Scenes From Early Life by Philip Hensher Read Free Book Online Page B

not, however. So, when I saw Assad in the street, kicking at the dust and trying to see if he could rotate his arms in opposite directions, I thought of everyone who had seen him alone and decided not to come out. It was a terrible but a sad business, being the son of an informer.
    ‘Have you seen my chicken Piklu?’ I said.
    Assad brightened. ‘No,’ he said. I knew he had not.
    ‘Do you want to see him now?’ I said. Naughtiness came over me. But I felt it was in an admirable cause. I was following a higher duty than family commandments. I went behind my aunts’ backs and offered friendship to Assad because he was separated from his family, and still nobody would greet him. In that moment, I assigned fine feelings to him, and a future in which we sloped off school and went fishing together.
    ‘You’re not allowed to invite me,’ he said, his face falling.
    ‘There’s no one about,’ I said. ‘I don’t care whether you come into the garden or not.’
    ‘My father says I’m not supposed to play with you,’ he said.
    ‘Where’s your father now?’ I said, shocked; I had not thought that the prohibition went in both directions.
    ‘I don’t want to see your chicken, anyway,’ Assad said.
    ‘Yes, you do,’ I said. ‘I know you do.’ I turned back to my grandfather’s house, and Assad trotted beside me. ‘He knows who I am,’ I said. ‘He comes to me whenever I go into the garden and I call his name. He’ll take food from my palm. He’s getting big now – he’s almost a full-grown chicken.’
    ‘Does he think you’re his mother?’ Assad said.
    ‘No, he knows who I am,’ I said.
    ‘How big is he?’ Assad said, as we went through the front gate of the house. ‘Is he big enough to cook and eat yet?’
    ‘No one’s going to cook and eat him,’ I said. ‘He’s not that sort of chicken. He’s my chicken, my special chicken.’
    ‘Just because he’s got a name doesn’t mean they won’t come and get him for the pot,’ Assad said. ‘If they know his name and they recognize him, they might come and get him first.’
    We came round the house into the garden. There was nobody there, not even Atish the gardener.
    ‘No one would do that,’ I said. Assad had let me down with his scepticism, and I was full of scorn for him now. He understood nothing; he did not understand Piklu’s place in our household. He did not deserve to be introduced to Piklu. The chickens were scattered about, feeding from the ground, like walking clouds against a dark sky. They raised their heads and, just as I had promised, Piklu with the two scribbled brown lines down his back came straight to me with joy in his strut.
    I had nothing to give Piklu. I felt in my pockets, but there was nothing there. He pecked enquiringly around me, walking backwards and forwards like a sentry before me. ‘This is Piklu,’ I said. ‘Did you see how he came straight to me? That’s because he recognizes me. He knows he’s my chicken.’
    ‘How do I know that’s the chicken you said is yours?’ Assad said. ‘All I saw is a chicken that came over looking for food. It could be any chicken.’
    Assad was horrible, I saw that now. But I knew that we were not horrible to horrible people. That was not the way we were. We understood that it was our responsibility to behave in civilized ways, even when we were confronted with uncivilized people. So I said, quite mildly, ‘You can tell it’s Piklu because he has those two lines down his back. He had those when he was a chick, straight from the egg.’
    ‘You could just have said that,’ Assad said. ‘What else does your chicken do? It doesn’t do anything interesting.’
    ‘He doesn’t have to do interesting things,’ I said. ‘He’s not in a circus. He’s my chicken. Anyway, you don’t do interesting things. I’ve never seen you do anything interesting. Piklu’s much nicer and more interesting than you are.’
    ‘I can do lots of interesting things. I know how to do