by Amitav Ghosh
What’s happening? she said, leaning over the rails to look. Before they could answer, a gust of wind snatched at her umbrella, bending the ribs backwards. She tried to snap it shut, but another gust caught it, tore it from her grip and carried it over the side.
Do something! she appealed to Rakesh and Professor Samuel.
They shrugged in silent amusement and shook their heads: What can we do?
Then she saw that Alu had already jerked his line out of the water and cast it after the upturned umbrella. That’s right, she cried, thumping him on the back. Catch it like a fish.
The umbrella spun as the hook slid over its rim and then swirled away on Mariamma’s bow wave. Alu pulled himself upright and limped quickly to the stern. Throwing himself flat on the deck, he waited for the bobbing umbrella with the line ready in his hands. As the spinning patch of red nylon floated alongside he cast the line. The hook caught in one of the umbrella’s ribs and it checked for an instant. Alu’s hand flashed out and he caught the crook and fished it out of the water.
Shaking the water off it, Alu handed the umbrella back to Zindi. She took it and nodded, scratching her mole. I’ll remember this, she said, and plodded off towards the stern.
Late that night Alu was sitting alone in the waist, trying to hold his throbbing leg still against the boat’s pitching, when he felt the deck creak. He turned and saw Zindi lumbering down the passageway. For a while she stood braced against the rails and watched his huge, lumpy potato head in silence. Then, lowering herself to the deck, she whispered hoarsely: Hey, you, boy. What are you going to do in al-Ghazira?
Alu didn’t answer. She raised her voice: You’re a babu-type, no? You can read and write and everything?
Alu nodded.
That won’t help you, she said. Not if you haven’t got any friends there. What are you going there for?
I’m going to buy a sewing machine, Alu said.
Oh! Zindi scratched her mole. A sewing machine? That’s odd. But you’ll need a job first. It’s not easy to find a job there if you’re on your own. Don’t think you’ll find people pissing money there. There are hundreds, thousands of chhokren like you, begging; begging for jobs.
She prodded his shoulder: Why don’t you talk? Why do you limp like that, with your leg stuck out like a telephone pole?
Alu said: I have boils, here, look. Zindi pushed his pajamas up to his knees and examined his legs. She pressed one of the boils with her thumbs and he recoiled in pain. Zindi rose. Wait, she said, I’ve got something.
She fetched a small glass bottle from the cabin. Just hot coconut oil, she said. It might help and it won’t do any harm. She rubbed the oil on the boils while Alu bit his lip and gripped the rails. How does it feel? she asked, and when he didn’t answer she shouted suddenly, her mouth inches from his ear: Why don’t you talk? Has anyone stuffed your mouth? What’s that man Samuel been telling you?
She caught his elbow: You shut your ears to all the shit and filth these people tell you, do you understand me? All that dirt is in their own minds. You listen to me and I’ll tell you the truth. What I have in al-Ghazira is a kind of boarding house. Also a little tea-shop. Everybody knows it; in those parts Zindi the Apple’s house is famous. You’ll find out; everywhere you go you’ll hear people saying: Beyt Zindi, beyt Zindi. People crowd to my house; boys like you offer money to be taken in. They know I know people and there’s no end to the jobs you can get in al-Ghazira if you know people – in construction, sewage and drainage (though that’s bad work even if it pays well), sweeping, gardening, even shop work. Oil work’s difficult, for they usually find their own people. Still, I can find any man a good job. And, as for women, why, when I go to India I don’t have to do anything. These women find me and come running: Take me, Zindi – no, me, Zindi-didi – don’t take her, she’s got lice. They go on like that. But I don’t take them all. I take only the good girls – clean, polite, hard-working. That’s why I have to go to India myself to look. I find them jobs and they pay me a little, not much, something reasonable. The whole of al-Ghazira knows Zindi’s girls are reliable and hard-working; everyone comes to me and I say, Ya Shaikha, you know my girls, they have to get a little extra, and they say, Yes, yes, Zindi, they’ll get whatever you ask for. And so I get a little extra, too, not much. It’s not a business; it’s my family, my aila, my own house, and I look after them, all the boys and girls, and no one’s unhappy and they all love me.
That’s enough of all that. Now, listen: I’ll give you a chance because you’re a helpful kind of turd and one look at your face and I can see that on your own you’ll be crushed like dung at a crossroads within one week in al-Ghazira. And wallahi I don’t want your death on my soul. So listen: I’ll give you a place and I’ll find you work – something good in construction, maybe even in a shop since you’re lettered, but only maybe, for shop jobs aren’t easy to get. You’ll see, you won’t have to pay much, just a little. You’ll have plenty to send back home. You’re so lucky you won’t believe it when you get to al-Ghazira. What do you say, then, han?
Alu rubbed his leg in silence. Zindi said again, sharply: So what do you say?
Kya pata? Alu said. I don’t know …
Zindi looked hard into his face. Then she pushed herself up, spat into her hands and rubbed them together. You don’t know, she said, turning towards the cabin. You don’t know. But you’ll find out. Just wait till you get there.
Later that night Alu’s boils burst. The pain oozed away with the bloody pus and he slept soundly for the first time in their six days at sea.
With his first cast next morning Alu felt a jerk on his line. It snapped taut and sang through the water for a second. Then suddenly it was limp again. He pulled the line in and found that the tapioca had been taken neatly off the hook.
Rakesh, watching him, nodded slowly. That’s what it’s like, he said. The fish get away if you wait for them. You have to go out and get them.
Alu baited his hook and tossed it out again. He and Professor Samuel leant drowsily on the rails and watched the line cutting through the water. It was warm and very bright and the spindrift prickled coolly on their faces. Then Rakesh began to talk. That was unusual, for Rakesh rarely talked; he found so much occupation in his own appearance that speech was usually unnecessary to him as either expression or diversion.
Till about a month before he found himself in Mariamma Rakesh was a travelling salesman for a small Ayurvedic pharmacy in Bhopal which specialized in a patented herbal laxative. It was the only job he had been able to find – despite his bachelor’s degree in commerce – and that, too, only after a year’s efforts. So he worked at it hard, though it was tedious and very frustrating.
The trouble really lay in the product. It was soon clear that people no longer wanted Ayurvedic laxatives. There was no market for black viscous liquids in old rum-bottles; they wanted sparkling, bubbling salts which dissolved in water, or milky syrups in bottles with bright labels. They wanted advertisements and slogans which promised more than mere movement – promotions and success at work, marital triumphs, and refrigerators in their dowries. Regularity, balance and inner peace no longer sold.
After he had been working there for close on six months there came a particularly heart-breaking day in a small town south of Bhopal: not one of the town’s four pharmacies agreed to stock so much as half a bottle of his wares. He had nothing else to do, so he wandered down the narrow bazaar, kicking at the grimy dust, towards the ghats on the river. And then, passing the opening of a narrow lane, he heard the unmistakable throbbing of Mere Sapnon ki Rani spilling out.
For a while he stood there transfixed, overwhelmed by reminiscence. The song was from the first film he had ever seen – he and a cousin had stolen out of his aunt’s house in Indore, where his mother had taken him to visit her sister. Despite the thrashing afterwards, the magic of that burning July afternoon had stayed mirror-clear in his memory; even years later when he was seeing three or four films a week.
T
here was nothing he could do about it: the song led him in as though it were a rope around his wrists.
He found himself in a sweetshop, a large hive of a room, all brightly tiled and calendared. A young man in a striped shirt sat, legs folded, behind a steel box, taking in money. Rakesh could tell at once that the shirt was of the finest terry cotton; he noted the gold chain that hung around his neck; envied the easy-going stylishness of his curling, oiled sidelocks. On the wall behind the young man, just beneath a small earthen figure of the Devi Lakshmi, hung a gigantic, pulsating cassette recorder.
Rakesh ate two gulab-jamuns and three samosas. When he went up to the counter to pay, the young man expertly shot back his cuffs and pressed a series of minuscule knobs on his watch with the tip of a pencil. An answer flashed on to the dial. One rupee forty-five, he said.
It took Rakesh an age to pay. Then he could no longer contain himself. Boss, he burst out, how? How did you do it? How did you get all this, boss?
In al-Ghazira, boss, said the young man. Two years and the grace of Lakshmi Devi … He pressed another knob and the watch shrilled out a tune.
Later, after an hour of questions, Rakesh walked down to the ghats and, unmindful of fish and pilgrims alike, threw his bottles of laxative into the Narmada. Within a month, his share of his father’s land sold to a brother, savings collected, Rakesh was in Mahé …
The Professor yawned and blew his nose into the sea. What Rakesh had to say bored him – he had so many untold stories of his own left to tell – but he would never have said so. It was the first time he had heard Rakesh say anything more than a few words and he had said it with so much earnestness that it had seemed as though an interruption would wound him into ages of silence. So he nodded politely and said: And then … ?
Rakesh shook his head and shrugged: That’s all. The Professor’s eyes lit up: he saw his chance and quickly cleared his throat. But before he could begin the sea had robbed him of his moment. A sleek black hump curled through the water right in front of them and was lost again before they could be sure they had seen anything at all. And then five, ten, twenty finned backs appeared all at once, weaving through the water with such fluency that they could hardly be told apart from the waves. One leapt out of the water, a grinning bottle-nosed dolphin, and with a single blow of its flukes sent a wave splashing over Mariamma’s deck. Then the huge smiling creatures were all around them, riding Mariamma’s bow wave, nudging each other out in turn while the others leapt and rolled nearby, flashing their white undersides. They all rushed to the side and laughed and shouted till Mariamma yawed and rolled and Hajji Musa had to call out to them not to crowd to one side. Then suddenly, as if to a signal, the sea emptied again and Professor Samuel was left brimful of untold stories and no audience.
But later that night he had his chance again.
An hour or so after their evening meal the Professor heard the quick patter of footsteps near the cabin. He was just in time to see Chunni lean out over the side and empty her stomach into the sea. After a minute-long bout of retching she leant back against the cabin and covered her face with her hands. Slowly, with growing dismay, he realized that she was sobbing.
Yes, Miss Chunni? he said, standing well back from her. Is there anything I can do? Any help … ?
How much longer, she whispered, her face still covered with her hands, how much longer will this go on? Are we ever going to get there? Where is he taking us?
Then her chest heaved spasmodically and she had to rush to the rails and lean out again.
Water, water, Professor Samuel muttered to himself. I’ll get some water.
By the time he was back she had collapsed on to the deck with her head on her knees. Here, he said, thrusting the jerrycan at her. Here’s some nice, clean, fresh water.
She made no move. He tapped her uncertainly on the shoulder. Miss Chunni …
He heard her choke back a sob. You need water, Miss Chunni, he said softly. That’s all. He poured a little into his hand and splashed it gently on her face.
She took the jerrycan from him then and washed her face and sat down again beside him, shivering and hiccuping. Koi baat nahin, he said. It’s all right now. And soon he was talking to her in a gentle, quiet monotone, soothing her with the theory of queues.
Much later, long after he had told her about his researches and his tabulations and all his newly minted formulae – the formulae that were to solve the queuing problems of every busy bus-stand and ration-shop and sari-bazaar and obstetrician’s clinic (especially the last; for, make no mistake, there’s no queue longer than that which winds theoretically away from every obstetrician’s door – an unending line stretching into dim infinity, of Teeming Millions waiting to be born) in all of Tellicherry and Cannanore – he looked down at Chunni and saw that she was asleep.
Miss Chunni, he whispered sadly, you’ve been … ?
No, she whispered back, I’m listening. Go on.
And do you know, Miss Chunni, he said, none of them would have anything to do with me? I took them plans which would have revolutionized their entire selling strategy, and they wouldn’t even listen to me long enough to laugh. When I took my brand-new counter design to the Dreamland Saree Centre they threw me and the blueprint …
He looked down at her again and this time there could be no doubt that she was soundly asleep. For a long minute he looked into her dark, pitted face and then with the languor of a sleepwalker he raised a finger and touched her on the lips. The sensation went through him like a shock. He snatched his hand back, leapt to his feet and wandered confusedly back to the tarpaulin shelter near the stern.
When they awoke next morning an oil-tanker lay before them. It was so vast it seemed to straddle half the horizon. Mariamma passed so close to it they could see clearly the cross-hatching of pipes and turrets on its deck. It seemed to take an age before they had sailed its length. Its wake was like a gorge swinging through the sea, and when it struck Mariamma the boat almost stood on its stern. They saw a couple of other tankers that day and a few smaller ships, too, mainly freighters and ancient tramps wheezing columns of smoke. In the evening Chunni, sitting with Professor Samuel in the stern, saw birds and pointed them out. When the Professor told Hajji Musa about them the Hajji nodded. Yes, he said, it’s the ninth day. We’ll be in al-Ghazira soon. To celebrate they cooked the one fish that had somehow entangled its gills in Alu’s line.
Late that night Karthamma’s groans started again. By sunrise the cabin was shivering to her screams. The men sat on the steps and stared at the curtain; they could only guess at what was happening inside. They heard a fist pounding on the cabin wall, and Zindi shouting curses. At times the oil-drums rang out as though someone had been thrown against them; at others, eerily, the noise stopped and torrents of words came pouring out of the cabin. In those pauses the Professor would lean forward and listen intently. Once he nodded at the others and said: It’s those forms again. She wants them right now, God help her.
At that Rakesh, who was combing his hair distractedly, rose and fetched a bucket of water. We have to do something, he said helplessly.
A moment later Zindi’s huge bulk stumbled backwards through the curtains and collapsed on to the steps. She sat huddled forward, bent almost double, trying to catch her breath. She saw the others watching her and threw up her hands. What can I do? she said, her voice cracking with exhaustion. The mad bitch is going to kill it and herself, too. It’s all we can do to keep her hands from her womb, and how long can we go on?
She looked hopelessly at the Professor: Can’t you do something?
Professor Samuel took off his spectacles and polished them on his vest, lips pursed. Then, squinting thoughtfully at the cabin, he said: Yes, I think there is something we can do.
She jumped to her feet: What? What will you do?
Wait, he said, fitting his spectacles on again. You’ll see. He turned to Alu: Have you got any paper? Printed paper – paper with fine, close print on it?
Alu nod
ded. The Professor slapped him on the back. Come on, then. They hurried back to the stern, and Professor Samuel threw aside the tarpaulin sheet that covered their bundles and pulled out his tin suitcase. With deft, controlled haste he unlocked his tin suitcase and took out a pair of trousers, a tie and a black cotton jacket. Dropping his lungi he stepped into his trousers, pulled the jacket on over his vest and wound the tie quickly around his neck. Alu, he shouted, get me the paper, quick.
Untying his bundle of clothes Alu took out the copy of the Life of Pasteur that Gopal had given him and very carefully tore off a page. Despite its age the paper was stiff and crisp. The Professor snatched it from him and, taking a pen out of his jacket, drew a straight line at the bottom of the page. Beside it he wrote in English: ‘Signed.’
You think it’ll work? Alu asked. Oh, yes, said the Professor, she’s in no state to tell the difference between a form given to her by a government babu and a sheet of paper held under her nose by a suited-booted stranger …
He broke off in dismay, looking down at his bare feet. No shoes, he muttered. No shoes.
She won’t look at your feet, Alu said.
Let us hope so, the Professor said, and straightening his jacket he hurried forward to the cabin. At the curtain he stopped and looked back at Alu and Rakesh. Alu waved him on. Looking studiedly downwards, Professor Samuel stepped into the cabin.
They heard him talking rapidly to Zindi. Then his voice changed, rose into a high official monotone and they couldn’t understand him any longer. They heard gasps and a long rattling sigh and after that silence, and then a scream, but of a kind very different from that to which they had grown accustomed: the full, disbelieving cry of a woman in labour.
The Professor stumbled out of the cabin and sat on the steps looking blankly at his feet. Alu prised the sheet of paper out of his fingers. Three shaky Malayalam characters were sprawled across the paper. He rolled the page into a ball and tossed it over the side.
