Free The Storyteller by Adib Khan Page A

streets would know the city better than you do,’ he grunted, tugging the lock on the chain, one end of which was wound around a wooden pillar. He then bent down to check the connecting link to the shackles on my ankles.
    They took turns to guard me during the day, but at night I was free to move inside. One evening I was allowed to sit outside the buckled doors of the godown with Chaman. That was when I met Kaka wandering about aimlessly, pausing to play doleful tunes on his bamboo flute. He was an old, blindman who cheerfully predicted the date and time of his death every day.
    ‘So you live in the corner of the godown?’ he asked, jabbing the space in front of him with a stick. ‘Have you seen any of the ghosts?’ His face cracked into a toothless grin.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Yes?’ he cried excitedly.
    ‘Vamana!’
    I ignored Chaman. ‘Yes, but only one.’
    ‘Did it speak to you? How did it look?’
    ‘It was small. Very small. Dressed in clothes I have never seen. It ran away when it saw me.’
    ‘No wonder!’ Chaman chimed loudly.
    Kaka sighed. ‘It is the ghost of Hamilton Saheb. He owned the godown, you know. The father of one of his young Indian mistresses killed him many years ago. He haunts the place. But until you arrived, only Barey had seen him. Wait till I tell the others!’ he cackled and left in considerable haste.
    ‘There isn’t a ghost!’ Chaman turned on me angrily. ‘Barey Bhai created the story to prevent others from seeking a place to stay inside the godown.’
    ‘It exists.’
    She pushed me back inside.
    Progressively, I was given the freedom to wander outside during the day. The godown was on the western edge of the slum. Behind it was a crumbling brick wall smothered with lichen. On the other side there was a bare, dusty field with a solitary mango tree leaning against the bricks. Even though the inhabitants of the bustee did nothing to nurture the tree, it produced an abundance of juicy fruits each year. A coir rope was tied to one of its sturdy branches. It dangled like a dead snake. On tiptoes I was barely able to grasp it in both hands and pull myself up.
    ‘The tree is under the care of Hamilton Saheb’s ghost,’ I ventured to explain one day. There were no expressions of disbelief, but by then I was regarded as someone with a mysterious connection with the supernatural.
    The railway line, built on an extended mound of earth and topped with crushed gravel, ran through the middle of the field. The bustee itself was spread over a vast area, expanding in every direction each day with the addition of ramshackle structures to shelter the destitute. A pall of dust and smoke hung over it, adding a perpetual gloominess to the squalor that dominated our lives. The hovels, shacks and temporary shelters were built in uneven rows with little space between the dwellings. Like the lines on the palm of a hand, a network of dirt paths branched out in different directions, most of them ending in front of rubbish dumps.
    I was quickly accepted as another oddity in the community. A dwarf did not stand out prominently among blind, limbless, mutilated, sick and starving people. There were the families of beggars, cobblers, tricksters, peddlers, barbers, pimps, prostitutes, thieves and drug dealers who jostled to survive in the overcrowded conditions.
    The time arrived when Barey Bhai declared that I was to serve Farida Baji in whatever capacity she wished. That was the first time I was taken out of the bustee to begin my disastrous stint as Baji’s personal servant and storyteller. Besides the domestic chores, I was supposed to settle her troubled spirits and soothe away the pain with bland tales of justice, generosity and happiness.
    The day I was dismissed from her employment, Barey Bhai summoned us and declared that I was now to be engaged in a manner that was profitable for everyone.
    ‘Like a good family member, Vamana must contribute to our expenses. Free food and accommodation are