The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  Do you think, Dr Mishra growled, that I don’t have anything better to do on a holiday than spend all my time dressed up in an old curtain?

  Mrs Verma laughed: It’s too bad, Dr Mishra. You’ll have to come, holiday or not. It was a fair bet and you can’t let me down now, when I’m so close to winning.

  She beckoned to Kulfi. Come, let me show you the room you’ll be staying in, she said, leading her to a room at the back.

  When they came out again Jyoti Das was standing beside the door, rigidly still, waiting. Mrs Verma bustled past without noticing him, but Kulfi hung back. As she stepped out of the door, she lurched and fell sideways. Her hands brushed against the front of his trousers and flew back as if scalded.

  Shaking with nervousness, falling over himself, Jyoti Das managed to catch her in his arms. She leant against his shoulder, eyes downcast. I hope I didn’t hurt you, she said.

  He stared at her tongue-tied, his forehead filming over with sweat. She could feel his groin quivering against her thigh. She swayed, and her breast brushed against his arm. A spasm seemed to shoot through him and he clutched helplessly at her blouse. Oh God, he breathed hoarsely into her neck, oh God …

  Then there was a rustle in the corridor as Mrs Verma came hurrying back, and Kulfi shook herself out of his arms. Where did you disappear, Mrs Bose? Mrs Verma cried. She looked from Kulfi, gazing demurely at the floor, to Jyoti Das, standing frozen beside her, and a tiny eddy of suspicion stirred in her mind.

  The land-rover’s come, she said to Kulfi. Shall we go to the café now?

  She saw Kulfi glancing at Jyoti Das and, turning to him, she said sharply: You have to go out for lunch now, Mr Das. Dr Mishra’s waiting for you. Don’t waste time.

  Jyoti Das went quickly back to the other room.

  So, Mrs Bose? she said. Shall we go now? Of course, if you’re very tired you can stay here and rest.

  To her surprise Kulfi nodded eagerly. Yes, she said, raising her hands to her temples. I’m very tired and I have a headache. I think I’ll rest here.

  Achchha, Mrs Verma said doubtfully. But before leaving the house she went back again and handed Kulfi a crimson sari and box from her dressing-table. While you’re waiting, she said, you may as well try on your costume.

  Later, in the land-rover, she said to her husband: These people are so … so strange. Do you think they’re all right?

  He said nothing.

  That Mrs Bose doesn’t seem, she carried on, at all like a married woman. And I must say she was behaving very strangely a little while ago. Mr Das, too …

  Mrs Verma stared silently at a ration-shop.

  They’re not like anyone I’ve ever met: that husband and that ayah – so strange. I just can’t place them. She fell silent. But just before they reached the café she added: Still, I suppose she’ll make a good Chitrangada.

  On the way back she and her husband took turns at examining Boss, while Zindi heaped them with information about his symptoms.

  He’ll be all right, she said, handing him back to Zindi. I’ll give you some medicine for him when we get back. She glanced at Alu, thinking of starting a conversation, but he was sitting so dourly hunched up, with his hands under his legs, that she thought the better of it and looked ahead.

  When the land-rover drew up, she jumped out, relieved to be back, and led them quickly into the house. Come, she said, I’ll show you the way. But when she reached their room she found that only Zindi was following her; Alu had disappeared.

  She found him crouching in the middle of her drawing-room, staring at Hem Narain Mathur’s old bookcase in startled confusion.

  What are you doing here, Mr Bose? she said in surprise. Come and look at your wife. You won’t recognize her – she’s Chitrangada now.

  Alu had snapped upright as soon as he heard her voice. He stood staring at her uncertainly, shifting his feet, with his hands behind his back.

  Come on, she said briskly. Follow me.

  But at the door she stopped, puzzled, and looked at the bookcase and then at him and back again. Why, Mr Bose, she said at last, when I came in you were staring at my father’s old bookcase as though it had just spoken to you.

  Kulfi! Zindi shrieked. What’re you doing to your face? Stop it. You can’t go out looking for customers here in the desert; you gave that up when you left India.

  Swathed in a zari-spangled sari, corseted by the heavy gold thread of the fabric, Kulfi was sitting stiffly upright before a looking-glass, powdering her already paper-white face. Zindi snatched the powder puff out of her hand. Stop it now, Kulfi, she cried. What d’you think you’re doing?

  Don’t you know? Kulfi flashed her a brilliant smile. Today I’m a princess; I’m Chitrangada.

  Chitra … what? Zindi gasped. Listen, you bitch. Today you’re no different from what you were when I first met you. You’re Kulfi the small-time callgirl whose MA-pass husband turned her to whoring when he lost his fancy job; you’re pale-faced, unemployed old Kulfi who came to me in Bangalore and said, Take me to al-Ghazira and give me some honest work.

  No, Kulfi hissed, her voice quavering on the edge of hysteria. Today I’m Chitrangada, princess of Manipur.

  Zindi’s mouth dropped open: Princess of what-place? You’re a princess, are you, you two-pice whore?

  Just listen to that! Kulfi trilled with laughter, and the bangles that covered her arm in a sheen of plastic armour tinkled in counterpoint. I’m a whore? You dare say that to me when you’ve got the Grand Trunk Road between your legs and no toll-gates, either?

  Still laughing, she dipped her fingertips into a small lead pot of sindur and filled her parting with a gash of bleeding vermilion. Today, she said, smiling at her reflection, I’m Chitrangada, princess of Manipur. You can go and ask Mrs Verma if you like. She’s an educated woman like me, not a gutter-slut like you. She’ll tell you. I’m Chitrangada and I’m going to marry Arjuna, hero of heroes.

  Zindi’s eyes narrowed: You’re going to marry who?

  Arjuna. He’s fallen in love with my beauty.

  Zindi shot a quick worried look at Alu. Then she laid Boss on the bed and stood over Kulfi. Look, Kulfi, she said quietly, don’t give me any more of this phoos-phas or I’ll knock the teeth out of your mouth. Tell me quickly: who is this Arjuna?

  He’s a man who’s staying here, said Kulfi. He’s Arjuna and I’m Chitrangada.

  Zindi took hold of her shoulders and shook her till her bangles began to clatter. Who is he, Kulfi? she said. Tell me quick.

  Kulfi slapped angrily at Zindi’s hands. Let me go, she said. I’ve told you what I know. Why don’t you go and ask him if you’re so curious?

  Grinding her knuckles against her teeth, Zindi sank on to the bed. Kulfi, she said, drawing a breath in a long, whistling gasp. Is he the Bird-man?

  Kulfi’s hands froze in the act of raising a tin tiara to her head. The Bird-man? she whispered. I don’t know. I haven’t ever seen your Bird-man, remember? I’m the only one. And he hadn’t seen me before, either.

  Then she remembered how he had looked at her when she first entered the room, how his eyes had followed her, and she pealed with delighted, girlish laughter and crowned herself. Don’t worry, she said. Even if he is the Bird-man, I’ll manage him. You’ll be safe.

  What did he look like, tell me, quick? Zindi said.

  Before Kulfi could finish the first sentence of her answer, Zindi knew. It’s him, she wailed, it’s him. He’s got us now.

  Yes, it is him, Kulfi said. I remember now; he said he was looking for a vulture.

  A vulture? Zindi breathed. He’s come with a vulture?

  Stop moaning, Kulfi snapped. Didn’t I tell you it’ll be all right? Aren’t you listening or what?

  As she got up to leave, Zindi snatched at her arms: You can’t go with him waiting out there. I won’t let you.

  Kulfi snorted contemptuously: Why don’t you try to stop me? Her eyes fell on Alu, standing by the door, and she stopped dead. Listen, you, she snarled at him, if you
go anywhere near that bed I’ll tear your rotten thumbs off. She peeled away the bedcovers and flung them into a corner. You can make your nest there, she said and stormed out of the room.

  Alu hesitated, then backed away towards the door.

  Where are you going? Zindi snapped at him.

  To look at the books, Alu said.

  Books? Is this the time for books? Zindi snapped at him. Come back here. It’s your fault. You’ve brought him here – it was you who said it first.

  But he was here before I said anything, Alu said. How did he know, Zindi? How did he follow us here?

  God blind me for not thinking of it, she said. It must have been the easiest thing in the world. After he saw us in Kairouan he had only to look at the road-signs to know that we would head this way. Where else could we have gone? He must have known that with our kind of passport we wouldn’t risk any but the most remote of border posts. And once you’re across the border there’s nowhere you can go but El Oued if you’re heading west. He knows all that; he’s like a bird – he hears us every time we say we’re going west.

  Maybe, said Alu, he’s only going west himself.

  Do you think so? Zindi said eagerly, suddenly hopeful. Do you think it’s possible?

  If he really wanted to do anything to us, said Alu, he’d have done it already. He must be here somewhere.

  It’s possible, she muttered, but the ripple of hope had already trickled out of her voice. It makes no difference, she said. That man carries death with him wherever he goes. He can’t help it; it’s in his eyes. Think of what happened to Jeevanbhai; think of Karthamma and all the rest. And this time he’s come with a vulture.

  For a while she stared blankly at the wall. We should never have come, she said at last. We should never have left Egypt. I can smell death in this house: it’s there in writing – one of us isn’t going to leave this house alive.

  She lifted Boss into her arms, very gently, and kissed him as though she were bidding him goodbye.

  As long as it’s not him, she whispered. Let it be me, but not Boss. Not him, Allah …

  As soon as he could, Alu slipped back into the drawing-room. It was empty and curiously still; more than ever the bareness of the walls seemed to thrust the bookcase directly at him. For a long time he stood still, staring at it across the room, wondering why his skin was tingling with recognition. Then he began to inch his way forward, biting his nails, scanning the dusty brown-paper covers of the books for a visible sign.

  When he was less than halfway across the room, Mrs Verma came bustling in. He stopped guiltily and began to edge away. Ah, there you are, she said. I’ve just given your ayah some medicine for your son. He’ll be all right soon.

  He nodded, looking away, and hid his hands in his pockets. Mrs Verma cleared her throat. Mr Bose, she said hesitantly, you remember I was telling you that I might need your help? Well, as your wife has probably explained, we’re going to put on a small production of Chitrangada – I’m sure you’re familiar with it – for our colleagues. We have the record, luckily, so we won’t have to sing. But instead we’re going to explain the scenes we’re doing through a translator. I’ve been trying to put together a few notes but unfortunately I’ve run into a little trouble, and that’s where I need your help. You see, I have a Hindi translation of the original done by my father, but there are a couple of places where I can’t read his handwriting. He copied the original down along with the translation, but the trouble is I can’t read Bengali. Mr Das helped, but there were some bits he couldn’t read, either. So, if you could just help a little … ?

  Reluctantly, Alu nodded. Mrs Verma sank on to a sofa, next to the bookcase and began to look through the shelves. She noticed Alu bending over, looking intently at the bookcase. She patted the sofa: Sit down, Mr Bose. He seated himself next to her with his hands under his thighs, but his eyes stayed riveted on the books.

  She found what she was looking for and drew it out: a tattered hardbound exercise-book that had been lovingly wrapped in brown paper. She flipped through it, showing him the smudged sections, and with the help of his glosses of the Bengali text she wrote down suitable Hindi substitutes. After half an hour she snapped the exercise-book shut. I’m very grateful to you, she said. I think that’s all that needs to be done. She put the book tidily back in its place and straightened the row with the back of her hand.

  And then Alu saw it.

  It bore no outward clue to its identity for it was wrapped in a cover like the others. Yet, the moment he looked at it, he knew. He tried to control himself, tried to say something polite, but the words died in his throat and he fell to his knees and snatched the book from its shelf.

  He didn’t even need to look at the title-page. The fading print smiled at him like an all-too-familiar face. His eyes brimmed over with tears.

  It’s the Life of Pasteur, he said quietly, looking up at Mrs Verma.

  She had been watching him with some alarm, but when he spoke she laughed. Yes, she said, have you read it?

  He nodded dumbly.

  It was one of my father’s favourite books, she said. He loved it. A close friend of his gave it to him when he was in Presidency College.

  Who? What was his name? Alu was already thumbing through the stiff, crackling leaves, fumbling for the title-page. Somehow it kept slipping past his fingers. He broke into a sweat, stopped, closed the book between his palms and opened it again, gently.

  He saw Balaram’s handwriting on the first page, in red ink, sprawled across the corner: To Hem Narain Mathur, Rationalist and friend, from Balaram Bose; Medical College Hospital, Calcutta, 1932. Another hand had inscribed beneath: To remember Reason.

  He could not bear to look at it. He shut the book and hugged it to his chest.

  Why, Mr Bose, Mrs Verma said in surprise, you seem to be very fond of that book?

  Mrs Verma, Alu said, this book is the only real brother I ever had. I’d lost him and now I’ve found him again – here in the desert, of all places, and in your house.

  Mrs Verma listened gravely, picking at the frayed threads on the fall of her sari. Then she said: That’s very sad.

  Sad! cried Alu. How can you call it sad?

  I can see that you love that book, Mr Bose, and that’s very sad, because you can love a book but a book can’t love you. That’s what I used to tell my father, but he could never understand. He would look at the world whirling around him and he would look at his books, and when they told him different stories, like a man caught between quarrelling friends, he wouldn’t know which side to take. But in the end, even though it meant shutting himself away, the books won. They ruled over him: for him that bookcase had all the order the world lacked. I used to think it was love, but I know better now. He was afraid; afraid of the power of science and those books of his; afraid that if he disowned them they would destroy him.

  That can’t be true, Alu cried. What could a book like this one have done to him? You’re wrong; you must be.

  She smiled: You may be right – I’m often wrong. She took the book from him and flipped through it gingerly, holding it at a distance. Do you know, she said, looking at it in wonder; it’s because of this book that I’m a microbiologist today? My father told me that microbiology was Pasteur’s heritage, and that I was to keep it alive.

  She took a deep breath and held the book out to him. Take it, she said. I’ve always wanted to get rid of it. Only I’ve never dared; I’m too much my father’s daughter.

  Alu hesitated: How could I take it? It was your father’s …

  Take it, she insisted, almost angrily. Now that I’ve found the courage to give it away I won’t take it back. Keep it with you. Take it outside to the dunes if you like, and read it in peace there.

  Yes, he said eagerly, holding out his hand. I’ll do just that. I can always bring it back.

  She dropped the book into his hands. He fumbled and it slipped and fell open on the floor. A paragraph underlined heavily in red pencil stared up at them from th
e open pages.

  Read that bit out, she said quickly. What does it say? It always means something when a book falls open like that.

  It’s about death, Alu said. It says that without the germ ‘life would become impossible because death would be incomplete’.

  Smiling nervously, Mrs Verma looked around the room. I wonder who it was pointing at, she said.

  By the time Dr Mishra and Jyoti Das returned, just before sunset, Mrs Verma had already cleared a space for the rehearsal in the drawing-room, and she and Kulfi were busy making a garland – of bougainvillaea, for lack of jasmine – to go with Arjuna’s costume. It was dull work, and Mrs Verma would have been glad of another pair of hands, but Zindi was busy watching over Boss’s drugged sleep behind a locked door, Alu was still away at the dunes and, as for her husband, she knew from experience that flowers always fell apart in his hands.

  Mrs Verma was alarmed the moment Jyoti Das stepped in. His eyes were feverishly bright, his face tense, strained with suppressed excitement. With deep misgiving she saw how his eyes scanned the room, how they came to rest hungrily on Kulfi’s lowered head.

  Come on, Mr Das, she broke in quickly. Come on, Mishra-sahb. Change into your costumes; we have to get started now. She waved them ahead of her, and when Jyoti Das hung back she herded him relentlessly on: Come on, come on now …

  Jyoti Das came back first, dressed in a dhoti and kurta. He was stooping with his shoulders painfully hunched up, for the kurta was Mr Verma’s and therefore two sizes too small for him, and its starched seams were biting unpleasantly into his armpits. Pinched between his fingers, as though it were a dead rat, was a small bamboo bow.

  No sooner had Mrs Verma stifled a laugh than she saw his eyes stray beseechingly towards Kulfi. She saw Kulfi rewarding him with a smile of approval, and at once, tapping the chair next to hers, she rapped out: Come and sit down, Mr Das; you ought to study your scenes now.

  Then Dr Mishra appeared, scarlet below the waist, glittering with tinsel above, mouthing soundless curses. Isn’t this funny enough for you? he said to her. Do I have to put on Verma’s contraption as well?