The In-Between World of Vikram Lall by M. G. Vassanji Page B

sister-in-law, was distracted. Ravana took Sita to his fortress-isle Lanka, later called Ceylon, from where Rama, Lakshmana, and Hanuman with his troop of monkeys rescued her after an epic battle.
    Another thing, Papa said. This business of monkeys building a bridge to Ceylon—
    Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle replied, if you knew about the sheer genius of Indian monkeys—
    I’ve seen them, replied Papa.
    Mahesh Uncle went on, I was in Simla once as a cadre forthe Congress Party. Gandhiji was visiting and…in any case, the monkeys there are the cleverest little fellows you ever saw.
    There followed a hilarious tale of the antics of monkeys, to demonstrate to my father that they were smarter than many humans and could very well have built some kind of movable bridge to take Rama to Ceylon to rescue Sita.
    The Africans should use monkeys to fight the British, Papa said, perhaps smarting from having been pushed out of the limelight. But, he went on, these African monkeys are not as smart as their Indian cousins.
    Mother threw a look at her brother to keep him quiet.
    Myth and reality often got mixed up in our lives. In Mother’s eyes, the supposed leader of the Mau Mau, Jomo Kenyatta, who had been imprisoned at Kapenguria, with all his wiles was the demon Ravana himself. Sometimes it was the Mau Mau that collectively became Ravana. And I, somewhat evilly perhaps, always wondered if she sometimes saw Rama and Sita as her brother Mahesh and herself, and Africa as the forest of exile. And Papa as the monster Ravana who stole her away? And as wise but erring Dasaratha, my grandfather Verma, whom Mahesh Uncle had called a traitor? But that whole comparison was monstrous and I would be embarrassed by it.
    When Rama’s exile was the subject of the stories, it was never far from our consciousness that Mother and her brother shared a deep sense of exile from their birthplace, Peshawar, a city they would never be able to see again because it had been lost to Pakistan. And since Peshawar was the ancestral home also of my dada Anand Lal, the rest of our family could somehow share in that exile, though not with the same intensity.
    Rajat’s Toy Store was selling masks for the festival, depicting the faces of the main heroes and demons of the Ramayana story. And so on a Saturday in the parking lot of our shopping centre, the great battle began for the liberation of Sita and the conquest of Ceylon. I was the only possible Rama. I was Indian, this was my story; I had a name to match, Vikram forvictor. Bill, who liked to win battles, backed off. But who would be the monkey king Hanuman, and who the ten-headed demon king Ravana? Bill would have loved to be the mighty, terrifying, and havoc-wreaking demon, with island for fortress and ocean for the moat around it. But Ravana ultimately had to lose, and the fortress had to be set aflame. Furthermore, Deepa and I reminded him, one of Ravana’s heads was that of an ass, because the demon had a truly stupid side to him, for why else would he provoke invincible Rama and court disaster? So Njoroge happily became Ravana, a character for whom I have always harboured some sympathy for all the forces allied against him. And Bill had to be the monkey, a role he accepted as a grudging sportsman. Now who would be Sita the fair bride? If Deepa became Sita, Njoroge would steal her from me, only to be forced to relinquish her in his final humiliation and defeat. Deepa did not care for this conclusion. Besides, she was my sister, as she pointed out to my eternal gratitude, to clinch the matter. Oh was I happy to have fair Annie beside me, my Sita, as hand in hand and beaming with pleasure we traipsed in the jungle of my father’s store aisles and among the tea tables of Mrs. Arnauti, and even up to Lakshmi Sweets, where we received burfis. Annie had stuck a rosebud in her hair, Deepa showered bougainvillea upon us as we walked, and Bill-Hanuman behind a monkey mask leaped and bounded and chattered and whooped