A Beautiful Lie

by Irfan Master

‘I’ll come soon and I’ll keep an eye out.’

  Now it was Mr Pondicherry’s turn to frown.

  ‘And pray tell me what you’ll be keeping an eye out for?’

  I bent down and picked up the stone and squeezed it in my hand. The sharp edges bit into my flesh.

  ‘Trouble, what else?’

  Chapter 16

  It was the hottest time of day and the maidan off the market square was mostly deserted. Only madmen and a few soothsayers sat talking to themselves in the bright glare of the sun. When I’d asked Bapuji what the difference was between a madman and a soothsayer, he’d replied rather cryptically that ‘many argue there’s no difference.’ I shook my head at this and wondered at my bapuji’s ability to always be mysterious and never give me a straight answer about anything.

  All around the dusty maidan the market continued to thrum with activity. A cricket match was often a welcome respite for the traders from the rigours of selling and shifting goods to and fro but I noticed something right away. The air felt charged with a sort of electricity I’d never sensed before. I stood still and scanned the stalls around me. I had to blink as the number of stalls, colours and smells hit me in a rush. Shading my eyes to adjust to the sunlight, I focused on a few stalls that were immediately familiar. Anand stood at his fruit stall looking over his wares. I blinked to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination. Anand never stands. He constantly moaned about his aching knees and had had a stool made especially to support his considerable bulk. A few stalls down, Sandhu sat deep in the shade watching over his spices and seeds. I could just make out his red turban, which in the deep recess of his doorway looked blood red. Next to his foot rested a long and gnarled stick. Sandhu never sits. He was always moving around making people laugh as they passed his stall, and I’d never seen him with a stick. My stomach convulsed in a series of jabbing pains that made me grind my teeth. Glancing towards our rabble, I could see Mr Mukherjee still struggling to organise two teams.

  Saleem strolled over. ‘We’ll be lucky to get a game in before sunset at this rate.’ He saw my face and stopped. ‘What’s the matter, Bilal? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened. Yet. Can’t you sense it? It’s different around here – Anand is standing and Sandhu is sitting! It’s all upside down.’

  Saleem frowned and moved past me. ‘Go and enjoy the game. I’ll get Chota and send him down. I hope he hasn’t eaten my mango, the little thief.’

  Saleem left and a minute later Chota flew past me giggling like a maniac. I turned round to see Saleem on the rooftop swearing at the top of his voice.

  ‘I ate his mango. Come on, before he starts chucking stones at me!’

  I waved to Saleem and jogged with Chota into the glare of the afternoon sun to join the play. Manjeet stood at the crease, grinning. Even without the turban giving him a few extra inches he was the tallest in our class. I’d never seen Manjeet in a shirt or a pair of trousers that actually fitted his gangling frame. Manjeet’s mother always complained that she made clothes to fit him one day but by the next morning they were already too small. The sun glanced off his orange turban as he hit yet another ball into the sky high over our heads. One of the key factors in winning was to have Manjeet on your side because once he stood in front of a wicket you couldn’t see round him or past him.

  The field had been set out after a lot of wrangling, a few arguments and finally a shouted rant by Mr Mukherjee, who had threatened and cajoled both teams into starting. I watched Suraj standing a few feet away from me, sucking on a mango. He always has food with him. Noticing I was watching him, he looked over and offered me a little bit of the pulpy mango he’d been chewing on. I held up my palm to say no thanks and heard the heavy thud of bat on ball. Turning quickly towards the crease, I tried to spot the ball and relaxed when I saw it had been hit in the opposite direction. Looking across at Suraj again, I noticed he had sat down and was now slowly peeling a banana.

  I had positioned myself near the market end of the maidan and could hear some of the talk among the stallholders. Only snatches of conversation filtered through to me but there was something about the flavour of what was being said that made me feel anxious. The taste was bitter, like when you ate a bad mango and it tasted really sour but you had bitten into it thinking it would be sweet. A lot of the people had expressions on their faces as if they’d just had a taste of bitter mango. They looked decidedly uncomfortable and nervous. A few shuffled their feet and one or two looked as if they were ready to bolt. Manjeet thwacked another ball far to my left, giving me the opportunity to casually turn round again and look at the market. Now I noticed people standing around in groups and although there were people milling about everywhere, anybody who knew the market could see that standing in a group meant something.

  I turned away from the scene, moving towards Mr Mukherjee on my left. He had also positioned himself quite close to the edge of the maidan and stood rigidly as Manjeet prepared to face another delivery. Shaking my head to clear it, I tried to focus on the game. Vickesh was up next to face Manjeet and he was one of a very few who actually could bowl. The only thing was, Vickesh often thought it was an international test match as opposed to a friendly game in a dusty maidan. He would measure out his approach carefully, counting each step with the utmost care. When he was ready he would lick his forefinger and test the wind. Only then would he nod at Mr Mukherjee to let him know he was ready. Approaching at speed, Vickesh’s first delivery almost toppled Manjeet’s turban. Holding up his hand, he mumbled his apology, ‘Sorry, still finding my range.’

  Adjusting his slightly skewed turban, Manjeet glared at Vickesh and gripped his handle, furiously thumping the ground with the bottom of the bat. The next delivery was a bit more sensible and a lot slower and Manjeet promptly dispatched it high over our heads into an alleyway beyond our modest pitch. Chota flew in the direction of the ball, barging into the other boys, then disappeared into the alley. The game came to a standstill as at least ten people, including Mr Mukherjee, began to look for another ball.

  Knowing how long it would take to find one, I walked over to a shaded part of the maidan and sat on an upturned crate. Stretching my neck to look at our rooftop, I tried to spot Saleem but the sun was obscuring my sight and I turned back to the market. As my eyes re-adjusted to the sunlight, I saw a small group detach itself from the edge of the market and briskly walk towards another group near Anand’s stall. I stood up for a better view but there were too many people milling about and I couldn’t see what was happening. Skirting around the edge of the maidan, I moved towards the two groups. Just as I was about to approach the entrance of the market, a stick appeared from out of nowhere and stopped me in my tracks. Pulling up short, I took a step back in surprise. Mr Pondicherry sat on his weathered barrel looking at me curiously with his sightless eyes – or rather, not looking.

  ‘Pondicherry-ji, I didn’t see your stick there,’ I stammered as the stick held me steady.

  Shaking his head, Mr Pondicherry stood up gingerly.

  ‘That’s because it wasn’t there until you decided to go past, Bilal. Is this how you keep an eye out for trouble, by running towards it?’

  Craning my neck to look over the crowds, I turned back to Mr Pondicherry and sighed. It was no use lying to the old man – his magical sixth sense sniffed out a liar at ten paces.

  ‘I was just curious,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  Mr Pondicherry leant heavily on my shoulder and sighed in return.

  ‘Just like your bapuji. What’s made you so jumpy?’

  I climbed on to the barrel and looked at where the two groups had now met and were exchanging what seemed to be heated words. Describing the scene to Mr Pondicherry, he nodded his head in under­standing.

  ‘Been happening a lot recently with those two groups. Young boys full of anger, working themselves up in dark alleys and then gathering here for a confrontation in full view. Your brother is with one of these groups, isn’t he?’

  G
rimacing, I nodded my head and mumbled an incoherent reply. I could see Mr Pondicherry staring at me from the corner of my eye and I jumped down to stand in front of him. He faced me and prodded me with his finger.

  ‘I’m not judging, boy. These are strange times. Your brother always was a hothead, quick to temper.’ He shuffled back to his barrel and perched on it, laying his gnarled stick across his thighs. ‘It’s only words at the moment. Let’s all pray that’s where it stays – here in this place at least. How’s your bapuji holding up?’

  ‘Fine, he’s fine. I’ll tell him you asked after him.’

  Mr Pondicherry growled at me. ‘Ha! Can’t lie to old Pondicherry, boy. Go back to your game and come to see old Pondicherry soon.’

  Twisting my neck again to see what was happening in the market, I almost crashed into Mr Mukherjee, who had noticed me talking to old man Pondicherry and had come across to find out what I was up to.

  ‘Bilal, what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, Masterji, just fielding. Mr Pondicherry called me over, sir.’

  Mr Mukherjee folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, and how did he know that it was you he was calling?’

  I cursed inwardly and made my face into a mask.

  ‘Well, he didn’t call me actually, he just heard some shuffling and called out. I thought he might have been in distress so I went over to see if he was OK.’

  Mr Mukherjee unfolded his arms and pursed his lips. Sighing, he put his arm around my shoulders and started walking me back to the maidan. A ball had been found and the match looked set to continue. Not surprisingly, Chota still hadn’t reappeared. It was quite a task trying to keep up with Mr Mukherjee’s long stride and I found myself jogging along to keep pace while he muttered to himself and looked at his pocket watch. This was the closest I’d been to his watch and I almost gasped at how beautiful it was. Engraved silver framed a white watch face, blocky roman numerals with intricate hour and minute hands delicately keeping time. Mr Mukherjee saw me staring at his watch and deftly slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘You’ve been acting strangely recently, Bilal. You and your friends. It’s something we need to talk about because it appears to me that something is bothering you, and that in turn bothers me.’

  ‘I’m fine, Masterji,’ I said, looking him right in the eye.

  ‘You and I will have to talk. Soon.’ I knew he was serious because he lifted his right eyebrow and shook his head.

  Vickesh was ready to bowl and Mr Mukherjee signalled for him to continue. Unable to beat Manjeet with a fast bowl or decapitate him with a head shot, Vickesh delivered a much slower ball enticing Manjeet to hit out wildly, which he promptly did. The ball arced high into the air and straight into the hands of Jaghtar.

  ‘Out!’ Vickesh screamed and started to celebrate by spinning around like a dervish.

  Manjeet, looking disgusted with himself, trudged off the pitch to sit with his team just as Chota appeared behind me in a rush.

  ‘Where have you been, Chota?’ I asked, nudging him.

  Grinning, he produced the ball in one hand and a pomegranate in another.

  ‘The ball bounced on to a rooftop so I had to climb up the side of a house, but a girl saw me through a window and screamed and sent her brother out to catch me. He was fat and slow and couldn’t even catch a lazy ox!’ Looking pleased with himself, he produced a small knife and cut the pomegranate in half. ‘Oh, and I also stole this from Anand’s stall. There were lots of people hanging around there and nobody noticed me. I could’ve taken anything I wanted, Bilal, but I was good this time.’

  Folding my arms, I looked at him in wonder. He was small and very slight but you’d never think of Chota being weak or helpless. His white shirt came down to his knees and his black trousers were torn and had a back pocket missing. Picking out the pomegranate seeds with his little knife, he stuffed his round face until he realised I was still standing right in front of him, frowning.

  He shrugged his shoulders and offered me a handful of seeds, saying, ‘You look like Mr Mukherjee when you make that face.’

  I self-consciously unfolded my arms and tried to cuff Chota around the head but he was already off, whistling and holding the ball aloft in a clenched fist like a returning hero. He then rather grandly announced that he’d brought pomegranates for everyone. I then watched as he produced five pomegranates from his pockets!

  Once all the pomegranates had been consumed, the cricket match recommenced and I noticed that the mood was lighter. Some of the stallholders came to watch, and as the sun began to dip we had a small audience. Vickesh – with little or no help – had managed to bowl out most of Manjeet’s team and now it was our turn to bat. Vickesh and Jaghtar were both raring to go and walked out towards the crease like two international cricketing stars, swinging their arms windmill-like and feinting blocks and off drives in preparation. The small crowd, admiring their confidence, clapped them on to the field and I breathed a sigh of relief that things felt a bit more normal. The sun dipped low over the rooftops and the maidan became a shaded place where people came to walk and unwind.

  Grabbing a bat, I made a few feints myself, much to the amusement of my team, who sniggered at my clumsy attempts. Laughing, I put the bat down and began to wonder where Chota was now. Being awful at cricket was fine by me even if it meant batting last and nobody expecting you to survive more than a few balls. I’d never managed to get the hang of swinging my bat before the ball bounced. Manjeet had, on numerous occasions, tried to explain to me that prep­aration was everything, but it was lost on me. I knew the shot I wanted to play, I could even visualise it in my mind, but by the time I’d done all that thinking the ball had passed me, leaving me frustrated that the world I lived in wasn’t the world where I was actually good at cricket.

  Vickesh and Jaghtar were putting on a good show for the crowd and were slowly chipping away at the total Manjeet’s team had set. Standing up to get a better view of the pitch, I suddenly felt two hands over my eyes and smiled.

  ‘Saleem, I can smell your grubby hands a mile away.’

  Saleem shoved me playfully and went to sit down with the rest of the team, beckoning for me to follow. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the thud of wood each time Vickesh or Jaghtar batted away another ball. From the corner of my eye, I could see Manjeet limbering up and wondered if he was still fuming about Vickesh trying to take his head off. Saleem sat next to me, paring a piece of wood and watching the game. His sense of contentment was infectious and always put me at ease. They all did – Manjeet and Chota too, living out their lives unaffected by or happily ignorant of the world around them. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair – they merely chose to live out their lives without worrying about what might happen. Not like me. They didn’t want to control things all the time. They didn’t think all the time. They weren’t interested in second guessing what was around the corner and having plans in place in order to stay ahead. Always ahead.

  Manjeet had stepped up to bowl and after a short meeting between overs, Jaghtar and Vickesh had set upon a strategy – block Manjeet and hit everybody else. Manjeet approached the crease like a monsoon-powered maniac, his turban a blur of fire signalling his run-up. The growing crowd was appreciative of both the tactics employed by the batsmen and the flame-topped energy Manjeet was displaying. Stretching out his legs, Saleem looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Quite a contest, eh? It’s all nicely set up for you and me to win the game.’

  The rest of the team laughed at Saleem’s bold claim and we applauded as Jaghtar hit another ball away smartly.

  ‘Chota back on the roof? I assume you didn’t kill him then?’

  ‘Nah, he sneaked up on me, the little runt, and we wrestled. It always surprises me how strong he is. I finally beat him and he produced a sack of pomegranates! That more than made up for the mango he’d eaten.’

  ‘A sack! He told me he’d only stolen one pomegranate, little liar!’<
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  Saleem looked sideways at me and, smiling, produced another pomegranate. Wiping his knife on his trousers, he began to cut the pomegranate into little pieces.

  What does that make me then? Lying about fruit is one thing. Lying about what’s happening in the real world to Bapuji is another. I’m the prince of liars. At least Chota knows when to stop. I seem to lie stronger and better as time passes until, one day, I won’t know the difference between truth or lies. I pulled in my knees and tried to ignore these thoughts.

  After a good ten minutes of trying to disembowel Jaghtar with the ball, Manjeet threw in a slower bowl. Jaghtar swung wildly, looping the grubby white ball into the hands of a grateful Manesh. Jaghtar trudged off the dusty field but perked up at the smattering of applause he received. Fifteen minutes later, most of our team had been bowled out. Saleem was next in to bat and in preparation was cutting the air with what could pass for a cricketing stroke at a distance, but up close resembled a butcher hacking at a carcass with a cleaver. Walking on to the pitch confidently, Saleem smiled and waved to me.

  ‘Watch you don’t get your head taken off,’ I shouted, laughing.

  ‘What? Not me! You just watch me, Bilal,’ he shouted back.

  ‘Just take a swing at it, Saleem. Close your eyes and swing!’ yelled Jaghtar.

  Standing at the crease, Saleem was taking his time. Manjeet had completed his over and Rakesh was in. Saleem saw to it that everything was to his satisfaction while everyone grumbled under their breath. Finally ready, Saleem signalled for the game to continue. Just as Rakesh was about to deliver his first ball, Saleem stepped away from the crease and shook his head.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.

  ‘The sun’s in my eyes, Masterji.’

  Looking up, Mr Mukherjee sighed.

  ‘The sun’s behind you, Saleem. Get on with it, will you. We’d like to get home some time today, perhaps even in time for dinner. Play!’ And with that Mr Mukherjee signalled for Rakesh to bowl.