Choti’s father’s eyes were very small, like cashew nuts. He was short, fair complexioned, and a full-grown beard still eluded him. White hair peeked out of his face with great shyness. I worried he could not see anything when he laughed loudly. He had a tailoring shop in the market and could turn a piece of cloth into a pair of pants or a shirt in the blink of an eye. There was an inch-tape around his neck and a blue piece of chalk in his hands at all times. His mouth was never without a betel leaf, his lips were always red, and the fragrance of snuff was about him at all times.
The terrace of his shop was our meeting ground. That was where Radhe, Choti and I would get together. There were many advantages of this terrace, we could see the entire market from here, but the tree in front of the shop shielded us from the eyes of the marketgoers. On the days when Choti’s father was especially happy, he would have tea sent to us upstairs. Choti had one responsibility in the shop – besides attending school, he had to stitch two shirts every day. While we chatted, Choti would quietly go downstairs and finish his work, and the two of us never even got a whiff of it. It never failed to surprise me how Choti could fashion a shirt from a just piece of cloth.
“You didn’t shave your hair?” asked Radhe.
It was the first time we were meeting after my grandmother’s death. The three of us had just settled down on the terrace when Radhe popped the question.
“My mother said no,” I answered.
“Abbey, you should have. It’s supposed to be very rewarding,” Choti said.
“How could I just ask for my hair to be shaved off! The house was full of people…I could not understand anything.”
I was not to meet anyone other than family until thirteen days had passed since the death, or so Tarzan dada had warned me. But my best friends had retorted with: Who the hell listens to what the oldies have to say? So, I came running to see them.
“Has everyone left?” asked Radhe.
“Tomorrow is the thirteenth day,” I said.
“What was Ghazal saying?” Choti asked.
“Nothing,” I answered quickly, as though I already knew the question was coming.
“Didn’t I say he wouldn’t tell us anything? Abbey, everything changes when you start talking to a girl,” Radhe teased me.
“Abbey, she didn’t say anything…” I was slightly irritated.
“I saw the two of you were leaning against the door and whispering to each other. So how come she didn’t say anything at all?” said Radhe.
“Abbey, let it go. If he’s saying she didn’t say anything then she mustn’t have.” Choti wanted to put an end to this banter about secrets.
“Yeah, maybe the problem is with our eyes,” said Radhe and became quiet.
Once I’d stolen five rupees from my mother’s wardrobe. I went around with the money in my pocket for days after stealing it. The five-rupee note had become like a rat trapped in a snake’s mouth – it could neither be swallowed nor spat out. If I turned up at any shop in the village with a five-rupee note, rest assured, my mother would get to know about it the very next day. Therefore, I decided to come clean to Radhe and Choti. To preserve the sanctity of my secret, Radhe suggested, “We will both tell you a secret each so none of us can betray each other.” For this event, we chose Ghantiwala’s kachori and samosa shop. We ordered five rupees worth of jalebi and kachori. Gobbling a jalebi, Choti said, “How can we betray you now that we’ve eaten your salt? That’d be unforgivable.”
Radhe and I were not convinced. I was terrified of my mother’s beating and Radhe wanted these kachori-jalebi meetings to continue. In the end, Radhe took charge and said, “I’ve seen my fat beetle-like teacher’s breasts when she was bathing in the river.”
The jalebis fell out of our mouths. To prove the authenticity of the incident, Radhe drew a picture of the teacher’s breasts with a pencil, which Choti and I ogled at to our heart’s content. Later, from the fear of being caught, we shredded the paper into tiny pieces. It was Choti’s turn next. He took a deep breath and said, “Last time while playing marbles I cheated and that’s how I defeated both of you.”
Radhe and I whacked him. Radhe said, ‘I told you two about the teacher’s breasts and this feast was bought with stolen money and this is your secret?’
Choti kept glancing around. I added, “Anyway, we already know that you cheat while playing marbles.”
Choti took another deep breath and said, “When I feel scared at night, my mother comes and sits next to me but in the dark, her face looks like a flat pan.”
“No. This is not a secret. It is a horror story,” I said. We knew his mother was dead.
“That’s right, stories won’t do,” chided Radhe.
“Sometimes I think about girls while reading the namaaz.” The two of us burst out laughing but did not accept the confession. We could not understand it then, but Choti was becoming increasingly uneasy. The kachoris and jalebis had been devoured and tea had arrived in front of us. We now had as much time as it would take to finish the tea. Sometimes in friendship, without realising it, one resorts to cruelty for a good laugh. Radhe and I went after Choti. He kept refusing but we weren’t ready to let go. All of a sudden, Choti shouted, “At night, my uncle sleeps with his hand inside my undies.”
Choti’s eyes were brimming with tears and silence had descended on the entire shop. Radhe and I were speechless. A little later, to give the situation an appearance of normalcy, the two of us pretended to laugh. But Choti did not join us. We could not take another sip of our tea. After that day, I did not steal again and neither did we bring up what Choti had told us.
Excerpted with permission from A Temple of No Gods, Manav Kaul, translated from the Hindi by Sayari Debnath, Penguin India.
Disclosure: Sayari Debnath is a Senior Writer at Scroll.
