Authors: Irfan Master
Once just after Ma had died, we had come out as usual on a Saturday after the market closed and Bapuji explained that the mother root would give birth to all these other roots and then plunge into the ground and out again until eventually the new roots would crowd her out.
‘So what happens to the mother?’ I’d asked.
‘She’s done her part and now has the satisfaction of watching her children grow.’
‘But she’s invisible now.’
‘Not quite invisible, just hidden,’ Bapuji replied.
‘Like Ma?’
‘Yes, just like Ma.’
I shook my head.
I ask some daft questions sometimes
, I thought. Wishing Bapuji was with me, I walked round the other side of the tree to where Ma was buried.
Many years ago, Bapuji had set down two flattened stones for us to sit on. I picked the one closest to the grave and laid the blanket out. Staring at the banyan tree, I began to speak.
‘Ma, I’ve come here today to tell you that I am a liar. A deceiver. But I don’t regret what I’m doing. I know that if you were here with us you would understand. I know it. You know how Bapuji is. How he can be. I know you would understand. But I still feel that somehow . . . I don’t know . . . What other choice do I have now? Am I the only one who can see that everything is different? Everybody is pretending that it’ll be fine. That this too shall pass. But remember you told me that a monsoon doesn’t discriminate? Rich or poor, kind or cruel, we are all equal to the monsoon. And yet we carry on as normal! We go to school, market stalls open and close, we play cricket, we laugh. Meanwhile, the monsoon gathers. We are all liars, Ma. We are all great deceivers. I am a liar but I’m not the only one.’
The stone underneath me felt uncomfortable so I stood up to stretch my legs and moved towards the banyan. I walked through and around the many arms of the huge tree. Spotting a little nook at the heart of the tree, I sat down in what looked like a roughly hewn seat.
‘Ma, is it a just lie? Bapuji always told me that it is important to live life by your own standards and not those set by others . . .’
I sat at the heart of that great tree and looked out at the community of branches that had sprung up all around. Closing my eyes, I felt the rough bark of the tree with both my hands. Each root was connected to another through the soil, arms jutting towards the sky. I could sense a connection and, opening my eyes, I felt an energy moving from branch to branch.
‘This is how it should be, Ma. We’re all connected. There is no beginning or end.’
Standing up and returning towards the grave, I saw one root that had snapped in half and hung limp. Another branch had grown on top of it and after years of growth the weight had borne down on it, bending it until it had broken. I stared at the broken branch that had ruined the symmetry of this great tree for a long while, until there were only shadows left.
I woke up suddenly.
I’m a fool, falling asleep! Bapuji is probably wondering where I am
. Rolling my shoulders, I exhaled deeply.
But I’ve got to relax and trust my friends – I can’t always be in two places at once
.
The sun had just set as I rolled out from under my blanket and stretched. I drifted towards the edge of the cliff and saw someone waving their arms around and shouting something I couldn’t hear clearly. Squinting, I tried to make out the figure. It was Saleem! I waved back and ran to get my blanket.
Sniffing the lid of the bottle I’d brought, I sprinkled all the rose water on to the grave. I felt sad about leaving so suddenly and knelt next to the grave.
‘I hope you’re not angry with me, Ma. I hope you understand what I’m trying to do. I hope . . .’ I couldn’t finish.
I ran to the cliff edge and started to make my way down carefully. Saleem waited patiently at the bottom, his arms folded. Looking me up and down, he frowned.
‘What happened to you? Drag yourself through a ditch, did you?’
I looked down at myself. It was as if I’d been rolling around in the dirt.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Saleem.’
He smiled. ‘If it’s got you in the story, I’d believe it. You can tell me on the way. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. Doctorji is looking for you. He came by your house and I’m sure he was a little suspicious that Manjeet, Chota and I were loitering outside, but he didn’t comment and before we could stop him he marched into your house.’
My stomach clenched.
They must have talked. They always talk. Bapuji must know. It was all over
.
‘Come on now, don’t look so glum. We wanted to hear what was going on so we crept round the other side of the house to the little window and listened in but there was no sound.
Your bapuji was sound asleep and Doctorji clearly didn’t want to disturb him so he did a few checks and left some medicine. As he walked out of the house, he called out my name. He looked me right in the eye – you know how he does – and asked where you were. I told him you’d gone to visit your ma’s grave. He said I needed to remind you that this evening you’re supposed to go to the village and help him there. So here I am.’
‘We’d better get a move on then,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go straight to Doctorji’s house. He’s probably getting impatient.’
‘I just ran all the way here, Bilal,’ Saleem grumbled and dragged his feet. ‘At least tell me why you look as if you were dragged through a ditch by an elephant.’
‘OK, OK, but get a move on,’ I said. ‘You know how slippery that cliff is after the rains? Well, let me tell you . . .’
Doctorji lived in a small house on the outskirts of town, away from the market. He always seemed apart from everyone, keeping a certain distance between himself and the people he served. I asked him about it once.
‘Doctorji, why do you stay away from everyone else? Do you not like living with people?’
As usual, he’d looked right at me and considered his answer. Doctorji was not one for rushing.
‘I serve the people most importantly in two ways. One, I look after their physical health and two, I act as a justice. As a justice, I must always be fair and objective.
You know these words, Bilal?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.
‘They mean that I must always distance myself from the situation over which I’m presiding. If there’s a dispute or problem where I have to decide on a just action and we happen to be close friends I must not let that bias my decision. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, I think so, Doctorji. Friends are a nuisance you just don’t need.’
I remember that Doctorji had smiled then. He smiled so little that I could easily count all the instances when I’d made him smile, usually with some silly comment.
Now Saleem and I stood outside Doctorji’s door and knocked. After a few minutes, Doctorji appeared with his medical bag. Looking at my bedraggled state, he tutted and pursed his lips.
‘Well, I’m ready to go but clearly you’re not,’ he said, picking a twig from my hair.
Saleem snorted but stopped when Doctorji glared at him. I shuffled from foot to foot and grimaced.
‘It was quite difficult climbing that cliff. The rains have made it treacherous,’ I said.
‘I see. So you thought it would be a good idea to climb it ? Honestly, Bilal, you could have broken your neck or been squashed to a pulp by a falling boulder. Well, go home and get cleaned up. I went to see your bapuji today and he was sleeping restfully. He won’t need more medicine for a couple of days.’
‘But, Doctorji, I think I should stay here. In case he needs me.’
‘I think you could do with a break, Bilal. A little time away will give you some perspective.’
‘But, Doctorji –’
‘I need your help, Bilal.’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure . . .’
‘I’d like it if you could accompany me tomorrow,’ said Doctorji firmly. ‘I take it Saleem is able to look in on your bapuji and make sure he takes the right amount of medicine while you’re away with me?’
‘I’ll make sure he takes it, Doctorji,’ replied Saleem promptly.
‘Good. Now off you go, Bilal. Go and get some rest. I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning. Go on now.’
Grabbing Saleem, I started walking quickly towards town.
‘What are we going to do now? Maybe I should pretend that I’m not well.’
Saleem looked at me sideways and shook his head.
‘You know Doctorji can sniff out a liar at a hundred paces.’ Realising what he’d said, Saleem smiled. ‘Well, maybe not all the time but you know what I mean. It’s not worth the risk, he’ll only get suspicious.’
‘Yes, but I’ll be too far away from here.’
‘We said we’d help you so let us. Go with Doctorji and leave the rest to us. I’ll make sure nobody gets in to see your bapuji, OK?’
As we approached the house we joined Chota, who was loitering outside. I put my arm around Saleem and Chota.
‘OK, but if anything happens, send me a message via pigeon. Ask Manjeet to ask his cousin to send one and I’ll come right home.’
I had been accompanying Doctorji to the villages surrounding our market town for the last two years. Bapuji used to go with Doctorji for many years but then the market had kept him too busy so he began to send me instead. We would choose a book of stories together and I’d take it with me to read to the village children. For years they had enjoyed it when Bapuji told the stories so when I turned up one day, book in hand, they had taken some convincing. After a few pointers from Bapuji, I managed to work out what the children liked and since then they looked as if they actually enjoyed it when I arrived.
The stories weren’t the main reason why we went to the village. Once a month, Doctorji would gather up whatever medicine he could spare, along with a number of other things the village people had ordered from some of the market vendors, and load it up on his donkey cart.
The villagers would come to Doctorji with their complaints and, assisted by me, he would try his best to treat the various ailments.
The sun was high in the sky when we left town. I sat next to Doctorji as the donkey pulled us along in the small cart. Rocking in the rhythm of the jostling cart, I made myself comfortable. The surrounding land was flat and stretched out in front of us in a sea of green and brown. After the hustle of the market town, the silence was complete with only the snorting of the donkey and the creaky turning of the wheels clipping it. The sky pulsed blue and white above our heads, and the threat of monsoon seemed far away.
As Doctorji stopped the cart to speak with a woman who had flagged him down to ask about a complaint her husband was suffering from, I closed my eyes
and let the silence calm me. We moved through the
countryside waving at people and stopping occasionally to speak with farmers and old women who recognised Doctorji. Many people invited us in to have some tea or food but Doctorji declined as politely as he could and promised he’d try to visit soon. We slowly made our way across the land and I felt a sense of well-being enveloping me like a blanket.
‘It’s so quiet here. So peaceful,’ I whispered to myself.
Doctorji looked at me and, nodding his assent, went back to staring off into the distance. From the corner of my eye, I glanced at him to see if he would say something but he had settled into a rhythm with his cart.
‘It can’t always be like this, can it, Doctorji?’
Doctorji sighed and shook his head. ‘Son, the peace has already been disturbed,’ he said.
‘Broken,’ I replied absently.
‘What?’ said Doctorji, nonplussed.
‘The peace has been broken. Some things can’t be fixed if they are broken,’ I replied.
‘No, you’re right, but they can be mended or they can heal over a period of time.’
‘How long is a period of time?’ I asked.
‘That depends on the will of the person, Bilal.’
‘What if the will isn’t there, Doctorji?’
‘Then even though the body heals, the mind will never allow you to fully heal.’
‘It’s always about will, isn’t it, Doctorji?’ I said, staring at the path stretching ahead of us.
‘It’s an important part, Bilal. Take your bapuji as an example. Despite everything, his will is strong. His body has failed him but his mind still props him up,’ said Doctorji. ‘His will cannot be extinguished.’
‘No, it can’t.’
‘You’re more like him than you realise, Bilal. You have his need to see and to know and understand. Like him, you’re like a sponge absorbing everything life has to offer,’ said Doctorji, glancing at me.
‘Sometimes I’d rather not be like that.’
‘Yes, I can see how that constant need to find the meaning in things could be wearing,’ said Doctorji, smiling.
‘You’re not like that, Doctorji,’ I said.
‘No, logic is my best friend. I believe in cause and effect, my boy. One thing happens because of another. There is no greater meaning, there is only what you do and what happens as a consequence.’
‘That’s what I want to believe! That’s how I want to live my life,’ I said defiantly. Doctorji looked at me curiously and pursed his lips.