Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Madana, the God of Love. I can just see you — hovering above the dunes, showering love on the Sahara.

Dr Mishra rose and paced the floor while she watched apprehensively. All right, Mrs Verma, he said at last. I’ll take up your challenge. I’ll play Madana if you can fill the other roles. But there’s a condition: since it’s we who are putting it on for our Algerian colleagues, you’ll have to find Indians to play the parts.

Mrs Verma nodded.

Have you thought of the other problems? Who’s going to sing? Who’s going to dance? Where are you going to get the music? And it must be a very long play — are you going to stage the whole of it?

That’s easy, said Mrs Verma. We won’t do the whole thing; just a few scenes. And don’t worry about the music; that’s an advantage with this play really. My father gave me a record years ago. We can just play that — we won’t even have to talk. We don’t have to dance, either; we can just mime the scenes. We can explain the plot beforehand through an interpreter. I’m sure Miss K. and Mrs Mishra will help me make the costumes. Even you could do something; you could help me choose the right scenes. I’ll give you the script.

You mean your father’s Hindi translation?

Yes, she said. I’ll lend it to you, but you must be very careful with it. To me that’s the most precious of all the things he left me.

Tell me, Mrs Verma, Dr Mishra said curiously, how did your father learn Bengali?

Oh, he learnt when he was in college in Calcutta. He loved Tagore’s poetry.

Dr Mishra gestured to his wife to get up. When they were at the door, he turned to Mrs Verma, smiling grimly. All right, he said, the bet’s on, then. If you do somehow manage to put it together, I’ll admit defeat and you can give a speech instead of me. But if you don’t you’ll have to apologize in public for everything you’ve said tonight.

Yes, I accept, Mrs Verma said at once, looking directly into his eyes. I have nothing to worry about.

But soon she was very worried; it didn’t seem as though she would ever be able to find a cast. And every morning at the hospital there was Dr Mishra, solicitously asking after the progress of her plan, grinning, like a school bully gloating over the break-up of a rival gang. She had come perilously close to accepting defeat simply to put an end to those questions and those grins.

Then one morning there was Arjuna, lying unheroically on a hospital bed, his oddly irregular eyebrows raised at her in surprised inquiry.

That was encouraging enough to hold a rehearsal and start work on the costumes. But, as Dr Mishra had said while he was being measured for his halo, it’s no use without a Chitrangada.

She had had no answer.

And then, like a gift from Madana …

So do you think, Mrs Verma asked Kulfi anxiously, you’ll be able to do Chitrangada? It won’t be difficult at all really — all you’ll have to do is dress up in a nice sari and pose on stage. You won’t have to say anything because the record will be playing off-stage. It’ll just be a set of tableaux really.

They turned left, and a broad square ringed with low bungalows sprang up and hung before them on a pall of dust.

Kulfi tossed her head: It’ll be easy. I haven’t acted before, but I do see a lot of films and, I must say, I don’t know why but in al-Ghazira my husband’s colleagues used to keep telling me, at every party I went to, Why, you look just like Hema Malini, Mrs Bose. I don’t know why you say that, I used to tell them …

And luckily, said Mrs Verma, you’ll have a nice Arjuna.

I hope so, Kulfi said, frowning. Who is he?

You’ll meet him in a minute.

Mrs Verma pushed open a steel gate. That’s our house, she said, waving proudly at a thick-walled colonial bungalow, surrounded by tenaciously green patches of garden. She led Kulfi down a brick-lined path, past dusty casuarinas and doggedly blooming bushes of bougainvillaea to a low, deeply shaded porch. Then her eyes fell on a snapped clothes-line at the other end of the garden and she rushed off with a cry to rescue the scattered clothes from the dust.

Peering at the veranda which led on to the porch, and the darkness of the rooms beyond, it was evident at once to Kulfi that Mrs Verma took good care of her house: the veranda was spotless, the curtains in the windows were clean and bright, and there were calendars on every wall. She took a step towards the veranda and caught the sound of a muffled voice somewhere inside. Craning forward, she squinted into the shadows.

The darkness rippled and a moment later Kulfi sprang back, shrieking.

A short, stout man dressed in a scarlet knee-length dhoti had appeared on the veranda. Bits of tinsel were dotted about his chest and there was a white flower entwined in the sacred thread of his Brahminhood. Above it, like a rainswept rock framed by the setting sun, his bald head shone against a noisily spinning halo that seemed to grow out of the back of his neck.

Poised to run, Kulfi stole another quick look. He was peering at her in short-sighted confusion, his narrowed eyes hugely enlarged by his thick glasses. Kulfi choked back a scream.

Folding his hands, he bobbed his head and at once the halo slipped, grazing his glistening scalp. Namaste , he said, wincing, and pushed the halo hurriedly back into place. Don’t pay any attention to all this — he waved a deprecating hand at his clothes — it’s only because I’m Madana.

Madana? Kulfi whispered hoarsely.

Yes, he said, hitching up his dhoti and advancing upon her, the God of Love. And you?

Kulfi began to back away rapidly, watching his every move. Then, to her relief, Mrs Verma was beside her, her arms full of clothes.

So Madana’s found Chitrangada? she said, laughing. That old curtain really suits you, Dr Mishra; you should wear it more often.

Dr Mishra was suddenly acutely self-conscious. Never mind, he growled, crossing his hands over his tinselly chest.

What? said Mrs Verma. I can’t hear you.

Will you please make me known to this lady? Dr Mishra shouted over the whirring of his halo.

Mrs Verma smiled and waved, magician-like, at Kulfi. This, she said, is my Chitrangada.

Dr Mishra stared, and Kulfi lowered her head shyly. Did you create her, Mrs Verma? he said. Or did Madana drop her from the sky?

Actually, Mrs Verma said, she appeared out of Driss’s café. She and her husband are passing through — they’re tourists.

I see, Dr Mishra said, examining Kulfi suspiciously. Well, I suppose we should take our touring Chitrangada in and introduce her to her Arjuna.

Led by Dr Mishra they went into a large cool room which had its twin functions unmistakably indicated by a dining-table at one end and a circle of sofas at the other. Otherwise, except for a few calendars and a papier-mâché Taj Mahal, the room was clinically bare. But it was that very bareness which seemed to shine a spotlight on a far corner of the room where a battered old bookcase stood propped against the wall, reigning, somehow, in spite of its rickety shelves and frayed dustcovers, over every other object in the room.

As they entered Dr Mishra gestured at a young man who was rising awkwardly from a sofa. Well, Arjuna, he said drily, here’s your Chitrangada.

Turning on his heels, his arms spread out, he said: May I introduce you to our very own avatar of Arjuna? Mr Jyoti Das.

Jyoti Das had not seen them yet, but his hands were already folded and he was smiling in polite expectation. Then his eyes found Kulfi, and the smile vanished from his face and he swallowed and clutched at his throat.

Mrs Verma dropped her armful of clothes on a chair and bustled forward. How are you feeling now? she asked him kindly. He shook his head in an effort to take his eyes off Kulfi, failed, and sank wordlessly back on to the sofa.