At the end of the courtyard was the entrance to a stone shrine. It might have been a stage door, the courtyard the stage, the pillars and arches around it the proscenium. He stared at the door. Surely someone would step out of its shadowed rectangle into the sun. A man. A muscular man with shaggy hair. An actor. He, Suraj. In those red robes he had worn at his college drama society’s final-year performance, the spotlight on him, the rest of the stage dark, the audience below invisible, all eyes on him.
What were his lines? From an old poem: Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for? There was tubby old dhoti-clad Mishraji flapping about like a wounded bird, certain he would screw up those precious lines. He had not. Despite that joker of a teacher he had made it to film school. And then what? Nothing. Zero. Reach exceeded grasp. It always did. Cut to now: he was not an actor, not a director, not even a real cameraman. Just some guy who lived off assignments, doing the homework for other film-makers. The real guys. Some day he would make his own film. He had a screenplay. He thought back two years, to the time a couple of producers were about to bite. Long telephone calls that left him sleepless with excitement. Then nothing. A good story, they had said. Award-winning stuff. Their chequebooks firmly in their deep pockets.
The pillar he was leaning his head against began to feel too hard. He straightened, remembered the wood in his hand. He rubbed it in his palm as if to warm it, started whittling again. It was a block of sandalwood, soft and responsive, which he had managed to get through a friend in the forest department. He loved the scented exhalations from the wood as he carved and scraped, growing steadily more focused, all but forgetting where he was, until he noticed a man coming towards him down the square. He was not walking. He was full-length on the stone floor of the courtyard. Painfully, slowly, he was rolling his bare body towards the next shrine, all the while chanting a mantra.
The knife froze in Suraj’s hand. Inconceivable to feel as devout as this man, so certain of the existence of God and certain that this God looked after you personally. The ground was paved with rough granite and as the man came closer Suraj saw that grit had pierced his body all over, peeling skin away, making it bleed. Pink bits of his flesh clung to the courtyard’s stone. His eyes betrayed no pain, they gazed skyward: entranced.
Suraj shut his eyes. His breakfast rose into his mouth — bitter coffee. He swallowed it back and shut his eyes, fending off thoughts of wounds and gore. His head filled with the yelping of a dog, his nose with blood, rum and night jasmine all mixed up into a familiar stink of rage and fear. He had to struggle not to throw up.
He opened his eyes and saw himself looking directly into Badal’s face. The man had a mocking expression. He did not speak, only raised his joined-up eyebrows and curled his lips. He stood exactly where the blood-stained man had rolled past. He did not seem to notice that the dust below his feet was speckled pink.
Suraj stood up. He put his wood and his knife back into his pockets. He had seen enough, he would not go to another shrine. In fact if he could help it he would never go to a temple or church or mosque or monastery ever again. He would, instead, go and eat. He felt suddenly famished, as if he would pass out without food, his mouth flooding with salty drool at the thought of the crabs he had feasted on yesterday. He would have a whole plate of rice and that crab curry. It was rich and red and smelled insanely delicious. He felt his teeth crack the claws, he sucked out succulent white flesh, licked up every last drop of the gravy. Maybe they ought to shoot a test scene at that restaurant, right there, the air smoky with crab. Those shabby restaurants were made for travel films, with their turquoise walls and parrot-green chairs, the bottles filled with scarlet syrups and sauces, the gleaming brass pots and pans that stood in a row at the back.
Badal said, “So, shall we carry on? The next courtyard is the one where. .”
Suraj said, “No more courtyards. Just show me the way out, and help me get my shoes back.”
Badal smiled as if infinitely regretful. “My morning is gone. You’ll need to pay me even if you don’t complete the tour.”
“I already paid your friend,” Suraj said, “the other man. . what was his name?”
“Ah, but that was just the advance. He must have told you.”
“That definitely wasn’t what he said,” Suraj said, although he was too hungry to battle. “Not at all.” He remembered his expense account and said, “Oh what the hell. How much?”
*
Badal stood looking at the money in his hand. Five hundred rupees. And he would get the rest from Hari later. More than he had ever made from one client in half an hour. Ripping off the ungodly was somehow more satisfying, it made the world a better place. He stood rubbing the crisp notes one against the other. Brand new. He hated folding new notes. He slid them into his wallet, taking care to keep them flat at the edges. He would use his free time and the windfall to buy something for Raghu — maybe a shirt, maybe a watch. One of those watches that told much more than the time.
Badal left the temple and scoured Jarmuli’s main market for a present. He had never given Raghu anything and now that the thought had crossed his mind it had become a pressing need. He looked through stacks of resplendent polyester shirts at one clothing store after another, then watches. He changed his mind, thought he would buy the boy a radio and examined transistors of all prices and sizes, almost bought a sleek silver and black one shaped like a torpedo. After more than an hour of indecision, he settled on a made-in-China mobile phone. With a SIM card in it, it added up to quite a bit more than he could afford, but it would impress Raghu no end. He was sure of that.
He urged his scooter towards the beach until the old machine’s rattle made it sound as if it were dying under him. He couldn’t wait to give Raghu the mobile. He reached the promenade when it was well past the time Johnny Toppo shut the tea stall for his lunch and siesta. Business only took off much later in the afternoon when the beach swelled with stalls selling food, trinkets, souvenirs.
He skidded to a halt near the promenade and hurriedly parked the scooter, running to the beach. The sand felt hot enough to roast peanuts in. Not many people were about, only the diehards determined to make the most of their holiday, dashing in and out of the water. Badal made his way towards an isolated nook further down, where Raghu tended to laze most afternoons. The sun was a million crystalline pieces in the sea, glittering far into the distance. Badal never wore glasses against the sun, looking directly into it sometimes, daring it to do its worst.
He turned the curve and there Raghu was, half hidden by the prow of an upturned boat. The tea stall was shut. The boy could have gone off, but he had not. Had he been waiting for Badal? He must have been.
Badal came closer. He saw that the boy had gnawed at the skin on his chapping lips until the lower one — the fuller, fleshier, darker one — had bled. Burst open like a fig, Badal remembered from somewhere: your lips, bitten when kissed, burst open like a ripe fig.
Was it only two months ago that he had met Raghu? Three? He had been sitting on the tea-stall bench recovering from a quarrel with his uncle. Raghu had come to him and put down a tiny clay cup of tea unasked, saying, “Careful, it’s hot,” and Badal had looked up into the largest, darkest eyes he thought he had ever seen. The boy’s voice had a husky edge that made the words taper off and retreat where you could not follow them. It left Badal wanting to hear him speak again, so he had said, “You’re new?” Raghu had smiled in reply and Badal had caught sight of the dimple in his left cheek. All his annoyance had dissolved into euphoria.