4
This is a circus from a different era where there are no municipal safety regulations or animal welfare and child labor laws. It is a carnival from an older, harder, poorer India.
Manoj has come here as part of a large group — his mother, his aunts, and his cousins. He is the youngest in the group. The adults laugh and talk, his female cousins chat gaily with one another. His sole male cousin, Prayank, a brooding gawky teenage boy who towers over the rest of them, walks apart from them with a disaffected air, showing pointed disinterest in talking to anyone.
They have just finished watching the show in the main tent, and as they emerge along with the rest of the crowd, Manoj trails close behind his mother, taking in the sights with a mixture of awe and fear. They walk down a dirt aisle that runs between a jumble of dilapidated tents — he sees a man in baggy pants shuffling on stilts, another walking on his hands. There is a tent outside which a grotesque hand-painted sign depicts a man gaping up at the sky with terror-struck eyes as he thrusts a sword down his gullet.
There is nothing beautiful about this place, Manoj senses, for beneath the harsh lights and garish colors and the lunatic cheer is a wretchedness. He cannot put out of his mind how, in the ring, the bears and the orangutans shrank away from their handlers. Or how the children who performed had wide rictus-like grins and empty stares. He imagines they are beaten during practice if they mess up their routines. Beneath the smell of the oily fried snacks is a smell of despair and oppression.
The adults seem not to notice or care about any of this. His mother and his aunts are enjoying each other's company. His elder cousins walk hand in hand, whispering and breaking into giggles. Prayank walks with a sullen slouch.
As they move with the dispersing crowd, Manoj unconsciously clings to his mother's sari.
They are almost at the exit when he spots the clown in the shadows to his right.
The fellow is sitting on a rusted metal chair beside a small red dirt-caked tent. His broad painted-on lips make him look like he is grinning with hysteric humor, but his real mouth is set in a scowl. His eyes glitter in the dark. His face, painted white, seem to float in a disembodied fashion. His gaze meets Manoj's, and he leans forward and beckons.
Manoj stops and gapes, arrested to the spot.
The clown calls out with the confident authority of an adult summoning a child. Manoj finds himself responding automatically, his legs moving of their own accord. He breaks away from Amma and walks towards the man. Amma does not notice; Manoj is aware that his family is walking on.
"Come, boy," the man says in rough Hindi in a guttural voice, "I have something for you."
Manoj feels his stomach lurch. He knows he is making a mistake, but he is helpless, unable to stop himself. The man's gaze, locked on his, wields a kind of magnetic power.
The man rises as Manoj approaches, towering over him. The billowing clown suit hangs off the man's lean frame. He reaches down and grabs Manoj's hand. "Come, boy." He leads Manoj towards the back of the tent.
