The Storyteller by Adib Khan Page A

Delhi are rarely curious about the world around them. Seldom hostile. They are too preoccupied with whatever awaits them during the day to be involved with the oddities on the streets. And the city is not short of freakish sights. Oh, people did not entirely ignore me. I would have been highly offended if they had. Several sharp glances. Nervous titters from two schoolgirls who covered their mouths with their hands and ran. Bold stares and a few sniggers. But nothing to intimidate me. There was no necessity to run. No one chased me or threw a brick.
    Farida Baji was at breakfast. Without make-up and her hair undone, she was a haggard spectacle. Her eyes were red and swollen. The sour expression warned us to be respectful and cautious about what we said. Her chelas tiptoed around her, patiently awaiting an improvement in her mood. Baji did not acknowledge our arrival. She continued eating with a ferocious energy, tearing the freshly made allu puris with both hands and devouring large pieces as though they were desperately needed to fuel a fire deep within her. She ate sloppily, making guttural noises as she masticated the bread.
    One of the hijras , Gulbadan, crept up to us and whispered, ‘Chunni ran away last night.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘ Paani!’ Baji wailed. ‘ Paani!’
    Banu ran up to her with a tumbler of water.
    ‘After the evening’s massage in Baji’s room, Chunni was asked to stay behind. For a few minutes we heard nothing.’ Gulbadan looked nervously at Baji to see if she was listening. ‘Then suddenly there were screams. Swearing…abuses. Tauba! Tauba!’ Gently she slapped her cheeks and stuck out her tongue. ‘The language! Chunni ran out of the room, her kameez torn and blood running down her face.’
    I giggled. Chaman promptly whacked me between the shoulders. An awkward silence ensued.
    I had rarely spoken to Chunni. She was the most feminine looking of all the hijras under Baji’s care. Young and slightly built, with delicate features. I enjoyed looking at her large bum that jutted out like watermelons. A cock stirrer.
    With hesitant steps, Chaman approached the charpai. ‘Baji…we have come to ask for your blessing. We are beginning something new today.’
    ‘Do you like my new clothes?’ I stepped forward boldly.
    Baji’s eyes flicked over me. ‘Blessing? Who needs the blessing of someone as old as I am?’
    ‘You are not old—’
    ‘My flesh is like rotting vegetable peel!’ Baji screamed. ‘That’s what she said! The bitch! The whore was panting for an unwrinkled cock up her arse! What could I offer her? Love, care, gentle affection…’ She sniffled and wiped her face in a towel. ‘The important things in life don’t matter any more.’ Suddenly she picked up the plate of allu puris and hurled it in our direction. ‘I am in mourning! Can’t you see?’
    I picked an allu puri off the floor and gobbled it. Delicious. My stomach rumbled, and I reached for another. The others had backed off apprehensively. I found myself stranded near her, my mouth slobbered with spiced potatoes.
    ‘Look at him! He can think of nothing but his own needs!’ Her face distorted into a snarl of contempt. ‘Who did the make-up?’
    ‘I did it myself.’
    ‘It has made no difference. You are just as ugly. Chaman! What is he doing?’
    Chaman spent an inordinate amount of time in whispered explanation. Occasionally Baji closed her eyes and grunted.
    I was impatient to leave. A crowded bazaar awaited me. Curious eyes and grasping minds. I would open the windows and make them see. A hundred…many more. Empty shops and deserted food stalls. Impatient chants and handclaps. Then a roar.
    There he is! The descendant of Valmiki and Kamban. We will hear about Rama again!
    ‘ Ay larka! Come here. Chaman, why does he stand there with that glazed look in his eyes?’
    Whatever Chaman said had revived Baji. She sat up and assumed her customary tone of unchallenged authority. She placed her hands on top of my