A Beautiful Lie

by Irfan Master

  The first delivery came at Saleem fast. Unable to stop it with his bat, Saleem stuck out his backside and stopped the ball dead in its tracks. Our whole team fell about laughing as Saleem rubbed his backside. Mr Mukherjee was smiling too. The other team was complaining that Saleem had deliberately blocked the wicket but Mr Mukherjee ignored their pleas, gesturing for the game to continue. Saleem swung and missed the next four deliveries in quick succession. Rakesh bowled a slower delivery for his last ball. Saleem took a step forward and, planting his feet and closing his eyes, swung the bat with all his strength. The ball flew high and far over our heads straight towards the market. Cheering, we laughed as Saleem held his bat aloft. He’d just tripled his best ever score with one shot!

  But something is wrong. Skirting around the open field, I saw Mr Mukherjee walk towards the market stall closest to us. I was a few steps behind as Mr Mukherjee went to speak with Anand.

  ‘Anand-ji, do you have our ball?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.

  ‘I don’t but you’ll find that son of a swine down there has it,’ replied Anand loudly.

  ‘What did you call me, you dog? Say it again so we can hear it properly,’ replied Imtiaz angrily.

  ‘It was loud enough the first time – or would have been if your ears weren’t stuffed with dirt.’

  Mr Mukherjee held up his hands and moved towards Imtiaz.

  ‘Gentlemen, we just want our ball back. Did you see where it went?’

  ‘Your ball nearly took out my eye, Masterji. Can’t you take your kids somewhere else?’ said Anand.

  ‘If only it had taken out an eye, it might have saved you from seeing that your fruit is no good and you’d stop making a fool out of yourself,’ chipped in Iqbal from another stall.

  Standing up, Anand moved into the small clearing. ‘Oh, that’s big talk from behind your stale spices, Iqbal. Why don’t you come out here and say it to my face like a man?’

  ‘I would if I could see a man standing in front of me,’ replied Iqbal mockingly.

  The tension was growing. Mr Mukherjee, looking from one to another, held up his hands in a placating gesture.

  ‘Please, gentlemen, there’s no need for this.’

  Anand rounded on Mr Mukherjee and prodded him with his finger. ‘Just keep your ball out of here.’

  ‘Don’t blame the children – they’re only playing.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Anand?’

  I saw the whole class slowly making their way to the marketplace. The shouting match had turned into a haranguing bout with Anand and Imtiaz in the middle shouting obscenities at each other, supported by friends and family in each corner. Mr Mukherjee found himself right in the middle trying his best to diffuse the situation but the insults were getting worse.

  ‘Muslims, you think you own the place . . .’

  ‘Can you smell that? It’s the smell you lot give off in this place.’

  ‘Hindus are always sticking their noses in.’

  ‘How dare you . . .’

  Our class stood and watched as the argument escalated. Nudging my way to the front, I pulled at Mr Mukherjee’s sleeve.

  ‘They’re not listening, Masterji,’ I said quietly.

  ‘No, they’re not,’ he replied sadly. ‘Come, let’s leave.’ He began to herd all of us away from the market­place.

  Hanging back, I grabbed Saleem by the shoulder and he looked at me curiously.

  ‘Wait, I want to watch this,’ I said.

  Saleem pursed his lips. ‘Why, Bilal?’ he asked quietly.

  I turned to see a group of men, their faces set in grim determination. Saleem tugged on my sleeve, making me tear my eyes away from the approaching Hindu mob.

  ‘Bilal, look . . .’ he whispered.

  From our right a group of Muslims were closing fast. The groups would meet in the middle, where the argument was raging fiercely.

  ‘Is that your brother?’ asked Saleem, pointing into the crowd.

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t make anything out,’ I replied, straining my eyes.

  Both mobs had kicked up a lot of dust and the group in the middle of the marketplace had now finally become aware of the stomping of feet. As quickly as it had formed, the crowd in the middle began to dissolve in front of our eyes and by the time the dust had settled most of the stallholders had disappeared. A few of the men still stood in the middle and, looking left and right, they picked a mob and moved towards it. Just like that. It was so easy to choose. You were one thing or another or you were a coward.

  ‘They’ve got sticks, Bilal. We have to get out of here – now,’ Saleem hissed.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene in front of me. A shout went up from one of the groups and in an instant the mobs closed in on each other. The dust swirled as I tried to make out what was happening. I stood watching as roughly cut bamboo sticks swung down in vicious arcs, cutting a swathe through the kicked-up dirt on to an exposed skull with a sound like a thunderclap. Watching the man stagger, I took a step forward but Saleem dragged me back. The man stumbled towards us, holding his streaming head. Seeing us, his eyes widened and he mouthed something before landing at our feet with a sickening thud, his face hitting the ground. Throwing Saleem off, I knelt down and turned the man over. We watched in horror as his body twitched a few times, his mouth contorted into a terrible shape. Finally, the man lay still. Saleem grabbed me again and lifted me to my feet. The man’s eyes were open to the skies as we turned away and ran.

  Chapter 17

  ‘What’s missing from this picture?’ was one of Mr Mukherjee’s favourite questions. He would create a scenario we could all identify with that allowed us to think and provide a thoughtful response. ‘No guessing,’ he would say. ‘Work it out.’

  Sitting on my cot listening to my bapuji breathing, I wondered what was missing from my picture. Bapuji coughed loudly, a husky sound rattling his lungs. Every cough echoed around the room, bouncing off each wall and thumping my eardrums until I had to cover my ears. So much was missing. Where was our happy family? I held up a gold locket Bapuji always kept by his bedside containing a picture of my mother smiling – our sole family heirloom, aside from the books. I was only eight when she died but I still remembered some things about her. How her hair always smelt of rose water and she always wore a white saree on Fridays.

  When I was eight I thought that somebody dying was one big practical joke. I thought that eventually somebody would nudge me and say, ‘We fooled you, didn’t we, Bilal? Actually she’s not gone. Keep your eye on that doorway. She’ll be walking through it any minute now.’

  After my mother died, I remember that a lot of people came to our house to visit, sometimes bringing food but mainly to sit in silence or pray. Saleem and I would play outside and I would often run into the quiet room only to be intercepted by Bapuji, who would gently pick me up and set me outside and stand with me for a while. It’s the only time in my life I’ve seen Bapuji look as if he didn’t want to be there, in the place that he loved so dearly. When Saleem went home each evening, I’d sit outside with an old encyclopedia looking at pictures of the jaguar or the ancient kingdoms of Rajasthan which my bapuji had once visited.

  At this time, I had half an ear on the low chatter of the women who sat at the front of the house, sometimes praying and at other times cooking food for the whole street. People said it was fate that Ma was gone and that it was her time. I heard the word ‘fate’ so many times I began to get curious. I had heard of malaria and Saleem had once been taken with a fever so dreadful that he hadn’t been able to come out and play for two whole weeks. But never before had I heard of this fate illness. I resolved to find out what it was and the first place I started was the encyclopedias we had in our wall of books. After rifling through a couple of natural history encyclopedias without success, I searched the thick medical books Bapuji had collected. Still I wasn’t able to find anything and I resolved to ask Doctorji about this mysterious illness. I remember Doctorji visiting to pay his respects and as h
e made to leave, I followed him out and tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘What kind of illness is fate?’ I asked.

  He pursed his lips and bent down on one knee.

  ‘Why do you think it’s an illness, Bilal?’

  I remember looking at him like he was mad and holding up my hands.

  ‘Everybody says so. It’s what Ma died of, isn’t it? The thing is, I’ve looked through every book and can’t find any mention of it anywhere and Bapuji always says that there isn’t a question that can’t be answered by his wall of books.’

  Suddenly Doctorji looked very tired and sighed. ‘You have the curse of curiosity, child. Like your bapuji.’ He put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled me close. ‘Bilal, fate isn’t an illness and it’s not what your ma died of.’

  By this time, I was really confused and threw my hands in the air dramatically and blew out my cheeks.

  ‘So why do people keep saying it was fate then?’

  ‘Bilal, fate is a tricky subject and hard to explain. Even if I succeeded in explaining it to you, I imagine you’d find it highly unsatisfactory as an answer.’

  I remember pulling a face and feeling that, actually, the answer he’d just given me made no sense and was as unsatisfactory as everything else.

  Doctorji looked at me, mimicking my exasperation, and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You’re like a gritty little dog with a knobbly bone,’ he muttered. ‘Would you like some lassi to cool off?’

  Although that was a long time ago now, I remember feeling dissatisfied with what I had found out but it was a hot day and the thought of an ice-cold lassi was one I couldn’t ignore.

  Another racking cough made me snap out of my memories back into the present and, upon hearing Bapuji turn, I moved over to prepare his medicine. He must have heard the pestle crunching the white powder Rajahwallah had given me and he croaked at me. I took him a cool glass of water and watched him sip it slowly.

  ‘What are you doing home? Isn’t it a school day?’ he asked, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

  Looking at him carefully, I took the glass from him.

  ‘It’s Saturday, Bapuji. No school for me.’

  Bapuji was confused and less than lucid. Just as I was preparing to give him his medicine, he sat up straight and looked at me intensely.

  ‘Bilal, if it’s Saturday we need to tend your mother’s grave.’

  Taking the medicine over to him, I gently urged him to sit back down and made him drink the mixture.

  ‘Bapuji, how are you going to get up there? It’s treacherous getting up that path along the cliff.’

  Settling down a little, he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me close.

  ‘Well, you must go instead and tell her your news. Tell her about school and the market.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Bapuji. I’ll do all that, just lie back down.’

  ‘And tell her I’m OK. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’ll do that too, you know I will,’ I replied quietly.

  ‘And tell her . . . tell her . . .’

  I grabbed his arm and held it.

  ‘I will, Bapuji. I will.’

  He relaxed his grip on my arm and settled back down, muttering to himself. I shuffled back to the cot and slumped down feeling heavy and lethargic. The gold locket twinkled next to me and I could see Ma smiling up at me. I’d been putting off visiting the grave for a few weeks now but Bapuji was right – I needed to tend the grave and give Ma my news.

  And what news is that, Bilal? That I’m lying to Bapuji? That I’ve set up some elaborate scheme to keep the truth hidden? What must she think of me?

  I snapped the locket shut and stood up. I needed to talk to Ma. She would understand what I was trying to do because she knew Bapuji better than anybody else. If I leave now, I can be back before sundown, I thought. I made a quick note to run past Chota and let him know I was going. Gathering up some rice and a few chapattis, I made sure to take a blanket as it became quite chilly on the cliff. As I rushed out of the door, I realised that I’d forgotten the rose water I always took with me. Sprinting back inside, I quickly grabbed the bottle and strained my ears to hear if Bapuji was still coughing but there was no sound from the other room as I ran out of the house.

  Chapter 18

  Every Saturday after the market had closed, we would pack some food and make our way to where Ma was buried. When she died, Bapuji was adamant that she had to be buried in a special place. At least ten different townspeople had visited Bapuji and tried to convince him that her body had to be buried, according to tradition and religion, in the cemetery just like everyone else. He had explained it all away by saying, ‘Well, she wasn’t like everyone else.’

  Bapuji had recounted that, when they were younger, before I was born, he and Ma had loved to find different places to picnic and her favourite place had been the standing place of a giant banyan tree. The tree stood a few miles away from the town on a steep cliff. Bapuji had explained that the banyan tree was where the old town had originally been situated many years ago and the giant tree had been witness to all the major decisions of the village, as it was at the time. It was my great-great-grandfather who had realised the potential of the village as a central point for all the surrounding villages and convinced the elders, market traders and village people that they needed to move as they were slowly becoming a small town. After much discussion under the watchful eye of the banyan tree, it was decided that a move to a larger site would be made. They took everything with them but the banyan tree was immovable and had been left behind.

  Bapuji and I would sit there talking to Ma as the sun went down. After a while I’d leave Bapuji to speak with her alone and I’d wander off to the other side of the tree and climb to my favourite vantage point, from which I could see the entire market town. Bapuji told me that when I was just five, I had walked around the tree, which had taken a good amount of time, and waved at Bhai, who had immediately climbed the tree and swung dangerously from a branch. I had pointed up to him and explained that that was where I wanted to be placed. Ma was totally against it but Bapuji convinced her by saying he would climb up with me on his back.

  ‘Hold on tight, Bilal,’ he’d said and had slowly climbed up to a little kink in a branch. We sat at the top very pleased with ourselves – Bapuji because he managed to get us both up there and me because I was sitting in my bapuji’s lap so high up with this great view. Ma was less pleased and I remember her standing in an emerald-coloured saree at the foot of the tree, fretting and urging us all to come down. That was my first memory of us as a family, although sometimes I wondered if it was actually what I remembered or what Bapuji had told me and I had claimed as something I remembered. As I walked towards the cliff, I decided that I didn’t care which it was, I was just glad I did.

  Over the years, a rough path had been cut into the cliff providing a short cut to another village a few miles east. During monsoon season, the rain often made the path treacherous. I approached the cliff hoping it would be dry enough to attempt the climb. Looping the blanket, I tied it around my waist, and turned up the ends of my trousers. The path leading to the cliff was dry enough but as soon as I reached the beginning of the incline, I could feel the path give under my feet. Treading carefully, I’d only climbed a quarter of the way up when I felt the loose earth move under me. Suddenly I was no longer on my feet as I tumbled down the cliff amidst the rubble, mud and shrubbery, landing with a bump.

  Picking some leaves from out of my hair, I stood up and dusted myself down. The blanket was hanging too loosely around my waist so I looped it over my right shoulder and under my left armpit, tying a double knot at my chest. Clenching my teeth, I moved up the cliff once more, this time using my hands to grip firm holds, like a monkey scampering up a tree. The earth continued to slide from under me as I reached halfway up the cliff. Using every part of my body, I clung on as a loose rock threatened to sweep me back down. I stopped for a minute and, looking behind me, saw only a
hazy darkness. My arms were tiring by now and, pushing up with my legs, I reached for a hold in front of me. I felt my right leg slip and I scrambled forward, clinging desperately to the cliff. I looked up just in time to see a large boulder come tumbling down towards me. Flinging myself out of its path, I lost my grip and slid down the cliff in a hail of stones and silt, racing the large boulder to the finishing line at the bottom of the cliff.

  I lay on my back looking up at a colourless sky. To my side, the boulder had come to a standstill a few feet away. So grey, I thought, everything looks so grey. Picking myself up gingerly, I moved towards the boulder. Patting it with my hands, I felt the cool stone against my fingertips. The sight of the boulder made me angry and I leant against it, my cheek tight against the stone, my shoulder pushing against its weight. But I couldn’t move it. Not even an inch. Resigned, I sat with my back against the boulder and pulled my knees in.

  I can’t do it. Looking at the cuts on my hands and the grazes on my knees, I picked myself up and made to go back to the town. Is that it? Give up? Is this my fate then? To be a failure?

  Tightening the knot at my chest, I made sure the rose-water bottle was still intact and moved once more towards the path. Teeth clenched, I found holds quickly and moved up the path. Stones and debris still rattled down every time I moved but I held on to the cliff, hands curved into little hooks, legs edging inch by inch towards the top. Holding on to a piece of long grass, I pulled myself up using my feet. The rockfall had kicked up a lot of dust making it difficult to see. As I tried to blink the dust away, I looked up to see another large boulder thundering towards me – and this time there was no chance I’d be able to get out of the way in time. I watched as the boulder accelerated towards me. Closing my eyes I fixed on to an image of Bapuji in my mind. I heard a sharp sound and air whistling above my head and opened my eyes to see the boulder land behind me. It had bounced right over me! I looked for another hold and pulled myself onward.

  Reaching the summit, I hauled myself over and lay on my back gasping for air. I looked over the edge and laughed, shouting at the world.