by Amitav Gosh
'And then one day this other guy arrives to spend the weekend. His name is J. W. D. Grigson; he's just out of Cambridge and he's joined an outfit called the Linguistic Survey of India. Twenty years down the road he's going to write a book called A Comparative Survey of the Phonetic Structures of the Languages and Dialects of Eastern India . It won't be a best-seller but in its subject its going to become the functional equivalent of Consumer Guide. This Grigson's quite a character: he's going to die in the forties, in northern Burma, trying to settle a tribal dispute.
'And wherever he goes Grigson takes notes. Boy, does he take notes: he keeps a diary, he keeps a journal. When Ypsilanti College bought his collected papers in 1990 they had to hire an eight-axle truck to ship the stuff out. There's nothing he doesn't make a note of: and that means nothing. For he's not just into languages: he's also seriously into anatomy. He'll hit upon anything that moves: if it can lift a leg he wants to get under it. So Grigson arrives to spend a few days at the bungalow that Ron's living in for the duration. It turns out he went to grade school with one of Ron's room-mates, Lieutenant Hole. They can't stand the sight of each other but their mamas have told them to be neighbourly. So when the lieutenant hears that Grigson's blowing into town, he asks him if he needs a place to stay; thinks he'll earn a few cheap brownie points. Grigson says, sure, what have I got to lose? He moves into the guest bedroom for a couple of nights.
'It doesn't take Grigson long to figure out that something isn't quite kosher about this Lutchman kid; something doesn't fit, he doesn't know what. All they've said to each other is stuff like, "Like some tea, sir?" and, "Right on, Lutch, start pouring," but Grigson doesn't miss a trick. Something about the way Lutchman speaks makes him curious: he begins to wonder about this guy.
'He tries a little experiment: instead of calling him "bearer" or "boy" or "hey you" or whatever, he suddenly calls out "Lutchman".
'He notes in his diary that there's just this instant's delay before Lutchman responds: just that additional nanosecond it takes when someone responds to a name that's not really their own. Now Grigson's sure his name's not really Lutchman: he's changed it to make it look like he's from the area. Grigson's got it figured that this is one of the commonest names there is, except that what's "Lutchman" in one place is Laakhan somewhere else and Lokhkhon in another place, and Lakshman in still another: depending on which part of the country you're from.
'That evening he asks Ron, "What's the story on this Lutchman? Is he from around here?" Ron's just got in from eight straight hours staring at the lining of mosquitoes' stomachs. He's not in the mood for small talk. He says: "Never asked. Guess he is from around here."
"Is that right?" says Grigson. "But the way he says his unvoiced labials and retroflex dentals, he sounds like he's from much further north."
"You don't say," yawns Ron: he's asking himself where this nerd blew in from. "Golly gee! Think I'll go and see if I can get a game of tennis." He goes off into the wings yelling, "Tennis anyone?"
'By this time its not just Lutchman's retroflex dentals that Grigson's interested in: he's developing a personal interest in getting behind his labials. Next morning Lutchman brings him his morning cup of tea while he's still in bed. Grigson sees his chance: OK, he says to himself, go for it. He lets his hand linger on Lutchman's arm as he takes his cup of tea; a moment later he's holding Lutchman's hand. And now he notices a cute little detail about Lutchman: his left hand's only got four fingers and no thumb. But it's like he doesn't need one either: he's got his index finger curled around so it functions like a thumb.
'Grigson gets a real rush from the thumb-that-wasn't.
He gives it a rub. "Hey there, Lutch," he says, patting his bed. "What's the hurry, sit yourself down here and let's visit for a while." All this time Grigson's making like he can only speak pidgin Hindustani, like every other Englishman in India.
'Lutchman gives him this searching look, like he's trying to suss him out. That's OK with Grigson: he's going wow, this new deodorant really works. Then they hear Ron, shouting from his room: "Hey you, bearer, where's my tea?"
'Lutchman jumps up and sprints off. Grigson decides he'll try again later. He keeps an eye on Lutchman and gets a fix on where he lives: he notes he's got a big metal lantern hanging in his window, back in the servants' quarters.
'That night there's a party at the Secunderabad Club. Grigson goes, but he sneaks away early; says he has a headache; he wants to go back to the bungalow. They arrange a ride for him; he goes back; he stuffs a couple of pillows under his mosquito net and sneaks out.
'It's dark, there's no moon. It's the monsoon: the yard's turned to mud. Grigson sloshes on, towards the servants' quarters. All he can see of the outbuildings is a long, looming shape in the darkness. He curses under his breath but when he's a little closer he sees a light in a window, a small, bright circle, glowing red. He hitches up his pyjamas and tiptoes over to the window and knocks. Lutchman's face appears; he does a double take and his eyes bug out.
"It's me!" says Grigson. "Just dropped by to see your art collection." Lutchman opens his door and Grigson steps into the room. It's tiny, it smells of clothes and sweat and mustard oil. There's a string bed in a corner, and some clothes hanging from a line. It's very dark. The only light in the room comes from the lamp in the window. Now that he's made it all the way here he wants to get a real eyeful of this dude. But this is no ordinary lamp. It's big, it's strong, it's sturdy, it's got a long handle, and it's got a small circular pane of red glass. Grigson does a double take and then he figures out what it is: it's a standard-issue railway signal lamp. The kind that's used to stop trains at stations. It's not the sort of lamp you can buy at a neighbourhood store: come to think of it, it's probably a federal offence to have one hanging in your window.
'By now Grigson's seriously turned on; he's popping his buttons. But at the same time he's also bursting with curiosity. In fact he's not sure which is the bigger turn-on: making out or finding out.
'He says, in pidgin Hindustani, pointing at the lamp: "What's that?"
'Lutchman plays possum. "What's what?"
"That lamp up there."
"'Oh, that: you know what that is."
"Yeah, but what do you call it?" says Grigson.
"What's with these questions?" says Lutchman. He's speaking pidgin Hindustani too, so Grigson's having trouble drawing a bead on it.
"'I'm just curious," says Grigson.
"Why?" says Lutchman. "Did you come all the way out here to ask me these dumb questions?"
'"No," says Grigson. "I'm just curious, that's all."
'''Curious about what?"
'"About words."
'"You mean you want to know what it's called?"
'"Yeah," says Grigson. "That's right."
'''Why didn't you say so?" says Lutchman. "It's called a lantern."
'And that was when Grigson knew. He knew because Lutchman didn't pronounce the word as he should have if he really was from where he said he was. What he said was "lalten".
'So Grigson gives him a smile, and says, speaking to him in his own dialect: "So your name is really Laakhan, isn't it? Isn't that how they say it where you're from?"
'The minute he says that word, Lutchman's face goes into rigor mortis. But Grigson doesn't notice; he's busy congratulating himself on his infallible ear. He wags a finger at Lutchman: "Can't fool me," he says. "I've got you natives figured: I know exactly where every single one of you belongs. Those loan words will give you away every time."
'Now, suddenly, Lutchman makes his move. He snatches up his lantern and says, "Come on, follow me."
'''Where to?" says Grigson, but Lutchman's already out the door. Grigson starts running too.
'Happens that Secunderabad, like many British cantonment towns, is a big railway hub. The station's not far from Ross's bungalow: in fact the shunting yard is just a couple of hundred feet from the bottom of the garden. But Grigson's new in town and he's not wise to this. He's running real hard, c
hasing after Lutchman's red light. He's panting; endorphins are popping in his head like champagne bubbles. He's not in good shape; he gets more and more disoriented the harder he runs.
'He's giving it everything he's got, but the lantern's always just a little bit ahead, bobbing, turning, twisting: it seems to be leading him somewhere. It's very dark; the glow of the lantern is the only thing Grigson can see. He's not sure where he is, but he knows he's not running on grass any more: this is gravel under his feet. He can hear something ringing on metal. But he can't trust what he hears; he's exhausted, his ears are pounding.
'Then he hears a sound that nearly splits his eardrums: it's a whistle. He looks back and suddenly it's like the movies were just invented and he's sitting in the front row: a locomotive is bearing down on him, snorting clouds of steam. He panics and starts running between the tracks; he's set to become roadkill. But in the last half second he manages to jump: the fenders miss him by a fraction of an inch.
'The red light's gone now. Somehow Grigson manages to find his way back to the bungalow. He's scared: he's sure that Lutchman was trying to stage an accident to kill him. He thinks he should warn Ross that something very weird is going on under his roof. But he chickens out: he doesn't want to explain what he was doing down at the servants' quarters. So what does he do instead? He writes it all down in his diary.
'Next morning Lutchman's waiting at the breakfast table, just like any other day, looking like there's not a thought on his mind. He's the model servant, as always: smiling, obsequious, attentive. Grigson decides he's not going to lunch in this town any more: he's young, he's got a life to live. He catches the next train out of Secunderabad.'
Chapter 14
SONALI NOTICED that Urmila had gone suddenly quiet after stepping into her building; that she didn't say a word while waiting for the lift, just looked around the lobby with her lips pursed, taking in all the details. She could tell Urmila was fighting down an urge to say something disapproving.
Sonali had lived here long enough to forget how strange the place had seemed to her at first, grotesque even: the marble floors, the ornate gilt mirrors on the walls, the tall palms in the corners, in their polished brass planters. It wasn't like anything you expected to see in Calcutta, except in a five-star hotel.
When Romen first showed her the building she'd told him that it didn't seem like a place one could live in – that she, Sonali, could live in, at any rate. One would spend so much time worrying about how to do things: about where to hang one's washing and whether to buy new furniture. But Romen had just laughed, as she knew he would. 'It's just business,' he said, 'all that marble and brass. That's what they pay for, the people who buy these flats. You don't have to take it seriously.'
The lift arrived and Urmila stepped in, still silent. Sonali wished she could think of something to say to put it in perspective: to let her know that this wasn't the kind of place she was used to living in, that she'd spent most of her life following her mother from one poky little flat to another, that her mother was both so used to poverty and so terrified of it that she'd never thought of living in any other way, even when she had money. But then the door of the lift slid open and it was too late.
Sonali opened her front door and was surprised to find her flat in darkness. Switching on the lights, she ushered Urmila in.
'No one at home?' Urmila said, looking around the large, glass-fronted room, with its Kashmiri rugs and its low chairs, upholstered in bright Gujarati mirrorwork.
'There's a boy who cooks and cleans… ' Sonali said, motioning Urmila to a chair. 'Usually when I get home he's sitting on the carpet watching Zee TV and singing at the top of his voice.'
She tossed her handbag on a chair and walked down the corridor to the kitchen, switching on the lights as she went. The kitchen was tidy, everything in place, the marble counters gleaming clean. She went quickly through to a room at the back and turned on the naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling on a twisted cord.
The room was empty: the mattress and the bedclothes lay neatly folded, at the foot of the charpoy. Everything else was gone: his fearsomely loud transistor radio, his slippers, the printed T-shirts he always wore. She went over to a small desk at the far corner of the room and pulled open a drawer. It was empty too: his books, pencils and ballpoints were all gone.
'Is he there?' Urmila called out.
'No,' said Sonali distractedly. 'I think he's left – all his things are gone.' She switched the light off and walked slowly back to the drawing room.
'Was he your only servant?' Urmila asked.
Sonali shook her head. 'He wasn't really a servant,' she said. 'I don't like to have servants living in the house.'
'So then…?'
'He went to school during the day,' said Sonali. 'But he cooked and cleaned in the evening, when he remembered: that was the arrangement. Romen suggested it. One of his contractors or someone found the boy: he was making a living by performing mathematical tricks for the rush-hour passengers on local trains. Romen claimed he was some kind of prodigy and took him under his wing.'
Sonali was absently opening doors, looking into rooms and bathrooms, as though she were half-expecting to find him. 'I can't understand it,' she said. 'Where could he have gone? He doesn't have anywhere to go. He doesn't know anyone except Romen.'
Then the phone rang, in the drawing room. Sonali ran over and picked up the grey cordless handset. With a gesture of apology to Urmila, she unlatched a door and carried the phone out to the balcony.
'Hello,' she said, pressing the talk button. She lowered her voice to a whisper. 'Romen?'
The phone crackled and a voice came humming over the line. She knew at once it wasn't Romen; it was some other man. Sonali stiffened, embarrassed as well as disappointed. 'Could you please tell me,' the voice said in polite, formal Bengali, 'is Mr Romen Haldar there by any chance?'
'No, he is not,' she said, pitching her voice to a carefully businesslike note, trying to erase every trace of the intimacy that had been in it moments ago. 'Who's speaking?'
'Oh, so he is not there?' came the answer, in muted surprise.
'No,' Sonali answered. She was surprised herself now: the only person who ever telephoned here to ask for Romen was his secretary. That was Romen's rule, not hers, one of his bizarre gestures at domestic propriety. It was to protect her, Sonali, he always said, to keep people from gossiping as though that would keep people from gossiping.
'Who's speaking?' she said – not harshly, but just a little tentatively.
'It doesn't matter,' said the voice at the other end.
'Wait,' she said quickly. 'Just a minute; who is it? Who's speaking?'
The line had already gone dead.
She sank into a cane chair and dropped the phone on her lap. A fluttering curtain caught her eye, somewhere in the building that faced hers. Her suspicions were immediately confirmed: the neighbours were watching her again. She caught a glimpse of a couple of heads just as they were ducking out of sight.
Sometimes she wondered whether they posted lookouts at their windows to keep a watch on her balcony. What did they do when they caught a glimpse of her? Did they go running through their flats shouting: 'Sonali Das is on her balcony again, come out and take a look!'
They always seemed so shy when she ran into them on the lifts or in the parking area – these well-off heart surgeons and bank managers and their chiffon-wrapped wives. They would smile in acknowledgement and then drop their eyes, as though afraid to be caught staring. Occasionally, they would tell her they liked her films, or her book. Some of the older people would talk about her mother's acting: they'd tell stories about how they had gone all the way to the huge canvas tent at Narkeldanga and bought four-anna tickets to see Kamini-debi performing some of her famous old jatra plays, Marie Antoinette; Queen of France or Rani Rashmoni.
She knew they gossiped about her and Romen; she often felt a kind of idle curiosity about what they made of her: did they feel sorry for her? Contempt
uous? Outraged? It would have been interesting to know, in an abstract kind of way: not that she cared, really. She'd grown up with gossip: her mother had had to deal with twice as much and she hadn't cared either.
She rose to go inside and then, on an impulse, sat down once more and dialled the number of the Wicket Club. The phone rang several times before the head bartender finally answered.
'Javed?' she said.
'Salaam, memsahib,' he said, recognizing her immediately. 'Romen-sahib left about half an hour ago.'
'Half an hour ago?' said Sonali. 'You mean he was there all evening?'
'Yes,' said the bartender. 'He tried to phone you; I heard him asking someone to call you. He waited for a while and then he left.'
'Oh,' said Sonali, She had a sudden vision.of Romen standing at the far end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, tall, burly and balding, hunched over the club's telephone, holding the mouthpiece in that awkward fumbling grip of his.
'Do you know where he went?' she asked.
'No,' came the answer. 'But I know he sent the Sierra home with his driver.'
'So how did he go?'
'He took a taxi.'
'A taxi!' Sonali was astonished. 'But Romen always takes his own car. Where was he going? Do you know?'
'No,' said the bartender. But then he added, 'Wait a minute memsahib.' He put the phone down and she heard him talking to the other bartenders. Then he came back to the phone. 'Memsahib?' he said. 'The durwan who was on duty at the gate heard Romen-sahib talking to the taxi driver.'
'Did he hear him say where he was going?' Sonali asked. 'Yes. He was going to Robinson Street, but he wanted to stop on the way, at Park Circus.'
'Oh.' Sonali switched the phone off and went slowly back inside.