by Irfan Master
‘And why would he agree to that?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.
‘We told him it was for a school project,’ chipped in Saleem.
Mr Mukherjee widened his eyes and shook his head. ‘Clearly you two are ahead of the game here. I’ll try my best to catch up.’
Saleem stood up suddenly. ‘I have to leave,’ he said. He looked anxious.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Oh, nothing. I’ve just got to get home and help my bapuji with something. I’ll pass by Chota and tell him you’re with Mr Mukherjee.’
‘Ah yes, the lookout. Trust that little rascal to worm his way out of school for this! He needs to be here more than anyone.’
‘Mr Mukherjee, you said you’d help,’ I protested. ‘If Chota doesn’t stay on the roof, we have no way of knowing who tries to visit Bapuji.’
‘OK, fine, I understand,’ he replied. ‘Tell Chota that we’ll be at my house if he needs us. I need to get home before Mrs Mukherjee comes looking for me.’
Saleem agreed and quickly made his way out of the classroom. Mr Mukherjee collected his papers and put them in his briefcase. He looked over at me.
‘What is it? You still look worried. Is it Saleem?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he’s hiding something but I don’t know what.’
‘And is it your responsibility to understand and solve everyone’s problems?’
‘No, it’s not that. I just know something’s wrong. Why won’t he tell me? He tells me everything.’
‘Well, give him some time and maybe he’ll come to you with whatever it is that’s bothering him. He probably doesn’t want to burden you with it at the moment,’ said Mr Mukherjee, locking the school building and leading me down the street.
‘Yes, maybe,’ I replied, unconvinced.
Perhaps Mr Mukherjee was right. I had other things to worry about. Saleem would come to me if it was serious and so, for once, I wouldn’t press him to tell me but would wait until he was ready to tell me himself.
Chapter 29
Mr Mukherjee was very clever. He had graduated at the top of his class at every school he’d ever attended and his only dream was to be a teacher. Mr Mukherjee knew that our motley bunch was always going to struggle with higher concepts and different types of thinking. It was a miracle that he’d managed to convince the market town committee that we needed a school at all but, luckily for Mr Mukherjee, Bapuji was one of his strongest supporters. Subsequently the market-town traders had grudgingly accepted that it could be useful if their boys knew their numbers and learnt about the history of their country, though that didn’t stop many of them keeping the boys home to help at their stalls. Mr Mukherjee was constantly visiting the stallholders to request that the boys stay at school and to say that their learning would be beneficial to the family, their business and the community.
Mr Mukherjee had a house on the other side of the street from the school. It was a lot bigger than ours and had four separate rooms, including a study, a dressmaking room and a cooking room. The house felt warm and welcoming. The windows were wide open and golden sunlight lit up the room. The floor looked newly swept and soft rugs covered the floor. The cushions on the charpoi were freshly plumped and inviting. I sat down on a low chair and thought about our house as I looked around me. Our two musty rooms smelled of leather, books, dust and something else. I know what else. The rooms smelt of death. But here the smell was different. People lived here.
I’ll rest my head for a second just until Mr Mukherjee comes back. What is that lovely smell? I remember that smell. It was Ma’s favourite . . . What was it? Ah yes, I remember now – jasmine . . .
Feeling a hand stroking my head, I opened one blurry eye to see a woman in a white saree smiling at me . . . Ma?
‘Bilal, it’s time to wake up. Come and eat with us,’ said Mrs Mukherjee.
Rubbing my eyes, I sat up. Mr Mukherjee sat on the floor waiting and beckoned for me to sit next to him. Mrs Mukherjee ruffled my hair and sat down on the floor too.
‘Go and wash the sleep out of your eyes, Bilal,’ she said.
I walked outside and turned on the tap, splashing some cold water on my face. Then we ate in peaceful silence with Mrs Mukherjee heaping things to eat on my plate. When we finished, we all sat back content with our bellies full.
Looking around and at Mr and Mrs Mukherjee, I felt a deep sadness settle on me. This is everything I want but will never have. Feeling tears sting my cheeks, I muttered that I had to use the toilet. Sitting in the toilet, I began to think of excuses I could use to leave. After a few minutes, Mrs Mukherjee came to check on me.
‘Bilal, are you OK? Come out, I’ve made some tea.’
‘Coming,’ I replied.
Walking back into the room, they were both waiting for me. Mrs Mukherjee handed me a cup of tea and sat me down. Mr Mukherjee looked at me over the top of his glasses.
‘Bapuji will be worrying about me – I’ll have to go soon,’ I mumbled.
Mr Mukherjee looked at Mrs Mukherjee and raised his eyebrows. ‘You see, I told you,’ he said.
Looking from one to the other, I frowned. ‘What?’ I asked.
‘I told Mrs Mukherjee that you are always moving,’ said Masterji. ‘You never sit or stand still. And when you do, even for a moment, you admonish yourself and get going, like you’re trying to now.’
Mrs Mukherjee sat down next to me and took my hand.
‘Bilal, Mr Mukherjee has told me everything. He’s told me what you’ve sworn to do,’ she said.
‘You think I’m a fool, don’t you?’ I asked.
‘No, I think you’re a very brave boy. But no boy should have to take on this burden alone.’
‘But there’s no one else,’ I replied quietly.
‘What about your older brother? Surely he must take on some of the responsibility – some of the weight must be his.’
‘He has his own things to worry about. Anyway, I can’t talk to him about this – he wouldn’t understand,’ I replied.
‘Until today, you thought I wouldn’t understand,’ said Mr Mukherjee.‘You have to try him, Bilal.’
‘Next time Rafeeq comes home, I’ll speak to him,’ I said. If he ever comes home again, that is.
Satisfied, Mrs Mukherjee went into the cooking room and reappeared a few minutes later with some food for me to take home. I noticed that her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. I took the packet of food from her and muttered my thanks. She gathered me into her arms and held me tightly.
‘I’ll be OK, Auntie-ji. I’m a lot happier now that I’ve told you and each day it gets easier.’
Easier to lie, easier to deceive, easier to only think about what I need to do.
Mr Mukherjee stood at the door waiting for me.
‘Bilal, tomorrow you won’t be in school,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘No, you will be at home, working on this newspaper. I’ve written down a few guidelines for you to follow but I think you should write it. I’ll help you, of course, but they should be your words.’
‘But, Masterji, I don’t know the first thing about writing a news story. Where do I start? What will I say?’
‘Start with the truth and then work your way from there,’ he replied.
He handed me several recent newspapers and a few pieces of paper with some notes.
‘Here, take these, they’ll give you an idea of how to begin. Then tomorrow night we’ll work on it together.’
I smiled slightly as I walked out of the house.
‘I’ve just thought of a headline, Masterji,’ I said.
‘What is it?’
‘One India!’ I replied.
‘That’s a very apt headline, Bilal,’ he said gently as he waved goodbye.
I walked home feeling more optimistic than I had for a long time.
Chapter 30
The next day I woke early, determined to make a start on the newspaper. Bapuji was still fast asleep as I sat sipping hot chai and enjoying the
silence. But loud shouting shattered the peace.
‘You son of a dog, we’ll get you, you’ll see.’
‘Of course you will, you son of a cockroach, of course you will.’
Sneaking to the door, I peeked out and saw my brother approaching the house with his back turned, walking backwards. He was still shouting at a couple of boys further up the street.
Don’t bring trouble here, Rafeeq, I thought. The last thing we need is trouble on our street. I watched the other boys carefully. Why aren’t they moving? Then I realised. They were waiting to see which house he would go into. For a minute I panicked – if he came in here they’d know it was his house and there would be more trouble in the future. I clenched my fists. Don’t come here, don’t you dare come here . . . The other boys took a few steps forward but slowly. I felt torn. He was my brother after all. I should go out to help him. But this is his problem, and brother or no he shouldn’t bring trouble home. Still undecided, I took a closer look at the other boys. They were smaller than my bhai and in a fight he would probably be able to match them or even give them a good hiding. Maybe that was the reason they weren’t moving forward.
Then they picked up a few stones. My brother was only a few steps from the house. Don’t come in here, you fool! He stopped right outside our house but didn’t look inside. Instead he started hurling vicious insults at the other boys. Enraged, they threw stones at him but they were too far away to do any harm. Bhai taunted them a bit more and picked up a stone at his feet. As he did so, he flicked something into the house with his foot. It was a little stone with a piece of paper wrapped around it.
I read the note. Meet me behind the barrels on the edge of the maidan at ten tonight.
Sliding back to the door, I watched as my brother threw a few more stones and then calmly took a right turn and disappeared. The boys swore and ran after him. They’ll never catch him, I thought. He knows these streets better than anyone.
Shaking my head, I settled back down to work. This evening I would tell him that we were better off without him. I’d make sure he understood what I was trying to do and I’d make it clear that he was never to come home again.
Chapter 31
Making my way to the barrels that evening, I was still angry. Why was it that every time I thought of my older brother I felt such a deep anger? It was not an anger where I wanted to hit him. The anger was all inside like a dull ache and it had a voice of its own. The voice wanted to ask him, when did it change? When did we stop being brothers and start being strangers? Bapuji used to be my brother’s hero too but in the last few years Bhai had been different. He argued with Bapuji all the time and wouldn’t come home. At first I didn’t understand it, not for a long time. Bapuji never really argued and he never lost his temper. One day I understood that was why they argued. They argued because they were the opposite of each other, like heat and cold. Bhai was quick to temper and Bapuji was always calm. No matter what Bapuji said, Bhai would argue anyway. The calmer Bapuji remained, the angrier Bhai became. It was even worse when they started to talk about politics. That’s when he left home.
Realising that I’d been almost running, I slowed down and took a deep breath.
It’s no use being angry with Bhai now. He made his choice and I made mine. As long as he doesn’t interfere with what I’m trying to do, that’s all that matters.
Approaching the stacked barrels, I skirted round to see if I could spot him but there were too many shadows in which he could be lurking. Suddenly, a hand shot out and grabbed me by the collar, pulling me into a dark spot.
‘Get off me, will you!’ I shouted.
‘Shh, you’ll alert the whole town, you idiot.’
Breaking free of Bhai’s grasp and shoving him away, I turned to face him.
‘I’m the idiot? I’m not the one being chased by thugs through the streets. I’m not the one who’s bringing trouble home, am I? If I’m the idiot, what does that make you?’
Scowling, Bhai lit a cigarette and sat on a barrel.
‘No, of course, I forgot. You’re a saint, aren’t you, Bilal? Saint Bilal the Righteous. So young, yet so wise,’ he sneered, making smoke shapes as he spoke.
I took a deep breath. Think of what I came here to do. Stay calm.
‘Why did you want to meet me?’ I asked.
Irritated that he hadn’t been able to annoy me, he pointed his cigarette at me. It was so dark I could barely make his face out as I followed the smoking butt of his cigarette. The dying light drew strange shapes in the air as I listened to his familiar voice. The same voice that used to read to me when I was small.
‘I wanted to ask about the old man and also find out what arrangements you’re making.’
‘Arrangements for what?’ I asked.
‘We spoke about this last time, Bilal. This whole place is going to the dogs. It’s going to blow up very soon. You don’t want to be here for that and neither does the old man.’
‘And I told you last time: I’m not going anywhere and neither is he.’
‘But, Bilal, they don’t want us here. Why stay?’
‘Because this is our home, Bhai. This is where Bapuji grew up. This is where we’re from. I don’t even know what this new Pakistan looks like. What would we do there?’
‘That’s not the point, the point is –’
‘That is the point. For Bapuji and me anyway. You go if you want but we’re staying here.’
‘You just don’t understand. It’s a bit difficult for me to come to the house right now but I’ll find a way to come and speak with the old man. He might not want to move but he’ll definitely make you go.’
‘Don’t you dare come home,’ I said, almost in a whisper. ‘Not for this. You’re not welcome any more, Bhai.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Bilal?’
Bhai sounded angry now as well as surprised. I could feel all my insides clenching into little balls of pain and the pressure almost made me cry out loud. He needs to know. Tell him. So I did.
After I’d told Bhai everything, he sat perched on the barrel trying to understand. The cigarette in his hand smouldered until it reached his fingertips and burnt him. Flinching then swearing, he flicked it away and stared after it. After a moment he lit another.
‘You can’t do that, Bilal,’ he said quietly.
‘I am doing it. I’m not going to stop now,’ I replied with more confidence than I felt.
‘But it’s a lie, Bilal. You’re lying to him. It’s all a lie!’ He almost shouted it.
Each time he said ‘lie’, it felt like razors were cutting the insides of my stomach but it didn’t matter. Not any more.
‘So it’s a lie. But if we’re talking about the truth – if you’re the truth – then I prefer the lie.’
‘But how can you live with it, Bilal? Bapuji trusts you to look after him, to care for him and to tell him the truth. How can you do this?’
‘Easy – I love him. More than anything in the world. And if you had stayed, if you’d decided that being like him was enough, then you’d understand.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t care. Just don’t come home and don’t bother us with your “truth”. It’s ugly and we want no part of it.’
I could just make out his face in the moonlight. Tears glistened like little pearls rolling slowly down his cheeks.
‘Bilal, it doesn’t need to be like this . . .’
I looked away from his face before I lost my nerve.
‘Yes, it does.’
I left Bhai sitting on the barrel, the cigarette burning close to his fingers. My last thought before I turned away was that if he wasn’t careful it would burn him again – but if he hadn’t learnt from the first time there was nothing I could do.
Chapter 32
Saleem and I returned to Mr Singh’s printer’s yard on the Friday feeling extremely pleased with ourselves. I had worked hard on the paper all week, spending the days writing and the evenings with Mr Mukh
erjee. Mr Singh opened the door and growled at us to come in. Taking our well-thumbed pieces of paper, he told us to come back in an hour after he had made them ready for printing.
While we waited, Saleem and I went by the rooftop and sat with Chota as he babbled on about a cockerel fight that was coming up. ‘But not just any fight. This will be the fight to end all cockerel fights . . .’
Promising Chota we’d be back later, we returned to Mr Singh’s house but we didn’t feel as confident as we had earlier. I knocked on the door and held my breath. The door swung open and a voice tore through the quiet.
‘You two, get in here now.’
Saleem shoved me forward and we walked into the house. Mr Singh stood with his arms crossed. It was hard to tell if he was angry because Mr Singh always looked angry.
‘What in the guru’s name is this?’ he asked, pointing to our various bits of paper.
‘Not the news you were expecting,’ said Saleem, the words escaping from his mouth before he’d had a chance to think.
‘No, not the news I was expecting. Is this part of the assignment then? To write this, this . . .’
Go on, say it, Mr Singh, you know what it is.
‘These lies. What purpose does it serve to lie like this, eh?’
‘We just want it to be different, that’s all, Mr Singh. Like a “what if ” this happened, you know,’ Saleem stammered, looking at me for support.
‘There is a good reason. Will you print it?’ I asked, my question cutting through Saleem’s stammering.
‘Print this . . . this drivel? No, I won’t print it. It’s fabrications, fictions and lies. It’ll be a waste of ink,’ replied Mr Singh, sitting down on his battered stool and shaking his head.
‘Fine,’ I said and walked out of his house as Saleem apologised to a stunned Mr Singh.
Marching down the road, I stopped when I heard Saleem calling after me.
‘What’s the matter with you? If you’d explained it to him carefully, he might have gone for it,’ said Saleem exasperatedly.
‘I worked hard on that paper, Sal, but he’s right. It is all lies. Perhaps lies that are spoken aloud merely float away like leaves in the wind but writing them down creates a record of our lie. Our beautiful lie.’