Vikram Chandra - Red Earth and Pouring Rain

‘What, then?’ he said. ‘I can’t just let him go. Can’t be done.’

‘Oh, he has something for you,’ Hanuman said soothingly, small and amiable again. ‘He’s a poet. He was going to tell them what happened to him; a sort of story, you see.’

‘I don’t want to know what happened,’ said Yama. ‘I was there for parts of it. They all come to me. I know what happened.’

‘I won’t tell what happened,’ I stammered eagerly. ‘I’ll make a lie. I will construct a finely-coloured dream, a thing of passion and joy, a huge lie that will entertain and instruct and enlighten. I’ll make The Big Indian Lie.’

‘Too easy,’ said Yama. ‘I’m an easy audience. It’s no great trick to entertain me. Anything that will divert me from what I must do every day I’ll take. No, that’s too easy.’

‘I’ll entertain you and them,’ I said, desperate, gesturing at Abhay, Ashok, Mrinalini and Saira. ‘They’re a fine audience, educated and discriminating, gentle and discerning. How’s that for a wager? Suppose, suppose that in my telling I lose a part of them, then let me lose life. Suppose a part of them, say half, turn away, bored, then let it be the bottom of the sea.’

I must confess that I said this without sufficient thought. I was weak with fear, irrational and impulsive. Then, I would have bargained away kingdoms, gold, love, anything, for a minute of this precious awareness of life and living. Then, I didn’t think about the monster that I was about to face, about this fearful adversary — an audience. Yama, however, seemed to realize what I had let myself in for. His lip twitched.

‘Fine,’ he said, ‘fine. Let’s say, half of the audience at any time, on pain of death. Let’s say, for three hours an evening.’

‘Hold it,’ snapped Hanuman. ‘That’s too much. Let’s negotiate.’

As they whispered, as proposals and counter-proposals circled each other like war chariots, I noticed my soon-to-be-audience, my jury, staring at me, bewildered. I pulled myself up onto the bed and typed a short synopsis of the events that had just occurred. I need not, I think, describe the expressions on their faces as the words and sentences appeared on the white paper; suffice it to say that Abhay walked around the room, reaching out into the air with trembling, searching fingers, finding, of course, nothing. Finally, he faced me, hands clenched.

‘This is insane,’ he whispered. ‘Crazy. I can’t be talking to you.’

‘Why are you so afraid, Abhay Bhai?’ said Saira, a little peevishly. ‘Hanuman’s here.’

Hanuman hopped over to me.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘How’s this? At least half of the audience is to be kept in a state of interest for a total of two hours each day. If, at any time, I judge that more than half of your audience is bored for more than five minutes, you will pay the forfeit. Boredom is to be defined as an internal state, externally recognizable through signs such as shifting restlessly, talking to neighbours, playing with shoe-laces or other items, drooping of eyelids and nodding of head, et cetera, et cetera. Do you accept me as judge?’

‘You are Hanuman, the best of monkeys. I accept.’

‘Fine,’ Hanuman said, smiling. ‘We’ll start tomorrow. Our friend here will have his scribes draw up a contract, which we’ll read carefully before signing.’

‘Read it all you want,’ said Yama. ‘My scribes are faultless. I’ll be back tomorrow at six. Be ready.’

He motioned with his arm, a great sweeping gesture that curved his limb like a striking snake, and a large black throne appeared in a corner, a throne with square corners and blunt contours and a blackness that is the colour of empty space, speckled lightly with the far-away glinting dust of stars. He stepped out of the room.

‘Tricks,’ sighed Hanuman, ‘tricks and fancy dress, that’s all he’s good for. Well, sleep well. Think well. I’ll be back tomorrow’

‘Thank you,’ I said, bowing to Hanuman, my friend and my refuge.

‘Ah, nothing, it’s nothing,’ Hanuman said. ‘You’re a poet and I’m your friend.’

And then he was gone, flashing out through a half-closed window.

I was tired and needed to think. Quickly, I told the rest about the story-telling that was to come the next day; again, Abhay reached out, trying to find solid tactile evidence of the presence of Yama’s throne, and again his fingers, unfeeling, passed through the surfaces of what only I could see.

Later, I lay awake, listening to the crickets and the swish of wind through the plants outside the window, turning my head occasionally to peer at the black throne in the corner, a slab of greater darkness in darkness; faint diamond-points of light flickered deep within; I tried to cast my mind back and bring up memories that could be transmuted into stories, but could only think of the richness of the world, of its verdant profusion — the delightful perfume that issues from queen-of-the-night as its flowers slowly open, the croaking of frogs, the silver light of the moon and the mysterious shadows, the swaying of the tree-tops and the way voices carry at night, the way a soft hip fills the palm of a hand, solid and comforting. Overpowered, I thought: we are blessed, and how strange it is that we can learn to hate even this, that we forsake these gifts and seek release; the sheets are cool and smooth below me, and this I am grateful for, I can feel the breath slide in and out of me, and this I am grateful for; surely, this must be enough, to feel these things and to know that all this exists together, the earth and its seas, the sky and its suns.

THE CONTRACT WAS DRAWN on fine golden paper, smooth to the touch, in both Sanskrit and English. Hanuman and I pored over it, and, sure enough, there were no mistakes, no subtle clauses in fine print that would return to haunt us.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Do I sign in blood, or what?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Yama, holding out a quill. ‘If that’s the sort of thing your taste runs to, you won’t last long.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said, scribbling my name in red-inked English at the bottom of the scroll. I had sent Saira out to the maidan with instructions to bring back as many young friends as could be persuaded to abandon their games of cricket, swearing them to secrecy and promising a great story. If I was going to face an audience which could, at any moment, become my executioner, I wanted the odds stacked in my favour. I wanted an audience full of young faces eager for tales of adventure and passion and honour, full of young minds still susceptible to the lures of unearthly horrors and epic loves; even as Yama settled himself into his black throne and Hanuman found a perch on top of the doorway, I heard the murmur of young voices in the court-yard, speaking Hindi and English accented with the rhythms of Punjabi, Gujarati, Tamil, Bengali and a dozen other languages. The door opened and Saira walked in, looking pleased with herself.

‘how many,’ I typed.

‘Four teams,’ she said. ‘Maybe fifty. It wasn’t easy, I tell you.’

‘The whole court-yard is filled,’ said Mrinalini, opening the door a crack.

‘thank you,’ I said to (typed at) Saira, who was clearly not to be underestimated. ‘what did you tell them.’

‘What you said to tell: secret-secret, a story, nothing about you. Here,’ she said, ‘this is how you make capital letters. The shift key, you know’

A, she typed, AB, ABC …

Hanuman swayed from the rafters, hanging by an arm and a tail.

‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s your narrative frame?’

‘My what?’ I said.

‘Your frame story?’ He looked hard at me, then dropped down to the bed. ‘You don’t have one, do you?’