by Amitav Ghosh
Yes, she said, you look much better with a halo. And I have something else for you, too.
What? he said suspiciously.
She held up a cone of cardboard and gold paper. It’s a crown, she explained. It’s a kind of symbol of your reign over the realm of Love.
Don’t lie, he said, looking at it scornfully. It’s to cover my baldness.
Mrs Verma, undeterred, jammed it on his head. There, she said, and now you won’t catch a cold, either. But when her husband strapped on the halo and gave it a trial spin the crown hurtled off Dr Mishra’s slippery scalp and flattened itself on the floor. Mrs Verma pushed the tip up and tried to fit it on again, with a rubber band this time. Halfway through she happened to look up. Next moment the crown fell from her hands and Dr Mishra howled as the rubber band snapped back, catching him on the tip of his nose.
Kulfi was bending over Jyoti Das with the garland of bougainvillaea in her hands, smiling with coy bridal modesty. Mrs Verma started forward, but before she could reach them Kulfi had slipped the garland over his head and pirouetted away.
Jyoti Das rose to his feet, breathing hard, his eyes dilated, but before he could take a step Mrs Verma was in front of him.
No, no, Mr Das, she said sharply, pushing him back on to his chair. No more of that; sit down now.
After that she looked up every two seconds while strapping on Dr Mishra’s crown to make sure that they hadn’t moved. Dr Mishra was immensely amused. Love-game for Madana, he hummed. Three cheers for rural socialism.
Soon Mrs Verma was ready to begin. A quick look at Jyoti Das’s flushed face persuaded her to start with a scene which needed only Chitrangada and Madana.
The first part of the scene, in which Kulfi only had to kneel before Dr Mishra and suit her expression to the song of supplication that was playing on the gramophone, went off without a hitch. But when Dr Mishra pulled her to her feet as he had been told to a gust from his whirring halo caught Kulfi’s tiara and blew it off her head. Kulfi’s hands shot up. She patted her head with gathering dismay, and then she turned upon Dr Mishra with such unbridled rage blazing out of her eyes that he cowered back in fear.
Mrs Verma had to dart in between them. I think this scene’s done now, she said hurriedly. We’ll go on to another one.
She fetched a shawl and draped it around Kulfi’s shoulders. This shawl, she explained, represents the ordinariness of Chitrangada’s real appearance. You’ll have to wear it now, because we’re going to do the last scene, in which Chitrangada reveals her real self to Arjuna and he cries out in wonder: Dhanya! Dhanya! Dhanya!
She led Kulfi and Jyoti Das to the empty space at the far end of the room and explained their parts to them. While they took up their poses – Chitrangada with her hands dramatically outflung before a wonder-struck Arjuna – she stood beside them, watching narrowly, making sure that they stayed a respectable distance from each other. It was a long while before she was satisfied. But finally, apprehensively, she backed away and turned the gramophone on.
Ami Chitrangada, the record lilted softly, ami rajend-ronondini …
Jyoti Das edged slowly closer to Kulfi. Louder, please, he called out to Mrs Verma. We can hardly hear it over here.
Reluctantly Mrs Verma turned the volume up and carried the needle back to the first groove. The voice rolled sonorously out of the gramophone: I am Chitrangada; daughter of kings …
Jyoti Das stole a glance at Mrs Verma and the others. They were well out of earshot now, cloaked securely behind a screen of music. He leant forward as Kulfi gestured at her shawl with sweeping flourishes of her hands.
I am Chitrangada …
Are you, he whispered, the one they call Kulfi-didi?
Jyoti Das knew, from the sudden jerk of her head, that she had heard him. He glanced at Mrs Verma. She was leaning forward in her chair, watching them anxiously.
I am Chitrangada …
Kulfi whirled around and came to rest on her knees. He fell to his knees, too, as he had been instructed.
I am no goddess …
I know who you are, he whispered, trying not to move his lips. Don’t be afraid of me, I beg you. I know you’re Kulfi-didi. I know who the others are. There’s nothing to be afraid of and there’s nothing to hide. I won’t harm you or them. Listen to me, Kulfi, please …
And nor am I an ordinary woman …
Kulfi, please …
The sweat was pouring down his face now, but his mouth was curiously dry; his viscera, his loins, were straining against an invisible, unbearable constriction.
Kulfi, please …
She raised her lowered head. Her eyelashes fluttered and she gave him the briefest of smiles.
His head swam drunkenly. He groaned: Oh, Kulfi …
If you keep me by your side …
He leant forward, shielding his face with the bow. Kulfi, he said, I know you’re not married. I know he’s not your husband. I know all about him. I know you’re a free woman. Kulfi, please, I beg you, we can’t talk here. I beg you, come out into the garden tonight. Later, much later, when everyone’s asleep.
She looked up at him suddenly. He cut himself short, reading a reproach in her widening eyes and trembling lips.
No, no, Kulfi, he said, swallowing convulsively. Nothing like that, really. I swear. I promise you. I won’t touch you. I swear it. We’ll just talk; it’s impossible to talk here. Please, Kulfi, please …
Her eyes flashed and she rose unsteadily to her feet.
If you let me share your trials …
Anything, Kulfi, anything, he said, rising with her.
Suddenly she stiffened and looked him full in the face.
Today I can only offer you …
He no longer cared whether anybody saw him or heard him. Kulfi, he cried, I can’t bear it. I’ll marry you, if only tonight, just once. You see, I’ve never …
I can only offer you …
Her eyes had grown huge now. She shuddered and her hands rose to her heart. He started forward in a great surge of joy. But then he caught a glimpse of Mrs Verma, watching, frowning, and he checked himself. Don’t say anything now, Kulfi, he whispered hastily, jabbing his thumb at Mrs Verma. They might hear you.
Kulfi’s moist lips fluttered. She moaned and stretched her arms towards him, imploring, beseeching.
I can only offer you Chitrangada; daughter of kings …
Not now, Kulfi, he whispered urgently. Just wait a little; till tonight. What’s the hurry?
Dhanya! Dhanya! Dhanya!
Kulfi crashed to the floor, clutching her heart. In a trance, Jyoti Das watched her go down.
The first person to run across the room was Dr Verma. He pushed Jyoti Das back, undid the top buttons of her blouse and felt for her heart.
Jyoti Das covered his eyes and tried to steady himself. When he looked up again Alu was standing opposite him. For an interminable moment they stared at each other across Kulfi’s body. Then Dr Verma rose to his feet between them.
She’s heavenly, he said in English. Absolutely heavenly.
Her fathers have gathered her to their heavenly abode.
Chapter Twenty-One
Curtain
Very gently Mrs Verma closed Kulfi’s eyes. For a moment she looked into her pale, rigid face and then her lips began to quiver and she had to tilt her head to keep her tears back. Three of us, she said, three doctors sitting right in front of her, and there was nothing we could do. Nothing.
We’re not to blame, Mrs Verma, Dr Mishra said gruffly. There was nothing we could do. Especially since her husband didn’t bother to warn us that she had a heart condition.
Mrs Verma ran a consoling hand over Alu’s back: It’s not his fault, poor man. What could he do? She was so keen to do the part. How was he to know that she would get so carried away?
She glanced reproachfully at Jyoti Das, squatting beside her on the floor. If anything, she said, perhaps Mr Das could have behaved with a little more restraint. I won’t say any more.
&n
bsp; Jyoti Das flinched and buried his head in his knees.
Anyway, Mrs Verma continued, there’s only one thing we can do for her now, poor woman.
She went into the kitchen and returned with a brass bowl and a spoon. Kneeling beside the body, she said: Go on, Mr Bose. Even though it’s too late now, you should wet her lips.
A quickly stifled snort of laughter checked her as she held the bowl out to Alu. She looked up, startled: What’s the matter, Dr Mishra?
Sorry, he muttered contritely, slapping a hand over his mouth. The sudden movement jolted his halo back into motion. Ignoring it, he said loudly: That’s a strange thing you’re doing, Mrs Verma.
What? she said. I can’t hear you.
Sala! he swore, taking a swipe at his halo. He yelped and snatched his hand back as the whirling blade skimmed the skin off his knuckles. Sala, bhain … sorry. Verma, he roared, can’t you get this thing off my neck? Dr Verma ran to help him.
What were you saying, Mishra-sahb? Mrs Verma said.
I was just asking, he snapped, whether you’ve managed to connect your kitchen tap to the Ganges? Or do you keep your own private stock of holy water for these occasions?
What do you mean? she said puzzled.
Maybe I should explain to you, in case you don’t know, that the water in that bowl has never been anywhere near the snows of the Himalayas or the Gangotri. It’s from a million-year-old water-table that lies under the Sahara. It’s never flowed past Rudraprayag or Hardwar or Benares or any of your holy cities. In fact it’s never flowed anywhere. It’s been pumped up by an artesian well.
Mystified, Mrs Verma looked from Dr Mishra to Alu and back again. So? she said.
In a word, that’s not Ganga-jal. You can’t give it to her.
She shook her head impatiently and turned her back on him. Go on, Mr Bose, she said, prodding Alu. Give it to her.
Wait! Dr Mishra cried. You can’t do that.
But, Dr Mishra, she said, where do you think we’re going to get Ganga-jal here in the Sahara? This is all we’ve got. What’s the point of arguing?
There is a point. First, I think you should ask yourself whether you as a rational, educated woman wish to encourage anyone in the belief that a bit of dirty water from a muddy river can actually do them any good when they’re already dead.
This is hardly the time for a debate, Mrs Verma said. We can only do what we think is right. Go on, Mr Bose.
Wait a minute! Dr Mishra leapt to his feet. If you are going to do this, you have to do it properly. You can’t just pour water from an artesian well down her mouth and pretend it’s Ganga-jal. You can’t. There are certain rules.
Never mind the rules, Mrs Verma said. We’ll just do what we can.
She put the spoon into Alu’s hands and helped him slip a few drops of water through Kulfi’s dead lips.
When she saw the body Zindi sank to the floor slowly, like the crust on a loaf of cooling bread. She straightened Kulfi’s outstretched arms, and then suddenly, like a scolded child, she began to rock from side to side, sobbing. She was pointing at me, she sobbed. Did you see her? She thinks I did it.
Alu put his arms around her. Zindi, he said, whispering, so that the doctors at the other end of the room would not hear him. Zindi, it’s not your fault; there was nothing you could do.
How do you know? Zindi whispered back. Her death won’t be on your soul. You’ve done nothing but stare at your thumbs ever since we left al-Ghazira. It was I who decided everything; I who brought her to this house of death; it’s I who’ll have it hanging over me on the Day of Judgement.
By why, Zindi? She came of her own will.
But I allowed her to stay on here, even after I smelt death in this place. If I’d done what I should have and we’d left, she would have lived.
But, Zindi, Alu said, you know we couldn’t have left. Boss is ill; and anyway where would we have gone?
She elbowed him angrily away. I don’t want your hugs and your explanations, she hissed. I’ll have to live with this for every day of what’s left of my life. Leave me in peace. What can you ever understand of this?
A hand touched her shoulder and she turned. It was Jyoti Das, his eyes bloodshot and swollen, his mouth open. He was trying to say something.
It’s the vulture, she cried.
It’s my fault, he stuttered. He reached out to touch her feet.
Zindi jerked her legs back. Don’t touch me, she snarled. Keep your murdering claws away or you’ll kill me, too.
Jyoti Das stared at his hands in despair. What could I do? he said. She came in out of the desert like a mirage and I …
Take him out, Alu, Zindi sobbed. Take him away. Don’t let him get his claws into me …
She was still sobbing as they helped each other up and limped out of the room like a pair of grieving cripples.
What do we do now? said Mrs Verma.
You don’t do anything, Dr Mishra said. You have no connection with the whole business except that it happened under your roof. What you should do now is ring up the hospital and the police. They’ll come and take the body away. Then it’s out of your hands. Maybe they’ll do an autopsy; they may have to, for the death certificate.
And then?
What do you mean, ‘and then’?
I mean, said Mrs Verma, what will they do with the body? They can’t keep it in the morgue for ever.
Dr Mishra shrugged: They’ll do whatever they usually do under these circumstances. I suppose they’ll hand it back to the next of kin. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with you or me or any of us.
Mrs Verma thought hard, with her chin cupped in her hands. That means, she said, that they’ll hand the body back to Mr Bose. But what will he do with it?
How does it matter to you? Dr Mishra said brusquely. He can do what he likes. It’s none of your business. You don’t even know them. They just turned up today and you gave them shelter. For all you know, they may be international criminals or something. I think you should be very, very careful. Don’t get mixed up in this business.
Let’s see, Mrs Verma said, counting the possibilities on her fingers. He could take the body to Algiers. But how, and what for? Or he could fly it back to India. But how? He’d have to take it to the airport at Hassi Messaoud, and who knows whether there’s a plane tomorrow – and anyway the body would never last. Or else he could just leave the body with the authorities and let them … dispose of it.
Her eyes widened as she thought out the implications of that last possibility. What do you think they’d do with it? she said. Involuntarily she clenched her fist and raised it to her mouth. What do you think they’d do?
Dr Mishra chuckled: What’s another corpse to you, Mrs Verma? You’ve been seeing dozens every day ever since you first went to Medical College. You’ve chopped them up, pulled out their gullets, pickled their hearts in alcohol. Don’t you think it’s a bit late to start weeping over a bit of dead tissue?
It’s not the same thing, she said confusedly, when it happens in your own house.
It’s exactly the same thing, he answered, tapping the table with his pipe. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that. There’s nothing there that you wouldn’t find in any morgue or any textbook.
But only a few hours ago I offered her a room in my house because she had nowhere else to go. Don’t we owe her anything now; now that she’s dead?
We owe her nothing, he said sharply. We didn’t even know her.
But what will her husband do? Where will he go with the body?
He can go, Dr Mishra said gleefully, back to wherever he came from.
Mrs Verma rose from the table, her hands clasped determinedly together. There’s only one thing to do now, she said. We shall have to cremate her ourselves, properly, somewhere among the dunes.
Dr Mishra slumped back, stunned. After a while, his voice hoarse with shock, he murmured: How can we do that? There’s no crematorium here. What will the authorities say? We can’t do it. There’s a proper proced
ure for these things.
That can be worked out very easily, Mrs Verma said, clearing the table. After all, the authorities know us and we know them. We can explain the circumstances. I’m sure they’ll be sympathetic.
Mrs Verma, Dr Mishra said softly, recovering himself. When you said ‘a proper cremation’ what exactly did you mean?
Well, like we’ve seen it being done for our fathers and mothers, I suppose.
Say it, Mrs Verma, don’t be afraid. What you mean is a proper Hindu cremation.
It doesn’t matter what you call it.
Dr Mishra leant forward with all the aplomb of a chessplayer about to signal a checkmate. But, Mrs Verma, he said smiling, what makes you think she’s eligible for a proper cremation?
How could Jyoti Das explain, especially with Alu’s expectant, unblinking gaze clamped on him like that, what she had looked like when she first came through the door, how he had seen her then? It was an image with too long a past; it had appeared so suddenly, like the last photograph in a hastily riffled album, out of the haze left by pages of blurred pictures.
There was, for example, that final interview with the Ambassador in al-Ghazira, when he had said, with a sarcasm which could have sliced silk: Tell me, is it true, Mr Das, that you were away shopping when your so-called ‘extremists’ made their getaway? And before he could deny it the Ambassador was off, reminiscing pointedly about the incompetence of all the cloak-and-dagger men he had ever known; about the grudge they bore against the world because they hadn’t qualified for the more prestigious services in the examinations; about the ‘extremists’ they concocted to wangle trips abroad at government expense.
Mr Das, do you really think, he asked softly at the end, that we believed all this business about ‘extremists’? We know quite well why they send you people to visit embassies every now and then; they send you to watch us.
Then later there was Jai Lal sitting beside him, telling him how a First Secretary in the embassy had confided to him that even a small part of the report the Ambassador had sent to headquarters would be enough to stub out young Jyoti’s career like a half-smoked cigarette. And then Jai Lal again, telling him how there was only one way of retrieving something of his once bright future – and that was to find the Suspect.