complained bitterly about my participation. I had no rhythm and lacked coordination. My size upset the harmony of the movements. The audience laughed as though it were a comedy show, and I the clown performer. A serious art form was denigrated and transformed into farce by my antics. Besides, I was guilty of talking, making faces and running into the audience to kiss and touch both men and women, much to their disgust.
Baji listened patiently, letting the communal anger exhaust itself into a state of sullen silence. ‘There are forces inside Vamana. It is impossible for him to be obedient,’ she explained one day. ‘His mind and body are not for him to control. We must be tolerant and forgiving of the faults in him.’
I was unable to explain, even to myself, the urge that gripped me whenever I saw the hijras dancing. Every sinew in my body conspired to drag me into the midst of their movements. The singing did not hold the same attraction. That was merely the stimulus to enable me to enter an arbour of freedom where the self left the body to fulfil its desires. Although the eunuchs scorned my clumsiness, I experienced the exhilaration of a nimble-footed creature, whirling and speaking a language to make the gods aware of my will to fight the adversity they had imposed on me. Dancing was an act of creative defiance. As I moved, I felt elegant and handsome. Noble and special. I never intended it to be a cheap and meaningless activity merely to raise laughter. Perhaps Baji understood that dancing was like storytelling, a journey undertaken to peel off the layers of darkness in one’s soul to discover the tiny beam of redemptive light that signalled my place in humanity.
The day the bustee was set alight, we were to perform at the house of a wealthy man.
‘He is famous and very rich. He has connections with politicians and the police.’ Baji’s gaze was on me as she announced our other engagements for the forthcoming weeks. ‘But this one is special. We are honoured that we have been chosen to entertain the distinguished guests and offer our blessings to a newly born child. We must be at our best.’ I was told to help with the dresses and the make-up. ‘Come as early as you can, Vamana,’ Baji encouraged me. ‘And don’t insult your real talent at the gathering. There will be children…’ She trailed off into despairing silence.
I spent the morning helping the homeless move into other hovels. Later, when the confusion had subsided, I gathered the bewildered children and led them to the field on the other side of the wall. We sat on the ground among stray animals and the acrid smell of smoke. I felt obliged to make them forget the waking horror of dawn. Lies of redemption. Tales of adventurers and heroes. Reluctant creations to erase the terror from their minds. Life had to be reduced to a set of simple moral laws that could not be overcome. There were predictable outcomes for transgression. There was light and darkness. Gods and devils. Good was enshrined in physical beauty and always triumphed. The evil and the ugly were punished or destroyed. Their faces softened and their eyes glazed. Their minds found shelter. Order banished chaos.
‘Will those who set the fire be punished?’ a little boy asked.
‘Of course!’ I replied confidently. ‘What did I tell you about evil?’
‘More!’ they demanded. ‘Tell us more!’
I had no choice but to prolong my misery.
It is never like that, children. Let the shadows remain and learn from the demons that lurk in the darkness. They often win and have a great deal to tell us about ourselves. They say much more than God ever will.
I restrained myself and eventually managed to escape.
The news of the fire had not reached Baji. Her stare of admonishment, because of my late arrival, turned to an expression of genuine concern when I told her about the mishap. I assured her that Chaman was safe. She wanted to know about the people who had been affected.
‘Barey?’
‘He wasn’t there.’
‘He is never to be found anywhere! I hardly see him these days! And you think the fire was deliberately lit?’
‘Two men were seen running away. An empty canister, smelling of kerosene, was found.’
‘What is the name of this man who has bought the land?’
‘Jhunjhun Wallah.’
The mirror lowered slightly. ‘What?’
I repeated the name. I also told her about Barey Bhai’s involvement.
Her face darkened. ‘You have no doubt that Barey knows him?’
‘Barey Bhai knows him well enough to ride in his car.’
She mumbled indistinct words and leaned forward to whisper to Gulbadan who was removing dried henna leaves from Baji’s feet. They spoke for some time, muttering and gesticulating. Suddenly Baji straightened up and clapped her hands. The others gathered around her, preoccupied with their make-up and in various stages of dressing.
‘Today’s performance,’ Baji declared imperiously, ‘is cancelled.’ There was a stunned silence, and then a gasp of disappointment. She turned sharply. ‘Yes, Nargis?’ Baji’s tone did not invite any opposition. ‘Have you something to say?’
‘May we know why?’
‘Baathazeeb!’ Baji screamed. ‘Ungrateful wretch!’ The hand mirror sailed past Nargis’s head and smashed into a tin trunk. ‘How dare you?’
‘I only—’
‘Baji,’ Gulbadan intervened. ‘He offered us a fortune!’
‘Chup! Am I your leader or what? Is my authority no longer recognised here? Do you wish for a new guru? Someone wiser than I am? You are free to leave this house and seek a refuge somewhere else! Jah! Jah! No one will stop you!’ She pointed her index finger at each hijra. ‘All of you can go!’
The prospect of an uncertain life outside the haveli beat them into submission.
‘We will not perform for such a brute! And at his age why is he having more children? He married a young girl last year. Has the wrinkled cock no shame?’ Baji suddenly found Jhunjhun Wallah’s standards of personal morality unacceptable.
‘Baji…’ I thought it prudent to step back several paces. ‘I think we should go. I have a plan to scare him. It would be a form of revenge.’
She motioned me to come forward. ‘The devil is active in you again. Don’t deny it! I can see him dancing in your eyes. Closer!’ She held a handkerchief to her nose. ‘Tell me.’
She winced as I brushed her right ear with my lips and revealed what I had in mind.
She giggled and her face brightened. ‘Is there no limit to your wickedness? Are you certain it won’t be any more serious than that?’
‘Just some noise. Nothing more,’ I lied hastily.
A sigh indicated her compliance with what I had suggested. ‘Now listen everyone…’
Reluctantly I warned her of the possible consequences if the police took it seriously.
‘We’ve been arrested before,’ she said unconcernedly. ‘We are too much trouble to keep in jail. The prisoners go berserk when we flirt with them. The last time we caused a riot. The police decided to come to a suitable arrangement with us.’
She announced what we were to do.
‘I will need money to buy a few things.’
Her lips tightened, but she reached inside her blouse and fished out a bundle of notes.
Baji had given me more money than I needed. I bought firecrackers at a discount from Manu in Sadar Bazaar. He operated from behind the façade of a shop that sold kites and face masks. Manu had turned it into quite a profitable business ever since he was last released from prison and banned from selling firecrackers and trading in illegal firearms.
In the time since I had last seen him, Manu had lost several fingers on both hands after an experiment with explosives had blown up his shop in Faiz Bazaar. He accepted the prison sentence without bitterness, and his only regret was that he couldn’t shag himself quite so easily after the accident.
‘Is it only for fun or do you want to create serious trouble?’ he asked over a mug of tea. Without waiting for a reply, he called out to an assistant. ‘Two number ten. Make that three. Five of the new ones.’
‘They must fit into this satchel.’
‘These are all new and small. But what they can do…’ He grinned and revealed his diseased gums. ‘Are you married yet?’
It was a question we asked each other unfailingly whenever we met. The answer was strictly the same—a celebratory ‘No’, followed by lewd jokes about marriage. We were adept at hiding our loneliness behind a cheerful verbosity that emphasised our preference for freedom. No familial ties and no fuss about where we slept. We pretended that we ate, drank and wanked our way through life with the utmost indifference to emotional needs, shunning responsibilities and avoiding routines.
This time, however, my reply was different. ‘In a way,’ I said coyly.
‘In a way,’ Manu repeated tonelessly. ‘In a way.’ He was confounded by what I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes? Yes…Yes!’ His face brightened. ‘You clumsy giraffe-fucker! Who are you trying to fool?’ He slapped my cheeks and roared with raucous laughter.
‘Her name is Meena.’
I think it was the earnestness in my voice that made him stop. His face turned dark, and he looked at me with venomous eyes. ‘This is a bad joke, Chotah. A very bad joke!’
‘It is not a joke.’ I did not wish to provoke him further by revealing any more.
The assistant interrupted us.
‘How much?’ I asked. ‘I have to go.’
Manu dismissed my query with a wave of a hand. ‘No joke,’ he muttered. ‘No joke. Now only I am left without a wife.’
He sounded so utterly disconsolate that I regretted misleading him.
‘Is she also a dwarf?’
‘I must go.’
‘I know!’ He sprang up from his stool. ‘You are planning to get rid of her! I can give you some potent stuff that will blow her apart!’ He followed me for a distance. ‘Then you can be free again! What do you do at night?’ he shouted as I quickened my steps. ‘Lie on her belly and make feeble efforts to create another midget? Is her face as ugly as yours? It must be for her to have you! I thought we were friends!’
Jhunjhun Wallah’s house was something my imagination could easily have conjured. A white marble structure glistened in the sun. Lawn and flowerbeds, fruit trees and a pond. A haven for gods…Meena and myself. Certainly not for the fat businessman. There was a high wall topped with barbed wire around the property. Four armed guards, dressed in white uniforms and wearing red turbans, stood in front of the massive iron gate.
We were stopped at the entrance where the guards insisted on searching us. They leered and winked, laughing among themselves. One of them was bold enough to touch Baji. She kicked the startled man on the knee and abused him. Nargis and Gulbadan drummed their dholaks and Chunnu played the harmonium. We danced in front of a car that turned off the road towards the gate. In rapid succession, several cars pulled up behind each other. The driver of the first vehicle beeped his horn. An elderly woman rolled down a rear window and stuck out her face. She was sweaty and irritable. She screeched at us, and then shouted at the guards to remove the undesirable freaks. In a flash Gulbadan was at the car’s window, leaning over to lick the woman’s cheek with a monstrously large tongue. The hijra shook violently and panted like a thirsty dog.
There was a terrified shriek followed by ‘Oh…ooh…oooh…oooh! Shameless mongrels!’ Gulbadan laughed and wagged her tongue as the car window was rolled up. Street urchins whistled and clapped.
The gate swung open and we led a procession of noisy entertainers and honking cars inside. An agitated young man met us in the driveway and urged us to follow him on to the grassy area to the side of the house. We stood defiantly, blocking the cars.
‘Sri Jhunjhun Wallah will not be pleased!’ he warned us. ‘Please get out of the way of the vehicles!’
Baji responded by moving her hips in a series of short jerks. ‘Your arse?’ she asked loudly. ‘Is there a price for your arse?’
Servants stifled their giggles and scurried inside the house. Two of the guards came running. Gulbadan and I slipped behind the embarrassed man who began to scold the guards for their lack of vigilance. Too thin. His buttocks were not round enough to attract me. Dutifully Gulbadan reached out and squeezed his bum. A startled jump. The hijras rubbed their backsides and groaned in mock pain. Other men emerged from the house. There was a face I recognised. Quickly I slipped behind a tree.
Ram Lal spoke to Baji. Whatever he said quietened her. She nodded obediently. I feared that our plans to humiliate Jhunjhun Wallah had been thwarted. Meekly the hijras sat on the grass with a guard hovering near them.
‘You will be told when. Understand?’ Ram Lal did not raise his voice. He could not have been more threatening had he lost his temper and yelled. The control he demonstrated reminded me of a slithering cobra ready to strike with deadly effect at any moment. He was in command and in no mood to negotiate.
A part of my plan involved the hijras shedding their clothes during a dance. I wanted them to run naked among the guests, touching and kissing whoever they could, shouting curses and obscenities. That was to be the diversion. But now…
I made my way to the back of the house without being challenged. A passing servant looked at me and grinned. My yellow clothes, wig, make-up and dark glasses were too odd to cause anything but amusement. I could only be viewed as an eccentric entertainer. A gong sounded. People hurried to the front of the house where rows of tables and chairs had been laid under a red and white marquee.
Working feverishly, I gathered and stacked bits of wood, leaves and twigs into a mound under an open window and topped it with firecrackers and rusty nails. Then I took a bottle of kerosene from the satchel and emptied it over the pile. Finally, I sprinkled a handful of matchsticks, saving only a couple to light the fire. Stepping back a few paces, I lit both the matchsticks, took aim and threw them on the heap.
I ran as fast as I could to the gate, passing the guests who were too busy devouring food to see me. The guards were preoccupied with the unruly crowd of beggars assembled outside the gate, clamouring for food and
money. I stopped behind a gold mohur tree on the opposite side of the road and listened. The volume of the explosion did not disappoint me.
Notoriety. Concoctions of whispered words in bazaars. Stories, flowing like tributaries from the mainstream of reality, twisting and turning, gurgling with lives of their own. Vamana, the terrorist. The ultimate menace to society. The greatest danger in the city. My name on posters. Police hunts. An addition to history’s long list of the villains of Delhi. I trembled with the excitement of possibilities. I drifted through the lanes of the city, occupied by visions of self-importance.
I wondered how much damage I had caused. House and trees ablaze. The sight of Jhunjhun Wallah and Ram Lal like creatures from hell, their clothes and limbs on fire. Pandemonium. Disfiguration. Lives among the ashes. Let them learn what it meant to be haunted by fear and pain. I ordered them to stand in front of mirrors to view their charred lives.
My daring thrilled me. Such exquisite timing! What perfection! I skipped along, wishing pedestrians luck for the rest of the day.
12
Corridor of peace
I returned to the bustee after sunset. More shacks had been pulled down. Chaman was preparing to visit a neighbour. The smell of smoke hadn’t subsided. A child wailed, probably haunted by a hazy memory of destruction.
‘What have you done?’ she demanded. ‘The police were here.’
Chaman must have sensed my grin in the darkness. It infuriated her. ‘Vamana!’ She grabbed my shoulders. The illness had not drained all her strength.
‘I heard,’ I said calmly. ‘Do you know if the hijras are in gaol?’
‘Why should they be in gaol?’
‘I thought you might have heard something.’
‘What are you hiding from me?’ Chaman sounded like Miss DeSouza.
‘Can we go to the cemetery tonight?’