The Calcutta Chromosome

by Amitav Gosh

The stationmaster thrust the cloth bundle and the earthen pitcher into his hands. 'Just put them in a corner after you've finished,' he said abruptly. 'I'll take care of them in the morning.' He shuffled quickly to the embankment and went scrambling down the side, towards the water-logged field below.

  Recovering himself, Phulboni shouted: 'Why don't you stay a minute? Eat something with me before you go.'

  'I'll be back in the morning,' the stationmaster answered, over his shoulder.

  There was something about this hurried departure that disquieted Phulboni. Going to the edge of the embankment, he called out: 'Masterji, is there something you have not told me?'

  'Tomorrow,' called back the stationmaster. 'Tomorrow… everything… it's getting dark… ' Hurried splashes drowned out the sound of his voice.

  Phulboni felt oddly forlorn now, standing by the deserted rail tracks in the dying daylight. He made his way slowly back to the signal-room and pushed the door open. It was dark inside, but a metallic glint led his eyes to the floor. It was the curved blade of his razor: lying beside it were the pot of shaving soap, the brush and the lump of clear alum that he had placed in the alcove before leaving for his walk.

  Phulboni placed the food and water on the desk and looked around to see if the window had blown open to let a draught or a gust of wind into the room. But the window was still firmly shut. For want of a better explanation, he decided that the objects must have been blown off when he opened the door. He picked them off the floor and arranged them neatly in the alcove once again, next to the signal lantern.

  He decided to eat outside while there was still some light. Carrying the food and water to the door, he sat crosslegged on the ground and opened the cloth bundle. He found a stack of parathas, a generous helping of mango achar and a heap of golden-yellow potatoes thickly encrusted in masala. The food smelt better than anything he could ever remember and he fell upon it with gusto.

  He was halfway through his third paratha when he heard something fall in the room behind him. He looked over his shoulder, startled. Through the open door, he spotted his razor and shaving things lying on the floor. Nothing had gone into the room and the wind had died down. He had a moment of unease but then his hunger reclaimed him and he went on with his meal.

  After he had eaten he washed his hands, drank a copious draught of water and sat back, picking his teeth contentedly with a twig. His sense of well-being returned now, as he sat in the gentle breeze, listening to the chorus of frogs and crickets that came welling up from the flooded fields below. It was so restful, so tranquil, that something special was called for, he decided: it was an occasion that demanded one of his rare cheroots.

  Phulboni was not much of a smoker, but once or twice a week after a good meal he took pleasure in lighting up a good cheroot or cigar. He remembered packing some for the trip, but he wasn't sure exactly where he had put them.

  The signal-room was pitch dark now, but he had kept a matchbox handy. He struck a match and at once his eyes fell on the signal lantern, gleaming in its alcove. An idea flashed into his mind. He picked up the lantern and shook it. The sound of sloshing oil told him that the tank was full. He flipped back the glass window and fumbled for the screw that operated the wick. Giving it a couple of turns, he raised the wick an inch or so and lit it. When he snapped the window back into place a bright red light filled the room.

  Pleased with himself, he went over to his hold-all and began to rifle through its pockets, looking for his tin of cheroots. He had just found it when there was a metallic snap behind him and the light went out. Phulboni clicked his tongue, irritated with himself for not having shut the door before lighting the lantern. He made his way over to the desk and lit another match. But then he took a closer look and discovered that he had been mistaken: the flame had not been extinguished by a gust of wind. Rather, the wick had been lowered back into its socket with a turn of the screw. He fiddled with the screw, frowning, wondering whether it had come loose. It was hard to be sure, and in the end he just turned the wick up and lit it again. This time he made sure to put it in a corner that was well sheltered from the wind.

  Then he lit his cheroot, sitting crosslegged in the doorway, listening to the myriad insects of the monsoon. Halfway through the cheroot, he heard the screw in the lantern turning once again. Casting a glance over his shoulder he saw that the light had gone out. Phulboni froze; a chill ran down his spine. Then he remembered his gun and settled back reassured. There was nothing he knew of that was proof against a.303. He went on puffing at his cheroot.

  He smoked the cheroot right down to the stub and then rose to his feet. It was something of an effort to go back into the signal-room, but now he had no option. He knew he would not be able to find his way to the stationmaster's house on his own, in the dark.

  Phulboni set about preparing for the night very calmly and deliberately. He changed into his night-time pyjamas in the dark, rationing his matches. Then he pulled his stout leather belt off his trousers and used it to fasten the door. He took the gun out of its bag and placed it on the floor beside his bed, within easy reach. Then he lay down on the bed, facing the door. He had half-expected that he would find himself lying awake a long time. But it had been a long day and he was very tired: within a few minutes he was fast asleep.

  He was awoken by the touch of rain upon his face. He sat up, startled, and reached instinctively for his gun. The door was open, flapping in the wind, and the rain was blowing into the room in great billowing gusts.

  He struggled out of bed, cursing himself under his breath for not having made sure of the door. The belt was lying by the entrance, still buckled. He picked it up, pulled the door shut and tied the belt around the doorpost again, as tightly as he could. Stepping back he lit a match to see if the belt would hold.

  That was when he noticed that the signal lantern was no longer in the corner where he had last placed it. He looked around at the desk and then at the alcove: the lantern was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished.

  Phulboni was groggy with sleep and the first thought that came into his mind was that the stationmaster must have come in and taken the lantern while he was asleep; maybe there was an emergency somewhere down the track. He undid the door and looked out into the driving rain. Sure enough, there it was: a little circle of red light, bobbing up and down, some fifty yards down the track.

  'Masterji, masterji!' Phulboni called out after him, shouting at the top of his voice, through cupped hands. But the light went on its way, and little wonder: the wind was howling, driving the rain before it.

  Phulboni gave himself no time to think. He pulled his shoes on, wrapped a heavy towel around his body, and ran out. For an instant he toyed with the idea of taking his gun. But then, thinking of what the rain and mud might do to it, he changed his mind. Squaring his shoulders he walked out on to the track, narrowing his eyes against the buffeting wind. It was not till he was halfway to the siding that he began wondering how the stationmaster had let himself into the signal-room when the door was fastened from inside.

  Phulboni stumbled on, lengthening his stride to match the gap between the sleepers. The wood was slippery with rain, and he had to struggle to keep his footing. He had trouble keeping the red light in sight, but he had the feeling that he was gaining on it. Every time he caught a glimpse of it the light seemed to be just a little closer than it was before.

  Then, between two furious gusts of rain, he saw the light change course and veer off towards the right. He wasn't sure of his bearings any more, but he guessed that the stationmaster had reached the point where the tracks forked off towards the siding. He was amazed: whatever the emergency, it was hard to imagine why the stationmaster would come all this way in a storm to go to the siding.

  Now he lost sight of the light and slowed down a little.

  Dark as it was, he fixed his eyes on the track, trying to make sure that he didn't miss the turn to the siding. when it came. But in the end he found the turn only because he happened to stumbl
e upon the curved point-rails. He began to feel his way ahead with his feet, following the tracks as they veered off to the right.

  After a few steps he stopped and looked ahead, shading his eyes. Somewhere within a swirl of pouring rain he spotted the bobbing red light. It seemed much closer now and it seemed to be almost stationary.

  After a few more steps he was certain. The light had stopped moving: it was on the ground, beside the track probably very near the spot where he had been sitting earlier that day, watching the egrets as they fished in the water below. He was sure the stationmaster had seen him and was waiting for him to catch up. Cupping his hands around his mouth he shouted once again, at the top of his voice: 'Masterji, masterji.'

  The light seemed to bob in encouragement and he began to run faster, as fast as he could, eager to catch up. Then suddenly, when the light was no more than twenty feet away, he tripped. He fell face forward but managed to throw his hands out in time to save his forehead from smashing into the cold steel.

  He paused, in relief, to catch his breath, holding himself up with stiffened arms, his hands clutching the rails. And then, just as his breath was beginning to return, he felt a tremor in the rail. He placed both hands on the rail. There could be no doubt of it: the rail was shaking, vibrating under an approaching train.

  Phulboni was stunned: the chances of there being a train anywhere nearby were close to nil. The train he had taken was not due back from Barich until dawn, and there were no other trains running on that line. And even if there were, why would they be diverted to that siding – and who would switch the tracks? He had been following the stationmaster for the last several minutes, and he knew that he had been nowhere near the switching mechanism.

  And yet there was no denying the evidence of his senses: the rails were shaking under his hands, and the vibrations were getting steadily stronger. He laid his ear upon the rail and listened carefully. He heard the unmistakable rumble of an approaching train. It was thundering towards him, very close at hand. At the last minute he flung himself sideways, over the embankment and went tumbling down towards the water.

  Phulboni was still falling when the lights of the train flashed across the flooded fields. Clutching wildly at a bush, he managed to bring himself to a stop, his head inches from the water. At that very moment he heard a scream, a raging, inhuman howl that tore through the stormy night. It hurled a single word into the wind – 'Laakhan' – and then it was silenced by the thunder of the speeding train.

  Phulboni was clinging to the embankment, head downwards, facing the water. He could not see the siding from that position, but he saw the train's lights, very clearly, skimming across the floodwater, he felt its weight shaking the embankment, he heard the anguished pant of its engine and smelt the coal in its boiler. But all the while the only thing he could think of was how narrowly he had escaped death.

  He lay there for a few minutes shaking in fear and relief.

  It was still pitch dark but the storm had let up a little. Once his hands had steadied he pushed himself to his feet and began to scramble up the embankment.

  When he felt the ground levelling out under him, he called out: 'Anyone there?' just in case whoever it was that had screamed was still within earshot. There was no answer, so he sank to his knees and began to pat the earth around him, trying to find the rails. He knew he would not be able to find his way back to the signal-room without the tracks to guide him. After several minutes he felt a cold glancing touch on one of his hands. Breathing a sigh of relief, he fastened both hands upon the rail.

  Disoriented as he was, it took a few minutes before

  Phulboni realized that the rail, which had come so vividly alive under his hands a short while ago, was now absolutely still, motionless. He knew that rail tracks carry the sound of trains for miles, in either direction. It was only a short while since the train had passed over the siding: it could not be more than a mile away. He put his ear to the rail and listened carefully. The only sound he heard was the pattering of raindrops falling on metal. Then one of his hands touched some weeds growing over the tracks. He began to run his hands frantically along the rail in both directions. He discovered that the undergrowth that he had seen earlier that day, growing over the tracks, showed no signs of having been disturbed by the passage of a train.

  Phulboni was frightened now, more than he had ever been in his life, frightened in a way that left his brain numb, his vision blurred. He was standing on the rail, looking around in a daze, when he saw the red light again. It was about a hundred yards away and it was coming slowly towards him.

  Phulboni greeted it with a shout of relief: 'Masterji, masterji, I'm right here…'

  The shout went unacknowledged but the lantern began to move a little faster. As he stood there watching the light Phulboni's head cleared a little; he peered at the lantern, trying to catch a glimpse of the face behind it. He could see nothing; the face remained wrapped in darkness.

  Phulboni turned and ran. He ran faster than he had ever run, gasping for breath, fighting to keep his footing on the slippery tracks. He glanced over his shoulder once and saw the lantern running after him, closing the gap. He ran still faster, pushing himself on, moaning in terror.

  Then he saw the signal-room taking shape in front of him, looming out of the darkness. He flung one last glance over his shoulder. The lantern was no more than a few paces behind him now; a hand clearly visible upon the steel handle.

  With one final, desperate effort Phulboni flung himself at the signal-room and stumbled through the doorway. The gun was where he had left it, beside the bed. He snatched it up and turned, aiming the barrel at the door.

  He was fumbling with the safety catch when the lantern appeared in the doorway. It stepped in and began to approach him; a hand appeared, bathed in the red light of the lantern. The face was still in darkness but suddenly that inhuman voice rang through the room again. It said just that one word, 'Laakhan'.

  And then Phulboni fired, point-blank, into the window of the lantern. The report of the gun filled the room like dynamite exploding in a cave: the recoil of the barrel caught the writer on the chin and knocked him hard against the bed.

  Chapter 39

  THE NEXT THING Phulboni knew, it was dawn and he was staring into the stationmaster's grinning face. He was no longer in the signal-room: it was dawn and he was outside, lying on his back on something soft.

  'I told the-one-who-is-at-home,' said the stationmaster. 'I told her, "You'll see there's no need to worry, he'll be all right.'"

  Phulboni closed his eyes. Such was his relief at finding himself unharmed and safe that his whole body went limp.

  'I had such a time pulling you out of there, sahib,' the stationmaster said. 'You would think that huge frame of yours is made of brass. I had to pull and pull and pull: all on my own too. But I said to myself, "Budhhu Dubey, whatever happens you have to get him out of this terrible place; even if you hurt your own back. As long as he's inside here; there's no hope for him. You have to get him out.'"

  'What happened?' asked Phulboni. 'Where was I when you found me?'

  'I came as early as I could,' the stationmaster said. 'The-one-who-is-at-home woke me while it was still dark and said, "Go now, and see if the poor man is all right." I came hurrying as quickly as I could. I found you lying on the floor with your gun across your body. At first I thought you were dead: but then I found you breathing so I pulled you out.'

  'And the lantern?' said Phulboni. 'I fired at it: did you see any glass in the signal-room?'

  The stationmaster frowned: 'Which lantern?'

  'The signal lantern, ' said Phulboni. 'The one that was in the room yesterday.'

  'It was in the same place,' said the stationmaster. 'All polished and clean: no one ever touches it. It's always like that, always in the same place: always clean, never any dust on it.'

  The stationmaster fanned Phulboni's face vigorously with a banana leaf. 'This station is a terrible place,' he said. 'No one in any of th
e villages around here comes within a mile of this station after dark. You couldn't make them come if you gave them all the gold that is hoarded in the heavens. I tried to tell you but you wouldn't listen.'

  'I'll listen now,' said Phulboni. 'I want to know what happened.'

  The stationmaster sighed. 'I don't know what to tell you,' he said. 'A big sahib like yourself. I can only tell you what people say in these parts: simple village people like myself… '

  Phulboni, listening with his eyes closed, ran his hand over his forehead. 'What is it that people say?' he said. 'I want to know.'

  And then as luck would have it, one of his hands, reaching back brushed against a rail, a length of cold, vibrating steel. He opened his eyes, and found himself gazing at an uninterrupted view of leaves and trees, outlined against a rosy dawn sky. There was no sign of the stationmaster or anybody else. He looked around and discovered that he was lying on the siding, across the tracks, on a mattress. Hesitantly'he stretched out his arm and touched the rail.

  And then once again Phulboni threw himself off the tracks. But this time he managed to halt his fall so that he was just inches away when the train went hurtling over the siding, over the mattress that he had just been lying on, tearing it to shreds. This time the train was all too real: he saw the horrified faces of the stokers and engineers as the train thundered past; he heard the screech of its brakes and the shriek of its whistle.

  He scrambled up the siding and began to run. He caught up with the train a mile or so away where it had finally ground to a halt.

  The stokers and engineers were examining the points and switches, trying to work out how the tracks had been switched. Incomprehensible, said the Anglo-Indian chief engineer; that siding hadn't been used in decades, the mechanism had been dismantled years ago. The train had almost been derailed, it was a miracle that it hadn't, with all the debris on those rusty, overgrown tracks.

  So Phulboni said to the chief engineer: 'Maybe the stationmaster pulled the switch by mistake?'