Free The Storyteller by Adib Khan Page B

unaffordableluxuries in this city.’ Abruptly he turned to Lightning Fingers and said, ‘Teach him.’
    He understood what Barey Bhai meant. I was to learn how to pick pockets and extract money and valuables from handbags. Relaxed, deft fingers. Like delicate tongs.
    ‘In and out. Like this. Always with the index and middle fingers.’
    ‘Never probe.’
    ‘Get whatever you can the first time. Don’t be curious. Never be greedy!’
    ‘Faster! Quicker! Are you daydreaming again?’
    Once again my world was crowded with instructions. I sulked and fretted. They sensed my resentment and harped on the necessity of cooperation and rigorous training.
    ‘We must work together in a disciplined way,’ Lightning Fingers insisted. ‘Let me tell you what we learned long ago. Like you, we were orphans brought up by beggars and thieves. As children, the three of us met accidentally in a street, scrounging for food. On a summer’s afternoon we pounced on a half-eaten roti thrown from a passing car. While we abused, shoved and punched each other, a pye-dog crept up behind us and stole the bread. It was an unforgettable lesson. The commonality of hunger became a binding force. Much later, when Barey Bhai’s thugs bought me from the beggars, I threatened to run away unless Nimble Feet and Farishta came with me.’
    ‘Loyalty to one another is our greatest asset,’ Nimble Feet added. ‘We see life with common eyes. We know where dangers lurk.’
    ‘Ultimately that ensures survival.’ Farishta dropped his voice and spoke slowly, emphasising every word.
    Noiseless. Inconspicuous. Glide rather than run. Retreat like a shadow. I flexed my fingers constantly and walked aroundwith weights tied to them. The consequences of failure were impressed upon me. Slithering. Crawling. Wriggling like worms. I acquired a dexterity that made me proud and confident. My mind began to react instinctively to commands. The fingers of the right hand followed like professional fighters, responding without hesitation.
    As Chaman watched, I practised with Farishta and Nimble Feet. Lightning Fingers coached me with meticulous care—diversionary tactics, ways of creating confusion, means of escape. Reservoirs of excuses. Words of humility and repentance. Hard-luck stories. Ways to bribe policemen. Cringe and fawn. Pretend to be mad. I was not shrewd enough to recognise the urgency in their voices or the vague shadows of concern in Chaman’s eyes.
    Once more the godown became a prison. I was not allowed to wander beyond its wasteland of rusting machinery, broken bricks, rotting timber, chains and ropes. The deprivation of my freedom was enough of an incentive to strive for proficiency beyond any natural talent for thievery. I even resorted to training at night among the monstrous shadows the candle flames projected on the ceiling and the walls.
    Barey Bhai inquired about my progress.
    Slow.
    He asked again a few days later.
    Slow.
    The same reply after another week. Barey Bhai’s temper ignited, and the demon inside him raged like a monsoonal storm. He abused us for our incompetence, and then turned on himself for an unforgivable lapse of judgement. ‘One more week,’ he said ominously.
    Chaman and Lightning Fingers doubled their efforts. Farishta and Nimble Feet cajoled, scolded and slaved over me. ‘ Ay yoh , Vamana! Pay attention and try harder!’
    ‘We do not want to lose you,’ Chaman panted. ‘Harder, baba …’
    Otherwise, otherwise…My mind was unable to grasp the sinister implications of what was left unsaid. I was not yet wise to Barey Bhai’s response to failure, or the indifference with which a life could be extinguished.
    They were not much older than I. Yet their multitudinous experiences with the hazards of survival had wisened them far beyond their years. For every action there was a motive. Behind every motive was the instinct for self-preservation. Adversity made them even more determined to cling to life. But at this point in