Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Rakesh and Professor Samuel sat beside him and watched. There was nothing else to do. The sea was glassily empty. Sajjan and Hajji Musa ran Mariamma in uncommunicative silence, brusquely refusing all offers of help. The cabin had fallen eerily silent ever since the second day. One evening Kulfi-didi had confided that she could hardly tell any longer whether Karthamma was dead or alive — she just lay there, barely breathing, and yet, incredibly, the child still seemed to be growing within her.

Early on the sixth day Alu’s line was finally ready. He bent his bit of wire to form an eye at one end and a serviceable hook at the other, threaded the line through the eye and baited it with a lump of tapioca. Rakesh and Professor Samuel gathered around to watch as he prepared to make his first cast.

Just then Zindi emerged from the cabin, umbrella in hand, on her way to the bucket in the stern. She shot her umbrella open as soon as she stepped on to the deck and looked around, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the midday sun. She saw the men gathered in a knot near the bows, chattering excitedly. For a moment she thought of ignoring them, but then curiosity got the better of her and she shuffled forward, rolling her immense bulk with the pitching of the boat.

What’s happening? she said, leaning over the rails to look. Before they could answer, a gust of wind snatched at her umbrella, bending the ribs backwards. She tried to snap it shut, but another gust caught it, tore it from her grip and carried it over the side.

Do something! she appealed to Rakesh and Professor Samuel.

They shrugged in silent amusement and shook their heads: What can we do?

Then she saw that Alu had already jerked his line out of the water and cast it after the upturned umbrella. That’s right, she cried, thumping him on the back. Catch it like a fish.

The umbrella spun as the hook slid over its rim and then swirled away on Mariamma ’s bow wave. Alu pulled himself upright and limped quickly to the stern. Throwing himself flat on the deck, he waited for the bobbing umbrella with the line ready in his hands. As the spinning patch of red nylon floated alongside he cast the line. The hook caught in one of the umbrella’s ribs and it checked for an instant. Alu’s hand flashed out and he caught the crook and fished it out of the water.

Shaking the water off it, Alu handed the umbrella back to Zindi. She took it and nodded, scratching her mole. I’ll remember this, she said, and plodded off towards the stern.

Late that night Alu was sitting alone in the waist, trying to hold his throbbing leg still against the boat’s pitching, when he felt the deck creak. He turned and saw Zindi lumbering down the passageway. For a while she stood braced against the rails and watched his huge, lumpy potato head in silence. Then, lowering herself to the deck, she whispered hoarsely: Hey, you, boy. What are you going to do in al-Ghazira?

Alu didn’t answer. She raised her voice: You’re a babu-type, no? You can read and write and everything?

Alu nodded.

That won’t help you, she said. Not if you haven’t got any friends there. What are you going there for?

I’m going to buy a sewing machine, Alu said.

Oh! Zindi scratched her mole. A sewing machine? That’s odd. But you’ll need a job first. It’s not easy to find a job there if you’re on your own. Don’t think you’ll find people pissing money there. There are hundreds, thousands of chhokren like you, begging; begging for jobs.

She prodded his shoulder: Why don’t you talk? Why do you limp like that, with your leg stuck out like a telephone pole?

Alu said: I have boils, here, look. Zindi pushed his pajamas up to his knees and examined his legs. She pressed one of the boils with her thumbs and he recoiled in pain. Zindi rose. Wait, she said, I’ve got something.

She fetched a small glass bottle from the cabin. Just hot coconut oil, she said. It might help and it won’t do any harm. She rubbed the oil on the boils while Alu bit his lip and gripped the rails. How does it feel? she asked, and when he didn’t answer she shouted suddenly, her mouth inches from his ear: Why don’t you talk? Has anyone stuffed your mouth? What’s that man Samuel been telling you?

She caught his elbow: You shut your ears to all the shit and filth these people tell you, do you understand me? All that dirt is in their own minds. You listen to me and I’ll tell you the truth. What I have in al-Ghazira is a kind of boarding house. Also a little tea-shop. Everybody knows it; in those parts Zindi the Apple’s house is famous. You’ll find out; everywhere you go you’ll hear people saying: Beyt Zindi, beyt Zindi. People crowd to my house; boys like you offer money to be taken in. They know I know people and there’s no end to the jobs you can get in al-Ghazira if you know people — in construction, sewage and drainage (though that’s bad work even if it pays well), sweeping, gardening, even shop work. Oil work’s difficult, for they usually find their own people. Still, I can find any man a good job. And, as for women, why, when I go to India I don’t have to do anything. These women find me and come running: Take me, Zindi — no, me, Zindi-didi — don’t take her, she’s got lice. They go on like that. But I don’t take them all. I take only the good girls — clean, polite, hard-working. That’s why I have to go to India myself to look. I find them jobs and they pay me a little, not much, something reasonable. The whole of al-Ghazira knows Zindi’s girls are reliable and hard-working; everyone comes to me and I say, Ya Shaikha , you know my girls, they have to get a little extra, and they say, Yes, yes, Zindi, they’ll get whatever you ask for. And so I get a little extra, too, not much. It’s not a business; it’s my family, my aila, my own house, and I look after them, all the boys and girls, and no one’s unhappy and they all love me.

That’s enough of all that. Now, listen: I’ll give you a chance because you’re a helpful kind of turd and one look at your face and I can see that on your own you’ll be crushed like dung at a crossroads within one week in al-Ghazira. And wallahi I don’t want your death on my soul. So listen: I’ll give you a place and I’ll find you work — something good in construction, maybe even in a shop since you’re lettered, but only maybe, for shop jobs aren’t easy to get. You’ll see, you won’t have to pay much, just a little. You’ll have plenty to send back home. You’re so lucky you won’t believe it when you get to al-Ghazira. What do you say, then, han ?

Alu rubbed his leg in silence. Zindi said again, sharply: So what do you say?

Kya pata? Alu said. I don’t know …

Zindi looked hard into his face. Then she pushed herself up, spat into her hands and rubbed them together. You don’t know, she said, turning towards the cabin. You don’t know. But you’ll find out. Just wait till you get there.

Later that night Alu’s boils burst. The pain oozed away with the bloody pus and he slept soundly for the first time in their six days at sea.

With his first cast next morning Alu felt a jerk on his line. It snapped taut and sang through the water for a second. Then suddenly it was limp again. He pulled the line in and found that the tapioca had been taken neatly off the hook.

Rakesh, watching him, nodded slowly. That’s what it’s like, he said. The fish get away if you wait for them. You have to go out and get them.

Alu baited his hook and tossed it out again. He and Professor Samuel leant drowsily on the rails and watched the line cutting through the water. It was warm and very bright and the spindrift prickled coolly on their faces. Then Rakesh began to talk. That was unusual, for Rakesh rarely talked; he found so much occupation in his own appearance that speech was usually unnecessary to him as either expression or diversion.