The Absolutely True Adventures of Daydreamer Dev (omnibus edition, 3 in 1) Page 4

  This would be a long journey—but now that Dev thought about it, he was in no hurry to get home.

  6.

  The dunes came soon enough. They traversed one, skirted another. Sand rippled under the camels’ strange cloven feet. Sometimes, they sank hock deep but the beasts strode on, grunting and groaning. The boys had finished their mangoes, with the last droplets of juice consumed by flies. Swirling sand had by now filled their hair, scratched their eyes and stuck to their skin.

  A speck on the horizon divided into two as they got closer. These then became camels with another speck sitting on one. OP twisted round, anxious.

  ‘Dude, trouble. I’ve read of bandits roaming these parts.’

  Dev had a fleeting vision of himself offering a chocolate bar in exchange for his life—but what would stop a real villain from taking both?

  ‘What can we do?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much,’ OP replied. ‘Hope?’

  They ploughed on and before long the seated speck took on the shape of a man in robes. He wore a huge turban, and Dev couldn’t help thinking that he resembled Aladdin’s genie.

  The man smiled at them broadly. ‘You are too young,’ he adjudged, as if that was funny.

  ‘You speak English?’ Dev asked, surprised.

  ‘I am speaking eight languages. Most you do not know. Where you go?’ The man eyed their camels with interest.

  ‘We are crossing the Sahara from the south,’ OP replied proudly.

  ‘My young friend, you cross only from fool to dead fool. This wrong way. You very lucky you find Ibrahim. I come. Later, give me your sons of donkeys. Okay, deal?’

  ‘These are dromedaries,’ OP said, offended. He wasn’t used to being called a fool. He tapped his compass twice, but wasn’t in a position to quarrel. Besides, what use would their animals be at journey’s end?

  Ibrahim linked his camels to OP’s and off they went.

  Dev smirked. Now OP too would be surrounded by air thick with camel gas.

  7.

  Dev’s confidence in OP’s navigation skills had been shaken. He now put his faith in Ibrahim, who in turn put his faith in Allah.

  Listening to Ibrahim, it would be easy to think his second most powerful belief was his own infallibility. Resting at a scraggy oasis, he sipped sugary green tea and rated himself the best Saharan guide, the finest judge of camels, and master of the largest domed tent. But there was something in his eagerness to impress that made Dev pity him.

  ‘I am indeed the greatest of all Tuaregs,’ Ibrahim claimed, perhaps trying to convince himself.

  ‘What’s a Tuareg?’ Dev asked OP later. Ibrahim was snoring and the boys had decided to celebrate his disinterest in robbery by eating their chocolate bars. ‘A kind of car? Something from Star Wars?’

  ‘A tribe—a nomadic tribe. Ibrahim should know the Sahara backwards.’

  Another time, Ibrahim talked about amana.

  ‘A what?’

  Ibrahim appeared delighted by Dev’s ignorance. ‘A-ma-na. Man trust camel, is amana! Trust—like bank!’

  But from what Dev had heard Baba say, some banks didn’t deserve amana. Camels? Maybe. Dev had certainly learned that you could trust them to smell bad and make you saddle-sore.

  The days were as hot as home, and Dev’s lips cracked and bled. Temperatures plummeted at night and he slept fitfully. He huddled inside a supply bag emptied of chaff by the camels, which only made him itchy as well as cold. The sand looked soft but was like a bed of stone. Dev rose at each glowing dawn like an imitation of his grandfather.

  On they went. There was barely any fodder left for the camels. What use is amana if the miserable creatures are starving? Dev wondered. He was almost in the same state himself. Rationing the small amount of water seemed to have shrivelled every cell in his body. Camel skeletons protruded from the sand. Oases were few and far between.

  ‘You need more oases,’ Dev told Ibrahim desperately. ‘People should dig wells, plant trees . . .’

  Smiling, Ibrahim cut him off. ‘Allah want more? Then Allah give water, not give Sahara.’

  He was right. Dev knew that the Sahara wouldn’t be the Sahara if it was one big oasis.

  OP calculated that he was swaying on his camels at a rate of four thousand times per hour.

  Dev calculated that OP was seriously affected by the sun if he thought that was even worth calculating.

  8.

  Dev was flagging, but OP was flagging even more. One of his eyes was inflamed, and he was extremely irritable. He was outraged to find that Ibrahim was leading them toward Algiers, not Tripoli as he had planned. He repeated ‘dromedary’ like a chant and was even riled by the word ‘dunes’, insisting that great oceans of sand were known as ‘ergs’. This Ibrahim confirmed, but they then argued over the status of the Sahara as the world’s biggest desert.

  ‘A desert is judged by rainfall,’ OP contended. ‘Antarctica is the largest low rainfall area. The Sahara is second!’

  Ibrahim scoffed, but Dev saw that he was hurt. He may not have heard of Antarctica, but that didn’t stop him from cursing OP in eight different languages.

  Occasionally they crossed dusty roads, but none of them went where Ibrahim wanted to go. The softer the ground, the more empty the horizon, the more relaxed he seemed. He subsisted on a pocketful of dates, sometimes nibbling on one and returning it to his pocket. He rarely sipped from his flask, and would not touch the boys’ supplies.

  Whirlwinds rose up from nowhere. Some collapsed, only to regroup and lash the camel train with sand-laden fury. As each wild wind veered and teetered away, Dev imagined it laughing.

  OP became feverish. One day, just before nightfall, Ibrahim looked closely at his eye.

  ‘I will cut,’ he declared. ‘Or your friend will not see his children.’

  Horrified as Dev was, he suspected Ibrahim was right. A layer of tissue had grown across a tiny cluster of sand particles on the surface of OP’s eye. OP had no way of seeing it for himself, but he knew that for all Ibrahim’s ignorance about Antarctica, a Tuareg should understand problems caused by sand.

  Ibrahim produced a razor blade from a leather sheath. Dev shuddered and turned away.

  ‘Dev,’ said OP, ‘you do it.’

  ‘No way. You are delirious.’

  ‘Dude, he strokes his dromedaries as if their filthy coats are fine silk sarees. He picks their teeth and their noses, he wipes their eyes. His fingernails are blacker than Mr Bannerji’s shoes. You must do it. Please.’

  Ibrahim handed Dev the razor blade and threw up his hands. ‘Blind fool,’ he spat. He walked over to his camels and caressed one exaggeratedly.

  The very thought of taking a razor to OP’s bloodshot eye made Dev sick, but he knelt and examined the filmy membrane. The lump was clearly visible beneath it. Dev steeled himself, knowing what he had to do. He looked at OP, brave and trusting.

  Amana, he thought.

  Carefully, he slit the membrane. A slimy ball of sand slid free. Dev had not drawn blood.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘Rest.’

  OP blinked both eyes and Dev stood up. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding in. He listened beyond the snorting of one restless skewbald and immersed himself in the silence of the desert. He had a feeling that things would now be fine.

  9.

  ‘Keep those sons of donkeys,’ Ibrahim huffed, and then refused to speak to them. Gone was his cheer. Completely dispirited, Ibrahim even stopped talking to himself.

  But OP was feeling better, and they had left the great ergs behind. The camels plodded across stony fields, pausing at times to wrap their elastic mouths around dry grass or stunted bushes.

  Seeing a jagged horizon, Dev called to OP: ‘Are those mountains?’

  ‘Probably,’ OP told him. ‘Part of the Atlas range, I guess. That’s exactly why I was going north-east to Tripoli, not due north to Algiers. The mountains drop off as they run east. Don’t blame me, blame Ibrahim.’

  Dev didn’t wa
nt to blame anyone. He’d had more than enough of the Sahara, and surely reaching the mountains meant they’d succeeded in crossing it? Rock-strewn trails through the mountains promised a refreshing change. As long as the camels could last out, he would too.

  Amana, he thought again. Believe.

  Near a village at the foot of the mountains, the camels gorged themselves on succulent acacia. The Berber villagers spoke to Ibrahim in Arabic. Soon there was music, an ensemble of women pounding goatskin drums. Men, women and children danced to greet the travellers.

  While a feast was being prepared, Ibrahim approached the boys. He ignored OP and addressed Dev.

  ‘I eat, take food for camels, I go. Yes, I take your sons of donkeys. Three only. I give you those that do not hear. Take other guide from here.’

  Dev felt another pang of sympathy for him. Ibrahim unhitched the two skewbald camels and prepared to depart after the feast. OP watched guiltily.

  ‘Ibrahim,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘You helped two Indian boys do what none have done before. Your knowledge saved my eye. You are the most brilliant guide, the finest of Tuaregs.’

  ‘I am,’ agreed Ibrahim, standing taller.

  ‘And I am sorry for my rudeness,’ continued OP. ‘I had lost my mind.’

  Now Ibrahim’s smile returned, and he looked every bit a genie. ‘Yes,’ he grinned. ‘You did. Now we eat.’

  10.

  OP was beside Dev with a packet of kachoris.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ he said, thrusting it at Dev. ‘They’re still hot.’

  ‘The weather too,’ Dev moaned, sitting up. His back and buttocks were sore, in spite of the rug under him. Lying on the roof of Kwality Carpets, the sun had burned his face. He hadn’t cried after Baba’s lecture, but his eyes felt sticky.

  Dev sucked at the dry air. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘Amma. Again she took me to the doctor. So worried she has been. I am always tired and my eye has been sore for quite some time.’

  Now Dev saw the redness in one of OP’s eyes. He nibbled at his treat. ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Eye is fine. But I must rest.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I’m exhausted,’ Dev said. ‘And by the way, OP, you owe me.’

  ‘I owe you? You are one crazy dude. It’s me who brought you kachoris! But guess what? Amma bought me a new atlas.’

  ‘That reminds me. I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of the Atlas Mountains?’

  Acknowledgements

  I could not have documented these chronicles of Daydreamer Dev’s restless imagination without the support of a small group of very special people.

  Jaya Bhattacharji Rose was a wonderful sounding board as I embarked on the first Dev journey; since that time, I have been fortunate to work with three excellent editors—Sohini Mitra, Amrita Mukerji and Shalini Agrawal.

  In particular, I express deep gratitude to Sohini, who has had cause to be cranky with me but never been anything but patient, generous and receptive. The respect I developed for Sohini as my editor more than seven years ago has grown steadily through the vicissitudes of my writing life, and I am thankful that our association continues.

  Thanks also to Sangeeta Bhansali, who helped the original Daydreamer Dev books reach underprivileged children served by NGOs; Gaurav Jain, for believing; and finally, to Michelle Farooqi, whose illustrations capture the life of Dev’s adventures.

  —KS

  THE BEGINNING

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  Copyright © Ken Spillman 2011, 2012

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  This digital edition published in 2019.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-35305-695-7

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