The Assassin's Song by M.G. Vassanji Read Free Book Online

then?
    He smiled, sang, cursed at an animate object on the road.
    Every time he came he would bring a gift for our family: a specialty item from the town he had last visited—gathia from Bhavnagar, chevdo from Baroda, burfi from Rajkot, a kerchief from Bhuj. And most important, he would drop off for me a bundle of newspapers and magazines he had collected on the road. Sometimes, disappointingly, it would be a small package rolled up, meagre pickings from the world; and then there were the times when to my great joy a large stack would be dropped off with a thump at our doorstep, tied with twine, so heavy that I could not lift it. And thus I found out what they thought and did in Bombay and Madras, Ahmedabad and Delhi, and even in New York and London and Moscow.

My princedom before me
.
    Saturday was moto diwas, the “big day” at our shrine, and people came in droves. I say “our” though it was not really quite so, the shrine had been entrusted to our care, and at some point in the past it had been converted legally into a public trust. An institution does not last seven hundred years without conflict. What these conflicts were perhaps only the Sahebs knew, and so perhaps I would know in due time. But fortunately for our family, the British administration had been friendly to us—ours was the unthreatening world of the spirit, and the freedom we desired was only from the tyranny of the eighty-four hundred rebirths that a careless human has to suffer—and it ensured that the charge of the shrine, which had stayed in our family from the beginning, could not be contested.
    People came on foot, and by taxi, rickshaw, and camel or bullock cart, bringing a burst of colour at the gate, for mostly they came dressed respectfully in their better clothes. And when they passed him, Ramdas would greet them from his stall, offering flowers and chaddars; he sold, besides, unauthorized pictures of the Pir, in all sizes, mounted or otherwise; the sufi, presented sideways, was fair and pink with a pointed face and a short, pointed goatee; he wore a green turban and a blue robe; his eyes were a brownish green and gazed into the distance. A radio behind the shopkeeper played the livelier varieties of religious songs. Many of our pilgrims were from away, having been recommended to take their desires to the famous sufi Nur Fazal, the Wanderer of Pirbaag. This would not be their last stop at a holy place, but here they were, their hope, their desperation, their grief written on their faces.
    As they entered through the tall archway of the public access way, their eyes would without fail seek out the mausoleum on the right, to which they would drift, before stopping a modest distance away, and then they would say their silent salaams and namaskars to the Pir. Following this they would turn and walk around, pay their respects at the graves of the lesser saints, and hear about a miracle or two relating to the shrine, before slipping off their shoes and venturing up the steps to the verandah of the mausoleum and stepping over the threshold into the inner room that was the sanctuary, to beseech for whatever it was they needed.
    The raised grave of the Pir lay in the middle of the sanctuary, surrounded by a low lattice barrier of marble. It had a finish of carved inlaid wood at the top, which was rarely seen because layers of red and green chaddars covered it, the latter embroidered with the Islamic crescent and Arabic text in glittering silver and gold; an abundance of fresh flowers was spread out on the chaddars. At the head of this lush, colourful bed was a kingly crown of dark silver. Behind it stood the eternal lamp shining the light of the sufi. For centuries it had burned there of its own divine energy, consuming neither oil nor wick.
    Saturday morning, having played for a while, or read about the world, or studied, or listened on the sly to a cricket commentary on the radio— and consequently with a pang of guilt—I would eventually