A Beautiful Lie

by Irfan Master

  ‘It must be fate!’

  Chapter 19

  I chose a flat rock away from the giant banyan tree and sat down carefully. The elders of the town said the tree was at least two hundred years old. From this distance, the trunk resembled bands of people, shoulder to shoulder, arms entwined, standing firm together. Looking up and following each branch back then forth and into the ground, I tried to trace where the tree began and where it ended but it was impossible. It was all interconnected and growing outwards to form a massive canopy of arms spread out high above. Ma had always thought the tree was female. ‘Only a woman could be so beautiful and so strong,’ she’d said. Bapuji had smiled and agreed with her. Looking at the tree now in the dying light, I think I understood what she meant.

  Once just after Ma had died, we had come out as usual on a Saturday after the market closed and Bapuji explained that the mother root would give birth to all these other roots and then plunge into the ground and out again until eventually the new roots would crowd her out.

  ‘So what happens to the mother?’ I’d asked.

  ‘She’s done her part and now has the satisfaction of watching her children grow.’

  ‘But she’s invisible now.’

  ‘Not quite invisible, just hidden,’ Bapuji replied.

  ‘Like Ma?’

  ‘Yes, just like Ma.’

  I shook my head. I ask some daft questions sometimes, I thought. Wishing Bapuji was with me, I walked round the other side of the tree to where Ma was buried.

  Many years ago, Bapuji had set down two flattened stones for us to sit on. I picked the one closest to the grave and laid the blanket out. Staring at the banyan tree, I began to speak.

  ‘Ma, I’ve come here today to tell you that I am a liar. A deceiver. But I don’t regret what I’m doing. I know that if you were here with us you would understand. I know it. You know how Bapuji is. How he can be. I know you would understand. But I still feel that somehow . . . I don’t know . . . What other choice do I have now? Am I the only one who can see that everything is different? Everybody is pretending that it’ll be fine. That this too shall pass. But remember you told me that a monsoon doesn’t discriminate? Rich or poor, kind or cruel, we are all equal to the monsoon. And yet we carry on as normal! We go to school, market stalls open and close, we play cricket, we laugh. Meanwhile, the monsoon gathers. We are all liars, Ma. We are all great deceivers. I am a liar but I’m not the only one.’

  The stone underneath me felt uncomfortable so I stood up to stretch my legs and moved towards the banyan. I walked through and around the many arms of the huge tree. Spotting a little nook at the heart of the tree, I sat down in what looked like a roughly hewn seat.

  ‘Ma, is it a just lie? Bapuji always told me that it is important to live life by your own standards and not those set by others . . .’

  I sat at the heart of that great tree and looked out at the community of branches that had sprung up all around. Closing my eyes, I felt the rough bark of the tree with both my hands. Each root was connected to another through the soil, arms jutting towards the sky. I could sense a connection and, opening my eyes, I felt an energy moving from branch to branch.

  ‘This is how it should be, Ma. We’re all connected. There is no beginning or end.’

  Standing up and returning towards the grave, I saw one root that had snapped in half and hung limp. Another branch had grown on top of it and after years of growth the weight had borne down on it, bending it until it had broken. I stared at the broken branch that had ruined the symmetry of this great tree for a long while, until there were only shadows left.

  I woke up suddenly. I’m a fool, falling asleep! Bapuji is probably wondering where I am. Rolling my shoulders, I exhaled deeply. But I’ve got to relax and trust my friends – I can’t always be in two places at once.

  The sun had just set as I rolled out from under my blanket and stretched. I drifted towards the edge of the cliff and saw someone waving their arms around and shouting something I couldn’t hear clearly. Squinting, I tried to make out the figure. It was Saleem! I waved back and ran to get my blanket.

  Sniffing the lid of the bottle I’d brought, I sprinkled all the rose water on to the grave. I felt sad about leaving so suddenly and knelt next to the grave.

  ‘I hope you’re not angry with me, Ma. I hope you under­stand what I’m trying to do. I hope . . .’ I couldn’t finish.

  I ran to the cliff edge and started to make my way down carefully. Saleem waited patiently at the bottom, his arms folded. Looking me up and down, he frowned.

  ‘What happened to you? Drag yourself through a ditch, did you?’

  I looked down at myself. It was as if I’d been rolling around in the dirt.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Saleem.’

  He smiled. ‘If it’s got you in the story, I’d believe it. You can tell me on the way. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. Doctorji is looking for you. He came by your house and I’m sure he was a little suspicious that Manjeet, Chota and I were loitering outside, but he didn’t comment and before we could stop him he marched into your house.’

  My stomach clenched. They must have talked. They always talk. Bapuji must know. It was all over.

  ‘Come on now, don’t look so glum. We wanted to hear what was going on so we crept round the other side of the house to the little window and listened in but there was no sound. Your bapuji was sound asleep and Doctorji clearly didn’t want to disturb him so he did a few checks and left some medicine. As he walked out of the house, he called out my name. He looked me right in the eye – you know how he does – and asked where you were. I told him you’d gone to visit your ma’s grave. He said I needed to remind you that this evening you’re supposed to go to the village and help him there. So here I am.’

  ‘We’d better get a move on then,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go straight to Doctorji’s house. He’s probably getting impatient.’

  ‘I just ran all the way here, Bilal,’ Saleem grumbled and dragged his feet. ‘At least tell me why you look as if you were dragged through a ditch by an elephant.’

  ‘OK, OK, but get a move on,’ I said. ‘You know how slippery that cliff is after the rains? Well, let me tell you . . .’

  Chapter 20

  Doctorji lived in a small house on the outskirts of town, away from the market. He always seemed apart from everyone, keeping a certain distance between himself and the people he served. I asked him about it once.

  ‘Doctorji, why do you stay away from everyone else? Do you not like living with people?’

  As usual, he’d looked right at me and considered his answer. Doctorji was not one for rushing.

  ‘I serve the people most importantly in two ways. One, I look after their physical health and two, I act as a justice. As a justice, I must always be fair and objective. You know these words, Bilal?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.

  ‘They mean that I must always distance myself from the situation over which I’m presiding. If there’s a dispute or problem where I have to decide on a just action and we happen to be close friends I must not let that bias my decision. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, Doctorji. Friends are a nuisance you just don’t need.’

  I remember that Doctorji had smiled then. He smiled so little that I could easily count all the instances when I’d made him smile, usually with some silly comment.

  Now Saleem and I stood outside Doctorji’s door and knocked. After a few minutes, Doctorji appeared with his medical bag. Looking at my bedraggled state, he tutted and pursed his lips.

  ‘Well, I’m ready to go but clearly you’re not,’ he said, picking a twig from my hair.

  Saleem snorted but stopped when Doctorji glared at him. I shuffled from foot to foot and grimaced.

  ‘It was quite difficult climbing that cliff. The rains have made it treacherous,’ I said.

  ‘I see. So you thought it would be a good idea to climb it ? Honestly, Bilal, you
could have broken your neck or been squashed to a pulp by a falling boulder. Well, go home and get cleaned up. I went to see your bapuji today and he was sleeping restfully. He won’t need more medicine for a couple of days.’

  ‘But, Doctorji, I think I should stay here. In case he needs me.’

  ‘I think you could do with a break, Bilal. A little time away will give you some perspective.’

  ‘But, Doctorji –’

  ‘I need your help, Bilal.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘I’d like it if you could accompany me tomorrow,’ said Doctorji firmly. ‘I take it Saleem is able to look in on your bapuji and make sure he takes the right amount of medicine while you’re away with me?’

  ‘I’ll make sure he takes it, Doctorji,’ replied Saleem promptly.

  ‘Good. Now off you go, Bilal. Go and get some rest. I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning. Go on now.’

  Grabbing Saleem, I started walking quickly towards town.

  ‘What are we going to do now? Maybe I should pretend that I’m not well.’

  Saleem looked at me sideways and shook his head.

  ‘You know Doctorji can sniff out a liar at a hundred paces.’ Realising what he’d said, Saleem smiled. ‘Well, maybe not all the time but you know what I mean. It’s not worth the risk, he’ll only get suspicious.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be too far away from here.’

  ‘We said we’d help you so let us. Go with Doctorji and leave the rest to us. I’ll make sure nobody gets in to see your bapuji, OK?’

  As we approached the house we joined Chota, who was loitering outside. I put my arm around Saleem and Chota.

  ‘OK, but if anything happens, send me a message via pigeon. Ask Manjeet to ask his cousin to send one and I’ll come right home.’

  Chapter 21

  I had been accompanying Doctorji to the villages surrounding our market town for the last two years. Bapuji used to go with Doctorji for many years but then the market had kept him too busy so he began to send me instead. We would choose a book of stories together and I’d take it with me to read to the village children. For years they had enjoyed it when Bapuji told the stories so when I turned up one day, book in hand, they had taken some convincing. After a few pointers from Bapuji, I managed to work out what the children liked and since then they looked as if they actually enjoyed it when I arrived. The stories weren’t the main reason why we went to the village. Once a month, Doctorji would gather up whatever medicine he could spare, along with a number of other things the village people had ordered from some of the market vendors, and load it up on his donkey cart. The villagers would come to Doctorji with their complaints and, assisted by me, he would try his best to treat the various ailments.

  The sun was high in the sky when we left town. I sat next to Doctorji as the donkey pulled us along in the small cart. Rocking in the rhythm of the jostling cart, I made myself comfortable. The surrounding land was flat and stretched out in front of us in a sea of green and brown. After the hustle of the market town, the silence was complete with only the snorting of the donkey and the creaky turning of the wheels clipping it. The sky pulsed blue and white above our heads, and the threat of monsoon seemed far away.

  As Doctorji stopped the cart to speak with a woman who had flagged him down to ask about a complaint her husband was suffering from, I closed my eyes and let the silence calm me. We moved through the country­side waving at people and stopping occasionally to speak with farmers and old women who recognised Doctorji. Many people invited us in to have some tea or food but Doctorji declined as politely as he could and promised he’d try to visit soon. We slowly made our way across the land and I felt a sense of well-being enveloping me like a blanket.

  ‘It’s so quiet here. So peaceful,’ I whispered to myself.

  Doctorji looked at me and, nodding his assent, went back to staring off into the distance. From the corner of my eye, I glanced at him to see if he would say something but he had settled into a rhythm with his cart.

  ‘It can’t always be like this, can it, Doctorji?’

  Doctorji sighed and shook his head. ‘Son, the peace has already been disturbed,’ he said.

  ‘Broken,’ I replied absently.

  ‘What?’ said Doctorji, nonplussed.

  ‘The peace has been broken. Some things can’t be fixed if they are broken,’ I replied.

  ‘No, you’re right, but they can be mended or they can heal over a period of time.’

  ‘How long is a period of time?’ I asked.

  ‘That depends on the will of the person, Bilal.’

  ‘What if the will isn’t there, Doctorji?’

  ‘Then even though the body heals, the mind will never allow you to fully heal.’

  ‘It’s always about will, isn’t it, Doctorji?’ I said, staring at the path stretching ahead of us.

  ‘It’s an important part, Bilal. Take your bapuji as an example. Despite everything, his will is strong. His body has failed him but his mind still props him up,’ said Doctorji. ‘His will cannot be extinguished.’

  ‘No, it can’t.’

  ‘You’re more like him than you realise, Bilal. You have his need to see and to know and understand. Like him, you’re like a sponge absorbing everything life has to offer,’ said Doctorji, glancing at me.

  ‘Sometimes I’d rather not be like that.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how that constant need to find the meaning in things could be wearing,’ said Doctorji, smiling.

  ‘You’re not like that, Doctorji,’ I said.

  ‘No, logic is my best friend. I believe in cause and effect, my boy. One thing happens because of another. There is no greater meaning, there is only what you do and what happens as a consequence.’

  ‘That’s what I want to believe! That’s how I want to live my life,’ I said defiantly. Doctorji looked at me curiously and pursed his lips.

  ‘You are your bapuji’s son, Bilal.’

  ‘But it’s not realistic, Doctorji,’ I whispered, hating the fact that I appeared to be betraying my bapuji.

  ‘What isn’t realistic?’

  ‘To believe life will always work itself out. That whatever will be, will be, and it’s best not to worry and to just let things happen,’ I replied.

  ‘But if that’s what you believe, Bilal, if that’s your character . . .’

  ‘If it is, then it’s best to change. I don’t want to be a dreamer all my life. I’d rather live in the real world with everyone else,’ I said, hardly daring to look at him.

  ‘Sometimes, Bilal, the real world is ugly,’ replied Doctorji.

  ‘Maybe, but at least it’s real,’ I said.

  Chapter 22

  Entering the village, we were approached by ­children who ran alongside the cart. I waved the thick, heavy book I’d chosen to read at them and they cheered in anticipation. Beaming at their enthusiasm, I jumped off the cart, surrounded by children. Doctorji pulled into his usual place in front of a disused hut. As he went off to meet with the village leaders, I was inundated with questions about the ‘big town’ but eventually I managed to extract myself and went to look for Doctorji. I found him standing near a ­gathering of men. Walking over, I could sense a tenseness in the way he stood and out of the corner of my eye I could see that there was a heated debate going on with a few looks being sent Doctorji’s way.

  ‘Doctorji, is something the matter?’

  Doctorji hadn’t realised I was standing next to him and he quickly shook his head. Too quickly.

  ‘No, no, everything’s fine. They’re just discussing where they want us to start.’

  That’s a lie, I thought. Watching the agitated group, it was clear that there were two sides. One for and one against. Against what?

  I could sense Doctorji becoming more anxious. His whole body was still and although he looked as if he was admiring the blue sky, his attention was solely on the conversation going on not ten yards from us.

  Finally, the g
roup came to some kind of resolution and a short, elderly man signalled to Doctorji that he could begin his work. I moved towards the cart to unload some of the medicine we’d brought with us.

  While unloading the cart, Doctorji leant in close and whispered in my ear, ‘Something’s not right. I’m not sure what’s happened but as soon as we’re finished, we’re leaving. Assemble the children and begin your story now. It might provide us with a little goodwill just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’ I asked, alarmed.

  ‘Just in case,’ was all that Doctorji would say and he strode off to the crowd of people who were waiting impatiently.

  Anxiously, I walked towards the groups of children and asked them to gather around a clearing near the well at the edge of the village. There was a good crowd of mostly younger children sitting patiently in front of me in the bright afternoon light. The men of the village were still gathered together and were talking less animatedly but still sending wary glances from time to time towards Doctorji. Making myself as comfortable as possible, I looked at the eager faces and cleared my throat.

  ‘Today, I thought I’d read you the story of Aladdin and his magic lamp . . .’

  Upon finishing the story, some of the young ones cheered and asked for another, but just then two men strode to where I was sitting and stopped in front of me.

  ‘Come with us,’ they said quietly.

  ‘Where to?’ I asked, nervous at their rigid stance and the look in their eyes.

  ‘Just come. Doctorji is waiting for you. Come.’

  I picked up my book but they signalled for me to leave it. A little girl – who always sat in the front row of any story I told – stood up and took the book from me.

  ‘I’ll look after it for you. You can have it back later,’ she said and held the book close to her chest.

  Smiling, I nodded at her, muttered thanks and stepped into line with the two men away from the silent ring of children.

  We approached the disused hut where we had left our cart and stopped outside. They signalled for me to enter. I walked in and heard the door shut behind me followed by the thud of a heavy wooden bar being put into place. Doctorji sat in the corner on a sack of rice. His face was still but I could see thunderclouds in his eyes and something else – fear.