Read Online The In-Between World of Vikram Lall by M. G. Vassanji - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. G. Vassanji
Tags: General Fiction
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can only tell him what he allows me to say to him.
Vikram?
Yes.
He’s like my son.
I know that. I’ll do the best I can.
Rakhi day is coming, Bhaiya, I’ll send you something.
I’ll look forward to it, Sister.
FIVE.
There are wonderful moments sometimes—a splash of colour, the sweet taste of icy kulfi on a Sunday afternoon, the feel of hot steam on the face and arms from a gasping locomotive—that stand out purely in themselves, sparkles of childhood memory scattered loosely in the consciousness. They need not tell a story, yet moments lead from one to another in this tapestry that is one’s life; and so we feel bound, unhappy adults, to look past and around those glimmer points in our desperate search for nuance and completeness, for coherence and meaning.
Be that as it may, the following is one delightful moment that often twinkles before my mind’s eye.
One afternoon after school I was sitting at the dining table, hunched over homework, when suddenly a commotion erupted outside. There was the sound of drumming andchanting and servants running in the alleyways, heading toward the front. I raced to the sitting room; the door was wide open and I ran through it, and came upon a most amazing spectacle in progress.
About twenty Masai youths were performing a traditional war dance outside the Molabux residence, three doors down from ours. A crowd had rapidly gathered on both sides of our street, to watch and marvel and comment—such happy idleness never before having been witnessed by me in our area. The dancers—tall and supple, the skin dark brown, the long hair plaited, combed back, and dyed red, multicoloured beads at the neck, the wrists, the arms, the pierced earlobes stuffed with more decoration, the red wool shawls only partially covering the torsos and waists—were arrayed in a line. They swayed to and fro and thumped the ground with their feet, to the rhythm of song and drum. Every now and then, suddenly and all together, they sprung high into the air, their bodies erect, their spears glinting, their teeth flashing in friendly smiles. Splashes of red and dark brown and white leapt up at the blue sky out of the dust. A small gang of Masai women of assorted ages provided the treble accompaniment from under a tree in what seemed a rather dispassionate manner compared with the vigorous and joyful displays of their men.
All this while Sakina Molabux, the dark, wizened matriarch of her house, stood motionless at her doorway, watching the performance intently, as if it were for her benefit. As indeed it was. Her husband Juma Molabux stood quietly beside her.
After a while, some of the Kikuyu and the Luo among the spectators joined in, with their own dances but not as expertly, and the performance soon wound down. There followed a solemn shaking of hands by the towering Masai with whoever stepped forward. They did this in three stages, first the normal clasping of hands, then a rotation of the hands so the two thumbs met and embraced, and then a twist back to the hand clasp before release. Two police Land Rovers had appeared onthe street but were not intrusive. From somewhere, two men on stilts came tottering up, with white-painted faces and ostrich feathers around their heads. Coca-Cola was served to the performers, brought out from the back of the Molabux house in two crates.
It turned out that the Masai were in town to rehearse for festivities being organized by the government. Coronation Day was almost upon us, and Empire Day would soon follow.
But that afternoon as I watched these tall red-clothed men in amazement and clapped my hands to cheer them and mingled with the crowd to do the weird handshake and drew in their strange odour just for the heck of it, I was still too young to understand the full import of their performance outside our house. Since then I have wondered about it, about Sakina-dadi standing at her doorway taking it in. She was a full Masai whose wedding to Juma Molabux my
Vikram?
Yes.
He’s like my son.
I know that. I’ll do the best I can.
Rakhi day is coming, Bhaiya, I’ll send you something.
I’ll look forward to it, Sister.
FIVE.
There are wonderful moments sometimes—a splash of colour, the sweet taste of icy kulfi on a Sunday afternoon, the feel of hot steam on the face and arms from a gasping locomotive—that stand out purely in themselves, sparkles of childhood memory scattered loosely in the consciousness. They need not tell a story, yet moments lead from one to another in this tapestry that is one’s life; and so we feel bound, unhappy adults, to look past and around those glimmer points in our desperate search for nuance and completeness, for coherence and meaning.
Be that as it may, the following is one delightful moment that often twinkles before my mind’s eye.
One afternoon after school I was sitting at the dining table, hunched over homework, when suddenly a commotion erupted outside. There was the sound of drumming andchanting and servants running in the alleyways, heading toward the front. I raced to the sitting room; the door was wide open and I ran through it, and came upon a most amazing spectacle in progress.
About twenty Masai youths were performing a traditional war dance outside the Molabux residence, three doors down from ours. A crowd had rapidly gathered on both sides of our street, to watch and marvel and comment—such happy idleness never before having been witnessed by me in our area. The dancers—tall and supple, the skin dark brown, the long hair plaited, combed back, and dyed red, multicoloured beads at the neck, the wrists, the arms, the pierced earlobes stuffed with more decoration, the red wool shawls only partially covering the torsos and waists—were arrayed in a line. They swayed to and fro and thumped the ground with their feet, to the rhythm of song and drum. Every now and then, suddenly and all together, they sprung high into the air, their bodies erect, their spears glinting, their teeth flashing in friendly smiles. Splashes of red and dark brown and white leapt up at the blue sky out of the dust. A small gang of Masai women of assorted ages provided the treble accompaniment from under a tree in what seemed a rather dispassionate manner compared with the vigorous and joyful displays of their men.
All this while Sakina Molabux, the dark, wizened matriarch of her house, stood motionless at her doorway, watching the performance intently, as if it were for her benefit. As indeed it was. Her husband Juma Molabux stood quietly beside her.
After a while, some of the Kikuyu and the Luo among the spectators joined in, with their own dances but not as expertly, and the performance soon wound down. There followed a solemn shaking of hands by the towering Masai with whoever stepped forward. They did this in three stages, first the normal clasping of hands, then a rotation of the hands so the two thumbs met and embraced, and then a twist back to the hand clasp before release. Two police Land Rovers had appeared onthe street but were not intrusive. From somewhere, two men on stilts came tottering up, with white-painted faces and ostrich feathers around their heads. Coca-Cola was served to the performers, brought out from the back of the Molabux house in two crates.
It turned out that the Masai were in town to rehearse for festivities being organized by the government. Coronation Day was almost upon us, and Empire Day would soon follow.
But that afternoon as I watched these tall red-clothed men in amazement and clapped my hands to cheer them and mingled with the crowd to do the weird handshake and drew in their strange odour just for the heck of it, I was still too young to understand the full import of their performance outside our house. Since then I have wondered about it, about Sakina-dadi standing at her doorway taking it in. She was a full Masai whose wedding to Juma Molabux my
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