by Adib Khan
I was eager to change into the new T-shirt and shorts I had stolen from Sardar Bazaar.
‘Look respectable!’ Baldev Singh had instructed. ‘Otherwise I won’t allow you to go inside. Remember, you don’t know me. Don’t forget the extra supply…’
I had already packaged a quantity of ganja in a paper bag. It surprised me that he made no further demands. I would have willingly done more to enter a big hotel to look around and pick pockets. Baldev Singh knew nothing about my mercenary motives. I had only expressed a desire to experience the visual luxury of a reputable hotel. Baldev Singh was one of Salim Jaffrey’s regular customers, and over a period of time his dependence on drugs had increased quite significantly. I had begun to save from my own quota of ganja ever since I discovered that he was employed in one of the largest hotels in New Delhi.
‘Eight o’clock!’ he insisted. ‘Not before. Understand?’
Of course I didn’t understand. Some time late in the evening, I assumed.
A sliver of light. In the gloom of twilight and in the wretchedness of the rain and wind, it was a comforting sign to tell me that there was no danger.
‘There’s a roti and some spinach,’ Chaman called from the darkness of her corner.
‘Ah huh.’ I rushed to my corner, even more appreciative of the debris that separated me from the rest of the godown.
Chaman sensed my anxiety. ‘Nothing has been taken.’
I uncovered the hole and took out the make-up kit and clothes. Meena was asleep. I resolved to spend the later part of the night with her.
Chaman joined me for the meagre meal. In the light of a candle, she looked frail and ghostly. Although she denied it, I was convinced that her eyesight had deteriorated. Her face was wrinkled and the skin on her arms hung loosely like residual flaps of leather.
‘There was a time when we ate together.’ She sounded tired. ‘Even Barey Bhai, in his own aloof way, was part of the family.’ She felt the sadness of desolation, as I did.
‘We hardly ever work together now. I must see the others about finding a place to live.’
‘Will you go with them?’
‘We will go together,’ I said sharply.
‘I don’t think I am wanted any more.’
I gave her the glass bangles I carried in my satchel. ‘I paid for them.’
Her smile of delight more than compensated for the money I had spent. She slipped them on her left wrist and extended her arm to admire them. ‘This Jesu…’
‘He can help you!’
‘How do you know?’
‘That’s what Father Daniel said.’
‘Who’s Father Daniel?’
‘The padre in the girja.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I have spoken to Jesu myself. I have! It’s in a different world. You must believe what you see with your eyes closed. I shut my eyes…and he appears. We talk. We are almost like good friends.’
‘Vamana!’ It was a choked cry of despair. ‘Why do you insist on fooling yourself?’
I finished eating. The hunger remained.
‘You have to believe whatever happens inside,’ I said sullenly. ‘I cannot ignore it.’
‘Isn’t it best to leave it in there?’
‘It’s the truth,’ I insisted. ‘The mind does not lie to itself.’
‘But it does to others.’
‘That is necessary for survival.’
She was tired. I suggested that she lie down. Her fatigue enabled me to dress without the apprehension of being observed. I disciplined myself with a very light touch of make-up. No lipstick. No eye shadow. No foundation cream. A dab of powder and a smidgen of blush. Decidedly a male with a glow on his cheeks.
Chaman was asleep on her mattress. I sat close to her to negate a nagging feeling that she was drifting away from me. I was like a man stranded on a shore, watching his boat moving further to the sea. At first its shape was distinguishable, but then it became smaller…a dark smudge, a dot, and then only the meeting point where the sky dipped into the water. Perhaps that was when one began to believe in the lie of a God.
Outside the rain had stopped. There were puddles everywhere. Shadows headed towards me. I moved sideways and crouched behind a small pile of bricks. Familiar voices. Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers. Farishta was a step behind them.
‘…a lot of money!’
‘We cannot just ignore it. Think of what it can do for us. A new life. On top of it, the police will drop all charges.’
‘It’s still a betrayal of one’s own. Chaman won’t agree.’
Nimble Feet and Lightning Fingers stopped in mid stride.
‘Who’s asking her?’
‘Her opinion doesn’t matter any more.’
I nearly jumped up to confront Lightning Fingers. I did not care for the dismissive manner in which he spoke about Chaman. But it was the unease in Farishta’s voice, and the faint note of protest, that held me back. They walked past, making plans without mentioning names. Unpleasant conclusions hatched from the snatches of conversation I heard.
The sky cleared. A few stars appeared and the evening was suddenly cold. I caught a bus and then rode on the back of a bullock-drawn cart that carried bales of cotton. As I walked, I kept thinking about betrayal.
There was frantic activity in front of the hotel. Sweaty goras disembarked from two large buses and were shepherded inside through massive glass doors. Young men, dressed in black trousers and white shirts, piled suitcases on several trolleys. There was Baldev Singh, standing erect and imperially aloof in front of the entrance. He looked splendid in white trousers and a maroon jacket, buttoned at the collar, with a gold and black sash around his waist. The turban matched the colour of his jacket, and the white gloves were spotless. He was a handsome man with intense eyes, a beautifully groomed beard and a sensuous moustache that would have felt divine brushing against my bum.
He saw me and jerked his head casually in the direction of the doors. I dropped the packet in the usual place, behind the pots of red, white and pink flowers, and then walked inside through a revolving door. I pretended that I was inside a spinning space. I went around several times until I saw Baldev Singh looking ferociously at me. There were goras sprawled on comfortable seats, standing and talking in small groups, and arguing with the Indians behind the counter. Most of them were elderly people and appeared to be highly irritated.
‘It wouldn’t take half as long, even in a moderate hotel back home,’ an old woman claimed, tapping the floor with a walking stick. She shrieked and moved back as she saw me grinning at her. I liked the necklace she was wearing. ‘Look George!’ She tugged his arm and jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘You don’t expect to see something like that in a luxury hotel!’
I abandoned my promise to be discreet and well behaved. As she watched in a posture of horrified stillness, I licked one of the glass panels with the full length of my tongue.
‘Did you see that, George? He put his germs all over the glass!’
George, who was fat, bald and seemingly immune to unpleasant surprises, patted her between her shoulders. ‘This is India, dear. One has to accept the reality of nightmares here.’
I was awed by the luxury of the place. This was a part of Delhi beyond my dreams. Its size was staggering. Clean…so uncomfortably clean! The floor gleamed like a plain of burnished copper. Above, it appeared as if stars had gathered together in a brilliant cluster. The walls were decorated with huge paintings. Invisible hands had banished poverty from the city. A few, who noticed me, frowned as if they were unable to reconcile my presence in their company.
There was a room carpeted in green. A glimpse of handsome men and beautiful women drew me inside. Princes and princesses. Glowing faces and flawless skins. Delicate. Unreal. At that moment I could have believed in the mullah’s Paradise. It wouldn’t have surprised me if there had been a sudden flash of light and celestial voices. God might have rested here. Wingless angels glided noiselessly with trays of food
and drink. I hid behind a potted plant and allowed my eyes to feast on the heavenly sights. But there was no urge to linger. I thought of darkness and smelly lanes, noises and fumes, crowded bazaars, the raunchy laughter of whores, the cry of beggars and mutants. That was my Delhi.
My interest waned quickly, and I headed towards a corridor with shops on either side. Carpets, wooden carvings and brass artefacts. Silk scarves, leather jackets and handbags. I touched a scarf—the softness of a woman’s thigh. The shopkeeper saw me and roused himself from the comfort of his chair. I hurried along. Behind me, the echo of his voice calling someone.
Further down the corridor, a slab of polished wood stuck out from the wall above the door. The figure, painted in white, looked like a faceless man. I stood near the door, undecided whether to go in and explore the strong smell I associated with shopkeepers and the little white balls of napthalene they used to repel insects. The door opened and a gora lurched out. His eyes were glazed and blood-shot, and his speech was slurred. He placed a finger on his lips when he saw me. ‘Shhh! I…I am aush…aushleep. Go back into my dream! Go on…’
This was too easy. A leather wallet peeked out of his hip pocket. Its bulge excited me.
‘Takshi! I need a taxi. Must go. Bye-bye!’
I pointed in the direction of the lobby. He turned, and in the next instant his wallet was in my satchel. The man paused and scared me. I prepared myself to run past him.
‘There! A taxi made of gold! Fit for my Injun…Indian mish…mistress. She’s a prin…cess, you know. Fucks like one too! Huh? How did you shrink?’ He shook his head. ‘Am…amazing country this!’ He bowed and nearly fell over. ‘That way, you said? Thank you! Thank you!’ He staggered away, pausing to kiss his shadow on the wall.
I tiptoed inside. A feeling of reverence gripped me, as though I were in a place of worship. Everything was white and clean. I heard whirring noises in the ceiling. Two goras were up against a wall, pissing into white bowls. I watched them closely. Another man was washing his hands and looking intently at his reflection in the mirror.
‘Eh? Look at what we have here, fellas!’
They looked at me and grinned. I ignored them, tossed my head back defiantly and went up to one of the white bowls attached to the wall. Here one could piss with dignity, I thought. It wasn’t until they gathered behind me, laughing, that I realised the bowl was too high. I couldn’t face the humiliation of walking out. I held my penis in both hands and stretched it as far as I could. It looked like the raised trunk of an elephant. I aimed for the bowl, but at the last moment the head turned slightly to the right. The piss gushed out with such force that it hit the wall tiles and bounced back to splatter my face and clothes.
‘This is priceless!’
I looked over my shoulder. One of the men was doubled over, holding his stomach. ‘Wish I had my video camera with me!’ he chortled. ‘No one will believe this!’
The other two staggered back a few steps, tears snaking down their cheeks, their faces the colour of ripe pomegranate. That was when I let them have it. I was still fairly full. I turned around and sprayed them with a steamy, smelly jet of liquid. It was a feeling of immense power, as though I were a fireman with a hose in my hands. The laughter turned quickly into howls of abusive threats. One of them stepped forward. I whipped out the knife from my satchel and slashed the emptiness in front of me. They scrambled for the door.
In the lobby, the drunk whose wallet I had pinched was demanding compensation and threatening legal action. The hotel manager’s invitation to discuss the matter in the privacy of his office was spurned with an outpouring of vitriol against a poverty-stricken country.
‘There is no dwarf in this hotel, sir!’ the manager said firmly.
‘I fucking well saw him!’ the drunk insisted. ‘Ugly little bastard! Like a slimy toad!’
The goras I had confronted emerged from a shop, shrieking about a mad dwarf with a knife.
‘See!’ The drunk jabbed a forefinger in the manager’s chest. ‘What did I tell you?’
Confusion engulfed the scene. The Indians looked quietly amused. A few sari-clad women giggled. Other goras assembled in support of the agitated foreigners. The hotel staff gathered around the beleaguered manager. This was a free country. The whites could no longer intimidate the natives. Jai Hind.
I would have slipped away like a dawn dream had it not been for a little girl who suddenly pointed a finger at me and squealed, ‘Mamma, there’s one of the dwarfs! Where are the other six? Here, dwarf! Dwarf! Come here…’
It was the only time in my life that a female had chased me. I was accustomed to lightning getaways. I bounded towards the door. Momentarily, the sight appeared to paralyse everyone.
‘That’s the little monster!’ the drunk hollered triumphantly.
‘That’s him! I’ll teach him to piss on us!’
Someone called for the hotel’s detective. ‘The police! Get the police!’
There were startled screams and cries for help.
I rushed through the main door, dived between Baldev Singh’s legs, and ran to the road. I dodged a taxi and two trucks, and weaved past several cyclists who had stopped on the other side of the road for a chat and a smoke. I felt dizzy and stopped to recover. People were streaming out of the hotel. A police van pulled up.
I retreated into the safety of darkness, buoyed by the chaos I had created. The rich would know about me now. They would tell my story to a breathless world. My only regret was my inability to see the hotel’s kitchen that Baldev Singh had described in reverential terms.
‘Yar, it’s a kitchen for the gods! Enough food there to feed half the population of New Delhi!’
Enveloped by the night, I sat in a field and groped for the stolen wallet in the satchel. I felt the thickness of the notes with the same passion as I might have felt the bulge of fat on Meena’s waist. I kissed the wallet and slipped it back inside the satchel. My immediate impulse was to head home…the betrayal of one’s own.
The words were a timely reminder to be cautious.
Loneliness was a chilling awareness of a dying universe. A few dim stars. No Jesu. Space, darkness, a hollowness inside, and the thought that I might be the only human alive. For company I could have headed for the police station and handed myself in. I managed a smile at my plight. But there was also the beginning of a pain. A hurt that was deep and lasting. I wanted to gouge out my eyes, cannibalise myself, throw myself on the road from a great height.
Would Jesu rescue me? Reach out with a hand that performed miracles and pluck me from the air as I plummeted to earth? Chaman’s cautionary voice intruded through the roar of the wind.
No, Vamana!
Where are the betrayers, Chaman?
That chased her away.
In the dark the mind was fully lit. There was Baji. Her rage hadn’t subsided. Manu’s promises to hide me. We were brothers in deprivation. He would lie to protect me…until he was threatened with pain.
I found myself in Chandni Chowk. Midday. Shops were crammed with disposable items. The bazaar was deserted, except for my presence.
I have money to buy whatever I please!
I loaded a cart with clothes, shoes and trinkets. Make-up boxes and bottles of perfume. Hats, wigs and food. The money—what was I to do with the money since everything was free?
Money, anyone?
Drops of rain. I emptied the wallet. Both my fists were full of notes. I hurled them in the air. They swirled and wavered and showered around me. Morning’s luck for some bleary-eyed vagabond. As for me, there was Meena. I would sneak back into the godown and lie with her.
14
Seeking failure
These voices are intended to intimidate me. They call my name in different tones. A lathi is dragged over the iron bars. Someone whispers. Harsh laughter. They want me to know about their collective strength. Anything foolish and there will be no mercy. Footsteps inside the cell. So it’s my turn. I look up at the patch of light stuck on the gla
ss pane. They won’t execute me during the day. I wipe the beads of perspiration on my forehead.
I am handcuffed. A rope is tied around my waist. They drag me outside. My eyes are pricked with needles of light. This is my first real contact with daylight for some time. Recently I have not been taken to the field to break stones. My eyebrows twitch. Watery eyes. I fall to the ground and inhale the dust. A booted foot smashes into my ribs. I manage to stagger to my feet. The fools think that they have broken me.
The world emerges slowly through a blur of white light. Wavering faces, as though they are under water. Slowly the outlines steady and sharpen. Trees and whorling eagles. A clear sky. The smells of fume-tainted air and ripe guavas. I forget the pain.
I am standing inside the gates with other prisoners. We are told to strip. A hose is turned on us. It feels delicious to be wet. A bar of soap is passed around.
‘Hair! Armpits! Groin! Rub properly!’
The guards watch us closely, their fingers lurking on the triggers of their guns. A cart, loaded with brooms and buckets, brushes past me. We put on our dirty clothes. The stench returns.
The gates are dragged open. The wheels grate on the rusty tracks and sound like frightened mice. A van reverses towards us, belching a thick jet of fume and raising dust. We are prodded with lathis and herded into the back of the vehicle. There is a scramble for seats. Doors slam shut. One of the prisoners shouts an obscenity. It is no more than a sound of the helplessness that we all feel. The click of a padlock. A hand thumps the side panel of the van. Horns blaring, the driver roars away. We are thrown against each other. Tempers ignite. There isn’t enough room for an effective kick or a bruising head-butt.
‘Where are we being taken?’
They look at me as though I ought to know.
‘To court!’ snarls the man on my left. ‘Who did you kill?’
‘A snake.’
Heads turn. An incredulous pause.
‘You can tell us. We’re all murderers here.’