Many years ago I told one lie that has taken on a life of its own. It defines me as a person. The only time I was sure of anything was all those years ago, when I was a boy. When I was lying. Since then I’ve never been comfortable with anything in my life.

We all do it. On 14th August 1947, I learnt that everybody lies but that not all lies are equal . . .

Anaar Gully, Northern India, June 1947

Chapter 1

Something was wrong. I could sense it but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It reminded me of when my father would jerk his head this way and that, sniffing the air like an agitated cockerel. He would look at me and say, ‘Can you smell a change in the air, my boy? Monsoon is coming.’ This feeling was like that. I could sense that there was something on its way but it wasn’t rain or monsoon – it was even bigger.

I was walking through the market, cradling a large melon in my arms, lost in thought, but the scent of jasmine tugged me back into the present. I stopped to watch the line of flower vendors carefully stringing petals into piles of necklaces.

Out of all the flower vendors,
Jayesh had the sharpest eyes and the nimblest fingers, and his pile was always bundled higher than everybody else’s. People from the surrounding villages would come just to see Jayesh sitting cross-legged at his workbench threading flower after flower. I made my way across to his stall. A few months ago he would have had a crowd gathered round but today there was only me. I watched for a few minutes as he delicately threaded each petal without pausing once. I waited patiently for the moment when he slipped a rose petal into his mouth and began to chew – by the time he had swallowed the petal, the necklace would be finished. As he slipped a rose petal into his mouth, I smiled to myself. Some things never changed. But my smile faded as I thought how recently some things
had
changed. It appeared that life continued as normal but there was a tension in the market I’d never felt before; little signs that things were not the same.

My stomach began to growl as I passed the fry cooks who provided food for the army regulars and the Britishers, the daal gently bubbling away in a large stewpot, a huge pot of steaming rice next to it. As I passed another stall, there was the same combination again, daal and rice. I shook my head and walked quickly past. A few months ago, these two stallholders had been partners; one made the daal, the other made the rice and they split the profits. Their stalls used to be beside each other and they used to sit, as friends do, in the shade sharing the odd cigarette. But that was a few months ago.

As I approached a space shaded by a canopy of bamboo sticks, I could hear a babble of voices all trying to talk at the same time. For as long as I could remember, the elders of the market town sat here spreading lime and betel on to eucalyptus leaves ready to smoke, and talking about the rights and wrongs of the world. My father would often sit here and listen to what the elders had to say, shaking his head at their warnings and listening respectfully as they gave him advice. Now I hung back and stood listening to the voices and watching the gestures of the town elders. I’d always remembered this spot as a peaceful place, where old men dozed or winked at you as you went past or gave you some money to buy eucalyptus leaf, but now it was anything but tranquil. Although a few men still sat and smoked quietly, a good number of the elders were standing and wildly gesticulating. A few others, propped up by their sticks, had stern faces and waited patiently for their turn – not to speak but to shout. One old man actually prodded another with his stick, inciting a few more to stand up and raise their hands in outrage. I walked past hurriedly. The elders had always argued but this was different. It was charged with something else. Something under the surface. Before they had argued and then cooled over a glass of refreshing lassi. Nowadays they stayed angry, feelings festering in the shade. Everything felt askew, like when I put on Bapuji’s glasses and everything was magnified and altered. As I remembered how it used to be, I walked in a trance, drifting past Anand’s vegetable stall. A sharp sound yanked me back into the present once more when Anand shouted at me.

‘Bilal, watch where you’re going with that melon! You nearly dropped it on my foot.’

The melon weighed heavily in my hands. I looked down at it and suddenly it hit me. Bapuji hadn’t really wanted to eat melon. He had wanted me out of the way for when Doctorji came. I quickly handed the melon to a startled Anand and began to run.

Skidding to a halt, I arrived just as the doctor was walking out of our front door. He waited patiently while I frantically tried to catch my breath, doubled over.

‘Stand up, Bilal. You’ll get your breath back quicker that way.’

Breathing in short, sharp gasps, I was unable to speak but stood up, staring intently at his face.

He looked at me closely and leaned forward to straighten my upturned collar, then smiled. ‘Look at the state of you, Bilal. Thirteen years old and still can’t dress yourself properly. How long now since your mother died?’

‘Five years . . .’

‘Five years is a long time, my boy. You have to take better care of yourself.’

‘And four months . . .’

‘What?’

‘And twenty-four days,’ I replied, looking him in the eye.

Doctorji blew out his cheeks and sighed.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach that I hadn’t been able to place suddenly sent little currents of electricity slicing through my body.

‘Your bapuji’s dying, Bilal. You know this, don’t you? You’ve seen him, you’ve felt it.’

Bright lights flashed in front of my eyes, my entire body tingled. The outline of the doctor’s face blurred, making me blink rapidly.

‘Bilal . . .’ said Doctorji gently.

I forced my eyes to stay open and after a few seconds the doctor slowly came back into focus. Doctorji put a heavy hand on my already sagging shoulder. I felt my knees buckle.

‘He hasn’t long now – a month, maybe two – but we can still make him comfortable. If not for that stroke a few months ago . . . If it hadn’t left him so physically helpless . . . If he could still move and be active, he might have had a chance to fight this cancer.’ Shaking his head, Doctorji frowned. ‘Too many “ifs”. His mind is strong but his body no longer obeys him. Go to Rajawallah and ask for this prescription. Tell him to see me about payment. You must do that today. Bilal, are you listening?’

I looked at the doctor again and at his hand on my shoulder, then tilted my head to look past him at the gaping doorway.

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