The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  Das put the bottles on the floor, beside his chair. Try to think, Patel sahb, he said sharply. I’m sure you can manage something.

  Jeevanbhai wiped his forehead with his sleeve. There’s one possibility, he said reluctantly. I can’t take him of course, because the people there are suspicious of me anyway. But there’s a chance that I might be able to persuade Zindi at-Tiffaha to take him. But it’ll take some time, and he’ll have to wait.

  Lal nodded: That’s fine; get in touch when it’s arranged. He held the bottles out to Jeevanbhai and smiled: That’s good whisky, Patel sahb. It would cost hundreds of dirhams for a bottle of that here.

  Jeevanbhai almost snatched the bottles out of his hands, and locked them away in a drawer. Lal stood up. Patel sahb, he said gravely, we’ll need all your help over the next few weeks.

  Jeevanbhai nodded. Then, softly, almost timidly, he said: What about the other thing, Mr Lal?

  Other thing? said Lal surprised. What thing?

  Don’t you remember? said Jeevanbhai. I was asking you the other day …

  Oh, that, said Lal. Oh, yes. We’ll work out something.

  Jeevanbhai dropped his eyes and led them through the shop. Lal stopped at the door. Tell me, Patel sahb, he said. You know these people, and this man. What do you think his game is?

  Is it a game?

  Isn’t it?

  You must explain it to me, then. Jeevanbhai smiled at them, very sweetly, and ushered them out with a stoop of his shoulder.

  Afterwards, at Lal’s large fifth-floor flat in a newly built residential suburb, they sat on a balcony, surrounded by potted palms and ferns, drinking beer and watching the strung-out lights of tankers at sea. Das was very tired but strangely elated: it was as though in the course of one day he had been forcibly stretched into the calm strength and insights of middle age.

  He talked desultorily to Lal about their colleagues in India, while Lal’s slim, pretty wife offered them bowls of cashew nuts and dalmoth. Then a servant called her away to the kitchen, and Lal yawned and shut his eyes. My God, he said, he talked on and on. I thought he’d never stop.

  Das nodded and they fell into a tired silence. After a while, Lal said languidly: Tell me, what did you think of our friend Jeevanbhai?

  Das sat upright and thought for a moment. I don’t think, he said carefully, that I’ve ever heard anyone talk as marvellously as he did tonight.

  Really?

  Yes, Das said softly, embarrassed. But tell me, do you think he’s reliable?

  Oh, yes. I think so. Besides, he has to be, because otherwise his stock of whisky would dry up. Why?

  Nothing really. It’s just that … though he tries to be businesslike and all that, when he actually talks, he’s like a sleepwalker – like a man living in a dream. I wouldn’t trust him – not because he’s dishonest, though he might be – but because he doesn’t seem to be living in this world at all.

  Lal laughed: Next you’ll be telling me he’s a bird of paradise.

  Das grimaced in embarrassment. Never mind, he said. But what was that business at the end, about the ‘other thing’?

  Oh, that. He’s got some idea into his head that he wants to go to India and settle there in a small town and start a shop. He wants citizenship and he wants help getting out of the country. He thinks they may not let him out. The trouble is we need him here; he’s much more useful here.

  Lal stretched and stood up. Let’s forget business for a while, he said. Come, I’ll show you an interesting game.

  He led Das into their drawing-room. At one end stood a streamlined, steel-blue television set. Beside it, on a stool, was a squat, gleaming, chrome-plated machine, bedecked with knobs and buttons.

  Lal switched it on. Geometrical images and the word ‘play’ appeared on the television screen. He watched Das’s surprise with evident delight.

  It’s a video game, he said. Cost me two months’ savings. Even the Ambassador hasn’t got one like it.

  Of course, he added quickly, it’s for children really. I bought it for my son, Sunil. But it’s fun sometimes, even for us.

  He handed Jyoti Das a set of controls. You have to shoot me down, he said, and pressed a button. The images on the screen began to circle confusingly about. Jyoti tried to make sense of it and couldn’t.

  Sorry, he said, handing his controls back. I don’t think I’ll be any good at this.

  Lal laughed: You’re a washout, yar. Wait, I’ll show you how it’s played.

  He went to the door and called out: Sunil. Sunil beta, come and play videos. He had to call out three more times before a wide-eyed, knee-high boy in shorts was pushed into the room by a servant. He stood in the doorway, sucking his thumb.

  Come on, beta, Lal cajoled him. Come and show this nice uncle how to play videos. He hasn’t seen one before.

  The boy stayed where he was, sucking his thumb. Lal said apologetically to Jyoti: He doesn’t like it much. But he has to learn.

  He went up to the boy and said sharply: Come on, beta. Come and play with your video. It cost money.

  He pulled the boy’s hand out of his mouth and put a set of controls in it. The boy pressed the wrong button and the image on the screen faded away.

  What’re you doing, beta? Lal exclaimed in irritation.

  Jyoti, watching the boy, saw that his hands had begun to shake and drops of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Suddenly a heavy, putrid smell filled the room.

  Jyoti glanced quickly around the room in surprise. Then he looked at the boy. A stain was spreading across the back of his shorts, and a yellow mess was dribbling down his thighs. He was sucking his thumb again.

  Beta! Lal exploded. He stopped and drew in his breath. Then he caught Jyoti’s arm and pulled him out of the room. Slamming the door on the boy, he shouted towards the kitchen: Babs, go and look. He’s done it again.

  He hurried Jyoti to the balcony. His forelock had fallen across his face and his hands shook as he splashed whisky into their glasses. Jyoti stood frozen in a corner.

  Everything’s going wrong, Lal said. Nothing’s right any longer; it’s all chaos. It worries me. I’m very worried.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Besieged

  Zindi counted through the hours for ten days before she allowed herself to go looking for Forid Mian again. On the morning of the tenth day, at ten o’clock – not too early to make her journey seem like anything but an ordinary shopping trip – she put Boss on her hip and set out for the Souq. When she reached the front door she stopped, suddenly remembering the plastic bag Professor Samuel had left for her that morning. She went back to her room to fetch it. It was a large bulging bag, with colourful advertisements for cigarettes printed on both sides. It was very heavy, for it contained forty-two aluminium lemon-squeezers.

  Zindi hurried through the Ras to the embankment, ignoring the faces that were pointedly turned away from her on the way. As she scrambled up the slope of the embankment, the plastic bag seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until she was struggling to pull it along, like a ship fighting a dragging anchor. She cursed the lemon-squeezers, cursed Professor Samuel, cursed Alu and the whole of the Ras. When she reached the road at the top, she knew she would not be able to walk all the way to the Souq, as she had planned, so she squatted on the gravel at the side of the road and waited for a share-taxi. There was very little traffic on the road, nothing more than an occasional speeding truck. The road began to shimmer in the heat of the climbing sun, and soon the heavy cloth of her black fustan was drenched to the ankles in sweat. She began to worry about Boss, who was squirming quietly in the sun. After a while, she took off her scarf, baring the thin hair on her head to the sun, and draped it over him. A yellow and black taxi materialized like a mirage somewhere in the shimmering haze on the road, and she ran out to stop it. It swerved neatly past her and disappeared, blaring a tune on its musical horn. Zindi went back to the side of the road, cursing: Sons of bitches, shit … Now she was too impatient to sit down again, and she squ
inted down the road standing, shifting Boss from one hip to the other. Ten days was not such a long time, but some ten days were worse than others. These had been as bad as any she could have imagined; worse, because she could not have imagined these. She had had to lock herself into the house every day to keep herself from rushing off to the Souq and Forid Mian. The Souq was hope. That was why she had denied it to herself for so many days – so that the taste of it would be the sweeter when it came. Not just that, of course. Every time temptation threatened to overwhelm her, she had reminded herself of all the reasons why she had decided on ten days, no more, no less. Ten days was just right: long enough to make her, Zindi, seem disinterested; enough to let Forid Mian think a bit, worry a bit; but not so long that their conversation would slip from his mind. Ten days was just right.

  Here was another taxi, a large one this time, an old Mercedes-Benz. She stood in the middle of the road with her arms stretched out, like a traffic policeman, and it stopped. It took her some time, and a little help, to climb out again, when the taxi drew up at the Maidan al-Jami‘i. Kam? she asked the young, curly-haired driver, reaching into the neck of her dress for her purse.

  One dirham, he said.

  What? she shouted. You son of a …

  He laughed: Yes, Mother?

  She had to forgive him: that was clever enough to make him an Egyptian, even though his accent didn’t sound it. Laughing to herself, she turned and saw the Bab al-Asli across the square, guarding hope, and everything left her mind but the main intention. She forgot that she had meant to dispose of the lemon-squeezers first. She hurried across the square, through the Bab, and turned into the first lane. There it was, the Durban Tailoring House, conspicuous by its dimness in that row of shining shops.

  Forid Mian was there after all: that was one ten-day-long worry she’d forgotten this morning. She stood in the passageway for a minute, and looked the shop over again, critically judging its length, its breadth, weighing its possibilities. It didn’t disappoint her, as she had feared it might.

  She bustled in, trying to look busy. Ah, Forid Mian! she said, putting her plastic bag down on the floor. How are you?

  He was working at his sewing machine. How are you? he answered politely.

  She lifted Boss with both her hands and put him down on his back on a pile of cloth on the counter.

  Don’t do that, Zindi, Forid Mian cried in alarm. He’ll wet the …

  No, don’t worry, she said. He never pisses on strange clothes. He’s not like other children.

  Forid Mian looked at her sceptically and went back to his sewing machine. Zindi seated herself on a stool and leant back against the counter. For a long while she said nothing. The approaches and openings she had so carefully prepared slipped out of her mind while she looked around the shop, taking in small details, like the exposed wiring near the switches. Somewhere at the back of her mind she tried to work out what it would cost to make the place respectable again. Then, with a start, she remembered Forid Mian and turned. She caught him darting her a sidelong glance.

  So, Zindi, he said quickly, what brings you to the Souq?

  Oh, just some shopping, Zindi said. I was passing by and I thought I’d come around and see how Forid Mian is.

  Forid Mian leant back against the wall and looked at her, his dull eyes opaque. You’re thinking about me a lot nowadays, Zindi, he said.

  Of course, Zindi said blandly, I always think about old friends.

  What were you thinking? said Forid Mian.

  Oh, many things. I was thinking about that funny thing you said that night. How are the nights going now? Still rubbing hard on dry sheets, hoping to set them on fire?

  Zindi threw her head back and laughed.

  Forid Mian lowered his eyes and looked at the bulging plastic bag on the floor. What’s in that? he said, pointing with a bent, pencil-thin finger.

  Oh, that, said Zindi, still shaking with laughter. That’s lemon-squeezers. Forty-two lemon-squeezers.

  Forid Mian gasped: Forty-two lemon-squeezers! What are you going to do with forty-two lemon-squeezers? Start a fruit-juice stall?

  No, no. Zindi shook her head, wondering why they were talking about lemon-squeezers. They’re not for me, she said quickly. I needed some money this morning, and there was no money in the Ras, so Professor Samuel sent these – someone who works in some shop or factory had got hold of them and left them with him. If I want money for the shopping, I have to sell these.

  Sell these? For money? Forid Mian looked at her in bewilderment.

  Yes, she said exasperated. That’s what happened. Yesterday was Thursday, the end of the week. The people in the house usually give me the week’s money on Thursday. But now there’s no money in the Ras; it’s all in accounts and account-books. In banks, and Professor Samuel’s files. Anyway, they didn’t give me any money. Samuel said he’s put it all in my account and entered it against my name and all that. But I wanted money. Money. What’s the use of numbers? So I said: You sister-fucking arsehole, I want money. Cash. But then he called all the others, and even Abu Fahl turned against me. I said: I want money. What’s the use of an account-book? Can you pay for a bus with an account-book? I haven’t been out of the Ras for more than a week and I’m going to the Souq tomorrow. I need money. So she said, that bitch Karthamma: Why’d you want to go out of the Ras? You don’t do any work. We do the work; you should stay here and clean the house. As if. So I said: I’ll tear your eyes out if you try to keep me here for one more day, you ungrateful bitch. Then she shouted, and I shouted. And I said to Samuel: Why don’t you give me one of those envelopes with money inside, like you give the others when they go out of the Ras? And he said that all the envelopes had already been given out for the next day. Then later he said he had these … these lemon-squeezers, so I took them. Luckily I had a bit of cash in my purse, and Kulfi gave me a bit.

  Zindi stopped, her chest heaving, her eyes bloodshot. Why’re you asking all this? she said. You’d know all about it anyway, if you didn’t live like a snail, hidden away in the Souq.

  Then a thought struck her, and she looked at him anxiously: Do you want to buy some? She took a lemon-squeezer from the bag and handed it to him. He played with the handles, opening and shutting it like a pair of scissors.

  How much? he said.

  Two dirhams? she answered tentatively.

  No. He shook his head.

  One-fifty?

  I don’t really want it, he said and handed it back to her.

  No, Zindi laughed. I’d forgotten. It’s something else you want to squeeze now. No?

  What do you mean, Zindi?

  Well … something like a wife?

  Forid Mian didn’t answer. Zindi leant towards him: Don’t you remember? We were talking about your marriage that night?

  Forid Mian rose abruptly from his stool. It seems to me, Zindi, he said, that you’re thinking about my marriage much more than I am.

  Zindi laughed, attempting unconcern. Of course I think about your marriage, she said. If I didn’t, who would? Don’t you remember how you said that night that you’d like to get married and settle down in your Chatgan and leave all this behind? Don‘t you remember? I think there’s a chance, just a chance, that it might be arranged.

  Forid Mian began to tidy one of the shelves behind the counter. I don’t know what I was talking about that night, he said. I must have gone crazy. Why should I want to go back to Chatgan when everyone in Chatgan is trying to get here?

  Zindi stared at him in uncomprehending disbelief. But, she began, you said …

  Oh, I was just talking.

  Zindi looked wildly, tearfully around the shop. Instinctively her hand rose to scratch her mole. But, listen, she said, there must be something …

  Why, Zindi, Forid Mian said loudly, are you so interested in my marriage?

  Zindi impatiently waved the question away. Listen, she said, what about, what if we get you married here?

  Here? Forid Mian turned from the shelf and
stared at her. To whom?

  To someone. Zindi compressed her lips and squeezed out a smile. But you tell me first, what do you think of the idea?

  How can I tell you, until you tell me?

  To Kulfi-didi, Zindi said, and watched the narrowing of his eyes with triumph. Do you know her? She lives in my house.

  Let me see, said Forid Mian, stroking his stringy white beard. Tell me what she’s like.

  She’s fair; very fair. And she has a nice figure – not full exactly, but not thin, either. She’s a widow. She’s nice. You’ll like her.

  Forid Mian nodded. Yes, he said, I think I’ve seen her in the Souq.

  What do you think?

  Forid Mian shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but Zindi was quick to spot the suddenly lustful twist of his mouth. But do you think she’ll be willing? he said. She must be Hindu.

  Let’s see, said Zindi, let’s see. She stopped and looked at him hard. But there’s one thing, Forid Mian, she went on softly. And that is this. If it’s arranged, you’ll have to come and live in my house, and you’ll have to leave Jeevanbhai and start working for me.

  Forid Mian was suddenly very frightened. No, Zindi, he said, biting his knuckles. No, I can’t do that. How could I tell Jeevanbhai? What would Jeevanbhai do? No, no, Zindi, I can’t.

  Zindi rose and patted his shoulder. Don’t worry, Forid, she said. I know you’re scared of him, but I’m not. You leave him to me; I’ll deal with him. And khud balak, remember, don’t be so scared. There’s not a thing he can do to you.

  Forid Mian had begun to sweat. No, Zindi, he said wiping his face, I can’t. I can’t. But when he looked at her there was a spark of hope in his panic-stricken eyes.

  Zindi patted him again. You leave Jeevanbhai to me, she said. I’ll deal with him. Today if possible.

  She smiled, struggling to hold herself in check. She could have shouted with joy. The answers were always so easy and so elusive.

  The loudspeakers in the Souq sang out the muezzin’s midday izan. Forid Mian looked distractedly around for his prayer-rug and stone.

  I’ll go now, Zindi said to him. But I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. And don’t worry.