City of Ghosts (21 page)

‘Where are we?' he asked the woman.

‘In Kerala. The fishermen are coming in with their catch.' She nodded towards the boats.

‘But I don't understand. How have we managed to end up here?'

This time the woman did look up. She smiled warmly. ‘Best not to ask questions that I can't answer,' she advised. ‘Now take another look at the mango.'

She held it up to him as bright sunshine made the white sand grains glisten like millions of minute diamonds. Gurdial took the fruit and studied it.

‘What do you see?' the woman asked.

‘I see a mango – the same one that you cut a piece from in the market.'

‘See how beautiful it is?'

Gurdial nodded.

‘Take a bite,' she told him.

Without questioning her he did as he was told. He should have been scared or at least intrigued by what was happening, but the feeling of tranquillity that had come over him prevented it. The mango tasted even sweeter than it had done in the market and he took another bite.

‘Does it still taste as good?' asked the woman.

Gurdial began to nod but stopped as soon as the
bitter, acrid taste hit his senses. The mango had become rotten. He spat it from his mouth and looked at what was left in his hands. He had bitten right down to the stone, a pitted, brown husk, and as he watched, tiny yellow maggots began to appear in the remaining flesh, wriggling and squirming. He dropped the mango and retched.

The woman laughed. ‘Even the most beautiful thing in the world can hide ugliness within,' she told him.

Gurdial wiped his mouth before asking her what she meant.

‘I'll let you decide that,' she replied.

She got to her feet and told him to follow her. She turned and walked quickly across the burning sand towards a fishing village about half a mile away.

‘Where are we going?' asked Gurdial.

The woman didn't reply.

The village was quiet when they arrived. There were a few women around; women with skin as dark as ebony and almond-shaped eyes and rounded, hardened bodies. They wore brightly coloured clothes in yellow and red and orange, and their children played in the sand, most of them naked. Gurdial had never seen people with skin so dark and he found himself staring at them as he passed. He followed his companion through the village towards the small wooden jetty.

‘Are these people Indian?' asked Gurdial when he caught up with her.

‘Yes,' she replied. ‘Much more so than you or I. Our ancestors are both Indian and something else. Some of them were pale-skinned, with yellow and brown hair and proud noses—'

Gurdial frowned. ‘I have no idea what you are on about.'

‘The reason why we do not look like these people is well documented,' she explained. ‘The lands to the north were conquered long ago by white men who came from the west; Macedonians and Greeks who followed their king and took over vast areas of the world. Many of them stayed behind.'

‘If that's true,' replied Gurdial, ‘why have I never learned of it in school?'

The woman smiled. ‘Education is a funny thing. Ask yourself who is teaching you, what they are schooling you in and what reason they have for doing so.'

Gurdial was still confused.

‘The British want to teach
their
history,' she explained patiently, ‘and the Indians want to teach
theirs
. No doubt it is the same the world over. But do you really learn the truth or simply another person's version of it?'

Gurdial shrugged. ‘I learn what I am told to learn,' he admitted.

‘Well, next time you learn something, ask yourself why you did so and in whose interest.'

Gurdial turned away from her and gazed out at the incoming boats. ‘Why are we here?'

‘You want to find the most valuable thing in India, don't you?'

‘Who
are
you?' Gurdial asked. ‘And how do you know of my search?'

The woman removed her shawl and used it to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her hair fell down in long waves of silver and yellow. Gurdial gasped when he saw it. He studied her eyes and her mouth.

‘It's not possible!' he gasped.

The woman smiled and put a finger to his lips to quieten him. ‘
Anything
is possible,' she told him. ‘Now let us ask the fishermen what they think the most valuable thing is.'

The urge to speak was strong but the sense of calm that the woman had bestowed on Gurdial kept it at bay. He felt as though his thoughts and actions had been wrapped in silk and soaked with honey. Nothing worried him, nothing fazed him. He looked at the woman and grinned.

‘You can ask me later,' she promised. ‘You can ask me after we've spoken to the fishermen.'

The fishermen seemed to know her. Their skins were as dark as those of their women but much less smooth, as though someone had washed their faces in rock salt and left them to dry in the midday sun. Some of the men had broken and missing teeth; others were missing the odd finger or thumb. All were short, their bodies wiry, with tightly packed muscles. The first to speak had a
thick welt of pink scar tissue arcing from his left shoulder down to his belly button. He seemed pleased to see the woman.

‘It has been a long time,' he said.

‘Very long,' she replied.

‘And who is this you have with you?'

Gurdial knew in his bones that he should not have been able to understand what the man was saying. The language he was speaking was a million miles removed from the Punjabi he had been taught, yet it made perfect sense. How it could be so clear, Gurdial failed to understand, but once again he could not ask.

‘He is a friend,' the woman explained. ‘He searches for something of great value and wishes to ask you about it.'

The man looked into Gurdial's eyes. ‘What is it you seek?' he asked.

Gurdial heard himself answer the question; the fishermen began to laugh. The man with the scar across his chest spoke up.

‘The most valuable thing in India is whatever suits you,' he replied. ‘For me it is the boat in which I go out to sea, for without it I would not be able to fish and I would starve.'

‘And for me,' answered another voice, ‘it is the nets I cast to catch the fish, for without them what
use
are the boats?'

Gurdial nodded as a third voice rang out.

‘But what good are the boats
or
the nets without the
sea itself? The
sea
is the most precious thing in all existence.'

The woman took Gurdial's hand. She thanked the fishermen for their help and began to lead him away.

‘Won't you stay for supper?' asked the first fisherman.

The woman shook her head. ‘Not today,' she replied. ‘We still have much to do.'

‘Perhaps another day then . . .'

‘Perhaps.'

‘And I hope we have been of some assistance to you,' the man said to Gurdial.

But Gurdial had no time to answer, for as soon as he opened his mouth to reply, the woman clicked her fingers and they were gone.

He found himself sitting in a dense forest in the dark. He spun round to look for the woman but she wasn't there. But far from feeling panic, he was relaxed and accepting. The night was full of strange sounds – shrieks and whistles from animals and the buzzing of insects. From somewhere close by came a hissing sound. He peered through the blackness but failed to see anything. Not that he needed to. The hissing could only be a snake – from the sound of it, a very big one. Still he felt no fear.

The vegetation to his right rustled and the woman reappeared. She crouched by his side and pointed through the bushes. ‘The snake catchers,' she said.

Gurdial followed her gaze, and suddenly the gloom
lifted. His eyes hit on a clearing. Several men stood in a circle; they were holding sticks – and three also had empty cloth sacks hanging at their sides. They were attacking something inside the circle but Gurdial could not see what it was. Suddenly one of them stepped aside and a second emerged from the centre, grinning as he held up the longest cobra that Gurdial had ever seen; he grasped it just behind its huge head with one hand, the other hanging onto its tail. Another man quickly opened a sack and the serpent was dropped inside, the neck of the bag twisted shut and tied with string.

‘Where are we?' Gurdial asked the woman.

‘It's not important,' she replied.

‘And who are the people?'

‘The wretched of the earth. Come on . . .'

She made herself known to the men, and once again they greeted her like a long-lost sister. Gurdial followed her into the clearing. The men looked him up and down before greeting him.

‘The boy seeks riches,' explained the woman, ‘to help him prise a daughter from the hands of her father.'

The man holding the captured snake smiled. ‘We have no riches,' he replied, ‘except for our hands and our brains.'

‘And our ginger tea,' added a second man. ‘You are most welcome to come and enjoy a cup with us, back at our
motta
.'

Without waiting for a reply they led the way back to their village.

The girl who brought Gurdial his tea was not much older than him. She smiled as she poured it out. Her skin was the colour of mango wood and just as smooth, and her hair jet-black and shiny. He took the cup and thanked her.

‘A real beauty,' said the man sitting next to him on the dirt floor of a dung-brick single-storey dwelling.

The woman smiled at him and urged him to try the tea. ‘It is very special,' she told him.

Gurdial took a sip and savoured the tingling sensation of the spicy drink in his mouth. ‘It's delicious,' he agreed.

The man who had carried the snake back to the village coughed before speaking. ‘So how can we help you, young man?'

Gurdial shrugged. ‘I have been set a task,' he explained. ‘I must find the most precious thing in all of India . . .'

A few of the others laughed at his reply.

‘And you think that we can help you?' asked the first man.

‘I don't even know how or why I am here,' he admitted.

‘He's on a journey he cannot understand,' the woman told them. ‘A test, perhaps, to ensure that he is worthy of the love that he craves.'

For the men this seemed to make perfect sense, and one or two of them nodded their understanding.

‘I wanted you to show him that riches are not always what they seem,' she went on.

The first man scratched his chin. ‘We are the Irula,' he told Gurdial. ‘We are known as the snake catchers, and for many generations we have helped our fellow countrymen stay safe as they wander through the fields, the forests and the jungles. Our skill is in catching the deadliest serpents.'

Gurdial nodded. ‘One of the teachers at my school told us about you.'

The man lit a thin cigarette and puffed on it before continuing. ‘We have saved rich and poor with our skills,' he said. ‘But we are still the lowest of the low in this society. Our standing is no greater than that of the snakes we catch. Indeed, we are deemed to be lower than those too.'

Gurdial was about to say something but the woman read his mind and told him to remain quiet.

‘Many years ago,' continued the man, ‘my great-grandfather was approached by a powerful rajah from Madras. The rajah had all the wealth in the world but still he was not satisfied. His wish was to be the wealthiest, most powerful ruler in India. He asked my great-grandfather to find for him a sacred thing.'

The other men sat in hushed reverence as he told his story. Outside, some of the womenfolk had also gathered.

‘What did he ask for?' said Gurdial.

‘The cobra is a sacred serpent,' the storyteller
explained. ‘The king of these serpents is said to carry within it an element so precious that it bestows wealth beyond imagination on any human who can possess it. The rajah asked my ancestor to find for him this element. It is called a
nagmani
. My great-grandfather agreed, but only on the understanding that his tribe, then owned solely by the rajah, be allowed to leave his kingdom once it had been delivered. The rajah agreed readily and told him that he would also give him a chest full of gold pieces. But my great-grandfather refused. “Just give us our freedom,” he said to the rajah, “for that is the most precious thing we could hope for.” The rajah, although perplexed, said that he would.

‘The tribe spent the next two months catching and trapping snakes. It is a dangerous job that we do, and after the two months had passed, several of my great-grandfather's tribe had died. But they had also managed to catch three King Cobras. My great-grandfather took all three into a hut and proceeded to find a
nagmani
for the rajah. For three days and three nights he stayed alone inside the hut, and on the morning of the fourth day he emerged holding a cloth sack. Inside it was the precious element. But no one else was allowed to look at it, on the orders of the rajah. My great-grandfather told his people to pack their belongings and make ready to leave. They did so at once.

‘The
nagmani
was taken to the rajah at his palace. Upon seeing the sack, he fell to his knees and touched the feet of my great-grandfather, something unheard of
– for my people are said to be the lowest of all castes. The rajah told him that he would give him anything he desired. My great-grandfather asked for nothing save that the rajah only put his new power to use
one full day
after the tribe had left. The rajah agreed. My great-grandfather thanked him and hurried home.

‘The tribe walked for more than twenty-four hours, through the night and well into the day, before daring to rest. And once they had rested, they walked for another full day. They repeated this for two weeks, until finally they came across a jungle clearing and sat down. It was here that they started to build their new
motta
.'