Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

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.