The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  Kulfi managed to stop her by leaning sideways and giving her elbow a discreet jog. It’s all right now, she said, smiling brightly at Mrs Verma. God has brought us to a doctor.

  Mrs Verma ignored her. To me, she said, frowning, it sounds rather as if you were running away from something.

  For an unbearably long moment she examined their faces.

  Zindi held her breath: the doctor looked as though she had read something on their faces. How? Had the Bird-man’s talons marked them with the scars of the hunted?

  Then Mrs Verma shrugged and said briskly: Anyway, he’ll be all right; I don’t think it’s anything serious. Probably just needs a little rest and a tonic.

  Yes, Doctor, Zindi said eagerly, that’s what I thought – just a little rest.

  You can come and stay with us, of course, Mrs Verma said to Kulfi, ignoring Zindi. We have plenty of room – though it may be a little crowded now, with so many people. But you won’t have any trouble. We could go right now, but we’d better not carry your little boy all the way in the heat. I’ll ask Driss to let you rest inside the café. Then I’ll go on home and see if we can get the hospital’s land-rover to fetch you.

  She made her way through the little crowd that had gathered around them into the café and talked urgently to the proprietor in her own argot of French and Arabic. When they followed her in, she smiled: It’s done. The proprietor found them a table next to a fan and went off to fetch a mattress for Boss.

  I’d better go now, Mrs Verma said. Would you like to come with me Mrs … Mrs … ?

  Bose. Mrs Bose.

  Oh! exclaimed Mrs Verma in surprise. You’re Bengali, too, then? You speak Hindi very well.

  Kulfi let out a trill of high laughter. He is, she said. I’m from … from Jamshedpur. Then she paused, puzzled: What do you mean – Bengali, too?

  Oh, we have another visitor in our house, Mrs Verma said, but never mind that. She turned to Alu: So you’re Bengali?

  He nodded.

  I see, she said. Well, you might be able to help me a little.

  How? said Alu nervously.

  I’ll explain later, she said. It’s a small thing, a translation. A thought struck her, and she clutched at Kulfi’s hand. I hope you can stay for a while? she asked anxiously. You’re not in a hurry or anything, are you? You must stay at least a week. At the very least. I won’t let you go before that.

  Kulfi, surprised, said: Yes, we can stay a week, I’m sure.

  Good, Mrs Verma said, patting her hand. Very good. She thought of what Dr Mishra would say when he heard and suddenly she was smiling radiantly, tasting for the first time the full flavour of the victory which now seemed within her grasp.

  So, sighed Zindi, it looks as though we’re safe from the Bird-man at last.

  There’s only one way to be sure of that, said Alu.

  What?

  Don’t ever say ‘We’re going west’ again.

  As quick as she could Zindi slapped her hand over his mouth. But it was already too late. You’ve said it, it’s done now, she whispered, trembling, her eyes searching the corners and shadows of the café. They were empty to all appearances, but that meant nothing. It’s done now, she whispered again. Now it’s just a matter of time.

  It was nothing less than a certainty; like a sorcerer’s incantation those words could conjure a presence out of emptiness.

  When she first said it she could not have imagined that words could leave a trail like an animal’s spoor. Even if she had, there was nothing else she could have said then; there was no other direction they could have taken. For that was the day they reached her village and her brothers’ wives barred their doors on her and shrieked till the roof of the very house she had built for them shook: The whore’s back from al-Ghazira – Fatheyya, who’s given herself some fancy whoring name. She’s come to take our daughters for her brothel.

  It was more a hamlet than a village – a little ’izba, near Damanhour, perched on the casuarina-lined banks of a canal – a few mud-walled dwellings and one big house: the house that Zindi’s brothers had built with her Ghaziri dirhams. The way there was all dust and drying cotton fields and barking dogs, but when they arrived they were cheering – all five of them, Zindi, Abu Fahl, Zaghloul, Kulfi and Alu – screaming like children waiting at a circus. For this was no ordinary hamlet: it was the dream which had kept them alive while they dragged themselves across oceans, seas and half of Egypt; it was a promise of deliverance, of refuge, of a new life. They were cheering so loud when they drew up in their hired pick-up truck that it was a long while before they noticed the eerily empty lanes, the barred doors and the screeching chorus of voices.

  When she heard those voices at last, Zindi looked around her at the mud walls of the lane, glowing treacherously in the morning sun, and she knew that if she were to live in that narrow pathway, jostled with hate on every side, she would not live to see another year.

  It was all over then.

  But she had a revenge of sorts. Abu Fahl battered down the door and they loaded their truck with furniture, jewellery, bales of newly harvested cotton – every movable object of value they could find. But those were paltry things; they could make no difference to a woman who had lost her nephews, nieces, land, even the magic of the name she had chosen for herself (who knew from where?). She was a different Zindi now, stripped, revealed as nothing but Fatheyya, plain old Fatheyya, Fatheyya Umm-nobody, mother of nothing, poor, simple, barren Fatheyya who was once abandoned in Alexandria by a child-hungry husband. Nothing she took with her could shut her ears to the cries of her brothers’ wives, the roar which shook the dead cotton bushes in the fields and creaked in the canals with the kababis: Fatheyya the whore is gone at last, shukr Illah!

  That was when, teeth gritted, eyes rolling, she said to the driver of the truck: We’ll go west.

  At first she had meant nothing farther away than Alexandria. She filled the first part of their bumpy ride with plans – she still had money left, and there would be more now with that truckful of goods. It could lead to anything – a new house, a shop, even a factory. But, at the crossroads near ad-Dilinjat, Abu Fahl and Zaghloul spotted the fine two-storey houses their fathers and Abusa’s father had built with their Ghazira-earned money. They looked down the road at distant, difficult Alexandria, and then back again at their fields and the houses with their crenellated pigeon-towers; they saw their lands growing, brides smiling and children playing naked in the canals as they had done themselves. And then there was no holding them.

  After that Zindi talked to the half-empty Datsun about her plans not because she believed in them any more, but because she could not bear the silence.

  It happened that very evening in Alexandria. Zindi and Alu saw him while Kulfi was away buying a comb at a shop in Tahrir Square. He was standing on the Corniche, leaning on the parapet with his back to them, watching the gulls as they scavenged in the harbour.

  Two days later they heard that an Indian was asking about a huge woman called Zindi and a potato-headed Indian. Zindi decided then that Alexandria wasn’t safe. Next morning she dug out the passports she had had made for them in al-Ghazira and went off to a friend in Muharram Bey who dealt in currencies and visas, and she had them stamped for every country she could think of.

  He asked: Where are you going, Zindi? And she answered: We’re going west, where the sewing machines are.

  It happened again. This time Alu saw him alone. Zindi had raced off to the harbour because the wind had brought news that Virat Singh, the great pehlwan of Bareilly, had turned sailor and arrived in Alexandria in a Greek freighter. So Alu, with Kulfi snarling at him, and nothing else to do, wandered off to the Mohattat ar-Raml; and there, just as he was about to cross the street to the tram station, the door of a Greek restaurant opened and the Bird-man stood opposite him, staring him in the face. He ran, managed to lose him, but only just, by barging through the crowds on Safia Zaghloul Street and doubling back down Nabi Danial.

  Later he discovere
d that at that very moment Virat Singh had asked Zindi: And where are you going next? And Zindi had answered: Westwards.

  But it turned out well, for it so happened that Virat Singh’s ship was going west, too, to Lisbon. So naturally he decided to take them with him: balls to the captain.

  So the ship it was and plain sailing, with the four of them safely hidden away below deck, until Alu asked: What after Lisbon, Zindi? Absent-mindedly (for she was tending to Kulfi, who had just had an attack of chest pains) she answered: Westwards still; where the sewing machine sets.

  Sure enough, at dawn the next day, when the ship docked at Tunis, soon after Zindi first detected Boss’s fever, Virat Singh came scrambling down to tell them that there was an Indian on the bridge, some kind of policeman, who was insisting that the ship be searched for stowaways.

  With the help of a few friends and a little money Virat Singh smuggled them off the ship and through the port, to the vast football-field width of the Place d’Afrique. Where now, Zindi? he asked, before turning back.

  Zindi covered her face and sobbed: Westwards, where else?

  It broke his great pehlwan heart to see her like that. He put a huge corded arm around her shoulders and barked, tugging fiercely at his moustaches: I’ve got to go now, before they find me missing. But I’ll be back. The ship will be in Tangier exactly three weeks from now, on its way to Port Said and Bombay. If you need help, meet me there.

  Inevitably, that day they saw the Bird-man again. It happened while Zindi and Alu were wandering along the Avenue de France trying to find a doctor for Boss. They shot across the Avenue with his claws almost digging into their shoulders. They managed to lose him in the maze of the Medina and later, somehow, they dragged themselves to the Souq al-Attarine where Kulfi was buying perfume. That was the end of Tunis for them. But there he was again at Kairouan. This time it was he who spotted them, Alu and Zindi, bargaining at a taxi-stand, and he chased them all along the city walls, shouting.

  What was he shouting? Zindi asked Alu later.

  Alu said: He was shouting – Come back, I only want to talk to you.

  Yes, snorted Zindi, come back to be tear-gassed.

  After that Zindi would hear of nothing, stop for nothing – fever, chest pains, anything short of death. But mysteriously, just then, chance began to play at puppetry with them; trains left moments before they arrived at the station, buses were full up, taxis had flat tyres … And no sign of the Bird-man all that while. Where was he? Where was he waiting? Or had he flown away at last?

  Never again, Zindi swore, would she say those words, those deadly, poisonous, son-of-a-bitch words. There was only one hope now: the border. The border it had to be; safety lay on the other side, in the vast welcoming emptiness of the Sahara.

  So there they were, ten days after they left Virat Singh, sitting in a café in the desert. And now?

  And now, said Zindi, you’ve said it again.

  She looked up at the sky and a flash of hope sparked in her eyes. Perhaps, she said, we are safe after all. There aren’t any birds in the desert.

  But a moment later she saw the vulture again, circling patiently above.

  As they walked down the Avenue, Kulfi was still wondering, with gnawing apprehension, what exactly Mrs Verma had meant when she remarked: It sounds rather as if you were running away from something. She couldn’t help shooting a few quick sidelong glances at her.

  Mrs Verma saw Kulfi looking at her and instinctively her hand rose to cover her protruding upper lip. She knew what her profile was like. She tried to think of something to say, but nothing occurred to her. It was always like that: since her girlhood she had never had the defences to cope with those particular looks.

  It would have been different if her father had listened to her while she was still at school. There was still a chance then. She knew, because when she was twelve two girls in her class had had braces fitted by the Parsi dentist who had his clinic near the Odeon. Their cases were much worse than hers; their teeth fell like weighted curtains over their lower lips. But six months after they got their braces you could see the difference, and after a year you could hardly tell.

  She talked about it to her father, all the time, hinting, hoping. He had prominent front teeth as well; she got hers from him. It gave her a right to hope that he would understand; after all, he had suffered the name Dantu through all his college years. Surely he had once felt something of what she went through every time the teacher told her to stop staring and cover her teeth, and the whole class exploded into laughter? It wasn’t the money; she knew that. It didn’t cost much; he could have raised the sum if he’d wanted. It was only a question of making him understand. He had always listened gravely and attentively to everything she had ever had to say. But when it came to this subject he never seemed to notice.

  Actually, of course, he did notice; had noticed all the time. She discovered that when she couldn’t bear it any more and said to him, weeping: Ba, if you don’t take me to that dentist I’ll die. I know it. Even if I don’t die right now, no one will marry me so I’ll die as soon as I grow up.

  There was a strong practical streak in her even then, so she added: And think of all the trouble you’ll have trying to find me a husband.

  He took her into his lap then and dried her cheeks with the hem of his kurta. My love, he said, do you think I don’t know what it’s like?

  Then, take me to that dentist, she sobbed.

  I can’t, he said helplessly. I can’t – not for this. Don’t you see: it’s not important. If it was to do with your health, we’d go this very minute. But this is just a thing of appearances.

  But it’s important to me. And it would be so easy.

  No, my love; it wouldn’t be easy at all. What do you change if you change your face? Those are things of the outside; if we wanted things like that, where would we stop – jewellery, cars, money, houses? That’s not how I’ve lived, and that’s not how I want you to live. As for marriage, if no one wants you, why, you’ll be free. Anyway you’re going to be a microbiologist, a scientist; you’ll be too busy with your experiments to think about such things.

  I will think about it, she cried. I think about it all the time – in school, walking down the road, everywhere. It’s the only thing I think about.

  Then, he said, that’s the best reason for not doing anything about it. As you grow older, it’ll matter less and less. You’ll see. And the day it doesn’t matter at all you’ll know you’re a woman at last.

  She shrank back, frightened by the finality of his tone. Then, choking on her sobs, she pounded on his chest: It’ll always matter; it’ll always matter. How can you know? You don’t have to live with it.

  He caught her hands and kissed them. I’ll show you, he said. He turned and pulled a book out of his old bookcase. I’ll translate something for you. When I read it to you, you’ll see that things like these don’t matter.

  She pushed herself angrily out of his lap and didn’t talk to him for a week. A translation. What difference would a translation make to the laughter in her classroom?

  But the old man had been right about one thing: almost imperceptibly every passing year dulled the wounding edge of those glances. Nowadays it took her only a few minutes to recover.

  So, after a while, almost cheerfully, she said to Kulfi: It’s a small town, isn’t it? One day I’ll take you to the top of a minaret and you can see it all spread out below you. Actually we’ve been here just two years ourselves. We’re leaving soon. Our children won’t let us stay away any longer. They’re back home in Dehra Dun.

  Oh, said Kulfi, glad to have the silence broken. So you’ve come here with only your husband, then? I suppose there aren’t any other Indians here?

  Oh, no, Mrs Verma laughed. There are five of us. There’s Miss Krishnaswamy – she’s a nurse. Then there’s Dr Mishra. He’s the seniormost among us. He’s a surgeon. He’s very good; some people say he’s brilliant. He looks it; you’ll see when you meet him. Then there’s
his wife, but she’s not a doctor. They’re both from Lucknow.

  It must have been lonely, Kulfi said thoughtfully, coming to a foreign place; having to work with people you didn’t know. You know, in al-Ghazira, I must say, in the beginning, though there were all his colleagues in the firm, I really—

  People I didn’t know? Mrs Verma interrupted her. You mean Dr Mishra? Yes, I suppose it’s true that we didn’t know him, but it didn’t feel like that. You see, I’d heard about him for years. My father knew his father quite well once upon a time, and he talked about them quite a lot. So in a way, when we first met him at the interviews in Delhi, it was like meeting someone we’d known for a long time. Besides, he talks a lot …

  Her voice trailed off. You’ll see, she added lamely. You’ll meet him this evening. I’ll ask them over so that we can make arrangements for …

  She stopped and looked intently at Kulfi. Kulfi stopped beside her.

  Tell me, Mrs Bose, she said, can you act?

  Perhaps, Zindi said hesitantly, she could do something about your hands, too. After all, she’s a doctor.

  Alu jerked his head quickly from side to side and his hands slid behind his chair. Much later she saw him sitting with his hands in his lap, staring at his fingers. The thumbs had stiffened and the skin had sagged over the bones, like a shroud on a skeleton. He tried to move them and he couldn’t. The bones were as rigid as a corpse’s; she half-expected them to clatter, dice-like. Then Alu caught her looking at him, and at once his hands disappeared under him and he went back to staring vacantly ahead of him.

  That was the only time she had referred to his thumbs. She first saw them long after they had slipped past the frowning heights of Perim, through the Bab al-Mandab, into the Red Sea. They had already been at sea for – it seemed like months, with months left to go.