Cool air. Inside is international. India is already behind me. The witnesses stop us and lay hands on Bibhuti’s shoulders and arms, patting him like wet clay, leaving their finger marks in him for providence. A couple of them pose for photos crouching alongside their hero. They retreat at the sight of the security guards flexing their trigger fingers. We roll through the concourse, each of us pining in secret for the time when we can be alone to scratch at the various itches we’ve stirred in each other. Jolly Boy struggles to steer the misfit luggage trolley along a straight course. We laugh at the mess he’s making of his attempt at swanlike self-possession. Knowing I’ll never see him again prompts a dread that I cover up with idle talk.
‘Will you carry on with your book?’ I ask Bibhuti.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘My story is not yet finished.’
I thank him for letting me be a part of it.
‘Not just a part. The biggest. When you come back it will be finished. You will read what I have written.’
His well-meaning lies make my heart ache.
The girl at check-in sees the blood dripping down my neck and offers me a tissue to wipe my wound. When the cases have gone through Jolly Boy takes control of the wheelchair and races me to the security line, his father’s cries of alarm echoing off the sun-streaked marble. People are emptying their pockets and removing their belts, a nervous submission to an illusion of safety. I take out the last of my Indian money and give it to Bibhuti’s wife. It’s not meant to be a bribe and it’s not her forgiveness I seek. I just want to leave her with an impression of a man who can settle his own debts.
She whispers thank you for bringing her husband back to her.
I bend down and kiss Bibhuti’s neck, a scrap of brown between the plaster casts. I feel a tiny contraction as he recoils and then relaxes. I breathe him in and then I take Ellen’s arm and lead her behind the security tape. I take off my shoes before I’m asked. When I’ve filled my tray I look behind me and my friend is gone. The men with their guns walk in lazy circles and the lights above them make everything look older.
Over the tin roofs and Rebati the ape girl waves at us from her place of grand design. The smaller children pause from braiding her face hair to look up at the sky and wonder at the treasures a plane holds in its belly and where they’re being taken. I think I see more Ganesh idols floating in the bay, the sun glinting off trunks raised in denouncement of the sea’s irresistible pull. I’m a fruit that’s missing its stone. The dark heart of me has been scooped out and without its unifying mass the flesh is falling in. What a sweet falling. Everything sings with a new sweetness and I’m more tired than I’ve ever been. I unbuckle my seatbelt and squeeze Ellen’s hand.
One sleep will be enough if it goes deep. One sleep to undo a lifetime as we fly against the clock. Nothing to do now but remember and wait. The landing gear grinds back into its recess and my eyes drop shut without a fight. I see a flash of orange and hear a growling, a warning and then a submission. The last thing I feel is the tingle of fur at my fingertips. I stroked a tiger’s tail and it didn’t seem to mind.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Bibhuti Nayak is a real person, and much of what you have read about him in this book is true. While his essence is embodied in the character who shares his name, and some of those character’s exploits really happened — including many of the records — I have embellished or invented where necessary for the purpose of this story. Bibhuti himself was happy for me to do so; in fact he encouraged it. If you’d like to find out more about the real Bibhuti, please search his name online.
Stephen Kelman
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deepest thanks to Bibhuti Bhushan Nayak for gifting me his story and for blessing me with his friendship. This book was born of his generosity and his spirit inspires me every day.
My sincere appreciation to Smruti and Shubham (Jolly Boy) for placing their trust in me. Thanks to Jagatdeep Singh for doing likewise. I owe various citizens of Mumbai and Navi Mumbai a debt of gratitude for their kindness, encouragement and curiosity. Their lives infuse these pages and enrich me beyond words.
I first saw Bibhuti on Paul Merton in India, a documentary series for Channel 5. I’d like to thank Paul for accepting Bibhuti’s invitation to kick him in the groin, an act of grace and bravery from which this book, and a life-changing friendship, eventually emerged.
My wife Uzma patiently endured with me every up and down that comes with writing a book, and I couldn’t have finished it without her.
The same can be said of Jo Unwin and Clare Conville, agents former and current, and friends whose support and skill make the improbable a reality, and Helen Garnons-Williams, my editor, whose wisdom and sensitivity steer me past the vanities. Everything began with David Llewelyn, and I’ll never forget it.
~ ~ ~
I am deeply indebted to my parents (Jagannath and Shanti) who have brought me to this beautiful world. Thanks to my journalist friend R. Ramesh for encouraging me to achieve several milestones and he has been my pillar of strength. Thank you Dr Vijay D. Patil, a visionary man and passionate about sports, who has always been magnanimous to me. I am gratified to my friend Charanjeet Singh Parwana for pushing me to limelight. Sincere thanks to my disciples D. B. Chand and Mahesh Vishwakarma for standing by me along the way of my arduous journey. My family friend Neelam Patil deserves special thanks for her impulsive and unselfish deeds. Thanks to my evergreen friends Hruday R. Mohanty, Abhishek Yadav and Narendra Kamath for being with me, their patience and unfussiness. My earnest thanks to Stephen and Uzma for bringing in cheers on my face after decades of my struggle, poverty and adversity.
Bibhuti Bhushan Nayak
Navi Mumbai
December 2014
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Stephen Kelman was born in Luton in 1976. Pigeon English, his first novel, was shortlisted for the 2011 Man Booker Prize, the Desmond Elliott Prize and the Guardian First Book Award, and he was also shortlisted for the New Writer of the Year Award at the 2011 Galaxy National Book Awards. Pigeon English is a set text on the GCSE syllabus. Stephen lives in St Albans.
@stephen_kelman