A Beautiful Lie Read online

  It was at that precise moment that I knew exactly what I had to do. I decided that no matter what happened or what people said, I would make sure that my bapuji would never know what was happening in the outside world. It didn’t matter that people were preparing for the worst and that India was on the verge of something big, a monsoon the likes of which they’d never seen, that, once cleared, would change everything. I swore an oath that Bapuji would die not knowing the truth of what was to come. He would die thinking that India was as he remembered it and always would be. At that precise moment, I decided to lie. I set my shoulders and made to leave the room.

  ‘Bilal,’ croaked Bapuji.

  ‘Yes, Bapuji?’

  ‘Where’s my melon?’

  I left the room, salty tears stinging my face as I walked out into the light.

  Chapter 3

  The sun shone brightly into my eyes as I left the house, and there they were. My three closest friends. They were waiting for me, heads bowed, standing in a semicircle. I knew they’d have waited for Doctorji to walk past the chai stall and chased him down, so they knew about Bapuji. I also knew that he wouldn’t have told them anything but that they’d have worked it out anyway. I didn’t want to speak, not really, not right now. I stepped forward to complete the circle and stood looking at my feet.

  To my left there was Chota, the smallest of us but also the bravest. If I told him that the angel of death was coming for my bapuji and we were not to let him take him from us, he would spit on his palms and bunch his fists ready to fight. On my right stood Manjeet, tall, skinny and with a bright-orange turban tied tightly on his head. He only spoke when he had something worth saying and I always felt comfortable with him, whether we were talking or not. Lastly, in front of me, stood scruffy-haired Saleem, who many thought was my brother because we were always together. ‘Joined at the hip, you two,’ Bapuji would say, and he was right. We were separated only when we had to go home.

  We stood in a circle and stared at our feet for a long time. Finally, I looked up and they looked up too. In their faces I saw only the same sadness I’d seen in Doctorji’s face. I would need their help if I was to succeed with my plan and fulfil my oath.

  There was silence for a while after I’d told them what I wanted to do. I thought they’d try to persuade me it was wrong, but they just looked at their feet. Then Saleem put his hand on my shoulder and nodded.

  ‘We understand, brother. We’ll help you.’

  I didn’t know what else to say so we went to our favourite vantage point, a derelict old house now used for storing dried chillies, from where you could see over the whole market. I picked up a stick and started drawing random shapes in the ground.

  ‘You all know how people like to visit my bapuji and give him news,’ I started.

  ‘That’s because he’s got the best stories and –’ Chota stopped talking when I glared at him.

  ‘Anyway, we have to stop everybody visiting,’ I said rather sharply.

  ‘What, everybody?’ asked Manjeet, who, not unusually, had been very quiet up until this point.

  ‘Yes. Everybody.’

  ‘There are other ways he might find out,’ said Manjeet.

  ‘He likes to read the newspaper,’ said Saleem.

  ‘He hasn’t seen a newspaper for a while so maybe we can put that off,’ I replied.

  ‘But when he does want to read one, what then?’ asked Manjeet.

  ‘Well, we’ll deal with that when it happens,’ I replied, a little flustered, arms folded across my chest.

  Saleem, in his usual way, gathered us all into a huddle and put his arm round my shoulder. I smiled at him appreciatively.

  ‘OK, tell us how we’re going to do this.’

  I picked up the stick again.

  ‘Right, tomorrow, you, Chota, will not be in school,’ I said, pointing the stick at him.

  ‘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.

  Chapter 4

  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.

  Chapter 5

  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.

  Chapter 6

  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 le
ft 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.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a hungry tiger stuck in there, Manjeet!’ I chuckled.

  ‘More like a growling tiger cub,’ chipped in Saleem.

  ‘Laugh all you like but I haven’t eaten all day,’ replied Manjeet, holding his stomach and sighing.

  ‘What about that mango I saw you eating earlier?’ asked Saleem.

  ‘And those two chapattis I saw you eat at school?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t forget that pomegranate I gave you,’ added Chota from behind us.

  Saleem rolled about laughing, dropping his cards again.

  ‘Well, I did have a few things to eat,’ admitted Manjeet. ‘It’s your go, Saleem.’

  Saleem picked up his cards and squinted at them carefully. Then with a big grin he said, ‘Full house!’ He held the cards up so we could all see.

  Manjeet looked over at me and made a face.

  ‘Hold on,’ I replied.