The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  A girl peeped through the door and, seeing her, shut it again. She heard the pattering of feet and shrill cries inside the house: It’s Zindi, Zindi at-Tiffaha; she’s here.

  She called out again: Ya Hajj, are you there? The door flew open and Hajj Fahmy stood in front of her, beaming: Come in, Zindi, come in, how are you, come in, come in, you’ve brought blessings, come in.

  Zindi stepped reluctantly over the threshold and stood with her back to the door. Alu was working at the loom, at the other end of the courtyard. He looked up and smiled at her. She could see two little girls watching her from the shelter of a door.

  Come in, Hajj Fahmy said. I’m glad you’ve come, Zindi. I hope you’ve come to join us at last. I knew you would sooner or later; I told the others so. Come and sit in the mandara and have some tea.

  No, no, she said urgently, shaking her head. There’s no time.

  No time? he smiled at her gently. No time for a cup of tea?

  No, ya Hajj, there’s no time. Listen: Jeevanbhai’s been taken to gaol. I think he’s killed himself.

  The Hajj started; his face clouded over. God have mercy on him, he said, laying his right hand on his heart.

  But that’s not all, Zindi cried.

  It’s very sad, Hajj Fahmy went on, talking more to himself than to her. But it was bound to happen. He got his fingers into too many things; that was always the trouble with him.

  Zindi caught his arm. Listen, she said. Just listen to me now. There’s no time. He knew that all of you are going to the Star today. I told him so last night. I think that’s the reason why he was arrested. I don’t know exactly how, but I’m sure that’s the reason. He was planning something. He was arrested on his way to the Old Fort.

  The Hajj stared at her in astonishment. Because of our trip to the Star? he said. What are you talking about? We’re going on a shopping trip and on the way we’re going to stop at the Star for a few minutes, to see if we can find Alu’s sewing machines. It’s allowed now; there’s no police cordon. Why should Jeevanbhai be taken to gaol for that? He had nothing to do with it.

  I don’t know, she said, but I think that was why …

  She saw him looking at her with a faintly ironic smile, and the things she had meant to say, all her arguments and phrases, became a confused jumble in her mind.

  What gave you this idea, Zindi? he asked. Have you heard something definite?

  No, Zindi stammered, searching her mind. But I think …

  Hajj Fahmy frowned. Is this one of your little tricks, Zindi? he said softly.

  Helplessly Zindi shook her head. She decided to make one last effort. Just believe me, she pleaded. Don’t go today. Take my word for it; I have nothing to gain. I came straight here, as soon as I heard about Jeevanbhai – to warn you. I had to. I didn’t think you would believe me, and I can see you don’t, but I had to try. That’s why I’ve come. You’ll be taking my whole house with you, and a woman can’t sit by and watch her children walking to their end. Don’t go, for God’s sake, don’t go. Don’t take the risk.

  Hajj Fahmy scratched his cheek. But, Zindi, he said, we’re just going on a shopping trip. What could possibly happen? Why should the police be interested in a shopping trip? If they were, they’d be locking up the whole of al-Ghazira every day.

  Trust me, ya Hajj, she said. Allahu yia’alam, this is no trick. Don’t go. Not just because of me or my people. Think of the Ras. If, just if, something does happen and the police are there and they catch you all together, it’ll be the end of the whole place. They won’t leave it standing – it’ll be finished.

  Hajj Fahmy broke into a smile. Zindi, he said playfully, you’ve been having your bad dreams again.

  She dropped her hands hopelessly. So you’ll go? she said.

  He thumped her on the back and laughed: Come and have some tea. It won’t be as good as yours, but it won’t be bad.

  Zindi turned away from him and went quickly across the courtyard to Alu. She reached up, caught his shuttle strings and said very rapidly in Hindi: Alu, don’t go. Don’t let them go today. You can stop them if you try. If anything happens, their blood will be on your hands.

  Slowly Alu shook his head. There’s nothing I can do, he said. You know that. I don’t want to go myself. It’s not in my hands.

  Hajj Fahmy came up and stood beside her. Stop running about, Zindi, he said. Come and have some tea and cool your head a little.

  Zindi released Alu’s shuttle strings and turned slowly to Hajj Fahmy. She took his hand, and before he could pull it away she bent down and kissed it, formally.

  God keep you, Hajj Fahmy, she said. You’re a good man.

  And then she rushed away, for there was a lot to do and very little time to do it in: providentially she had heard somewhere that a sambuq called Zeynab was to sail for the Red Sea that very night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dances

  When Abu Fahl stepped through the door, everyone in Hajj Fahmy’s courtyard could tell at once that he had a bottle hidden under his jallabeyya. His gleefully secretive grin made it plain; they didn’t even really need to look at the bulge under his arm to make sure.

  Though it was only four o’clock, there were already a dozen men waiting in the strip of shade under the far wall of the courtyard. Alu was sitting at the loom at the other end, and Zaghloul was squatting beside him, asking questions and laughing at the answers, pretending incomprehension. Zaghloul saw Abu Fahl first, so he knew even before the others. He leapt to his feet and shouted delightedly: Bring it here, ya akhi, fast, before they get their hands on it. But there was a quick chorus from the other end, too: What have you got there, Abu Fahl? Show us.

  Abu Fahl, swaggering across the courtyard, tried to wipe his grin away and assume innocence: Nothing, nothing at all – wala haja.

  Come on, Abu Fahl, they sang out again. What is it? Potato stuff? Arrack? Whisky? Anything good?

  Nothing, really, nothing at all, Abu Fahl said, demurely smoothing over the bulge under his arm. He glanced quickly around the courtyard and at the house: Where’s Hajj Fahmy?

  Everyone laughed – sympathetically, for they would have been nervous, too, in his place. No drop of liquor had ever passed between Hajj Fahmy’s lips, and were he to hear that a bottle had entered his courtyard the man who had brought it would almost certainly be expelled from his house for all time. Don’t worry, someone said, it’s all right. He’s inside, sleeping. But hurry.

  Abu Fahl, relieved, winked across the courtyard at Zaghloul and began to back away from the others. A couple of them jumped indignantly to their feet, crying: What’s the matter? Where’re you going? Do you think you’re going to drink it all by yourself?

  Just one minute, Abu Fahl said, begging for patience with a gesture. I have to tell Zaghloul something. You’ll get some, don’t worry. There’s plenty.

  He edged back to the loom, with the others still watching suspiciously. Then, very swiftly, he turned, and with his back to them he pulled a green bottle out through the neck of his jallabeyya and slipped it to Zaghloul. Zaghloul tore the cap off and took one long gagging swallow, and then another. The liquor was white and raw, distilled from potatoes, and it burnt like red coals in his throat. The others jumped to their feet, all together, shouting protests. Abu Fahl spun round to face them, pushing the sleeves of his jallabeyya threateningly back. They hesitated for a moment. The bottle passed into Alu’s hands and he gulped down a mouthful. Then Abu Fahl snatched it out of his hands and threw his head back, and the others surged across the courtyard.

  But by the time they managed to pull the bottle away from him it was a third empty and Abu Fahl was weak with laughter: Fooled you, gang of asses.

  And then, with the bottle drained, lit, and thrown away, everyone, as always, was complaining; it wasn’t enough, what good was one bottle, and that, too, of this second-rate Goan stuff, what use? There was still an hour or more to kill before they left for the Star, and everyone was tired of talking about what they were goin
g to buy afterwards, and they’d already told all the jokes about Japanese cassette recorders called No and Aiwah, so instead somebody got hold of one of Hajj Fahmy’s transistors and found a station playing Warda. But nobody was in a mood to sit and listen quietly, for the potato liquor, which always proved stronger than it seemed, was bubbling pleasantly in their stomachs. Abu Fahl began clapping first, very loudly, with his palms cupped. Soon Zaghloul joined in. Then suddenly everyone else was clapping, too, and some were stamping their feet as well, sending up clouds of dust. The women of Hajj Fahmy’s house, his wife, his daughters, his sons’ wives and their daughters, came pouring out into the courtyard and stood around the doors, laughing behind their hands and their scarves – all except the Hajj’s wife, who was too old to care whether she was seen laughing, black teeth and all, or not.

  More people were arriving now, and they began clapping, too, and soon there was so much shouting and noise and laughter that no one could hear Warda any more. So Abu Fahl switched off the transistor and bellowed, Why’re we all sitting when we can dance? – and even before he’d finished people were jumping to their feet.

  Everyone gathered in the centre of the courtyard and formed a ring. Someone handed Zaghloul a spoon and a disht, a huge circular steel wash-basin. He stood at the edge of the ring with the disht leaning against his knee and began to beat out a ringing, ear-splitting, one, two, three, four, five, six rhythm with the spoon.

  Go on, Abu Fahl, the crowd shouted, go on – you’re in the middle.

  Abu Fahl looked around him as though he was waking from a trance, and saw that it was he who the ring had formed around, that he was alone in its centre, and at once his grin was struck away by shock and he tried to break his way out, pleading: No, I can’t – you know I can’t. But the ring held firm and pushed him back into the centre: Dance now; let’s see what you can do. So Zaghloul took pity on him and began a quick, pugnacious chant, for he knew the best Abu Fahl could do when he tried to dance was mimic a fight. Khadnáhá min wasat ad-dár, he chanted; we took her from her father’s house. Wa abúhá gá’id za’alán, the crowd shouted back; while her father sat there bereft. Then Zaghloul again – Khadnáhá bis-saif il-mádi; we took her with our sharpest sword. And the refrain, Wa abúhá makánsh rádi; because her father wouldn’t consent.

  But still, despite Zaghloul, it was pitiful, though funny, for no song could have made a dancer of Abu Fahl. He tried hard, but his shoulders were too broad, his legs too heavily muscular, his waist so knotted that when he moved his hips his whole torso twitched as though he were in a fever. The second chanted refrain dissolved into laughter, and Abu Fahl sank gratefully back into the ring, mopping his dripping purple face and smiling sheepishly.

  Then it was Zaghloul’s turn. Zaghloul was a real dancer: slim and lithe as a cat. He undid the grey scarf that he usually kept knotted around his skullcap and tied it tightly around his waist. Someone was beating a difficult rhythm on the disht now, slowly to begin with. The first line of a song rang through the courtyard – dalla’ ya’árís, ya abu lása nylo – and everyone roared their approval, for what better song could there be to sing for Zaghloul with his youth and his fine, bright face than one which told of the joys of bridegrooms?

  Zaghloul began slowly, by turning in the centre of the ring with short, quick steps, his arms raised high above his head. Then gradually the pace of the beat increased, and in perfect time Zaghloul’s hips began to move with it. The crowd closed in intently around him, the shuffling of so many feet raising a cloud of dust which hung above the ring, encircling him in a golden halo. The claps came in sharp, quick bursts now, as the whole ring threw itself into his dance. In response, the jerking, twitching movement of Zaghloul’s hips quickened, too, and in exact counterpoint, as his hips moved faster and faster, the upper part of his body became more and more rigid and still, the tense fixity of his torso framing the driving energy of his waist. The disht was ringing deafeningly now, the beats spinning out in a throbbing, vibrant tattoo. And Zaghloul danced still faster, his face perfectly, stonily grave, his arms flexed above him, his torso motionless, his waist pulsating, hammering, in a movement both absolutely erotic and absolutely abstract, both love-making and geometry; faster still, the claps driving him on, and still faster, until with a final explosive ring of the disht the chant died and he collapsed laughing on the ground.

  Somewhere the women were ululating as though it were a real wedding building towards its climax.

  Then someone spotted Rakesh, sitting by himself in a corner of the courtyard, and a shout went up – Rakesh now! – and he was hauled towards the ring, screaming protests. But Abu Fahl saw that he was close to tears because his carefully ironed terry-cotton trousers were being dragged through the dust, so he wrenched him free and sent him back to his corner with a slap on the back. Instead Hajj Fahmy’s wife pushed her way into the ring and, without feigning a modesty she was too old to feel, she did an odd little dance mimicking Zaghloul. She ended by tweaking his cheeks and kissing her fingers. In the midst of the laughter and the cheers a thought struck Abu Fahl, and he exclaimed: Where’s Isma’il? He’s the one who loves to dance!

  None of the men around him had seen Isma’il, so he asked one of Hajj Fahmy’s grand-daughters: Hey, you, girl, where’s your uncle Isma’il?

  Covering her face shyly with her sleeve, the girl murmured: He’s inside.

  Inside? Why?

  He’s sitting on his bed. He won’t get off.

  In bed! Abu Fahl exclaimed in surprise. Ya nahar abyad! Why in bed?

  He’s like that sometimes, the girl shrugged and turned away, embarrassed for her uncle.

  Abu Fahl ran into the house, and found Isma’il sitting perched on a high bed in his mother’s room. Hajj Fahmy was sitting at the other end of the bed. They were watching a wrestling match on television.

  What’s the matter, ya Isma’il? Abu Fahl cried in surprise, putting out his hand. What’re you doing sitting here, when we’re all outside?

  Smiling cheerfully, Isma’il shook his hand without stirring from the bed. I’m watching television, he said.

  Tell Isma’il to come out, we’re all waiting for him, Abu Fahl said, extending his hand to Hajj Fahmy. And what about you, ya Hajj? Why haven’t you come out yet?

  Hajj Fahmy smiled: There’s too much noise outside, and Isma’il doesn’t want to go. I’ll come a little later. His eyes narrowed and he sniffed suspiciously: What have you been drinking?

  Abu Fahl leapt back. Nothing, nothing at all, he said, trying to smile.

  I hope so, said Hajj Fahmy, turning grimly back to the television set.

  Come on, Isma’il, Abu Fahl exhorted. You can’t sit here all day. Come out. Aren’t you coming to the Star with us?

  No. Isma’il shook his head. I can’t.

  Allah! Why not?

  The germs are out today. They’re all around the bed. I can’t get off.

  Abu Fahl’s mouth fell open: Germs around the bed!

  Yes, said Isma’il. All the germs are out today. They’re all over the floor. Can’t you see?

  Abu Fahl looked significantly at Hajj Fahmy, but the Hajj was intent on the television programme. Isma’il, Abu Fahl said, gently reasoning, there’s nothing on the floor, absolutely nothing. Can’t you see? I’m standing here. There’s nothing.

  They’re all over the floor, Isma’il said stubbornly. They’re just waiting to bite. I’m not getting off. It doesn’t matter to you – your hide’s too thick – they’d break their teeth. I’m not like that.

  Ya Hajj Fahmy, Abu Fahl appealed, why don’t you tell him?

  Let him be, the Hajj said. Let him sit here if he wants to. How does it matter?

  But what about you, then? Abu Fahl said. Aren’t you coming? To the Star and shopping and all that? Everyone’s here.

  I’ll come as soon as the noise stops, Hajj Fahmy said. He looked at his watch. You’d better go out and tell them to hurry up. It’ll be time to leave soon.

  Be careful, I
sma’il called out, gurgling with laughter, as Abu Fahl turned to go. They’re everywhere today; even with your hide you should be careful. They might get you in a soft part.

  The first person Abu Fahl saw as he stepped back into the courtyard was Professor Samuel. He was sitting on the platform, beside the loom. His briefcase was open on his knees, and he was worriedly counting through a pile of thick white envelopes. Abu Fahl went straight up to him and gave him a bone-jarring slap on the back. At least you’re here, he said. And now since you’re here we have to see you dance.

  Stop that! the Professor snorted, furious. Can’t you see I’m busy? I have things to do. I have to count the people here. I have to distribute the envelopes, all the arrangements have to be made …

  You’re always busy, Professor, Abu Fahl said. But today we’re going to see you dance.

  Be quiet, Abu Fahl, the Professor said sharply. Go and do some work instead of wasting my time. Have you handed out your tools and ropes and all that yet?

  But Abu Fahl only turned and shouted to the others: Come here. The Professor’s going to dance for us. Help me carry him.

  A moment later the Professor was hoisted on half a dozen shoulders and carried, kicking and scolding, into the courtyard. They put him down in the middle and imprisoned him in a tight circle. Go on, Professor, dance a little, Zaghloul said, tapping the disht. Just for fun.

  But I can’t, he cried. I’ve never done it before.

  Go on, go on, just for fun, they urged, and even Chunni joined her voice to theirs: Go on, Samuel, what does it matter? Do anything at all; anything you can.

  The Professor looked grimly around him. All right, he said. He kicked off his sandals and, leaping high, he snapped his right arm back, clenched his fist and swung it through the air. He jumped up again, and the first enthusiastic claps wavered and then faded away as everyone looked on in astonishment. He was leaping around the ring now, spinning in the air, flailing his right arm over his head. Zaghloul tried to find the right rhythm on the disht and gave up baffled. The Professor jumped again, faster, and yet again, his face flushed, sweat flying off his forehead. The initial laughter died away and an awestruck silence descended as the Professor flung himself into the air, again and again, swinging his rigid arms over his head in great powerful arcs.