The Calcutta Chromosome

by Amitav Gosh

  When eventually the conversation veered around to the matter at hand, there was a disappointment in store for the young missionary. Cunningham informed him that due to an unforeseen circumstance, he was to leave Calcutta in a day or two: he had been summoned to Assam by a planter friend who had been taken suddenly ill.

  'But don't look so stricken, my boy,' Cunningham bellowed, clapping Farley on the back. 'Tomorrow you can look at all the slides you want. Believe me, it won't take you very long to dispose of this Laveran business.'

  The next day Farley's duties kept him at the Mission until well into the afternoon. As a result, it was not until four o'clock, when the sun was dipping low over the green expanse of the Maidan that he arrived at the Presidency General Hospital. Had the circumstances been other than they were, he may well have been tempted to spend a few minutes admiring the restrained elegance of the hospital's red-brick buildings and the well-tended lawns and treeshaded pathways that surrounded them. But being determined to make good use of such time as he had, Farley quickly ascertained the direction of Dr Cunningham's laboratory from an attendant and set off towards it at a brisk walk.

  The laboratory was set well back within the hospital's spacious and thickly wooded grounds. It was screened from the main hospital complex by a tall thicket of bamboo, and upon catching his first glimpse of the building Farley was taken by surprise.

  It looked nothing like any laboratory he had ever seen: certainly nothing could have been more unlike the sepulchral chambers of gloom that then served to house the laboratories of most universitie; in America and Europe. This was just an ordinary bungalow, of a type common to British military installations everywhere.

  Standing in the shaded thicket with the bamboo stirring around him, Farley had an unaccustomed sense of unease. Casting a backward glance over his shoulder Farley saw no one around him, neither in the thicket, nor in the bungalow. Yet he had the distinct feeling that his presence had not gone unnoticed. Within moments, as though in confirmation, the bungalow's front door flew open, and the tall rubicund figure of Dr Cunningham stepped out on the veranda. 'Ah, there you are Farley,' he cried, 'they told me you were here. Well, don't just stand there, man; come on in. Let's settle this business once and for all.'

  Recovering, Farley made his way up the bungalow's steps, and shook Cunningham's large, fleshy hand. After a quick exchange of greetings, the older man put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the laboratory's open door. Farley stepped in, only to stop dead in his tracks when he discovered that he was being minutely observed by a sari-clad woman and a young man dressed in pyjamas and a laboratory tunic.

  The woman was watching him with a look of such piercing enquiry that he could not avert his gaze from her. Dressed in a cheap and brightly coloured cotton sari, she was neither young nor old, perhaps in her late thirties. When she had finished with her examination, she seated herself on the floor, with her knees drawn up in front.

  Cunningham must have noticed Farley's discomfiture, for he said: 'Don't pay the slightest attention to her; she loves to stare at people.'

  'Who is she?' Farley asked in an undertone.

  'Oh, she's just the sweeper-woman,' Cunningham said offhandedly. Only then did Farley notice that she was holding in her hand the mark of her trade, a sweeper's jharu.

  'She's a bit of a dragon,' Cunningham continued, 'been here for ever. You know what they're like: like to give visitors the once-over. Don't let her put you off; there's no harm in her.'

  Farley saw her exchanging a glance with the young man who was standing beside her and he had the distinct feeling that a smile and a nod had passed between them, an almost imperceptible gesture of dismissal. Then the woman rose to her feet, turned her back on him and went over to the far corner of the room, as though to indicate that she had exhausted her interest in him.

  Farley felt the blood rushing to his face.

  'Don't pay her any attention;' Cunningham said to Farley, with a wink, 'she's a little touched… you know.'

  He motioned to the young man to present himself. 'And this chokra-boy here,' he said with a loud satirical laugh, 'is a bearer who I've trained to help with my slides. I suppose you could call him my assistant.'

  Leading the way between the laboratory's tables, Cunningham pointed to a microscope. 'You can work here,' he said to Farley. 'My bearer will get you your slides.' He allowed himself a snort of laughter as he let himself out: 'I hope you find what you are looking for.'

  Farley seated himself at a microscope, and over the next hour and a half the assistant brought him several dozen slides to look at. Since the man was a menial employee Farley was not surprised that Cunningham had not taken the trouble to tell him his name. But now, as he sat watching him work, he was impressed by the young man's deftness: given his circumstances, his efficiency struck him as quite remarkable.

  But the slides he presented to Farley held no surprises. They bore dry stains, and were of a familiar kind, with the black pigmented cells of malarial blood much in evidence. He had seen dozens like them as a research student in Baltimore. Of Laveran's parasite, he saw no sign whatever. Indeed, he would soon have abandoned the effort if it had not been for an odd little incident.

  After he had been looking into the microscope for an hour or so, Farley grew thirsty, and asked the young assistant for water. A tumbler was duly fetched and placed in front of him. He drank half the water and, wanting to save the rest for later, placed it within easy reach, just behind his microscope.

  Several minutes later, glancing away from the microscope, he made the discovery that he could see the whole room behind him, mirrored on the convex surface of the glass tumbler. He thought no more of it, but the next time he looked up his eyes were arrested by a scene that was now unfolding behind him.

  The assistant, who had gone over to fetch a tray of slides, was whispering with the woman in the sari. It was soon clear that it was him, Farley, they were talking about: the distorted reflections of their faces seemed to take on a grotesque and frightening quality as they nodded and pointed across the room. Farley quickly lowered his head to the microscope, while watching the glass out of the corner of his eye.

  What he saw next was even more startling than what had passed before. At the end of the whispered conversation it was not the young assistant but the woman who went over to the stack of drawers by the wall; it was she who selected the slides that were to be presented to him for examination. Watching carefully, Farley saw her picking them out with a speed that indicated she was not only thoroughly familiar with the slides but knew exactly what they contained. Farley could now barely restrain himself. His mind began to spill over with questions: how had a woman, and an illiterate one at that, acquired such expertise? And how had she succeeded in keeping it secret from Cunningham? And how was it that she, evidently untrained and unaware of any of the principles on which such knowledge rested, had come to exercise such authority over the assistant? The more he reflected on it, the more convinced he became that she was keeping something from him; that had she wished she could have shown him what he was looking for, Laveran's parasite; and that she had chosen to deny it to him because, for some unfathomable reason, she had judged him unworthy.

  Farley would now gladly have walked away from this place, this so-called laboratory, whose all too familiar instruments seemed to be turned to purposes as perverse as they were inscrutable. Yet he knew that if he left now he would for ever afterwards be tormented by uncertainty and doubt. He had no option but to pursue his enquiry no matter where it led.

  And so Farley willed himself to stay where he was, with his eye fixed upon the microscope, staring sightlessly at the meaningless slides that were placed in front of him by the young assistant. After a full half-hour had passed, he said to the young man: 'I have not seen any sign of the parasite today, but I have it on good authority that it does indeed exist. So I shall have a word with Cunningham-sahib, and with his permission, I shall return tomorrow to continue my researches.'r />
  At this a look of utter consternation descended on the assistant's hitherto smiling face. Farley saw him shooting a glance at the unnamed woman, who was watching them keenly from the other end of the laboratory. Then he launched upon a string of stammering protests: it was unnecessary to return the next day; there was nothing to be seen, it was just a pure waste of time, and anyway Cunningham-sahib would be away; better return later, some other day… in a fortnight, or a month hence, perhaps there would be something to see then…

  The vehemence of his protests were such as to confirm Farley's suspicions: the man could not have indicated more clearly that he, and his silent companion across the room, were keen to rid themselves of him; that his presence the next day would disrupt some previously conceived connivance, some event or events that they had already planned, counting on Cunningham's absence.

  Perceiving that he now held the advantage, Farley brushed past the pleading assistant, saying: 'Nevertheless I shall return tomorrow.'

  With that he went to find Cunningham.

  The Englishman was in the next room, seated on a chaise longue, puffing dreamily on a long-handled pipe. When Farley asked for his permission to continue the next day, he blew out a plume of sweet-smelling smoke and cried: 'Why, certainly, my boy! If you are determined to persist in your quest for this phantom of Laveran's, do come back, as often as you like. I'll tell them to expect you.'

  On the point of taking his leave, Farley hesitated. He looked quickly about, to make sure that they were alone, and then, approaching the seated Englishman, he dropped to his knees.

  'If I may enquire, sir,' he whispered in Cunningham's ear, 'under what circumstances did you admit this woman into your laboratory?'

  'Mangala?' said Cunningham, pointing his pipe-stem over his shoulder.

  'If that is her name, yes.'

  'If you're asking me how I found her,' Cunningham said, 'the answer is I found her where I find all my bearers and assistants: at the new railway station – what do they call it? – oh yes, Sealdah.'

  'At the railway station, sir?' gasped the astonished Farley. 'Exactly so,' said Cunningham. 'That's the place to go if you need a willing worker: always said so – it's full of people looking for a job and a roof over their heads. See for yourself the next time you're there.'

  'But, sir,' Farley exclaimed, 'to take on untrained and uneducated… '

  'And who better to train one's assistants than oneself, my boy?' Cunningham countered. 'Far preferable, in my opinion, to being surrounded by over-eager and half-formed college students. One is spared the task of imparting much that is useless and unnecessary.'

  'So it was you who trained the woman – Mangala?' Farley asked.

  'Indeed I did,' said Cunningham, staring hazily into the middle distance. 'And a quicker pair of hands and eyes I had never seen before. But… '

  Pulling a long face, Cunningham tapped his head with a finger. 'But she's not all there, you see,' he said, 'her mind's been wasted – by disease, or licentiousness or who knows what?'

  'And the young man?' Farley asked. 'What about him?'

  'He's not been here long,' Cunningham said. 'Mangala brought him here: said he was from her own part of the country.'

  'And where is that?'

  'Not far from where you are,' Cunningham said. 'I believe the place is called Renupur – you may have passed it on your way here.'

  'Why, yes,' said Farley. 'I passed through Renupur on my way to Calcutta.'

  Farley was just about to ask the assistant's name when he heard a sound behind him. He rose and found himself looking directly at the woman, Mangala. She was glaring at him from across the room, and such was the anger in her gaze that it sent a chill down his back. As he made his way out, he noticed that she was conducting a whispered consultation with the young assistant.

  Farley had barely reached the bamboo thicket in front of the laboratory when he heard footsteps racing behind him. Moments later the assistant caught up with him and asked in a voice of polite, almost beseeching enquiry, exactly when it was that he planned to come the next day. Determined to retain the advantage of surprise, Farley gave him a noncommittal reply: 'I shall come when I find myself within the vicinity. My arrival need not interrupt your work for the day.'

  With that he turned his back on the crestfallen assistant and walked away.

  Through much of the night, for no reason that he could adduce, Farley prayed. Yet he could find no name for what it was that faced him and why he feared it. And this in turn became his very fear, that he could not name what he knew he must confront. All next morning he stayed in his room, touching neither food nor water, and did not emerge from his cubicle until the hour was well past noon.

  Thus, once again, it was late afternoon by the time he arrived at the Hospital. But today, unlike the day before, the sky was grey and overcast, and a strong wind was blowing across the Maidan. Approaching the laboratory, Farley had the feeling that the stands of bamboo that separated it from the hospital were alive, astir with movement. And when he stepped into the thicket he saw that there were indeed shadows ahead of him, on the path: three figures, cloaked and swathed, stumbling slowly towards the laboratory. Farley stopped, overcome with misgiving, and then, collecting himself he went forward again. When he was but a few yards behind the figures, he saw that the little group consisted of a man in a dhoti and a sari-clad woman. They were bearing between them another, almost inert, human figure. He approached them boldly, rattling his fob to make his presence known.' They stopped and turned to face him.

  Farley's eyes went immediately to the figure in the middle. It was a man, possibly young, possibly in middle age, it was impossible to tell, for the hooded face was ravaged beyond description, the eyes turned upwards, showing only the whites, the skin mottled, flecked with scabs, the teeth in the open, drooling mouth sloping towards the throat as though knocked backwards. Farley's glimpse of him was brief, but his diagnostic sense, honed by months of practice in Barich, told him instantly that the man was in the last stages of syphilitic dementia.

  Overcome with pity, Farley stretched out a helping hand towards the stricken man. But no sooner had the man's companions caught sight of him than they fled, melting away into the darkness. Farley stared after them and then headed down the path, to the laboratory.

  When he was a few yards from the bungalow an unexpected sound came to his ears: a low chant, sung in unison by a number of voices. Slowing his pace, he listened carefully. It was soon evident that the source of the sound lay not in the bungalow but elsewhere. Looking carefully around, through the trees and bamboo thickets, Farley saw that a number of people had gathered around a low outhouse, a short distance away. They were squatting in a circle, around a fire, chanting to the accompaniment of hand-held brass cymbals, as though in preparation for a ritual or ceremony.

  Curious now, he hurried towards the outhouse, but just then the main door of the laboratory flew open and the young assistant came running out. Under the guise of an effusive welcome, he ushered Farley quickly towards the laboratory.

  Just as he was about to enter the laboratory, Farley noticed a great deal of activity in a nearby anteroom. The assistant tried to hurry him past but by dint of dragging his feet Farley managed to steal a quick glance into the room. The sight that met his eyes was so bewildering that he uttered no protest when his guide manoeuvred him through the laboratory door. What he saw was this: the woman Mangala was seated at the far end of the room, on a low divan, but alone and in an attitude of command, as though enthroned. By her side were several small bamboo cages, each containing a pigeon. Yet it was not the birds themselves, but rather the state they were in that amazed him. For they were slumped on the floors of their cages, shivering, evidently near death.

  Nor was that all. On the floor, by the divan, clustered around the woman's feet, were some half-dozen people in various attitudes of supplication, some touching her feet, others lying prostrate. Two or three others were huddled against the wall, wrapped in
blankets. Although Farley had glanced into their scarred, unseeing faces for no more than an instant, he recognized at once that they, like the man he had seen in the bamboo thicket, were syphilitics, in the final stages of the terrible disease.

  Now the young assistant began once again to perform the charade of the previous day, fetching slides, and hurrying back and forth across the room as though egging him on towards some extraordinary discovery. Farley did not demur. He went mechanically about the business of examining the slides they presented him, while his mind remained fixed upon the extraordinary tableau he had glimpsed outside.

  If there was much that was bewildering about the strange scenes outside, there was one aspect of it that was perfectly comprehensible to Farley, from his own experience. More than once in Barich he had found himself becoming the reluctant repository of the last despairing hopes of a frantic and fearful family that had arrived at the clinic's doorstep carrying a mortally ill relative through forests and over mountains. He knew the faces of those people, the beseeching supplication in their voices, the waning light of hope in their eyes. His conscience called out to him to go outside and tell them not to waste their hopes on whatever quackery it was that this woman offered; to expose the falsehoods that she and her minions had concocted to deceive those simple people. It was his duty, he knew, to tell them that mankind knew no cure for their condition; that this false prophetess was cheating them of money they could ill afford.

  Yet he stayed where he was in the hope that with some patience he would be able to see the matter through to the end. Minute followed minute and hour followed hour, and still he kept his eye fixed upon the microscope, pretending to examine everything that was placed in front of him. As the hours wore on, he could feel the impatience growing around him; he could hear it in hurrying footsteps; he could feel it in the eyes that were boring through his back, willing him to leave so they could get on with whatever they had planned. But he stayed at his place, unmoving, immobile, to all appearances utterly absorbed in the slides.