Authors: Irfan Master
A Beautiful Lie (5 page)
I loved spending time in the evenings with Bapuji, although these days more often than not he would tire quickly and fall asleep while I read to him. I would try to ignore it when Bapuji stumbled telling a story but he would get upset at the thought that he’d ruined a story or be angry with himself for his memories and thoughts failing him. Now, when he asked if I wanted a story, I would purposely choose a short one so he was able to finish it and then I read to him until he fell asleep. Even so, Bapuji was the best storyteller in the market town and the reason for this – he never failed to remind me – was that his stories had a special purpose: ‘A story has to settle on you long after the teller has finished. Then, as if a key has been turned in a lock, the door is opened and all that you’ve learnt is before you.’
He painfully propped himself up in the bed and let me feed him the mushy rice. Between mouthfuls he asked me questions about the market, about Doctorji and what Mr Mukherjee was teaching in class nowadays. He asked if he still wore his silver pocket watch (he always asked that) and laughed when I told him that Mr Mukherjee still looked at it all the time and muttered to himself. I also pointed out that he had very rabbit-like ears, which almost made Bapuji spill the bowl of rice on to his lap.
I made some hot, sweet chai and sat at the end of the crumpled bed. I swirled the hot liquid in my mouth and took in the evening’s events. I wanted to remember this scene exactly as it was and I didn’t want my memory to fail. Not ever. Bapuji had told me of the powerful cameras that could take stills of history and time that we saw in books and newspapers and they gave me an idea. If a machine made by man could do that then so could we. Preparing myself mentally, I blinked my eyes and took some photos. Of the brightness in Bapuji’s eyes. Of the smells wafting through our window. Even of Latif-bhai sleeping in his daal-induced fog. I blinked it all in and stored it all away. Bapuji saw me and asked if I was OK. Instead of replying, I asked him another question that had been on my mind.
‘What about fate, Bapuji? Do you believe in fate?’
A few days ago in class, Mr Mukherjee had explained fate as something beyond our control and asked, ‘Do we have our lives entirely planned out for us already, and if we do, does that mean we should just sit back and let them take their course?’
Bapuji looked at me. It was as if a light switch had been turned on inside his mind. His eyes twinkled like golden rubies in the soft candlelight and he sat further up in the bed. I could almost feel the energy pouring from him. I squeezed his hand. I loved him when he was like this. Alive and lit, ready to be shot up into the air like a firework.
‘Let me tell you a story, my boy. About fate.’
Grimacing in pain yet with a look of pure pleasure on his face, this is the story he told.
A merchant was taking his morning stroll by the seaside when he saw a man squatting on the beach and filling a cup with sand. As the merchant watched, the man emptied the contents on a large pile of sand beside him and began filling the cup again. The merchant went up to him and asked him what he was doing.
‘I am Fate,’ said the man. ‘I am measuring out the food each man is to receive today.’
‘Can you really do that?’ asked the merchant. ‘I challenge you to withhold my midday meal today.’
‘As you wish,’ replied Fate.
The merchant bought a fish and took it home and gave it to his wife. Then he went on to his place of work. In the afternoon he came home and sat down to eat. His wife placed the cooked fish before him.
Fate said he would withhold my midday meal
, thought the man,
but now who can stop me from eating this delicious fish?
And he burst out laughing. His wife thought he was laughing at the way the fish had been prepared and she began to scold him. The merchant grew angry. He got up and stormed out of the house. It was only when he cooled down that he realised the significance of what had happened: Fate had succeeded in withholding his share of food for that afternoon.
I waited for the story to settle into my mind, like Bapuji had always taught me. After a few minutes I looked at Bapuji, who was studying me intently.
‘I understand the story but then what’s the point?’
‘What’s the point of what?’
‘What’s the point of trying to do anything? Of achieving anything if it’s predetermined? Why does anybody bother?’
However, Bapuji was fading fast so I stopped talking and urged him to lie back down. Blowing out the last few candles, I set a cup of water next to his bed. I stroked his head until I sensed him breathing steadily and went to my cot in the corner. Just as I was about to blow out the remaining candle, Bapuji spoke.
‘The point is to live, my boy. Live your life, come what may, and leave the rest to fate.’
I lay still on my cot. Sharp pangs flicked my insides. Curling up into a tightly coiled ball, I willed the pain away. Fate may tinker with other people’s lives but not mine, not with me, I decided. I was in control of my own destiny, and I would control events. With that final thought, I closed my eyes and with great care began to sort through all the memory photos I’d taken.
The next morning, a scrabbling sound made me tentatively open one eye. It was still early and I really didn’t want to wake up just then but the scratching sound continued so I opened one eye a little bit more, allowing me to remain half asleep. The sound stopped and, sighing happily, I closed my eyelid again.
A few seconds later, I felt hands on me and woke up with a jolt. Fully alert now, I rubbed my blurry eyes and looked up to see my brother, Rafeeq, in front of me with a finger on his lips urging me to be quiet. He signalled with his head that he wanted me to follow and he tiptoed into the other room. Muttering under my breath, I looked longingly back at my cot before gathering my school clothes and following him out. My brother turning up out of the blue and waking me up so early in the morning was never a good thing.
‘What is it?’ I growled.
He looked at me, scowled and produced a little stub of a hand-rolled cigarette and a mangled box of matches.
‘You know you can’t smoke in here, the books might catch fire. Bapuji would get very upset if he knew. Go outside.’
He muttered something under his breath and made to leave. Shaking his head, he suddenly grabbed me by my shirt collar and yanked me towards him, dragging me out of the door while cuffing my head roughly.
‘Get off me, you big donkey. Get off or I’ll bite you,’ I said as quietly as I could through gritted teeth.
He spun me round and kicked me lightly on my backside. Lighting his cigarette, he leant against the house and looked me up and down. Propping myself up against the opposite wall, I did the same.
It had been at least a month, maybe longer, since I’d last seen my brother. He was dressed entirely in white and had a white handkerchief tied tightly around his head. The beginnings of a beard flecked his face but, like Bapuji, he always shaved his moustache off. The sun bathed the front of our hut with a bright light. He smiled right at me, chuckling at my scowl, which according to Bapuji was the replica of his own. I could almost hear him saying, ‘
So serious, you two, so serious. Go and get a lassi and calm down, will you. Life is to be enjoyed not endured
.’ I looked at him but didn’t smile. He looked a lot like Bapuji and I blinked and took another picture, storing it away for later. In case I didn’t see him again for another month.
‘How’s the old man?’ he asked, stamping out his cigarette and looking at me carefully.
I looked back at him with a challenge in my eyes, an accusation.
Where have you been? He’s dying. That’s how he is. Soon he’ll be gone. Can’t you even visit and sit with him for a while?
It struck me that it was probably a good thing he hadn’t been around. Every time he visited he argued with Bapuji about what was happening in India, about religion and his ‘new friends’. Bapuji called them fanatics – ‘The worst kind of patriots because their first thought is violence.’ Dropping my head, I looked down at my bare, dusty feet. It was better he didn’t visit after all. Lifting my head slightly, I saw that he was still looking intently at me.
‘You must have spoken to Doctorji. You know how he is,’ I said, almost spitting the words out.
He stared into my face, probing for something. Agitated, he looked away and patted his shirt, searching for another cigarette. He stopped fidgeting and sighed.
‘He’s dying. I know. Like this damned country. Day by day it’s slowly falling to its knees.’
He looked at me with glowering eyes that made me flinch. They scalded me with their heat.
‘Bilal, soon it’s not going to be safe for you here.
You have to be careful and get the old man out. Sides are being picked as we speak and sooner or later lines will be drawn. We’ll all be forced to pick a side. Can you understand that? We are Muslims, they are Hindus and Sikhs. We might share the same space, buy the same food and talk the same language but . . . we’re not the same.’
Sleep still clung to my eyes and I shook my head to clear it. The fury in his voice was terrifying.
‘Bapuji will never leave. You know that. Never. You know how he feels about what’s happening . . . He . . .’
Bhai scowled at me again and shook his head. ‘He still believes his precious India will be OK, doesn’t he? Look around you, Bilal! Does it look or even feel like the same place to you? It’s all different, all changed. Those vultures are circling as we speak. Soon they’ll be swooping down to fight over what’s left.
The carcass of India, picked clean by so-called peaceful men, learned elders and politicians – our so-called betters. I reject them. It’s time for change.’
Unable to endure his intensity, I looked away and closed my eyes. I didn’t know my brother in that moment. He had the same passion, the same energy, the same unwavering strength as Bapuji. But I felt nothing. I felt empty. He stopped speaking and spat on the ground. I didn’t have time for his anger. I’d pushed my anger deep inside,
why couldn’t he?
‘Look, I have to go to school,’ I said and turned away from him.
No longer angry, he looked sheepish, like he didn’t know where he was or why he was there. I made to go past him and he put his arm across the doorway to stop me going into the house.
‘I’ve put some money in your silver tin. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
Muttering a half-hearted goodbye, I slipped under his arm. Feeling his eyes on my back, I willed myself not to turn round. Without saying goodbye, I heard him turn and march up the street. Ducking my head back round the doorway, I watched as he disappeared into an alley.
A dull clanging sound broke the morning silence as Mr Mukherjee started to toll his school bell. Hurriedly, I started to get dressed for school. I couldn’t afford to be angry with my brother. The next time he visited, I’d tell him not to come again. It wouldn’t do to have him ruining things. I had a plan and I would see it through no matter what.
A typical market day started just before dawn, the rising sun gently bathing the town and the market traders in golden light.
As ever, a few donkeys wandered around the edges of the market square munching on bits of straw and mangy dogs looked for scraps to eat. Somehow, seeing people getting on with their lives made me think that perhaps Bapuji was right. Nothing ever really changes. Major events you read about in the newspaper and heard on the wireless were just that. Bigger than you could imagine. They didn’t touch ordinary people like me and Bapuji, who just wanted to live happily near a market.
I sprinted past old man Pondicherry, sitting as he always did on a weathered old barrel in the shade right at the edge of the market. He whistled at me and called my name. He was blind as a bat but he always knew when
I
went past him. Sometimes, a few of the other boys and I would sneak up on him and, waiting until we were just behind him, he would turn suddenly and surprise us! He would chuckle to himself and say, ‘You ordinary people only have a limited number of senses but I have an extra sense which you can’t see.’ I didn’t have time to stop so I waved at him and immediately felt like a fool. Glancing back over my shoulder as I ran, though, I saw him wave back at me. I shook my head in bewilderment; he really did have a special sense!
As I rushed to school, I made a slight detour to see if Chota was on the roof.
‘Chota! Chota! You up there?’
No reply.
I anxiously shouted up again. Mr Mukherjee would be ushering in the last of the students and I really needed to get going. Suddenly Chota appeared on the rooftop, a little bleary eyed. I looked up at him, relieved.
‘I’ve been shouting for you. Where have you been? I thought you might still be at home in bed.’
Chota rubbed his eyes with a puzzled expression.
‘Why would I be at home in bed?’ he asked, pulling a face.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Because you might have slept in or not been woken up by your mother perhaps. I don’t know.’
Stretching like a cat, Chota shook his head. ‘Well, there’s no danger of that happening, Bilal,’ he said, yawning.
I shrugged my shoulders, not comprehending what he was getting at.
