Vikram Chandra - Red Earth and Pouring Rain

He began then to walk round and around the fire, back and forth, and slowly the rage went out of his shoulders, and the despair from his heart, and after three hours he began to say aloud the names of his childhood friends, and the names of his first pets, and those of his nurses. It was something like a chant, this attempt to remember every man, woman and beast that he had ever touched or seen or heard, and as he went on his memory grew complete and rich, so that in the two days left to him he managed to work up only to the friends of his adolescence, with whom he had stolen apples from gardens and visited forbidden houses. He told his servants that even so it was not complete, that too much was left out, that he had not the strength to remember everyone and everything. He grew weak, but would not sleep, and from his bed he said to the attending priest, ‘I have been enslaved by an idea, and this is my end, my climax. But I do not die.’

The priest, who was afraid of exotic blasphemies, crossed himself and said, ‘You go to eternal rest, and eternal life.’

De Boigne shook his head. ‘No, I die. But my life lives on, and I live, and live, and live.’

The priest said in a loud voice, ‘You must believe that you are redeemed, that you go to perfect, eternal happiness.’

De Boigne laughed, and said cheerfully, ‘We are not born to be happy.’ Near the hour of his death, his eyes grew very bright, and he began to speak in languages that no one understood, and as he whispered in alien tongues, some thought he was asking for forgiveness, and others that he was giving it.

I LET MYSELF RELAX, pushing back from the typewriter and lying back.

‘You said it was going to be a children’s story,’ Abhay said. ‘What the hell was that?’

I was too tired to reply. I massaged my aching fingers and shook my head.

‘Watch out with that martial stuff,’ he continued, curiously concerned. ‘These kids belong to a different world, they’re a different generation. Too much more of that and they’ll go back to cricket.’

A little irritated, I sat up. My muscles creaked. I tried to type on, but my fingers cramped.

‘Better do something about that, Hanuman,’ Yama said. ‘Your friend still has an hour to go.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘He’s right. Fifty-five minutes, to be exact.’ Hanuman dropped from above the door and came over to me. ‘You’ve got to go on — and listen, be careful. You’ve got us hooked in here, but out there, they’re getting a little restless; they’re curious, but it’s starting to wear off. Too much more in this mode and they’re going to start pulling on pig-tails and making rubber-band-bows, and then what? You can rest for two more minutes, but then you’ve got to start up again.’

‘I can’t. Look at my fingers.’

‘Yes, I know they hurt, but you must.’

‘It’s not even my fingers; I just don’t have any more. Listen, do you think it’s easy, doing this, making it all up so fast? Especially with that great black lump sitting there in the corner, even at night when he’s gone.’

Hanuman looked at me, his red eyes shining.

‘Listen, Son of the Wind,’ I whispered. ‘Negotiate with him some more; tell him about the wonders to come; make him see that the story will be grand and great. Tell my children out there not to abandon me, for there is much yet to come — Begum Sumroo, the Witch of Sardhana, and her lover, Jahaj Jung, who was once a sailor, and then Sikander himself: Sikander the brave, who led three thousand and was the friend of Parasher the poet, and the romance of their childhood and early manhood, their incredible adventures in Calcutta and in the embraces of the divine courtesans of Lucknow; tell them all this and tell them to come back tomorrow; please, I cannot go on. Look. Look at my fingers.’

‘The young fellow was right,’ Yama called from his corner. ‘You’re too old-fashioned; you haven’t adapted. Too much more of this kind of heroic saga, distant and strangely impersonal, and I’ll have to take you off. Shape up, Sanjay; I must admit I want to hear the rest of it, about Sikander particularly. But come on now; boredom must be reaching critical mass outside.’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes you outsmart yourself, Sanjay. Back to the typewriter.’

‘Hanuman…’ I began.

‘He won’t negotiate. The contract’s signed. But don’t worry, he’s too dull for words. Don’t let him scare you.’ Hanuman turned to Yama. ‘Prince, King, the story takes a different turn now. Sanjay cannot possibly give us another hour — look at his fingers. The cramp will not let up; however, the contract, as it stands…’

‘No,’ roared Yama, springing to his feet. ‘No more cheating. A story. Now.’

‘Exactly’ said Hanuman. ‘A story is what the contract calls for; read it carefully — it doesn’t say who is to do the telling. Read. “A story will be told. The audience must be kept entertained, or Parasher is to pay the forfeit.” Somebody else could do the story-telling.’

‘No. This is cheating.’

‘Think about it, great Death-lord. Another story, for the price of one, with Sanjay sweating at the side-lines.’

Yama started to say something, then paused. I detected a faint glimmer of interest; I could sense his anger seeping away, blocked and dammed by a delicious new nuance in his revenge.

‘Who?’ I said, nudging Hanuman.

‘His future hanging on another’s words, Death-lord. And him with no choice.’

‘Whose words?’ I said.

‘And a tale of strange lands and foreign folk…’

‘Who, him, the boy?’ I said. ‘Look at him…’

‘Done,’ said Yama, ‘I will be magnanimous. He has ten minutes to prepare.’

‘Hanuman,’ I said, ‘great Hanuman, you can’t be serious, look at his face: he can’t tell a story; he hardly even knows where he is or who he is.’

‘A contract’s a contract,’ said Hanuman. ‘Hurry up. You have ten minutes to talk him into it.’

I started to speak, then thought better of it. Beckoning Abhay to my side, I held my right wrist with my left hand and with a trembling forefinger typed a summary of the conversation that had just taken place.

‘No,’ said Abhay. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘If you don’t, he’ll die,’ said Saira, very ready to be furious.

‘If you hadn’t shot him, he wouldn’t be in this situation,’ said Mrinalini.

‘You have a certain responsibility,’ Ashok said.

Abhay looked around, then put his face in his hands. I gripped my wrist again and typed; he looked up.

‘Please.’

‘It’ll all be your fault,’ Saira said, her lower lip jutting, now ready to cry.

‘I like her,’ Hanuman whispered. ‘I like her.’

‘All right, all right,’ Abhay said, his eyes sunken and shining. ‘I’ll do my best. But I need more time. Fifteen minutes at least.’

I looked over at Yama. He was twirling his moustache, one knee settled comfortably over the other, a foot swinging gently back and forth. He nodded, looking smug. I nodded at Abhay. He rose and began to pace around the room. The murmur outside began to grow. Mrinalini opened the door and peered out.

‘They’re going to start leaving,’ she said.

Saira rose from the bed. ‘I’m going outside to tell them about you,’ she said. ‘It’s the only way you’ll keep them sitting. I’ll tell them Yama’s in here, too, and that he doesn’t want any children inside, so they won’t come rushing in when I tell them about a typing monkey; is that okay?’

Yama shrugged, smiling, and I nodded at Saira, bowing to a superior judge of the masses and leader of men; already, I seemed to have forgotten the reasons for wanting to keep my appearance a secret. Some last pride, I suppose, some final need to belong, to be thought of as part of the human whole, but already this vain hope had been crumpled and consigned to the rubbish heap; at last, I am going to be what I had fought against becoming, a freak, a fool, an exile, that most pitiable (forgive my romanticizing — I am conscious of it — but at this moment a pose is all I have left) and yet most generous of creatures: a monkey at a typewriter, a poet.