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

Tuareg was uncannily perceptive in apprehending the hazard that beauty poses for those who encounter it – for my brother’s life was indeed for ever transformed into a state of existence with neither satisfaction nor bliss.
    A new voice now spoke up, slightly mocking and droll:
    Oh, I don’t know about that, Hassan. I didn’t agree with that denizen of the desert when he spoke, and I can’t say that I agree with you now. All this strikes me as rank pessimism.
    Turning to locate the source of the voice, I recognized the slight figure of Youssef, the middle son of one of the orange merchants of the Jemaa. He was small and sallow and rumoured to be something of a skirt-chaser. He passed around a basket of sweet and bitter oranges.
    I’m celebrating the birth of my third child, a boy, he announced with pride.
    He gestured rather disdainfully in the direction in which the Tuareg had disappeared.
    As a philosopher, he said, that man might have a lot to talk about, but that’s not enough for me. He told me almost nothing about life that I didn’t know already. Yes, things can sometimes be grim, but where’s the surprise in that? Real life, on the other hand, rewards me constantly. It’s always revealing something unique, something I’ve never seen before. That’s why we’re given eyes, and the faculties of sense and reason, so that we may use them to learn from our experiences, however negative. And love? That’s the most rewarding thing of all. So there it is, my friends. Say “No” to pessimism! If there are auguries, they must be respected, but why tarnish happiness with the darkness of shadows and storms? Rather, tell yourselves: I am the board on which I play my life!
    Turning to Mohamed, the shopkeeper, he said with sparkling eyes: In the name of my newborn son, I salute your good fortune in witnessing the foreigner’s kindness to that humblest of beasts, the donkey. It was an act of genuine compassion. And I am envious of your eyes, for I too saw her, perhaps shortly after your own encounter, and though I was rather less impressed, your account has ennobled my own experience.
    You had seen the strangers as well? someone asked, and Youssef laughed and said: Yes, yes, I saw them, these two persons around whom Hassan is spinning a tale such as only he can tell.
    Pausing like a seasoned storyteller to gauge the effect of his words, he selected a particularly delectable orange and peeled it with ease. He spit out the seeds as he chewed so that there was soon a scattering of them about him.
    My own encounter with them took place late in the afternoon, he said, but, lacking Hassan’s facility with words, all I can say is that to me they merely seemed like two young, naive and extremely tired foreigners, exhausted perhaps by aimless meanderings around the medina. They had strayed into the courtyard of a house near the Qessabin Mosque. The house belongs to a friend of mine who was visiting his in-laws in Meknès, and, as is his custom whenever he goes away, he’d given me the keys so that I could keep an eye on things.
    So it was that I was taking a siesta in the patio facing the courtyard when I overheard voices and, opening my eyes, was surprised to discover a young man and woman half-hidden in a corner of the garden amidst some flowering trees and bushes. Their dress, though modest, revealed them as foreigners. She was wearing faded blue jeans, flip-flops and a white T-shirt with “ I ♥ NY ” printed on the front. He carried a water bottle slung around his hip and a crumpled map of the medina to which he referred repeatedly. They were both grimy and sweat-stained, as is often the case with these Nasranis when they’ve been walking around in the sun for a while. As for their appearance, which has already been the subject of considerable discussion here, I would say that he was skinny and looked constipated, to be quite frank, while she was