Read Online The Storyteller of Marrakesh by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya - Free Book Online

along the ridge line, quickly picking up speed.
    Slow down, you young fool! Ahmed called out in warning.
    Mustafa ran on heedlessly, heading straight for the edge of the ridge where it ended abruptly.
    Both Ahmed and I stood up in alarm.
    What the hell? Ahmed growled.
    The words had scarcely left his lips when Mustafa hurtled over the edge and out of our sight. Scarcely able to breathe, we ran helter-skelter and peered down the sheer cliff.
    Mustafa lay spreadeagled on a rocky ledge several dozen feet below us. He smiled weakly when we climbed down to him.
    I think I’ve broken my leg, he said. It hurts like hell, but I wouldn’t have missed that moment of launching myself into the air for anything in the world. I think that’s what true love is going to be like for me. Do you believe me now?
    Ahmed and I looked at each other in disbelief, before speaking in one voice: You’re mad!

‌ Zahra
    It took us two hours to haul Mustafa up the cliff. The storm caught up with us as we carried him home. Soaked to the skin, we lied at home about what had happened, of course.
    A couple of days later, on a bright, sunny morning, I was keeping Mustafa company as he sat glumly on the patio with his plastered leg propped up, when Ahmed tore in through the courtyard gate on his bicycle and skidded up to us.
    Hassan, he said, get off your arse! The girl that Father’s arranged for you to be married to is walking down the northern road leading away from the village, and if you’re quick enough, you can catch up with her and get a good look. Here: take my bicycle.
    Are you sure it’s her?
    Yes, yes, it’s Zahra, for God’s sake. I’m one hundred per cent certain.
    But she isn’t from around here. What is she doing in our valley?
    How do I know? Maybe she was visiting someone in the village. My friend Dehili tipped me off. He knows her brothers and recognized her as she was leaving the village. Do get a move on, won’t you?
    I shifted uneasily. Ahmed, I began, I don’t know if I want to. After all, I trust Father’s good judgement, and there’s a certain order to the way these things proceed…
    Mustafa gave me a shove. Hassan, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud! he said exasperatedly. Ahmed’s right. Hurry up and go, and then come back and tell me what she’s like.
    I glanced at both of them. All of a sudden, to my own considerable surprise, I leapt with alacrity onto Ahmed’s bicycle and took off, furiously pedalling down the uneven piste to the village.
    She’s wearing a bright green boubou, Ahmed yelled after me. You can’t miss it.
    He was right: I didn’t, especially given that she was the only person on the road going north. I felt my mouth turn dry and my heart begin to pound.
    Slowing down about twenty metres behind her, I sailed past before turning my head swiftly to take her in. By God, she was beautiful, like Scheherazade, with a triangular face, huge brown eyes and an exquisite green tattoo on her chin. She smiled when she saw me looking back, and, at that very instant, I lost control of the bicycle, going careering off the road and ending up on my backside with a resounding thump.
    We were married four months later. Zahra had just turned sixteen. She was Ahmed’s age, two years younger than me.

‌ The Healing Garden
    So that’s the way it was with my brothers, I said, interrupting my narrative to look at my audience. Ahmed’s still the same; he hasn’t changed a bit. He still holds on to the tangible things in life, his belief implicit in the capacity of the world to satisfy his needs. As for Mustafa and his absolute faith in beauty, well, we’ll just have to wait and see where our story leads us, won’t we?
    Glancing at my listeners again, I added after a lengthy pause:
    But this much is certain. If one were to contemplate Mustafa’s fate following his meeting with the two strangers in the square, then the