by Tabish Khair
The street is not crowded at this time of afternoon, yet Amir knows he has to disappear soon. It will not take long for some passer-by to connect Amir’s face with the news of the arrest of the ‘head cannibal’, and soon he will have a mob baying for his blood. Even as this thought crosses Amir’s mind, a carriage rattles to a stop right in front of him. Its door opens and a hand pulls him in. Perhaps Amir would have resisted, were he not so bemused by what had happened to him, this sudden freedom and surprising daylight. He lets himself be pulled in and the carriage sets off immediately, at a brisk pace.
63
Jenny walked the streets alone, as she always had. But she felt lonelier than ever before. Lonelier than she had felt when the shock of her aunt’s grisly murder had finally sunk in. How could the disappearance of a man she had known for just a few months, a man from another land, a man who spoke her language with a strange accent and whose language — languages, he would have corrected — she had no inkling of, how could the disappearance of such a person from her life make her feel so lonely? She, who had grown up being alone on the streets and in her head? She, who had learned, since the age of four or five, not to place her trust in anyone — no, not even Amir, for if one’s mother could disappear into the vast spaces of life, what was there to keep one’s love within reach for ever? And if the man she loved could lie so fluently to Captain Meadows and his much-travelled friends, what was there to prevent him from lying to an illiterate, stuck-in-the-mud girl like herself?
And yet, ever since she had been told that Amir had been arrested on suspicion of murder, she had felt as if the distance between her and other people had increased; as if she was at the bottom of a well, hearing the rest of the world only as an echo. At first, she had reasoned that Amir would be released: after all, she knew, as did Qui Hy and his other friends, where Amir had been on almost all the nights on which the beheadings had taken place.
But the more she thought about it, she realized that Qui Hy and the others would not count as witnesses.
Would her evidence suffice? Perhaps, but only as long as her relationship with Amir was not made public. Once it became public, her credibility would vanish. And how could she vouch for Amir, how could she tell them he had been with her in the middle of the night, without the truth of their relationship being bared? Ridicule she would have put up with, if it gained Amir his freedom, but she was not certain it would. She did not know enough about the world of law and order. It was a world whose steps she had wiped, whose floors she had swept, whose kitchens she had kneeled in, but it was not a world whose language she understood.
Her only hope had been Captain Meadows, and she had gone to him with her story. Captain Meadows who, she knew, had trusted Amir; Captain Meadows, who was one of the very few truly respectable men she had met. Now even that hope was gone, for Captain Meadows had left her in such a rush, as if repelled by what she had — at immense cost to herself — been forced to reveal to him. He had rushed out as if she were a foul smell.
Jenny trudged to her next chore, careless of bumping into other pedestrians or their swearing when she did, not even heeding the tumult in one corner where some street musicians had got a crowd dancing: men and women holding hands and swirling around before the scandalized eyes of gentlemen and ladies stuck in a lock of horses, carts and carriages. It was all so far from her now; so far away that they appeared to be on another continent altogether, a different breed and race of people. She plodded on, forgetful even of that persistent feeling of being trailed or watched occasionally that had sometimes come to her in recent weeks. Solitary, she walked in her mind.
64
As Amir’s eyes get used to the gloom of the carriage — all the curtains are drawn — he realizes that the man who pulled him in is Captain Meadows.
Meadows is looking steadily at him, as if trying to see him more clearly. Or, as if seeing him for the first time.
Amir tries to speak but what comes out is an incoherent mumble.
‘I thought it would be best to remove you from these parts and take you to some neighbourhood of London where you might not be noticed much’, says Captain Meadows.
The carriage rattles over cobbled stones.
‘But...’ Amir lets the sentence hang in the air, incomplete. He does not have to frame the questions that rush to his lips. They are, he knows, fully audible to the Captain. After months of answering questions and telling stories, all of them embroidered lies, after months of deceiving the other in ways that are welcome to each, after nights of not quite asking and not quite answering, suddenly, by a process that is impossible to understand, the two men have reached a stage where they can ask and respond almost without the use of language.
‘I must be the last person you expected to see, Mr Ali’, says the Captain with a faint smile.
Amir nods.
‘I was never convinced of your guilt. No, Mr Ali, let me rephrase that: I was as convinced of your innocence as a person could be under the circumstances. And then Jenny came to me.’
When Amir does not say anything in reply, the Captain continues, ‘She told me where you were that night.’
Amir looks alarmed.
‘No, Mr Ali, I didn’t tell the Major what Jenny told me’, says the Captain gently. ‘I gave him an assurance that you were innocent and that, unless proved guilty, you could be released on my word as a gentleman. I think he had no choice but to accept my assurance. There isn’t much evidence against you, Mr Ali, nothing but hearsay.’
The carriage jolts at that moment and both men steady themselves.
Amir tries to speak.
‘There is nothing to say, Mr Ali. I did what I would have done for any Englishman, had I come to know him as well as I came to know you, had I formed as strong an opinion of him as I had formed of you. It was not what you said, but how you said it; your demeanour, your careful tending of me when I fell ill on the voyage back, your politeness in the face of Mrs Clennam’s prejudices, little things like that. I just regret that I needed the evidence of Jenny to make me act on my own convictions. That will remain a matter of shame for me, for I know that I would have acted sooner had you been an Englishman.’
Amir is still struggling for words. His English is suddenly not sufficient. He feels ashamed to look at the Captain.
‘Sir’, he says, ‘I have to confess, I am not, I have never been...’
Meadows holds up his hand.
‘Mr Ali’, he says, ‘sometimes I feel that what we are, what we appear to be, what we pretend to be and what we are said to be are four very different things. Such is the nature of life, one of its many imperfections, you might say. But just as one cannot condemn a man, or so I believe, because of a bump or two on his head, surely we cannot write off life because of its imperfections. I have thought much about these matters in recent months, while preparing my book for the press. But let us not talk about all that. We have driven long enough. If you would now inform the coachman of the address you wish to be taken to, I am sure he will have no objection to driving you there.’
65
There is something deceptive about cities. Qui Hy knew that. And London, this city of cities, how could it be trusted? It hid so many stories and layers, its paths above the ground were devious and twisted, its tunnels and sewers and dungeons numberless and unmapped. Even the one central fact about it — River Thames, Father Thames — was deceptive, for London was not a city of one river. No, it was a city of many rivers, some lost, some lurking. Not just the Thames but also the Wandle and Falcon, the Tyburn and Effra, Neckinger and the Fleet, Stamford Brook and the Ravensbourne.
Qui Hy did not trust cities. She had memories of her own childhood in a village of the Punjab. It was a long time ago. At the age of eleven or twelve — her age was mostly her parents’ guess — her mother sent her to work in the kitchen of a rich Sikh family in Amritsar. They moved to Lucknow after a few years, where she was loaned to an English officer’s family. The wife had been in childbirth then. After tha
t, Qui Hy passed through three different European families in quick succession, mostly working as a nanny: she was popular with Europeans because of her knack for picking up their languages and her inexplicable skill with children. She had lived in cities since she started working for the family in Amritsar. But she never lost her distrust of cities, or of people who grew up in them.
She tried to say as much to Amir Ali. If a city person, even a gentleman like Captain Meadows, helps someone, there is always an ulterior motive, Amir. People in cities do not help each other unless they stand to gain by it. The ones who do, she said, stitching her pockets by the low fire, without looking up at Amir, the ones who do have come from villages, from small towns.
But Amir was too overwhelmed by the goodness of Captain Meadows to hear her.
Gunga was there too. He sat still, a tall man with a forked beard, thin as a wire, noncommittal. But Qui Hy knew he was worried. She had sensed the bond that existed between this semi-literate, uncouth lascar and the youth, Amir Ali, not a rich man but nevertheless a man of education and culture. Perhaps it was more on Gunga’s side, the love of an older man for the son he would like to have had, or perhaps the son he had lost or left behind. Or was she transferring to Gunga her own feelings for Amir? And Amir? Amir, though not inconsiderate, was too wrapped up in the haze of his love for Jenny and now the storm of the fate that was creeping up on him. Qui Hy knew that it was this looming storm that creased Gunga’s leathery face with worry and made him pull at his beard in thought.
Like Qui Hy, Gunga knew that the mysterious murderer, the man who was beheading his victims, had to be identified soon. Otherwise, even Captain Meadows’ word would not save Amir Ali. His past as a thug would catch up with him. Either Major Grayper or one of the other superintendents would choose to sacrifice Amir to satiate the vengeance of law, or the London mob. Something had to be done. And Qui Hy knew that she was the only one who could do it.
66
Karim flung open the door, entering the room with a gust of wind and noise from the street. Despite his illness, he still opened doors with abandon, as if springing the pleasure of his presence on those in the room. He banged it shut behind him and rushed up to embrace Amir. ‘Just heard, just heard’, he gasped, breathless with excitement and exertion, ‘just heard that you have been released. Did they catch the murderer?’
When the matter was explained to him, he grew thoughtful.
‘You know what this means, Gunga Bhai’, he said. When no one spoke, he answered his own question: ‘It means that Amir Bhai has to get himself a haircut.’
‘Haircut?’ Amir was surprised.
‘Haircut, moustache cut, whatever. New papers, if you can. New identity. You cannot go out into the streets as you are. You never know who you might run into. There are people who might have read descriptions of you. And you will be stopped by every Peeler on his round, every night-watchman with nothing better to do.’
‘That is true’, said Qui Hy, intercepting Amir’s resistance to the suggestion. ‘But we have to do something more. We have to try and find out more about the murders.’
‘But how can we? And why us?’
Gunga replied for Qui Hy. ‘It has to be us, because the others might just find the most convenient culprit again. And we have a witness.’
‘A witness?’
‘Jenny. Have you forgotten? She saw the men who were leaving her aunt’s house that night. She remembers what they looked like. She has already described them to us so many times...’
‘How can we find them if the police cannot?’
‘We can find them, Karim’, said Qui Hy, ‘because the police cannot. Why, the Peelers did not even record Jenny’s evidence, I am told! Three men, at least one of them from the better classes, walking down a street together, could not possibly be reason for suspicion. What they wanted was a criminal character they could recognize. But these three men will be visible to us, to people like us. They have been taking the precaution of hiding themselves from the police and respectable eyes, but would they even notice the beggar on the street, the lascar in the corner? What we need to do is ask around.’
‘But I do not want Jenny involved in this’, Amir interposed.
‘She won’t be involved. She will only have to identify them when we find them.’
‘If we find them.’
‘No, Amir, not if. When.’
‘And what then?’
‘We will see. Let us find them first. There are ways to make them visible to people like Major Grayper.’
Amir shook his head. ‘No’, he said, ‘no. I do not want this. It will blow away. Let us not do anything. Let Major Grayper find them. I do not want Jenny to be troubled or involved.’
‘All right, Amir’, Qui Hy gave in, ‘but at least do what Karim has said: change your appearance and name, buy yourself some false papers, references.’
‘It is not necessary.’
‘Listen to me, Amir beta. Listen to me. I know what is necessary. And it won’t cost much: you have more than enough money, but only one life.’
‘It is not the expense that I object to...’
‘Then just do as I say...’
‘You are right, Mai’, said Gunga. He always addressed Qui Hy as ‘Mai, though she was not much older than him and could certainly not have been his mother. ‘Amir needs another name, another identity. He has to shave off his moustache, clip his hair short, get a tattoo or two on his face and arms, and new papers, papers from old employers, ships, if possible, so that he can pretend to be one of my boys... And you know there is only one person who can do all that.’
‘Ustad.’
‘Yes, Ustad. But he won’t do it, he has disappeared, he has gone crazy.’
‘He was always crazy. Fetcher. Fetcher is the only one of us who can get him to listen now... I think he knows where Ustad is, though he won’t tell.’
‘Perhaps he will take Amir to Ustad.’
‘Perhaps...’
67
Daniel Oates opens the one tiny window that allows some light into the garret that he uses as his study. It is surprisingly empty of books. There are reams of newspapers and magazines lying scattered around, and various pamphlets, but not more than three or four books. He returns to his table, dips his pen in ink and begins to scribble:
It has been announced by Superintendent Major Grayper that his decision, reported earlier, to release the Oriental man who was arrested on suspicion of being the ‘head cannibal’, as the mysterious murderer and beheader who has been stalking fair London is referred to by the public, was based not only on the personal assurances of a respectable gentleman but also on a hitherto undisclosed event. The night after the arrest of the Oriental suspect, a woman, a lady of the streets, was attacked and beheaded by a mysterious assailant in East London. This murder, the superintendent explained, indicated the innocence of the arrested man, which was also vouched for by the afore-mentioned gentleman.
Various other suspects have been aired by commentators in the period since this revelation by Superintendent Grayper. The mysterious murderer has been identified as a Russian immigrant with a religious mania, which takes the form of murdering Magdalens in order that their souls may perhaps go to heaven. There has also been an attempt to prove that he is a butcher whose mind is affected by the changes of the moon, and who has been much impressed by reading the Book of Ezekiel, c. xxiii, v.25, 26, 33, 34, 46, 47 and 48. The chapter refers to the vicious lives of the sisters Aholah and Aholibah, and verse 25 is the key to the situation: ‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword.’
These are, however, nothing but loose conjectures, which do not take into account such facts as these: that not only Magdalens but also heathens have been killed, and that all the victims have been ceremonially beheaded. Any serious consideration returns us to the original Oriental cannibal theory, first propounded in the pages
of this paper by your correspondent.
The Oriental theory of the atrocities is worth thinking out. The Orientals are a sensitive and excitable race, and mental exaltation is not only very common, it usually borders on insanity. We all know how political fanaticism will drive a Nihilist to the commission of murder, but it is not so generally known that religious fervour drives some sects to the most terrible acts of self-mutilation in Asia and Africa. The Orientals are very apt to rush into extremes, and they seem to have an idea that social and eternal salvation can only be obtained by means most repugnant to civilized and well-balanced minds. Orientals, however, unlike Negroes, who are also capable of such acts, are particularly devious, a characteristic evidenced by the Rookery Beheader. All rational consideration and logical thinking points a finger of accusation at an Oriental man, whether or not it is this man, now released, acting singly or in tandem with a larger cult of heathens. It seems hasty to have released the man as early as he has been released.
Daniel Oates dusts the sheets with sand from a wooden box and holds them up, one by one, admiring the words marching along them, his handy, hardy soldiers setting out to conquer the world in print tomorrow. The world of Captain Meadows and Major Grayper and other such born gentlemen. The world that has allowed him entry, though only through a side-gate. But he is a defender of that world; he defends it with the fanaticism of the new convert. For Daniel Oates, there is only this world — evidence of anything else, whether it is the world of Jenny or of Qui Hy, is a monstrosity or an aberration to be effaced in space and time as firmly as the world, whatever it was, garret or hut, he himself has left behind.
68
In later years, when I started going to university in Patna, my trips to my grandfather’s library in that whitewashed house in Phansa grew rather infrequent, confined largely to the summer or winter vacations. And it was only once or twice during the vacation that I would visit that cobwebbed, dusty, gecko-infested room, or read on its veranda. By then, all the interesting books had already been borrowed by my cousins and me; the library only housed unwanted books (in English), such as Mayhew’s accounts of London, and of course, many volumes in Urdu, Persian and Arabic. The few Hindi volumes and the easier ones in Urdu had been given away to the children of old family servants, whose gains in literacy were usually marked by fewer visits to my grandmother’s house.