The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  The waiter grinned shyly and scratched his head. Yes, sahb, he said.

  From where exactly?

  From Sundernagar.

  Sundernagar? Where’s that?

  The waiter was surprised: You don’t know Sundernagar, sahb? How’s that? It’s a district headquarters. It’s in Himachal, at the foot of the Dhauladhar Range.

  Das bit his lip, embarrassed by his ignorance. It must be cold there, he said, up in the mountains.

  Arre han sahb, he said. It’s very cold. There’s always snow on the Dhauladhar. All the greatest rivers in the world start there – the Beas, the Suketi. You should see them; they could sweep away a place like this.

  Oh? said Das. And where do you live? In the hotel?

  No. I and some friends – they’re mechanics, electrical, all from Sundernagar – we share a room.

  In the Ras al-Maktoo? Das prompted.

  No, sahb. He was quite indignant. Our room’s a long way from that place.

  Das was oddly relieved. He called the waiter back as he was going out, and gave him half a dirham.

  After finishing his breakfast, he tried to read a magazine, but his feet took him to his bed, and he lay down. Jai Lal would probably take longer than he’d expected, he thought as his eyes closed.

  He had hardly shut his eyes, it seemed to him, when a knock woke him. In fact it was almost midday and he had been asleep for more than four hours.

  Jai Lal’s clothes were crumpled and there were large dark patches under his armpits. Were you sleeping or what? he said sharply, his urbanity a little frayed, when Jyoti Das opened the door. I’ve been knocking for five minutes.

  Sorry, Das said. He almost added ‘sir’.

  Why’s this room so dark? Jai Lal said. He went to the window and drew the curtain back. Das flinched from the sudden burst of light, but Jai Lal did not notice. He sank into one of the chairs near the window and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  Das turned the music on again. So? he said. What happened?

  Jai Lal pulled a face: God, it’s so hot out there. I was really tired by the end of it. It would take too long to tell you all about it. I’ll just sum up the main points. It appears that they’ve been watching Jeevanbhai Patel for quite a long time now. That’s because he was fairly deeply involved in the old regime. In other words, he was quite close to the old Malik of Ghazira. After this regime came into power, they banned him from going to the Old Fort, where the Malik lives. But apparently Jeevanbhai used to get in there every now and then – how, nobody knew. The security people had some idea of his doings, because they had a source placed quite close to him. But they didn’t know anything concrete. Now very late last night, at about three or four in the morning, they had information from their source that he was on his way there again. The source thought it was something serious this time.

  They picked him up near an old disused gate at the back which they hadn’t bothered to guard all these years. He was horribly drunk, and more or less raving (must have been drinking that whisky I gave him). They questioned him a bit last night and again at dawn today. Apparently he raved on and on. They couldn’t make sense of everything he said, but the gist of it was this: a massive procession led by your old friend is going to march out of the Ras tomorrow – sorry, today – in the evening. They might even be armed. They plan to march to the Star. The Star is the building which collapsed and buried your Suspect – you remember? The security people aren’t quite sure why they’re going there; maybe it’s some kind of demonstration. Whatever it is, that alone is a serious business. Demonstrations and processions are as forbidden as forbidden can be here, and have been ever since this regime came into power. But, it seems, Jeevanbhai had even grander plans for them and himself. He had some wild idea of getting the old Malik to take advantage of the demonstration and make a show of force at the same time. Perhaps even …

  A coup?

  Maybe that’s not the right word, but something like that, I think. You know, he still has a lot of support among some people here. But the whole idea was crazy of course. The Malik’s bedridden and ill. He’d probably have thrown Jeevanbhai out, or handed him to security himself. Jeevanbhai must have been very, very drunk to think of something like that.

  Maybe he wasn’t, said Das. I told you – that man was living in a dream. There was no telling what he might do.

  Maybe you were right, Jai Lal said.

  So what happens now?

  Well, they’re very concerned. A demonstration by migrant labourers could be quite dangerous. They’re going to deal with it very firmly.

  You mean they’ll go into the Ras al-Maktoo and arrest them?

  No, that would take a lot of preparation, and there isn’t enough time now. And, in any case, that place is a labyrinth; half of them would be gone before the security people got within a mile of the place. No; they’re going to wait for them near the Star, and they’re going to take the whole lot in over there.

  Oh, said Das. So what happens to our Suspect?

  Jai Lal coughed into his fist. Well, he said, I was able to work out an agreement. It’s very lucky I happen to know this chap. They’re willing to take us along as observers. They’ll hand over your Suspect once they’ve got him, and you can take him back. They have no interest in keeping him of course but, still, it’s very generous, you know, because we don’t have an extradition agreement with them. Anyway, be ready at four today. I’ll pick you up.

  Jai Lal sat back and lit a cigarette. He said: Personal contacts help, you know. No one can work without contacts. That’s the only talent a good officer needs, I always say.

  But won’t you need clearance from your ambassador?

  No, not strictly. He doesn’t really have jurisdiction over what I do or don’t do. It’s a matter of courtesy really. But I thought something like this might crop up sooner or later, so only last week I put up a note. HE sent it back marked ‘urge fullest co-operation’ or something like that. So that’s OK.

  He looked at Das expectantly. Das inclined his head. That was very far-sighted, he said. Good work. You’ll probably get a promotion for this, Jai. Or at least an increment.

  Jai Lal shook his head: Oh, I’m not expecting anything like that. It’s much too early yet. Let’s see how the reports and things turn out first. But it’s turned out well for you, hasn’t it? You can go back now, with your friend all tied up. I’ll send a telex so that they’ll be ready for you.

  God, yes, said Das. I’ll be glad to get back.

  Jai Lal got up to go. Jyoti Das was staring at the streets below the hotel and the expanse of white sand beyond the city. He turned suddenly. Listen, he said on an impulse, couldn’t we meet Jeevanbhai Patel again before I leave? I’d like to ask him a few things – just personal things. How he ended up here, what he did and suchlike. Meeting him was the only worthwhile thing that happened to me here. Is it possible?

  No.

  But couldn’t you ask this chap in security, since you know him so well? Or else couldn’t we visit him in gaol, like ordinary visitors?

  Lal shuffled his feet uncomfortably. No, he said, it’s not possible. You see, Jeevanbhai hanged himself this morning. With his belt. He was dead when I got there. Must have done it as soon as he sobered up. That’s why I took so long. They needed someone to identify the body and sign papers and all that. He had no relatives.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Last Look

  There was no sleep for Zindi that night. When she got back to her house, she lay on her mattress with Boss beside her and tried to still her pounding pulse and shut her eyes. But it was no use; the metallic sharpness of her excitement worried at her tongue like a brass shaving. Soon she gave up and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, and to the tune of the snores in the next room she filled the darkness with her plans for the Durban Tailoring House.

  She rose a little before dawn, alerted by the stirring of the geese in the courtyard. That was when, she knew, sleep is at its deepest; she could ha
ve knocked down a wall without waking anyone in the house. But, still, her every instinct cried to her to be careful. She found her torch, and stealthily, crouching on the floor, she cleared a pile of mats, mattresses and cooking-pots from a corner of the room. Once, a tin tray dropped from her hands. She froze as the clattering echoed through the house. But there was no break in the steady rhythm of snores in the next room. She went back to work, biting her lip fiercely.

  When she had laid the floor bare, she counted four handspans from the corner towards the centre of the room, and marked the place with a matchstick. Then she sat back, closed an eye and examined the angle again. She had to get it just right. When she was sure, she removed, very carefully, a section of the thin, cracked layer of cement which served as the floor. There were bricks underneath. She shone her torch over them, squinting hard, until she found the brick she wanted: one with a tiny daub of white paint in a corner. That brick had an almost invisible dent in one side, which provided a grip of sorts for a fingertip. But the bricks were wedged firmly together and it took her a long time and a broken fingernail to pull it out. After that, the four bricks around the empty space of the first came away easily, exposing a large patch of loose soil.

  Zindi bent down and dug her hands into the soil. She scrabbled about for a moment, and then, sucking in a long breath, she drew out a large aluminium cooking-pot. Inside, wrapped in cellophane, was a heavy iron box. It was fastened with a huge padlock. She drew her handkerchief-wrapped bunch of keys out of the neck of her dress, found the right key and opened the box.

  It was all there, all the money she had saved in her decades in al-Ghazira: the measure of her life. It was a lot of money: dirhams and dollars and sterling in yellowing cash. Enough to pay for the shop and lay in an entire range of new stocks.

  She shut her eyes and breathed the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.

  It took only a few minutes after that to stuff the money into her dress, to put the empty box back, and rearrange the bricks and the cement and the mats and mattresses. Then she stood back and looked at it, pleased with herself; even she wouldn’t have known whether anything had been moved.

  It was dawn now, and the wads of notes rustling against her skin charged her with an unbearable impatience. But before leaving she had to talk to Kulfi, and Kulfi was still asleep in the women’s room. If she went in there to wake her up she might wake the others as well. So instead she decided to wait in the courtyard, for Kulfi was always the first one up in the morning.

  Squatting in the courtyard, listening to the hissing of the geese, Zindi suddenly remembered that other day, so many long months ago, when someone else had waited for Kulfi at dawn, and she smiled to herself. Mast Ram was beaten now, at last. She had beaten him. With the shop in her hands, she would wean Rakesh away first, with clothes perhaps. Then Zaghloul. Kulfi was with her anyway, only too timid to say so. Abu Fahl would follow, and then they’d all come, back to the shelter of her house. All of them, hanging their heads and pleading …

  Kulfi came out soon, yawning. Zindi gestured quickly to her to be quiet and caught her arm. Don’t go anywhere today, she whispered into her ear. Wait for me in the house. I’ll need you later today – there’ll be work to do. I can’t talk now, but I’ll tell you about it later. Boss is in the other room. Look after him. Don’t go anywhere; don’t move. Stay here and wait for me.

  But where are you going at this time of the morning? Kulfi asked in surprise.

  To the Souq, Zindi hissed, to Jeevanbhai’s shop.

  Now? Kulfi said doubtfully. She turned and looked at Jeevanbhai’s door. A lock hung upon the latch. But, she cried, he’s not here. Where is he?

  Zindi pinched her arm and Kulfi squealed. Be quiet, Zindi snapped. What does it matter? You know he often passes out in his sleep when he’s been drinking. He’s there, in his shop, waiting for me. Now, remember: don’t go anywhere – just wait for me.

  With a last warning tap on Kulfi’s arm, Zindi turned and surged out of the house.

  It was not yet seven when she reached the Maidan al-Jami‘i, and the shops and cafés in the square were all shut. A man was washing the pavement outside the mosque, singing to himself, and in the square there were a couple of figures stretched out on the stone benches. Zindi hurried past them, straight to the Bab al-Asli. She stopped there for a moment, and for the first time that morning a doubt struck her. Would he be waiting after all? She shook her head and slipped quickly through the Bab al-Asli into the enveloping blackness beyond.

  She had to feel her way along slowly at first, half-blinded by the sudden darkness. She tried to hurry and stumbled. Muttering to herself, she slowed down again, though impatience and worry were clawing at her scalp now.

  She turned into the first lane and a huge sigh of relief gushed out of her lungs. The steel collapsible gates of the Durban Tailoring House were drawn and its neon lights were glowing like beacons in the gloom of the passageway. She stopped and carefully patted the wads of notes around her neck and waist. Then she looked up again, and at exactly that moment a head appeared in the shop’s doorway, blew its nose, and vanished into the shop.

  It wasn’t Jeevanbhai. Even in that brief glimpse she had seen, quite clearly, a peaked cap and the neck of a black uniform.

  Her mouth went dry and she had to lean her shaking body against the wall of the corridor. After a while, when her knees were steady again, she pressed herself against the shop-fronts and inched forward, towards the Durban Tailoring House, grateful for the shadowy blackness of her fustan.

  An age seemed to pass before she was halfway down the corridor. The head didn’t appear again, but she could hear muffled voices now. They grew louder as she worked her way forward, but she could see nothing except the shop’s window. When she was almost opposite the Durban Tailoring House, she dropped to her knees and half-crawled along the corridor till she could see inside. Three black-uniformed men were lounging on stools, laughing and talking good-humouredly. Files and papers lay piled up in heaps all over the floor of the shop. Zindi crouched back against the billboards of the travel agency behind her, shivering. They had only to turn their heads to see her.

  One of the men called out towards the room at the back: Where’s the tea gone, ya ’ammi? A moment later the door of the back room opened and Forid Mian came out, nursing a kettle in his hands. He put it on the counter, raised his head and looked straight across the corridor into Zindi’s eyes.

  For a long moment they stared at each other. Then Zindi pulled her dress up to her knees and lurched down the passageway as fast as she could.

  Zindi! Forid Mian’s voice echoed after her. She stumbled fiercely on, without looking back. Faintly, through the convulsive wheezing of her own breath, she heard other footsteps ringing through the corridor, and Forid Mian again, shouting shrilly: Zindi! Stop! Why’re you running?

  She pressed a hand on the wads of money around her neck and pulled herself round the corner. A blinding patch of daylight was shining in through the Bab al-Asli. Gulping in a huge breath, she flung herself at it. And when she was no more than a yard from the daylight Forid Mian’s hands closed on her elbow and drew her to a halt. She struggled feebly but her strength was gone.

  She collapsed almost gratefully on the floor, shuddering and swallowing air.

  Why were you running, Zindi? Forid Mian panted. What was the need?

  Zindi cast a frightened glance past him into the passageway.

  Why’re you afraid? Forid Mian said aggrievedly. They aren’t coming. They don’t care about you; they have nothing to do with you. They’ve only come to take away his papers.

  What papers? Zindi scoured his face with her eyes. Why?

  Forid Mian threw a quick glance over his shoulder and fell to his knees beside her. Don’t you know? he confided, his eyes alight. They caught Jeevanbhai last night and put him in gaol. He died this morning.

  Zindi gazed at him, trembling. He stroked his beard and pressed his thin, cracked lips together. His mouth
twitched, his eyes flickered, and then suddenly his face flowered into a wide, boyish smile.

  Zindi! he cried, shaking her shoulders. I did it. I did it at last. I saw him going out and I knew he was going to the Old Fort, so I rang them up just like they’d told me to, and I told them, I told them, and they caught him and put him in a black car, handcuffs and all, and took him straight off to the big gaol and locked him up. Locked him up. That’s where he died – killed himself.

  He dropped his hands and stared at the floor. He’s dead, he whispered incredulously; he’s dead at last. And now the shop’s mine. They’re going to give it to me.

  Then he flung his arms around her and hugged her, whimpering with joy and disbelief. He was a bad man, he said. He was a bad, wicked man.

  Zindi pushed him away and patted her dress to make sure her wads of notes were undisturbed. He was a bad man, Forid Mian whispered again, shaking his head. A bad, bad man.

  He was a better man than you’ll ever be, Forid Mian, Zindi said. Despite everything. A thousand times better. At least, while he lived, he was alive.

  Forid Mian laughed. You didn’t know him, Zindi, he said. I tell you, he was a bad man.

  Zindi dusted her dress and turned to go. Forid Mian reached out and caught her arm. Wait, Zindi, he said. Don’t be in a hurry.

  Zindi stopped. He dropped his eyes and shot her a shy, upwards glance. Maybe I’ll feel lonely now, Zindi, he said. Maybe I should have someone to look after me, as you were saying that day. I can afford it, now that I’ve got the shop.

  He looked away modestly and shuffled his feet. The stringy white beard was suddenly incongruous on his glowing face; he looked twenty years younger. Tell me, Zindi, he said, did you talk to Kulfi?

  Zindi tried to speak and could find no words. She pushed him aside and looked down the murky passageway into the heart of the Souq. Then her eyes filled with tears and she turned abruptly and hurried out through the Bab al-Asli.

  Zindi took a taxi from the Maidan and so reached Hajj Fahmy’s house in half an hour. When she arrived there she stood outside the walls of the courtyard and shouted in: Are you there, ya Hajj Fahmy? Come out.