The Shadow Lines

by Amitav Ghosh

  In Dhanmundi, said Robi.

  Ah there, said Rehman-shaheb. That was for rich folks and foreigners. Did you ever go into the old city? Now that’s where you should have gone: the sweets you’ll get there! Like nowhere else in the world, not even Calcutta. And the people! They’re so hospitable, they’ll take you straight into their houses.

  Robi smiled thinly.

  Ila gave me a worried glance and pushed her chair back.

  But I don’t suppose you’ve ever been into that part of the town, have you? said Rehman-shaheb, smiling at Robi.

  Yes, said Robi. As a matter of fact, I have. You see my mother was born there.

  Really? cried Rehman-shaheb. Where? Do you remember where?

  Robi’s smile was like a grimace now. Yes, he said. I do remember. You had to go past Shador-bajar, and then turn off the road and go down a long road crowded with shops, and then you had to turn off at a corner where there was a kind of field where the boys used to play football, and then there’s a hardware shop, and that’s the corner of the lane where my mother was born – Jindabahar Lane, Dhaka.

  Allah! said Rehman-shaheb. You remember it very well I can see. But you must have been very young then. How is it that you remember?

  I pushed my chair back and stood up. We ought to go now, I said.

  But Robi didn’t hear me. He was leaning towards Rehman-shaheb, gripping the table, his knuckles white.

  I remember it because my brother was killed there, he said. In a riot – not far from where my mother was born. Now do you see why I remember?

  Rehman-shaheb leapt to his feet, his face red with embarrassment.

  Robi stood up, pushed his way past us and went out.

  Oh, I’m so … Rehman-shaheb said to Ila. I didn’t mean … I really didn’t.

  Don’t worry, Ila said quickly. It’s not your fault. I know you didn’t mean it. It’s mine – I shouldn’t have brought up the subject. Ila snatched up her coat, gave Rehmanshaheb’s arm one last pat and whispered: It’s all right, don’t worry. Then she followed me out of the restaurant.

  He was gone by the time we were out. It was a while before we saw him, in the distance, as he passed a lamp-post. He was striding fast down the Clapham Road, towards Stockwell. We began to run.

  When we caught up with him we tried to fall in step, but his strides were so long we virtually had to run to keep up. We walked past the fast-food shops on the Clapham Road, beneath the railway bridge and the underground station at Clapham North. At length Robi came to a halt. He shook his arms free and said: I need to sit somewhere. Just for a minute.

  There was an overgrown garden to our left, and within it a derelict white church, with a short flight of steps in front. Robi led us through the gate and up to the steps. Clearing a space for himself among the leaves on the stairs, he sat down and lit a cigarette.

  It’s a dream, you know, he said, blowing a plume of smoke at his feet. I only get it about twice a year now, but it used to be once a week, when I was younger – in college, for instance. But I learnt to control it – I often know when it’s coming, and on nights like that I try not to sleep. It always begins with our car going around a corner. There’s a muddy kind of field on one side, a very small one, but it’s got a crooked goalpost stuck in the mud. We turn the corner and there they are, ahead of us, strung out across the road. Sometimes it’s a crowd, sometimes just a couple of men. I know their faces well now, better than I know my friends’. There’s one with a very thin face and a wispy moustache and a crooked mouth. He’s always in it. The odd thing is, that no matter how many men there are – a couple, or dozens – the street always seems empty. It was full of people when we went through it – a bazaar, all the shops open, people going in and out, rickshaws, thela-garis, vendors, donkeys. And there were people in the houses above the shops too, looking down at us, from the windows and balconies. But all the shops are shut now, barricaded, and so are the windows in the houses. There’s no one on the balconies. The street’s deserted, but for those men. I can see little details sometimes: a green coconut, for instance, lying in the middle of the road, wobbling when the breeze catches it; a slipper on the pavement – not a pair, just a single rubber slipper, lying there abandoned.

  There’s a grinding kind of noise somewhere inside the car, and it lurches, throwing everyone forward, so that I almost bang my head against the dashboard. Someone in the back seat, I think it’s my mother, but I’ve never been sure, cries: Don’t stop, go on.

  And the car does go on, in fact the driver had merely changed gears without declutching properly. It’s moving forward again now – not steadily, but in short jerks, because the driver’s so scared he’s lost control of his right foot. His cap’s fallen off, and he’s sitting hunched over the wheel, with sweat dripping down his face. The security guard, sitting beside me, in the front seat, is looking ahead, fingering his shirt.

  Then the men begin to move towards us – they’re not running, they’re gliding, like skaters in a race. They fan out and begin to close in on us. It’s all silent, I can’t hear a single thing, no sound at all.

  The security guard pushes me down and reaches back to make sure our doors are locked. I can only see his blue uniform now, from where I am. I can’t see his face and I can’t look outside. I see him reaching under his shirt, and when he pulls out his hand there’s a revolver in it, a very small one. It’s got an odd colour, sort of slate-grey. I can see it in detail because it’s right next to my face.

  Then the car veers away, and suddenly there’s a huge thump on the bonnet, and somebody screams at the back. I look up then, lifting my head just a little, until it’s level with the bottom of the windscreen, and there’s a face there, on the other side of the glass, the nose flattened, the eyes looking in. It’s the man with the crooked mouth; he’s lying flat on the bonnet, and he’s seen me. He raises his arm and swings it back; there’s something in it, but I don’t know what it is, I can never see it. His arm comes swinging down, over his head in an arc, and suddenly the windscreen clouds over and crashes in. When I look up at the driver there’s a cut across his face, and he’s clutching a flap of skin trying to hold it in place, on his cheek. He doesn’t have either hand on the steering wheel. The car lurches, rolls forward, and stalls, with its front wheel in a gutter.

  The security guard pushes me down again, and then he throws the door open and jumps out, with the revolver ready in his hand. He shouts something, I don’t know what, and then he shouts again, and there’s a crash, and I know he’s fired a shot. I look out then, out of the window, and I see the men, circling around us, drawing back, and the sound of the shot is still echoing off those closed windows and empty balconies.

  There’s a moment of absolute quiet as they watch us and we watch them. It’s so still I can hear the sound of the driver’s blood dripping on the steering wheel. And then the silence is broken: there’s a creak somewhere behind us – it’s a small sound, but in the quiet it sounds like a thunderclap. We all turn: we in the car, they outside. And do you know what it is? It’s the rickshaw – Khalil’s rickshaw – with the old man, our grand-uncle, whom we’d gone to rescue, sitting at the back, all dressed up in his lawyer’s coat.

  And as I watch, the rickshaw begins to grow. It becomes huge, that rickshaw, it grows till it’s bigger than the shops and the houses; so big that I can’t see the old man sitting on top. But those men are running towards it, as fast as it grows, they’re scrambling up its wheels, up its poles, along the sides. They’ve forgotten us now; there’s no one around us – they’re all busy climbing up the rickshaw. The security guard jumps in, grinning, and shouts something to the driver: he’s telling him to start the car and get going while he can – to think about his face later. And they’re shouting at the back too, telling the driver to be quick, to get going. The driver reaches for the key, he’s stretched his arm all the way out, as far as it’ll go, but it doesn’t reach, no matter how hard he tries. And while he’s straining to reach the key, somebody g
ets out at the back; I hear the door slamming shut. When I look around I see May: she’s tiny, shrunken, and behind her is that rickshaw, reaching heavenwards, like a gigantic anthill, and its sides are seething with hundreds of little men.

  May is screaming at us; I can’t hear a word, but I know what she’s saying. She’s saying: Those two are going to be killed because of you – you’re cowards, murderers, to abandon them here like this.

  The door opens again, and I know in my heart that Tridib is going to get out too. I stretch out a hand to pull him back into the car, but my hand won’t reach him; I try to shout, but I have no voice left, I cannot make a single sound.

  And that is when I wake up, gagging, trying to scream.

  Robi shook another cigarette out of his pack and tried to strike a match. The first match broke, and he threw it away and struck another, held it steady and lit his cigarette.

  I’ve never been able to rid myself of that dream, he said. Ever since it first happened. When I was a child I used to pray that it would go away: if it had, there would have been nothing else really, to remind me of that day. But it wouldn’t go; it stayed. I used to think: if only that dream would go away, I would be like other people; I would be free. I would have given anything to be free of that memory.

  He laughed, looking at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  Free, he said laughing. You know, if you look at the pictures on the front pages of the newspapers at home now, all those pictures of dead people – in Assam, the northeast, Punjab, Sri Lanka, Tripura – people shot by terrorists and separatists and the army and the police, you’ll find somewhere behind it all that single word; everyone’s doing it to be free. When I was running a district I used to look at those pictures and wonder sometimes what I would do if it were happening in my area. I know what I’d have to do; I’d have to go out and make speeches to my policemen, saying: You have to be firm, you have to do your duty. You have to kill whole villages if necessary – we have nothing against the people, it’s the terrorists we want to get, but we have to be willing to pay a price for our unity and freedom. And when I went back home, I would find an anonymous note waiting for me, saying: We’re going to get you, nothing personal, we have to kill you for our freedom. It would be like reading my own speech transcribed on a mirror. And then I think to myself, why don’t they draw thousands of little lines through the whole subcontinent and give every little place a new name? What would it change? It’s a mirage; the whole thing is a mirage. How can anyone divide a memory? If freedom were possible, surely Tridib’s death would have set me free. And yet, all it takes to set my hand shaking like a leaf, fifteen years later, thousands of miles away, at the other end of another continent, is a chance remark by a waiter in a restaurant.

  He shrugged, threw away his cigarette, and stood up. I suppose we should be going, he said.

  Then Ila, who had been sitting beside him, stood up too and put an arm around his shoulders and another around mine, and held us together. We stood a long time like that, on the steps of that derelict church in Clapham, three children of a free state together, clinging.

  I had hoped to spend my last day in London visiting my old haunts – West End Lane, Lymington Road, Stockwell and the Embankment – one last time before leaving for India. In the evening I was to go to Islington because May had invited me to dinner.

  But, as it turned out, the day went past in a breathless rush, and I almost forgot about dinner.

  I had to make the journey from Fulham to the West End twice, with my suitcase still unpacked: once when I discovered that I had merely overlooked two of the names I thought I had already ticked on my list of presents. I ran all the way from the house to the tube station at Putney Bridge, sweat pouring down my face, my shirt clammy on my back. Then I pushed my way out into the crowds on Oxford Street, into teeming, confused shops, and then out again, clutching morose little parcels – brushed-denim jeans of just the right length and colour for a friend in Delhi, and a digital watch for a family friend in Calcutta – and back into the bowels of the tube station and into the first train, drumming on the armrest of my seat, trying to avoid the glare of the Walkman-ed skinhead opposite me. Back to my room, to pull everything out of my suitcase and start all over again, only to find a note I had left for myself in my ticket folder, which told me that my ticket had not yet been confirmed. So back again then, all the way to Regent Street, the chilly wind grafting my shirt to my back, running all the way to the airline office, and of course, when I get there, the girl in the uniform, behind the counter, tells me, smiling kindly, seeing me mopping the sweat off my forehead: You could have done it over the phone, luv. Back again to Fulham, my feet aching, nothing done yet, so much left to do, and no time to do it in.

  I have to be at Heathrow, tomorrow at midday.

  At lunch-time I telephoned Ila at her office.

  Oh, it’s you, she said abruptly, when she recognised my voice.

  There was a short silence, and then I said: Ila, don’t you remember? I’m leaving for India tomorrow.

  I know, she said, with an unfamiliar note of awkwardness in her voice. Puzzled, I asked her whether there were other people in the room.

  No, no, she said quickly, it’s not that. There’s no one here.

  Then what’s the matter? I said. Why do you sound so odd?

  Look, she said. I meant to come to the airport with you, to see you off. I really meant to, you know. But …

  Don’t worry about that, I said. What’s happened?

  Well, it’s like this, she said. Nick and I are driving down to Cornwall for the weekend. We’re taking a little holiday.

  That’s nice, I said, in my most neutral voice.

  You mustn’t pay any attention to what I said the other day, she said in a rush. I wanted to tell you that. I was just overwrought, and it made me suspicious. Nick wouldn’t dream of doing anything that might upset me, really, believe me. You mustn‘t believe a word I said. I made it all up. That’s what I did, I made it all up. That’s the truth of it. I talked to him later, and he showed me how silly I was being. It’s all fine now. We need a little holiday, that’s all.

  She was speaking very fast, in an unnaturally high voice.

  Of course I believe you, I said. Why shouldn’t I? I hope you have a nice time.

  I know you don’t believe me, she said.

  There was a catch in her voice, she sounded almost as though she was choking.

  Ila, I said. Shall I come over? Are you all right?

  Of course I’m all right, she shouted into the phone. I’m fine. Have a nice flight.

  There was a click as she slammed the receiver down, and the line went dead.

  I went back to my suitcase, upstairs.

  At about seven in the evening, when my packing was nearly done, I found myself trying to make room for a small porcelain vase in a corner of my suitcase. It was soon evident that it would break if I put it in. Scratching my head, I wondered what had possessed me to buy it in the first place.

  And then I remembered. I had bought it a week ago, when May had telephoned to ask me to dinner. I was so touched I’d gone out and bought her a present that very morning. That was what that vase was, her present, and I was meant to give it to her that evening.

  I raced out of my room, hurled myself down the stairs, burst into the kitchen, and more or less snatched the telephone out of the hands of the Scandinavian flagellationist. He glared at me, banged a fist on the tin-topped kitchen table and stormed out of the kitchen.

  An age seemed to pass before I heard May’s voice.

  Hullo May, I cried in relief. I’m coming; I’m on my way. I hope you hadn’t given me up yet.

  Of course not, she said, I wasn’t expecting you till half-past.

  I’ll be with you in half an hour, I said. I’ll take a taxi.

  That’s all right, she said. There’s no hurry. Come when you like.

  Within a short while I was standing at her door, with the vase stuffed into my pocket. />
  Later, when I was back in Delhi, I often used to wonder whether I would ever have had the courage to ask May the one question I had so long been longing to ask. I don’t know, and I never found out, for she spared me the task. It was she who ended the desultory conversation about my thesis that had sustained us through dinner, and raised her head to look at me, her blue eyes clear and forthright, and said: Why haven’t you ever asked me how Tridib died? I thought it would be the first thing you’d ask.

  I told her the truth: that I hadn’t known how to ask, that I simply hadn’t possessed the words; that I had not had the courage to breach her silence without a solid bridgehead of words.

  You should have asked, she said. It was your right and it is my duty to try to find an answer.

  She was sitting bolt upright, her hands on the table, one upon the other.

  I suppose you know most of it already, she began.

  I could tell that she had been preparing herself for that moment.

  We were on our way back from your grandmother’s ancestral house, she went on. The car was stopped. By a mob. I’m sure you know that. Some of them attacked us. They broke the windscreen and injured the driver. We had an armed security man with us. He fired a shot at them. They drew back. They might even have gone away. But your grandmother’s uncle was following behind us. In a rickshaw. The man who had looked after him all those years was driving the rickshaw. The mob went after them instead. Your grandmother wanted the driver of our car to drive away. She shouted at him to get away, fast. I shouted back at her and got out of the car. Your grandmother screamed at me. She said I didn’t know what I was doing, and I’d get everyone killed. I didn’t listen; I was a heroine. I wasn’t going to listen to a stupid, cowardly old woman. But she knew what was going to happen. Everyone there did, except me. I was the only one who didn’t. I began to run towards the rickshaw. I heard Tridib shouting my name. But I kept running. I heard him running after me. He caught up with me and pushed me, from behind. I stumbled and fell. I thought he’d stop to take me back to the car. But he ran on towards the rickshaw. The mob had surrounded the rickshaw. They had pulled the old man off it. I could hear him screaming. Tridib ran into the mob, and fell upon their backs. He was trying to push his way through to the old man, I think. Then the mob dragged him in. He vanished. I could only see their backs. It took less than a moment. Then the men began to scatter. I picked myself up and began to run towards them. The men had melted away, into the gullies. When I got there, I saw three bodies. They were all dead. They’d cut Khalil’s stomach open. The old man’s head had been hacked off. And they’d cut Tridib’s throat, from ear to ear.