by Irfan Master
‘You know you can’t smoke in here, the books might catch fire. Bapuji would get very upset if he knew. Go outside.’
He muttered something under his breath and made to leave. Shaking his head, he suddenly grabbed me by my shirt collar and yanked me towards him, dragging me out of the door while cuffing my head roughly.
‘Get off me, you big donkey. Get off or I’ll bite you,’ I said as quietly as I could through gritted teeth.
He spun me round and kicked me lightly on my backside. Lighting his cigarette, he leant against the house and looked me up and down. Propping myself up against the opposite wall, I did the same.
It had been at least a month, maybe longer, since I’d last seen my brother. He was dressed entirely in white and had a white handkerchief tied tightly around his head. The beginnings of a beard flecked his face but, like Bapuji, he always shaved his moustache off. The sun bathed the front of our hut with a bright light. He smiled right at me, chuckling at my scowl, which according to Bapuji was the replica of his own. I could almost hear him saying, ‘So serious, you two, so serious. Go and get a lassi and calm down, will you. Life is to be enjoyed not endured.’ I looked at him but didn’t smile. He looked a lot like Bapuji and I blinked and took another picture, storing it away for later. In case I didn’t see him again for another month.
‘How’s the old man?’ he asked, stamping out his cigarette and looking at me carefully.
I looked back at him with a challenge in my eyes, an accusation. Where have you been? He’s dying. That’s how he is. Soon he’ll be gone. Can’t you even visit and sit with him for a while?
It struck me that it was probably a good thing he hadn’t been around. Every time he visited he argued with Bapuji about what was happening in India, about religion and his ‘new friends’. Bapuji called them fanatics – ‘The worst kind of patriots because their first thought is violence.’ Dropping my head, I looked down at my bare, dusty feet. It was better he didn’t visit after all. Lifting my head slightly, I saw that he was still looking intently at me.
‘You must have spoken to Doctorji. You know how he is,’ I said, almost spitting the words out.
He stared into my face, probing for something. Agitated, he looked away and patted his shirt, searching for another cigarette. He stopped fidgeting and sighed.
‘He’s dying. I know. Like this damned country. Day by day it’s slowly falling to its knees.’
He looked at me with glowering eyes that made me flinch. They scalded me with their heat.
‘Bilal, soon it’s not going to be safe for you here. You have to be careful and get the old man out. Sides are being picked as we speak and sooner or later lines will be drawn. We’ll all be forced to pick a side. Can you understand that? We are Muslims, they are Hindus and Sikhs. We might share the same space, buy the same food and talk the same language but . . . we’re not the same.’
Sleep still clung to my eyes and I shook my head to clear it. The fury in his voice was terrifying.
‘Bapuji will never leave. You know that. Never. You know how he feels about what’s happening . . . He . . .’
Bhai scowled at me again and shook his head. ‘He still believes his precious India will be OK, doesn’t he? Look around you, Bilal! Does it look or even feel like the same place to you? It’s all different, all changed. Those vultures are circling as we speak. Soon they’ll be swooping down to fight over what’s left. The carcass of India, picked clean by so-called peaceful men, learned elders and politicians – our so-called betters. I reject them. It’s time for change.’
Unable to endure his intensity, I looked away and closed my eyes. I didn’t know my brother in that moment. He had the same passion, the same energy, the same unwavering strength as Bapuji. But I felt nothing. I felt empty. He stopped speaking and spat on the ground. I didn’t have time for his anger. I’d pushed my anger deep inside, why couldn’t he?
‘Look, I have to go to school,’ I said and turned away from him.
No longer angry, he looked sheepish, like he didn’t know where he was or why he was there. I made to go past him and he put his arm across the doorway to stop me going into the house.
‘I’ve put some money in your silver tin. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
Muttering a half-hearted goodbye, I slipped under his arm. Feeling his eyes on my back, I willed myself not to turn round. Without saying goodbye, I heard him turn and march up the street. Ducking my head back round the doorway, I watched as he disappeared into an alley.
A dull clanging sound broke the morning silence as Mr Mukherjee started to toll his school bell. Hurriedly, I started to get dressed for school. I couldn’t afford to be angry with my brother. The next time he visited, I’d tell him not to come again. It wouldn’t do to have him ruining things. I had a plan and I would see it through no matter what.
Chapter 10
A typical market day started just before dawn, the rising sun gently bathing the town and the market traders in golden light. As ever, a few donkeys wandered around the edges of the market square munching on bits of straw and mangy dogs looked for scraps to eat. Somehow, seeing people getting on with their lives made me think that perhaps Bapuji was right. Nothing ever really changes. Major events you read about in the newspaper and heard on the wireless were just that. Bigger than you could imagine. They didn’t touch ordinary people like me and Bapuji, who just wanted to live happily near a market.
I sprinted past old man Pondicherry, sitting as he always did on a weathered old barrel in the shade right at the edge of the market. He whistled at me and called my name. He was blind as a bat but he always knew when I went past him. Sometimes, a few of the other boys and I would sneak up on him and, waiting until we were just behind him, he would turn suddenly and surprise us! He would chuckle to himself and say, ‘You ordinary people only have a limited number of senses but I have an extra sense which you can’t see.’ I didn’t have time to stop so I waved at him and immediately felt like a fool. Glancing back over my shoulder as I ran, though, I saw him wave back at me. I shook my head in bewilderment; he really did have a special sense!
As I rushed to school, I made a slight detour to see if Chota was on the roof.
‘Chota! Chota! You up there?’
No reply.
I anxiously shouted up again. Mr Mukherjee would be ushering in the last of the students and I really needed to get going. Suddenly Chota appeared on the rooftop, a little bleary eyed. I looked up at him, relieved.
‘I’ve been shouting for you. Where have you been? I thought you might still be at home in bed.’
Chota rubbed his eyes with a puzzled expression.
‘Why would I be at home in bed?’ he asked, pulling a face.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Because you might have slept in or not been woken up by your mother perhaps. I don’t know.’
Stretching like a cat, Chota shook his head. ‘Well, there’s no danger of that happening, Bilal,’ he said, yawning.
I shrugged my shoulders, not comprehending what he was getting at.
‘There’s no danger of that because I slept on the roof. I have done since we agreed the plan.’
I stared at him with my mouth hanging open.
Chota laughed. ‘Don’t you think you should get going? You’ll be late for school. I’ll see you later.’ And with that he waved goodbye and sauntered back to his vantage point.
At a complete loss for words, I turned round and sprinted towards the dying tolls of Mr Mukherjee’s rusty bell.
Chapter 11
As we all settled down, Mr Mukherjee stood at the front of the class looking very pleased with himself. He had his pocket watch in his hand and kept looking at it every few seconds.
‘Settle down, everybody, and let’s start the day with numbers.’
Collectively, we let out a low groan which hung in the air. Numbers first thing. Nobody was ever pleased with that except Saleem, who smiled.
‘OK, OK, I know, but we do have work to do a
nd if we don’t do numbers now, we won’t get a chance again until Monday.’
Suraj shot his hand up. ‘Why can’t we do numbers later in the afternoon, Masterji?’
Mr Mukherjee was almost hopping from foot to foot with barely contained excitement.
‘Because, young man, we have a special guest coming to talk to us this afternoon.’
Another murmur bounced around the small room but this time with a very different tone. He had our attention now. I looked across at Manjeet and shrugged. How special could he be?
Mr Mukherjee cleared his throat. ‘Today, boys, we have an extremely special guest and you must be on your best behaviour. If you behave really well, next week we can go to the maidan in the afternoon and play cricket.’
This time, a huge cheer reverberated around the packed classroom. He must be special, I thought.
Mr Mukherjee shushed us again and put away his pocket watch.
‘This afternoon, we will be visited by Prince Sanangpal Tamar, Crown Prince of Jaisikander and the last remaining heir to a true Rajput bloodline.’
A hush settled on the class. Mr Mukherjee had organised ‘special’ people to visit in the past. Once Bapuji had come, bringing with him an assortment of fruit and vegetables from the market, and Doctorji had visited too, examining a few of us with his stethoscope – but never a prince. We started on our numbers but there was a sliver of excitement in the air.
Sanangpal Tamar of Jaisikander, heir to a kingdom that went back over four hundred years, was a short man dressed in traditional princely regalia with a large, white turban threaded with gold sitting very smartly on his head. He stood at the door waiting for Mr Mukherjee to announce him, at which point he marched in looking straight ahead and then spun on his heel to face us. Mr Mukherjee hurriedly pulled up his own chair for the prince, who lowered himself slowly into a sitting position, back straight with his chin jutting upwards. He propped his right leg on to his left thigh and rested his long, curved talwar sword across his thighs. As silence descended around the room, he subtly tipped his head at us in greeting.
‘Do you live in a palace with elephants?’ blurted out Suraj.
Mr Mukherjee jumped to his feet and was about to give Suraj a good telling-off when the prince held up his hand to still Mr Mukherjee, who sat back down and glared at Suraj instead.
‘Yes, young man, I do live in a palace but not with elephants. They have their own place of residence. They can be a little smelly to live with.’
Even under the watchful glare of Mr Mukherjee, the class giggled and began to relax.
‘Young man, I live in the mountains of northern India, far from here. It’s a wild yet beautiful place with striking vistas, valleys and ravines. The people there are strong yet hospitable and will always offer you a cup of cool water and some modest food. They have little to spare but they understand the etiquette of hospitality. My palace overlooks the Kanak Valley and has been the seat of my family for many years. I am the fourth Sanangpal Tamar and the sixteenth prince of Jaisikander.’
The class was spellbound. The prince sat upright in the chair and spoke elegantly and clearly about himself and his people. He had a particular way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the room and he seemed totally at ease in our dusty, cramped classroom.
I remembered what Bapuji had said about some of the princes in India’s various regions. ‘Cruel, vain and corrupt,’ he’d called them and felt that as long as the titles they held were just titles, then that was acceptable. ‘They belong to India’s past and now it is the turn of the people.’ And look how that’s turning out, I thought to myself. I stared intently at Sanangpal Tamar for signs of cruelty but he looked like any other man except that he spoke really well. He also didn’t chew tobacco and spit from time to time. His beard was well oiled and his cream kameez was spotless. In the grimy market town we lived in that was the most impressive thing. I looked down at my shirt and saw a big stain. Rubbing at it only made it worse. Mr Mukherjee was beaming now and when the prince stopped talking he stepped forward.
‘Now, who has sensible questions for the prince?’ he asked, glaring at Suraj once more.
It proved to be a futile attempt by Mr Mukherjee as everybody in the classroom was much more interested in asking some not very sensible questions.
‘How many rubies do you own?’
‘Not as many as I once did.’
‘Do you have any tigers?’
‘Tigers are not to be owned. By anyone. They are wild and need to be free.’
‘Have you had anyone killed?’
‘Only little boys who asked silly questions,’ the prince replied with a wicked grin on his face.
Mr Mukherjee looked around the classroom in horror and when his eyes met mine he raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Bilal, ask a sensible question. Quickly!’
Forming a question in my mind, I put my hand up slowly and waited for the prince to spot me through the forest of raised arms. He answered a few more questions patiently then saw me. Pointing, he nodded. I cleared my throat.
‘Prince Sanangpal Tamar, my bapuji said that kings and princes are often cruel, vain and greedy. Is this true?’
Mr Mukherjee looked as if he couldn’t breathe. The prince sat up even higher in his chair and looked right at me.
‘This is a good question, young man. Kings and princes have often been cruel, vain and greedy, but not all are like that. Many care about the people who live on their land and will dispense justice so that any disputes are settled fairly. Their responsibility is to bring trade and wealth to their kingdom so that not only does the royal family prosper but so do the people.’
Mr Mukherjee had settled down and didn’t look so red in the face. I put my hand up again and the prince nodded at me.
‘But there are no longer as many princes or kings. What can you do now to help the people? What power do you have now?’
A pained expression flickered across the prince’s face but he gathered himself and spoke clearly. ‘It is true we no longer have as much power as we once did. Times have changed but as long as I have people who live on my land and need my care, I will be their prince. India has changed and is still changing. But the reason I am here today is to tell you this: you are the dream of India. You carry the ideal of this country wherever you go. No matter what happens in the next few years, remember that and hold on to it. I believe in all of you and you must all believe in Mother India.’
A hush descended on the class and only the ticking of Mr Mukherjee’s pocket watch filled the little room with a clipped sound. Was India’s time running out? I dreaded to think what would happen if the ticking were to stop. As Mr Mukherjee was thanking the prince for coming, I leant against the wall and closed my eyes. Princes, politicians, poets and historians. It made no difference. They only offered words – sounds made to inspire people and give them hope. Lies to make us all feel better for a while. It seemed to me that in a world full of liars, being a first-rate liar was the key skill you needed. Opening my eyes and looking at the prince, I thought perhaps it was the only skill you needed.
Suddenly, I heard a yelp from one of the boys ahead of me. Manjeet bowled into me and we both went down in a stampede of feet and arms.
‘What? What’s the matter?’ I shouted.
He looked at me with a mixture of fear and excitement and pointed to the middle of the room. No words came out of his mouth. I pushed my way through and froze. In front of me not three feet away was a snake. A king cobra! To make matters worse, it was angry and trying to pin one of the boys with its hypnotic swaying. What was a snake doing here and how had it got in? Then it hit me. Chota. The snake was his diversion! Somebody was on their way to our house. I looked to the window just as a little pebble sailed through. Everybody was frozen in place unable to tear their eyes away from the rhythmic swaying of the king cobra.
I lurched towards the door without looking back. Can’t wait! I thought and ran out on to the street.
Ch
apter 12
Chota was waiting for me outside the school.
‘A snake?’ I cried.
‘It’s the three holies! They’re a few streets away,’ Chota said, running alongside me.
No! It would be difficult to get rid of them.
We heard stamping feet behind us and saw Saleem and Manjeet coming up fast. Without stopping, we sprinted for my street. Chota and I arrived before the three holies, Manjeet and Saleem hard on our heels.
‘What happened with the snake?’ I asked them.
‘Mr Mukherjee cleared the classroom and told us to go home. The prince left for a ceremony in the market square,’ replied Saleem.
From up the street we heard sounds of feet approaching. The three holies consisted of the Reverend James, Pandit Gohil and Imam Ali. Despite their differences, they were fast friends and would roam the streets of the market town admonishing people for not attending the church, temple and mosque respectively.
‘Look casual,’ I whispered under my breath to my friends and turned to face the three holies.
‘Blessings on you,’ said the reverend.
‘Assalamu Alaikum,’ said the imam.
‘Namaste,’ said the pandit.
Smiling, I tried to casually block my door.
‘Son, we’ve come to see your bapuji,’ said the imam, making to move past me.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, holding my ground.
‘Yes, prayer will bring him relief,’ said the reverend.
‘I’m sure it will but I’m surprised you haven’t heard,’ I said, leaning against the door.
‘Heard what?’ asked the pandit.
‘Oh, I thought you’d know. It’s contagious.’
‘What’s contagious?’ said the imam, stopping.
‘What Bapuji has. It’s very catching. You only need to be there a few seconds and you’re likely to get it,’ I replied.
‘Get what?’ asked the reverend uncertainly.
‘It’s flesh-eating . . .’ chipped in Saleem.