Deception Read online

  I bought a ticket and went in.

  The show lasted two hours. To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed it. All the performers were excellent. I liked the man who juggled with cooking-utensils. He had a saucepan, a frying-pan, a baking tray, a huge plate and a casserole pot all flying through the air at the same time. The snake-charmer had a big green snake that stood almost on the tip of its tail and swayed to the music of his flute. The fire-eater ate fire and the sword-swallower pushed a thin pointed rapier at least four feet down his throat and into his stomach. Last of all, to a great fanfare of trumpets, our friend Imhrat Khan came on to do his act. The bandages we had put on him at the hospital had now been removed.

  Members of the audience were called on to the stage to blindfold him with sheets and scarves and turbans, and in the end there was so much material wrapped around his head he could hardly keep his balance. He was then given a revolver. A small boy came out and stood at the left of the stage. I recognized him as the one who had held the bicycle outside the hospital that morning. The boy placed a tin can on the top of his head and stood quite still. The audience became deathly silent as Imhrat Khan took aim. He fired. The bang made us all jump. The tin can flew off the boy’s head and clattered to the floor. The boy picked it up and showed the bullet-hole to the audience. Everyone clapped and cheered. The boy smiled.

  Then the boy stood against a wooden screen and Imhrat Khan threw knives all around his body, most of them going very close indeed. This was a splendid act. Not many people could have thrown knives with such accuracy even with their eyes uncovered, but here he was, this extraordinary fellow, with his head so swathed in sheets it looked like a great snowball on a stick, and he was flicking the sharp knives into the screen within a hair’s breadth of the boy’s head. The boy smiled all the way through the act, and when it was over the audience stamped its feet and screamed with excitement.

  Imhrat Khan’s last act, though not so spectacular, was even more impressive. A metal barrel was brought on stage. The audience was invited to examine it, to make sure there were no holes. There were no holes. The barrel was then placed over Imhrat Khan’s already bandaged head. It came down over his shoulders and as far as his elbows, pinning the upper part of his arms to his sides. But he could still hold out his forearms and his hands. Someone put a needle in one of his hands and a length of cotton thread in the other. With no false moves, he neatly threaded the cotton through the eye of the needle. I was flabbergasted.

  As soon as the show was over, I made my way backstage. I found Mr Imhrat Khan in a small but clean dressing-room, sitting quietly on a wooden stool. The little Indian boy was unwinding the masses of scarves and sheets from around his head.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It is my friend the doctor from the hospital. Come in, sir, come in.’

  ‘I saw the show,’ I said.

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘I liked it very much. I thought you were wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That is a high compliment.’

  ‘I must congratulate your assistant as well,’ I said, nodding to the small boy. ‘He is very brave.’

  ‘He cannot speak English,’ the Indian said. ‘But I will tell him what you said.’ He spoke rapidly to the boy in Hindustani and the boy nodded solemnly but said nothing.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I did you a small favour this morning. Would you do me one in return? Would you consent to come out and have supper with me?’

  All the wrappings were off his head now. He smiled at me and said, ‘I think you are feeling curious, doctor. Am I not right?’

  ‘Very curious,’ I said. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  Once again, I was struck by the peculiarly thick matting of black hair growing on the outsides of his ears. I had not seen anything quite like it on another person. ‘I have never been questioned by a doctor before,’ he said. ‘But I have no objection. It would be a pleasure to have supper with you.’

  ‘Shall I wait in the car?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘I must wash myself and get out of these dirty clothes.’

  I told him what my car looked like and said I would be waiting outside.

  He emerged fifteen minutes later, wearing a clean white cotton robe and the usual sandals on his bare feet. And soon the two of us were sitting comfortably in a small restaurant that I sometimes went to because it made the best curry in the city. I drank beer with my curry. Imhrat Khan drank lemonade.

  ‘I am not a writer,’ I said to him. ‘I am a doctor. But if you will tell me your story from the beginning, if you will explain to me how you developed this magical power of being able to see without your eyes, I will write it down as faithfully as I can. And then, perhaps, I can get it published in the British Medical Journal or even in some famous magazine. And because I am a doctor and not just some writer trying to sell a story for money, people will be far more inclined to take seriously what I say. It would help you, wouldn’t it, to become better known?’

  ‘It would help me very much,’ he said. ‘But why should you want to do this?’

  ‘Because I am madly curious,’ I answered. ‘That is the only reason.’

  Imhrat Khan took a mouthful of curried rice and chewed it slowly. Then he said, ‘Very well, my friend. I will do it.’

  ‘Splendid!’ I cried. ‘Let’s go back to my flat as soon as we’ve finished eating and then we can talk without anyone disturbing us.’

  We finished our meal. I paid the bill. Then I drove Imhrat Khan back to my flat.

  In the living-room, I got out paper and pencils so that I could make notes. I have a sort of private shorthand of my own that I use for taking down the medical history of patients, and with it I am able to record most of what a person says if he doesn’t speak too quickly. I think I got just about everything Imhrat Khan said to me that evening, word for word, and here it is. I give it to you exactly as he spoke it:

  ‘I am an Indian, a Hindu,’ said Imhrat Khan, ‘and I was born in Akhnur, in Kashmir State, in 1905. My family is poor and my father worked as a ticket inspector on the railway. When I was a small boy of thirteen, an Indian conjurer comes to our school and gives a performance. His name, I remember, is Professor Moor – all conjurers in India call themselves “professor” – and his tricks are very good. I am tremendously impressed. I think it is real magic. I feel – how shall I call it – I feel a powerful wish to learn about this magic myself, so two days later I run away from home, determined to find and to follow my new hero, Professor Moor. I take all my savings, fourteen rupees, and only the clothes I am wearing. I am wearing a white dhoti and sandals. This is in 1918 and I am thirteen years old.

  ‘I find out that Professor Moor has gone to Lahore, two hundred miles away, so all alone, I take a ticket, third class, and I get on the train and follow him. In Lahore, I discover the Professor. He is working at his conjuring in a very cheap-type show. I tell him of my admiration and offer myself to him as assistant. He accepts me. My pay? Ah yes, my pay is eight annas a day.

  ‘The Professor teaches me to do the linking-rings trick and my job is to stand in the street before the theatre doing this trick and calling to the people to come in and see the show.

  ‘For six whole weeks this is very fine. It is much better than going to school. But then what a terrible bombshell I receive when suddenly it comes to me that there is no real magic in Professor Moor, that all is trickery and quickness of the hand. Immediately the Professor is no longer my hero. I lose every bit of interest in my job, but at the same time my whole mind becomes filled with a very strong longing. I long above all things to find out about the real magic and to discover something about the strange power which is called yoga.

  ‘To do this, I must find a yogi who is willing to let me become his disciple. This is not going to be easy. True yogis do not grow on trees. There are very few of them in the whole of India. Also, they are fanatically religious people. Therefore, if I am to have success in finding a teacher, I too will hav