Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

He’s not been well, you know, Mrs Verma confided to Kulfi. We met him quite by chance a couple of days ago, when he was brought to the hospital with a mild case of heatstroke. He’d been here a few days already and apparently he’d spent all his time at the bus station watching the buses from the border come in, and on the dunes, where he was looking for a vulture. Just imagine — a vulture! Are you a corpse, I said, that you’re looking for a vulture in this blazing sun?

Jyoti Das moistened his lips mechanically and, without taking his eyes off Kulfi, he said: Not any old vulture, Mrs Verma. I thought I’d spotted a lappet-faced vulture. I had to find it — none has been reported from these parts for decades.

Mrs Verma shrugged: A vulture’s a vulture, whatever its face. Anyway, you’d better get up now; you have to go to Miss K.’s for lunch.

But Jyoti Das stayed as he was, his eyes riveted on Kulfi.

Kulfi tossed her head. She swept past Mrs Verma and went across to the bookcase, swaying her hips. She saw him turning, following her with his eyes, his young boyish face contorted with the clumsy, painful longing of a virgin rebelling too late against his condition. Inclining her head slightly, she gave him a tight little smile and with his gaze lapping thirstily at her back she began to flip languidly through a calendar.

I see good things, Dr Mishra said, watching them shrewdly from the other end of the room. It looks as though Madana’s going to have some success at last.

While Mrs Verma rang the hospital, her husband began dismantling Dr Mishra’s battery-operated halo.

Can’t you make it a little quieter? Dr Mishra said. They’ll think Madana is a kind of helicopter if it goes on like this.

Mrs Verma put the phone down and clapped her hands. All right now, she said. We all have to hurry. There’s a lot to do today.

What? said Dr Mishra.

Mrs Verma nodded at Jyoti Das and said: The two of you have to go to Miss K.’s for lunch. She’s expecting you; she’s saved up a whole cauliflower, and she borrowed a tin of pineapples from me this morning. And after that you have to come back here for a rehearsal. We can do it properly, with costumes and everything, now that we have our Chitrangada.

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?