The Storyteller by Adib Khan Read Free Book Online Page B

very well for someone at your age. Do you write stories?’ There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.
    I had managed to lock him outside. The banging stopped. My sanctuary was safe. I went into the garden to seek the company of those I created. It had been so simple to outmanoeuvre the man. Yes sir! Ek dum seedah!
    ‘Do you write stories?’
    Now that there was no danger, I decided to be helpful. ‘No. They are inside my head. Like moving pictures. With words.’
    ‘Do the words come before the pictures?’
    I shook my head. Voices called me. I would have to leave.
    ‘Never?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘Are the pictures in colour?’
    ‘No. In white, with lots of darkness.’
    ‘Are there people in these pictures?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Can you tell me something about them?’
    ‘They are different.’
    ‘How are they different?’ I allowed the silence to intervene.’Where do these people live?’
    ‘Under the sea. In the sky…in forests.’
    ‘Not in houses?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Would you like to tell me one of your stories?’
    I wouldn’t say anything more, I decided. There were more questions. Lengthy pauses. Questions again, hammering me like hailstones.
    ‘Would you like to tell me something about yourself?’
    ‘My name is Vamana. I come from the sky.’ I couldn’t help myself. The words slipped out before I realised that I had spoken.
    ‘Yes?’ He waited.
    I managed to elude him again.
    A different school. And another one after that. There were excuses to get rid of me. Abnormal behaviour. My presence was a disruptive influence. Children were scared of me. Parental complaints. I was rude to teachers and did little work. I was dangerous. Dangerous? Was it my fault that someone lefta box of matches in the playground? I was only curious to see if pretty, orange tongues could reach up and lick the ceiling of the classroom.
    More punishment at home. Vijay’s yelling accompanied his kicking and punching. Maji stopped speaking to me for several days. I was confined to my room. One morning I accompanied her to the library where she worked.
    ‘This is most unusual, Mrs Dev!’ The balding man shook his head, unable to take his eyes off me. ‘I am not at all certain whether I should have agreed to this arrangement. Just remember! Any trouble, even a slight hint of disturbance and…This is a reputable library!’ He turned around abruptly and walked away.
    ‘That is the chief librarian,’ Maji whispered. ‘You heard what he said.’ An index finger wagged in front of my face like an erratic pendulum. ‘Behave!’
    At my insistence Maji allowed me to sit under her table that faced a window. I felt secure in the tiny space, reading the books she provided. This was so much better than school. No scolding. Without teachers to instruct me. No arithmetic. The absence of other children was my greatest relief. I was spared the taunts and missiles hurled at me. Under the table the world was a quiet place where I found solace in the company of words and whatever I was able to imagine. When Maji sat on her chair, I was hemmed in on three sides. There was enough space between the table and the wall for me to stick out my head and view the sky and the potted plants on the windowsill. The sterile sameness of what I saw every day was reassuring. There was nothing that threatened or mocked me.
    At the time, I did not understand the extent of my desperation to cling to my unexpectedly found haven. All that I vaguely perceived was the opportunity to be free from the interference of authoritarian figures and their feverish efforts tomould me into a cog of mainstream conformity despite my differences in mind and body.
    Initially, Maji determined where I could go and what I might read. If the pattern of my unpredictable behaviour worried her into confining me to the immediate vicinity around her table, then my meek acceptance of her rules was seemingly a cause for much greater concern. Her suspicion of my motives did not contend with