by Irfan Master
We heard shouting from behind us in the street and saw Mr Singh striding towards us.
‘Where are you running off to then?’ he asked, breathing heavily.
‘You said you won’t publish it. What else is there to say?’ I replied.
Saleem groaned.
Mr Singh put his hands on his hips. ‘There is something more to this. Something you’re not telling me.’ Narrowing his eyes, he looked closely at me. ‘Are you Gulam-bhai’s son?’
For a moment I considered lying but Saleem elbowed me in the ribs and I muttered, ‘Yes.’
Mr Singh swore under his breath. ‘We need to talk,’ he said and ushered us back to his house, where he poured three cups of tea and signalled for us to sit down.
‘I’ve known your bapuji ever since I was a small boy. He’s older than me by a few years. We went to school together.’ He pointed to his printing machine and smiled. ‘Did you know that your bapuji helped me raise the money for this machine? No, I bet you didn’t. He was always obsessed with books and printing of any kind, and he felt very strongly that this market town should be able to print its own news and leaflets. As I was the only one who could write and edit copy, naturally it fell to me to take this on but without a printer it was pointless. Your bapuji convinced the town committee to raise the money and lend it to me for a small machine, and so my business was born. Without his help, I’d still . . . I’m not sure what I’d be doing.’
I could feel Saleem’s eyes on me. I mouthed, ‘What?’ at him and he mouthed back, ‘Tell him.’
If Saleem has his way, the whole town will know.
‘Mr Singh,’ I began, ‘if you know my bapuji as well as you say you do, you might understand why I’ve written this paper . . .’
After I’d finished explaining, Mr Singh flicked through our pages and laughed, a deep guffaw echoing around the room. His face was softer now, the look in his eyes more gentle.
‘Are you sure about this? I love your bapuji like a brother but is this the right thing to do?’ he asked quietly.
‘What’s the alternative, Mr Singh?’
He raised his eyes to the ceiling, saying a quick prayer under his breath: ‘Guru guide us . . .’
Yanking the heavy ink-stained cloth from the machine, Mr Singh turned to us with his hands on his hips.
‘Leave it to me, it’ll be printed by tomorrow. Go on now, I have to concentrate and put this clumsy copy into some kind of order. Get away with you.’
Chapter 33
Standing in front of the three holies, I looked at my feet. The holy men had tried to visit Bapuji on four separate occasions and each time I’d managed to persuade them that he was asleep or unwell. However, this time they refused to go away. I knew that if I told the three holies, the whole market town, slowly but surely, would know the truth – or rather the lie – of what I was doing. Even so, if I told them it would make all our lives easier. Straightening up, I explained what I had resolved to do.
‘You lied to us!’ cried the reverend.
‘This is morally unacceptable,’ said the imam.
‘Your bapuji must know the truth,’ added the pandit.
‘What would God think about all of this?’ exclaimed the reverend.
‘I don’t know what God would say because I haven’t asked him. But I think if I did ask him, he would understand,’ I said quietly.
Saleem stood to my right, glaring at the three holy men, and Manjeet stood defiantly in front of our doorway, picking his teeth with a little twig.
‘Understand?’ said the reverend. ‘But, my boy, this is an untruth, a lie. Your bapuji, he’s dy—’
‘Look, Pandit-ji, Imam-ji and Reverend-ji –’ began Saleem, raising his voice.
‘No, Saleem, it’s OK –’ I started.
‘No, it isn’t OK,’ he replied, standing in front of me. ‘It’s not OK to come and do this outside Bilal’s house. It’s not OK to accuse people of being something they’re not and it’s not OK to . . . to . . .’
‘Sal . . .’ I tried again.
‘So please go away and leave us to do what we have to do,’ Saleem continued.
‘Baghvan, guide these boys to the truth,’ said the pandit.
‘Allah forgive them . . .’ started the imam.
I watched appreciatively as Saleem shouted at the three holies while they wrung their hands and tutted at me. Manjeet continued picking his teeth, amusedly looking on as Saleem growled and snapped at them. Eventually I put a hand on Saleem’s shoulder. Turning around, he stopped shouting and stepped back. Looking at each of the three men in turn, I held up my hands. They stopped talking. I could taste the disapproval on the tips of their tongues.
‘You want me to tell the truth?’ I asked.
As one, they all muttered yes and nodded their assent.
‘Are you sure that’s the best thing to do?’ I asked.
Again, they all agreed with a jangle of beads, chains and heavy cloth.
‘OK then. Pandit-ji, when you first came here to do your job, you told everybody that you had been taught by a famous guru in Delhi but everyone knows that you came from Chennai and have never been to Delhi.’
‘No, that’s not quite . . .’ the pandit spluttered.
‘Imam-ji, you tell everyone that your son works in an important government job but we all know that he’s a dacoit and lives in a village near Batalia.’
‘Well, no. I mean, yes. He does live near Batalia but he’s not . . .’
‘And you, Reverend-ji, when was the last time somebody came to confession?’
‘Ah, well, it’s been a while. It’s been a bit slow. We’re a small community . . .’
‘Reverend-ji, perhaps it’s something to do with the fact that when you get really drunk, you like to tell whoever will listen the confessions of your sheep.’
‘Flock. You mean, flock,’ replied the reverend.
‘You know what I mean,’ I replied. ‘You all do.’
Saleem and Manjeet were both standing with their mouths open, looking at me. Pushing past them I opened the door and gestured to the three men.
‘So, please come in. I’m sure Bapuji would love to hear your truth,’ I said.
The three holies stood rooted to the spot in the quiet street.
‘We don’t want to disturb him if he’s sleeping . . .’ began the reverend.
‘Yes, he needs his rest. It would do him no good to jabber on with us three old men,’ followed the imam.
‘Quite, quite. You give him our best, Bilal. God give him succour,’ said the reverend.
The pandit closed his eyes in prayer. The imam lifted his hands to the sky and swayed as he mouthed a prayer. The reverend flicked his rosary beads and looked into the distance.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I said.
‘Think nothing of it, my boy. Tell him he’s in our prayers,’ replied the reverend.
Watching them go, I slid down against the wall and sat down.
‘Bilal, that was . . .’ began Saleem.
‘I knew that sooner or later people would find out about what I was doing, but I don’t feel good about what I just did,’ I replied.
‘But, Bilal, you . . .’ spluttered Saleem, struggling to find the words.
‘You told them what they needed to hear, Bilal,’ said Manjeet quietly. ‘If they didn’t want to hear it they shouldn’t do what they do. And they definitely shouldn’t tell other people what to do.’
‘Thanks, Manjeet, that makes me feel a little better,’ I replied.
Manjeet nodded and slid down next to me. Saleem still stood, trying to find the right words but, rolling his eyes, he gave up and slid down too.
‘Did you see the looks on their faces?’ said Saleem, sniggering.
‘It was very funny,’ replied Manjeet.
‘It’s hard to describe, it’s almost as if they . . . I don’t know,’ said Saleem.
‘Almost as if they were surprised at hearing the truth said aloud,’ finished Manjeet.
‘I can understand that,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Saleem.
‘If you tell a lie long enough, it becomes real. Then the lie no longer exists and all you’re left with is your version of the truth.’
‘It must have been some surprise to hear it said out in the open like that then,’ replied Manjeet.
‘It must’ve been like a kick in the teeth,’ I agreed.
‘Do you think you’ll ever feel like that?’ asked Saleem.
‘No, I will never feel like that. Never,’ I said.
‘Still, we managed to get the newspaper sorted. Has he read it yet?’ asked Saleem.
Mr Singh had made an exact replica of a newspaper for us, printed on a particular paper so that it would even feel like a real newspaper. Even he had been pleased with how well it had turned out – he had brought the paper to the house himself, proud he had done his bit.
‘I’m going to wait until this evening then give it to him so he can read it in the candlelight just before he falls asleep,’ I said.
‘Think he’ll notice?’ asked Manjeet.
‘I don’t think so. He sleeps a lot nowadays and when he is awake he’s not quite sure where he is. Sometimes he seems to think I’m Ma . . .’
‘Do you want me to stay with you?’ asked Saleem.
‘No, no, go on home. I’ll meet you on the rooftop tomorrow as usual,’ I replied.
As Manjeet and Saleem slipped away, I watched the light change. Moving into the house and closing the door behind me, I gathered up the newspaper. Bapuji was lying in bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
‘Bapuji, you’re awake! How are you feeling?’
Bapuji looked at me in surprise. He’s not quite sure where he is.
‘Look, Bapuji, I’ve brought you a newspaper,’ I said.
Coming back to himself, Bapuji perked up and smiled gratefully. Taking the paper from me, he held it close to his eyes, squinting in the candlelight. I sat on the bed, trying not to fidget as he read it. When he finally put the paper down, he looked at me and beamed.
‘I told you it would be OK, Bilal,’ he said happily.
‘You were right, Bapuji. Everything will be OK now,’ I replied. I took the paper from him, prepared his medicine and settled him down for the night.
Chapter 34
A week later, we sat on the rooftop as the market gradually woke as if from a deep slumber. Fewer and fewer stalls dared to open these days. Those that did were owned by resolute traders determined to retain their normal routine.
Normal, I thought. What is normal anyway? I’m pretty sure it’s not hating people so much you want to kill or maim them. That’s not normal.
Looking around, I could feel the tension in our group. Saleem, whose optimism was usually infectious, sat sullenly on the edge of the rooftop looking out into the distance, his legs hanging over the side but not dangling carefree like they used to. I knew he still wasn’t telling me something. He had a secret too and it had punctured his hopefulness. Manjeet sat slightly away from us whittling a piece of wood. He had worn it down to a nub but still he continued to slice it absent-mindedly. His mind wasn’t completely here either. Over the last week, Manjeet had become more and more withdrawn. I felt him watching me and when I turned to look at him and smile, he looked away. As the sun came up, we were all exposed to its light and what we saw of each other made us look away.
Chota came bounding up the stairs and shook us out of our thoughts. He looked from face to face and saw the unease but that had never stopped Chota in the past and it wasn’t about to now.
‘The cockerel fight is this afternoon! It’s between two of the biggest, nastiest birds I’ve ever seen. There’ll be lots of people there. We have to go!’
Manjeet stopped whittling his little piece of wood and, looking down at it as if for the first time, threw it away.
‘Cockerel fights are for grown men. If they catch us they’ll tell us to go away,’ said Manjeet.
‘No, it’ll be OK. My uncle will look after us. Anyway there’ll be so many people coming, they won’t even notice us,’ replied Chota excitedly, hopping from foot to foot.
‘What’s the fight in aid of? And why are so many people going to it?’ Saleem asked.
‘I don’t know but I went past old man Pondicherry and overheard him saying something about it to Anand. I didn’t understand what, though,’ said Chota, shrugging his shoulders.
Going right to the edge of the building, I looked over to where old Pondicherry usually sat and although I couldn’t make him out, I saw his stick leaning against a barrel.
Chota was beside himself with excitement by now and trying to spread some of his enthusiasm to us.
‘So? Are we going or not?’ he asked.
Saleem looked at me and shook his head. ‘There’ll be trouble . . .’ he said.
‘So, what’s new?’ replied Manjeet, standing up and stretching his long legs.
Manjeet and Saleem had livened up a bit now that Chota was here. I nodded my head.
Chota’s face lit up. ‘I hope it’s a bloody fight,’ he squealed.
I said that I was off to see old man Pondicherry and that I’d be back shortly to meet up with them before the fight.
I found Pondicherry-ji sitting and staring out with sightless eyes on to the maidan. I felt reluctant to disturb him.
‘Ah, Bilal. Stop dawdling, boy, and come closer,’ he said, beckoning me with his wrinkled hand.
I went and sat on the barrel next to him and looked out at whatever it was he was looking at, or rather not looking at. I was never quite sure what Mr Pondicherry did or didn’t see.
‘Have you heard about this cockerel fight this afternoon?’
‘It’s hard not to have heard about it, Bilal. It’s all anybody’s talking about,’ he replied.
‘Why? It’s only another bird fight, isn’t it?’
‘We’re just like animals really,’ said Mr Pondicherry, shaking his head. ‘We can smell blood now and that raw smell appeals to the worst part of us. Our dark side. It makes us do things we’d normally only ever think about.’
‘But what’s that got to do with the cockerel fight?’
‘The mob, child. The mob will be there and they’ll be looking for a sign,’ he sighed, his chin dipping to his chest.
‘Will you be going?’ I asked.
‘Even though I can’t see, I’ll be there,’ he replied.
‘But why?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Because I’m just an animal too. And if we’re nearing the end, I need a sign,’ he whispered. ‘Now off with you, go on.’ He shooed me away.
‘I don’t need a sign – I know the end is close,’ I replied and left the old man to look out on to the empty maidan.
Chapter 35
Back on the rooftop, Saleem came and stood next to me, putting his arm around my shoulder. I put my arm around him and couldn’t help chuckling.
‘What are you chuckling at, shorty?’ he asked.
‘You, you fool! You’ve been a bit moody lately . . .’
‘Me? Look who’s talking!’ said Saleem. ‘You’re the one who’s always gazing off into the distance with a strange look in your eye. We’re all half expecting you to start spouting some Tagore or Kabir at any moment.’
Shoving Saleem away from me, I cuffed him lightly on the head.
‘Oh, look!’ I pointed at the stream of people below, all moving in one direction. ‘There’ll be a lot of people at this fight, Sal.’
‘But we’re little – we’ll get to the front quickly,’ he replied, grinning.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ I said and looked over at the cemetery. ‘There’s something Mr Pondicherry said, about the mob . . .’
‘Well, we’ll never find out what he means by sitting here on the rooftop. And you’ve got Mr Mukherjee sitting with your bapuji all day so we’ve got nothing to worry about. Let’s get going!’ Jumping up, Saleem ran down the stairs.
We watched as wave after wave of people made their way to the cemetery off the main square. Cockerel fights were always held in the cemetery. It was just the way it was. I’d asked Bapuji about it once and he’d said that the elders decided that it would do no good to have fights in the marketplace but it was acceptable if they were in the cemetery. Then looking at me and smiling, he’d added, ‘It also means council members can get down there and place a bet like everyone else without their wives finding out.’
We joined the wave of people and were instantly swept up into the tide. As ever, Manjeet led the way, his orange turban bobbing along in front of us. Saleem hung close on my right and I held on tightly to Chota on my left to stop him getting distracted and disappearing into the crowd. It was slow going as the maidan began to fill with people from all sides. Gradually, we came to a standstill and I could feel the body of the crowd or – what had old man Pondicherry called it? – the mob. Embedded in the centre, we were held fast. We were all swaying, this mass of humanity tuned to one another. I closed my eyes. From one side pulsed anger, violence and the need for blood. Swaying in another direction, I felt tranquillity, peace and the need for meditation. Right in front of me, I felt impatience, anxiety and the need to discover the outcome no matter what it was.
Opening my eyes, I struggled to re-adjust to the light and sound. Manjeet’s orange turban blurred in front of me and bled into the crowd. Blinking, I tried to clear my head of this strange vision but it just made it worse. Everywhere I looked, colours were bleeding into each other. Red scarves bled into white dhotis, silver bangles melted into dark brown skin, azure sky dissolved into white clouds and dripped into the crowd. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. We were all part of one swaying movement pushing forward together. There was no beginning or end. Like the banyan tree, the mother had been swallowed and only her children were left. Was this the mob old man Pondicherry had described? I had thought that it would be ugly and destructive but I could see euphoria in everybody’s eyes.