Authors: Irfan Master
A Beautiful Lie (3 page)
‘Where will I be then?’ asked Chota, confused.
‘You’ll be on this roof, watching my house to see if anybody tries to visit Bapuji. From here you can see all the streets leading to my front door. The minute you see somebody approaching, jump down and throw a little pebble through the classroom window.’
‘Then what?’ asked Saleem.
‘Then either you or Manjeet will create a diversion in class so I can slip out and meet whoever’s trying to visit and give them a very good reason why they can’t.’
Everybody was satisfied with the roles they had to play. Chota was never in school anyway, and that would please Mr Mukherjee as he tended to fall asleep and snore really loudly. Manjeet and Saleem would play their parts and I had already thought of a hundred reasons why my bapuji couldn’t be visited. I was confident it would work. As the sun went down, we watched the market close for another day. It was the quietest we’d been in a long time.
The next day started like any other. I put on my well-mended uniform and kissed Bapuji goodbye. He mumbled something I didn’t understand and gave me a hug. I collected my books, pens and school bag and made my way to school, kicking stones all the way there. By the time I got there, my toe was throbbing but I didn’t mind the pain. The twinge was distracting and made it easier to hide how I really felt deep inside. Mr Mukherjee was waiting at the door, ushering in all the latecomers, and he hurried me in. I looked over my shoulder and smiled, knowing Chota would be making his way to the rooftop. It was going to be a long day but I was confident Chota wouldn’t let me down.
I bumped into Manjeet going into the classroom and we chuckled conspiratorially and sat down on the mats near the back of the class. Saleem, who was a few rows ahead of us, turned round and winked as we all packed into the little room, shoulder to shoulder. Once we’d had desks donated by the local market traders’ association but they’d been stolen last month – though I didn’t understand what anyone would want with fifteen desks.
Mr Mukherjee stood at the front of the class with both his hands raised and we all quietened down.
‘Today we will be learning a little bit more about the distinguished history of this land, its poetic past and the works and people that have made it great.’
I sighed. This was Mr Mukherjee’s favourite lesson. The greatness of India. Its beautiful past.
Well, what about its beautiful present and future?
I looked up at Mr Mukherjee, wire glasses wrapped tightly around his ears and perched on the end of his nose, eyes alive at the thought of the glorious past. Mr Mukherjee wore the same red velvet waistcoat every day with a silver pocket watch attached to a chain tucked into his front pocket. Bapuji thought he was like the rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland
because he was always looking at his pocket watch and muttering. I smiled at the thought and he looked straight at me.
‘Bilal, do you find our great history amusing?’
I shifted in my seat. Manjeet elbowed me in the ribs and I elbowed him back.
‘No, Masterji, it is a most glorious past,’ I replied.
‘I’m glad you think so. Would you care to come up here and recite some poetry?’
‘No, Masterji. I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind,’ I spluttered and stood up.
Mr Mukherjee loomed over me. His long legs made him tower over all of us and his large, rather rabbit-like ears twitched every so often. He turned to the class and smiled.
‘And what shall we have Bilal recite for us today?’
I heard a stifled laugh and then somebody said, ‘
Aloo Bolaa
–
Potato Says
.’
Mr Mukherjee glared at the class for daring to suggest a nursery rhyme and turned to me.
‘What do you think, Bilal?’
I looked around our small classroom. There were almost forty of us crammed into this little room. Most of us didn’t even have pens, at least half couldn’t read without help and most would never finish school. Whatever the glorious past, the present had nothing to do with glory and everything to do with survival.
‘Shall I begin, Masterji?’
Mr Mukherjee looked at me and smiled. He was a kind man and he knew my bapuji taught me at home. I would often stay behind and he would show me pieces of his own poetry and writing. Mr Mukherjee was the only teacher in the whole town and with the exception of my bapuji he had no one else to talk to about his writing. Despite how I felt inside, I didn’t want to let him down.
‘Yes, of course, Bilal. Go ahead.’
I cleared my throat like my bapuji had taught me before starting any recital and began.
‘Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where the words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action –
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.’
After I’d finished, Mr Mukherjee beamed at me in pleasure. ‘Tagore himself would have been proud of that recital,’ he said, patting me on my back.
Bapuji had taught me those words almost as soon as I could speak. They had always sounded so beautiful to me. But today the words felt empty with little meaning.
The day dragged on as Mr Mukherjee decided that we were too noisy and that learning our numbers in the afternoon would calm us down. As he was writing on the blackboard, I heard a sharp yelp to my left and turned to see little Jamal holding the side of his head. I shuffled closer to him and grabbed his arm.
‘What happened?’
‘Something hit me on my head,’ he replied, rubbing the side of his head furiously and pulling a sour face.
I started scrabbling around, looking for a pebble, shoving the other boys out of the way. Jamal thought it was a game and jumped on to my back. Seeing this as an attack on me, Manjeet jumped on to his back. However, Saleem, who liked numbers, was busy concentrating until somebody tapped him on his shoulder and he turned just in time for big Suraj to jump on him, almost squashing him flat. By this time, the whole class had decided that jumping on each other was a lot more fun than learning our numbers and the classroom resembled a pond full of leaping frogs. I was at the bottom of the pile, still looking for the pebble. Suddenly I saw it and wriggled my way out from under the heaving mass.
Manjeet saw me making for the door and nodded. He waited for me to sneak out, then whooped loudly, making Mr Mukherjee turn sharply. At this point Manjeet smiled and jumped on to Suraj’s back, who in turn had pinned Jamal under him. Mr Mukherjee shouted at the class to stop but by this time there was no controlling all the jumping frogs and I made good my getaway, safe in the knowledge I wouldn’t be missed.
I sprinted towards my house and was met halfway by Chota. He was grinning maniacally and pulled up short. We both doubled over, panting like dogs, with our hands clutching our knees.
‘What?’ I asked.
Chota sucked in large gulps of air and coughed. He’d been smoking again. I shook my head and went over to him and rubbed his back. Eventually he stood up straight.
‘It’s Rajahwallah, the medicine man. He’s heading your way.’
I told Chota to go back to his vantage point and started sprinting again. Rajahwallah was still a street away when I caught up with him, jumping in front of him and startling him.
‘Bilal! What are you doing?’
I fixed a smile on my face. ‘Why, I’m coming to see you to pick up the medicine. Remember?’
Rajahwallah looked a little confused and puffed out his cheeks. ‘I thought we’d agreed that I’d drop the medicine off and explain to your bapuji how and when he needs to take it. That’s what I remember.’
‘No, no, you said that you’d explain to me about the medicine and you told me to come by about this time to pick it up. If you leave it to him, he’ll probably forget to take it – you know how absent-minded he is.’ I kept my smile in place.
Rajahwallah frowned then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I’ve got a few more deliveries to make anyway. Here it is. You need to mix the powder with water until it’s like a paste. Make sure he takes it three times a day. If you have any problems, come to see me.’ And with that he turned round and started walking back towards the market.
I dropped the fixed smile and replaced it with one of real pleasure. As I walked back past our rooftop, I saw Chota’s teeth gleaming down at me and I gave him a double thumbs up. He leant right over the edge of the building to wave to me. He almost fell off but managed to save himself and started grinning again. My system was working! That’s what mattered, and having my best friends helping meant the world to me.
Later that day, we all met on the rooftop as the sun went down and watched as the last few donkey carts were being loaded up for long journeys back to their villages and towns. This was my favourite time of day, sitting on the rooftop, watching the market slowly winding down, hearing the sounds of the market gradually fading.
You could see how quick and efficient the market traders were in organising all their goods and packing them away. Bapuji had once explained to me that each stall was passed down from bapuji to son and that many of these stalls had been kept by the same families since the market was started over two hundred years ago. I often thought about that. I was only thirteen and thirteen years seemed a long time to me, so two hundred years was too frightening to consider. I couldn’t, wouldn’t think even two days ahead at the moment. Last year when Bapuji was well, I had had dreams about the future. Of following Bapuji and being a market organiser. It was the most exciting job. You met people from different places, everybody knew your name and you were asked to settle disputes on matters of trade, money and the local community. Bapuji and his father before him had been market organisers and I was all set for being one too.
And now Bapuji is dying, who will teach me what I need to know?
I shook my head to dislodge that thought from my mind but it persisted.
Will I even be here to organise the market? No Bapuji means no ‘here’. Will anybody in this place even remember me in four years, never mind two hundred years?
I clenched my fists as the returning stomach cramps made me double over in pain.
‘Bilal, Bilal, are you OK?’
Manjeet and Saleem stood over me, concern etched on their faces. I opened my eyes to see Manjeet’s orange turban outlined against the last light of the day. He grabbed my arm and pulled me up.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a little tired,’ I replied. ‘Chota, come over here and stop smoking!’
Looking sheepish, Chota stubbed out his cigarette and walked over.
We all squatted down and I unwrapped a package of mangoes I’d swapped with Satram for some pencils. Manjeet produced a small knife and started slicing little pieces for us to eat, though Chota grabbed a whole mango and started sucking one end of it. Saleem clipped Chota’s ear and Manjeet shook his head. Chota always loved grabbing things, especially when they didn’t belong to him.
‘Well, the plan worked like a dream but what happened after I left?’ I asked.
Saleem and Manjeet looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then, without warning, they began to jump on each other. Not one to be left out, Chota placed his mango between his teeth, pounced on the squirming pair and immediately snagged Manjeet’s turban and toppled it. After watching for a few moments, I shrugged my shoulders and joined in, leaping on Saleem. As the sun went down on the market town, anybody watching the rooftop would have seen four grimy, skinny boys of differing heights in a tangle of sharp elbows and knees, giggling like maniacs, entwined in a long piece of sun-touched orange material that bound them all together.
My system survived the whole week without incident, although the possibility that Chota would doze off and miss somebody approaching the house worried me. He often fell asleep in class, even when surrounded by jostling, noisy boys. Mr Mukherjee left him to it. I don’t think he knew what was worse – an alert, awake Chota or one who snored his way through a recital of Tagore’s poetry.
One evening I told Chota my concerns and he said that I needn’t worry; he never fell asleep on the rooftop because there was always something going on in the market – someone shouting, or a conversation to eavesdrop on – and he always had his wood to whittle. From up on the rooftop, you could also see right into the cemetery where they held the cockerel fights. We all knew the fights were bloody and brutal. Chota’s uncle organised the bouts but we didn’t have the courage to go to one. Not yet anyway.
Chota sat in his usual position perched right on the edge of the rooftop, dangling his legs over the side and chewing on a piece of straw. Leaving him to keep watch, we decided to start up a card game. Wafts of spices and meat in the market drifted up to us. Hesitating over my cards, I heard Manjeet’s stomach growl loudly. Saleem rolled about laughing and dropped his cards.